I looked up again. The lights were just coming on in this carefully middle-class south London suburb, evening settling around everything like a blanket, everyone all tucked up and cosy in their certainties and their lifestyles. None of it belonged to me. Perhaps it was the place my mother had fought for, this comfortable existence in a colour-coded environment with a man who obviously cared about her. Maybe this was what she’d wanted all those years, just someone to love her and a life where she didn’t have to get up at six to get me to the childminder before the first teacher’s meeting.
And me? What did I want?
I sat in the Micra, which smelled more of chickens than any car should do, and leaned my head back against the seat. London isn’t mine any more. I’ve got used to the countryside, to shops where they know you, a pub that has your ‘usual’ on the bar even before you get there. Lovely, velvet-muzzled Stan trying to eat my head … and I want Phinn. As he is, all ridiculously over-dramatic and emotional, not as some micromanaging bossy alpha male. But he’s never going to let me tell him so, because he thinks that’s what he should be, even when he knows he can’t.
My head was heavy and my eyes were tired, it had been a long drive down from Yorkshire. And now I was driving up to North London to stay with Mike and his wired family – oh, I’m sure my mother would have offered me the spare bedroom, all maroon and cream, very tasteful if you liked the feeling that you were sleeping in someone’s lower intestine. If I’d asked. But truthfully, I didn’t think I could bear being that close to her and Tim, they’d cheated on me after all, however understandable it might have been, however much I thought I knew how their relationship felt, they’d still cheated, and I didn’t think good manners and tea would get me through an entire night without wanting to throw something. And Mike had offered his sofa bed and a chat about my future with Miles to Go magazine. So. I let my head fall onto the steering wheel, then lifted it slowly, raising my eyes again for one last look at the life I no longer wanted.
And there they were. Hazy, as though reflected on the cloud from a distance, almost like a projection; dancing their carefree fandango on that boundary where the night was shifting in to ease out the daylight. The lights. There for a moment, a ghost of a dream, and then gone on a gust, like the party candles of an impatient child.
I didn’t even wonder this time. I knew now where I had to go. Home.
* * *
‘Lucas, this is Doctor Baxter.’
Annie ushered Phinn through into a surprisingly cluttered living space. He’d imagined that her home would have been as sparsely fashionable as her appearance, as organised and consciously stylish as she was. But it was a turmoil of Lego and clothing, an ironing board set up near the window and boxes of toys overflowing as though a tsunami of plastic had just passed. ‘Mum! I’m back.’
An older woman emerged, wiping her hands on a tea towel, but Phinn barely had time to register her presence before his hand was grasped surprisingly firmly, and shaken, by a small blond boy wearing a green velvet jacket and huge glasses. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Doctor Baxter.’
Phinn blinked for a moment. Was this really a child, or had a professor of restricted growth somehow just introduced himself. ‘Er, hello … Lucas?’ he said, tentatively. At least he’s small. And I’m cleverer than him. He took in the velvet jacket and glasses. Probably. I’m better dressed, anyway.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ the vision asked him, solemnly. ‘I’m not allowed to boil the kettle, but Grandma can do it for me.’ This was followed by a huge, face-splitting grin that turned the miniature don into a proper boy again. ‘I can’t really believe that the Doctor Baxter is in my living room! Can you make a Lego Death Star?’
And so, Phinn Baxter, PhD, Lecturer in Astrophysics and BBC4’s ‘Great Hope’ in the viewings war, found himself on his knees in a cluttered living room in Chiswick, piecing together Lego bricks with a list of his greatest achievements chattering into his ear.
This is some kind of brainwashing attempt, got to be. He slotted another set of bricks together, whilst hearing about how ‘excellent’ he’d been at making a joke about plasma. But fun though, actually. Why did I never get to make Lego Death Stars when I was seven? Oh yes, too busy getting my A* GCSEs in Physics and Maths. He glanced around the room quickly. The two women were sitting on the newspaper strewn sofa, chatting quietly while in front of him a little boy dressed as though he was auditioning to be the next Doctor Who gave a precis of the bits he’d seen of the new show. Is this what I missed? Mum and Grandma making tea, the smell of old toast and seven Christmases worth of plastic toys?
Yes. His heart gave an uncomfortable double-beat. This is what should have been. How I should have been. Why did they never let me be a child? Why have I always had to be so fucking grown up? It’s not fair!
He only realised he said the last bit aloud when Annie and her mother glanced up at him, their chattering temporarily interrupted. Lucas reached over and patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said, gravely. ‘But life’s not fair, Doctor Baxter. We just have to do what we can with what we’ve got.’ A nod towards the Lego and a confidentially lowered voice. ‘I really wanted a Diagon Alley set, but … this was what I got.’
Phinn looked down at the growing model in his hands. And I wanted Molly. But I’ve settled for not having her, because … why? Because I let being clever dictate who I am? Because I’m afraid I’m not … Death Star enough for her?
A sudden flicker outside the window caught his attention and snagged it away from the plastic model. It drew him over to the washed-grey of the net curtains across the glass, which he tugged aside to reveal the thin strip of sky visible between the brick gables and satellite dishes, with his heart pounding his chest like an internal Tarzan. There, dimpling the darkening sky, pricking at the night as though to incite it to action, were the lights. His lights. His and Molly’s.
‘Doctor Baxter?’ Lucas was standing beside him.
He reached out a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Lucas put his hand in Phinn’s.
‘Is there a good toyshop near here?’ Phinn found himself asking.
‘There’s a Toymaster just down the road, near the Italian Deli,’ Annie said, frowning.
‘Good.’ Phinn headed towards the door, Lucas trotting along with him. ‘Because we need a Diagon Alley, and we need one right now!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’d seen the ‘For Sale’ sign up outside Howe End as I drove into the village, a local estate agency that specialised in selling large houses to the London set, who’d buy them as weekend places, come down in summer and for Christmas and complain that the local shop didn’t sell Kohlrabi. Still, it would be nice to see Howe End done up a bit rather than allowed to crumble. I supposed Phinn would be living in London now, part of the social whirl of agents and Radio Times photo shoots. I wonder if he hates the place as much as I do? He’s not really the social whirl kind, he’s more one for the big skies and huge, open spaces.
‘Molly? That had better be you because, if it’s not, I’m warning you that Stan eats people. Well, bits of them.’ Caro’s voice drifted in to me where I stood in Stan’s loose-box, resting my head against his neck.
For a horse with such a high background level of misogyny he was being very accepting of me leaning against him. Occasionally he’d nuzzle me with a nose that felt like straw-stuffed velvet, if I’d had any kind of anthropomorphic tendencies I’d have said he was concerned about me.
‘All the bits he can reach, actually, and he’s not above crouching … Oh good, it is you.’ Caro loomed into view, jacket obviously draped hastily across her shoulders, and her boots on the wrong feet.
‘It’s me. I got back from London and I wanted … thought I might take Stan out. Why are you dressed like you just got out of bed?’
She didn’t answer, just unbolted the door and came in, bending to run her hand down Stan’s leg. ‘Better do it later. I had him out yesterday and I’m giving him
the morning off. You know, because he didn’t kill me or anything.’ She straightened and pulled the jacket closer around herself. ‘So, how did it go?’
She’s wearing a camisole, my brain told me, but I couldn’t process that right now. ‘We talked.’
‘Right. And?’
‘I think I understand a bit better now. I mean, it wasn’t easy for either of us, but she was only doing what she could, like most mothers. Doing her best. It wasn’t her fault that I was a bitch queen from hell.’
Caro stared at me. ‘Who?’
‘My mother. Why, who did you think I’d gone to see?’
‘Well, Doctor sexy-pants, of course! I thought you’d gone to talk to him about why he took off on you. I mean, for God’s sake Molly, I’ve known racehorses that were less highly-strung than that. What does he think he’s playing at?’
‘Since I didn’t go to see him, I have absolutely no idea.’
‘But he really likes you! God, I don’t know what’s the matter with the pair of you.’ Caro gave me one of her patented ‘hard stares’. ‘All “I like you but I’m not worthy …” Hell’s teeth, makes me want to bang your heads together! Sometimes you just have to take it when it’s offered and forget everything else.’
I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that Stan was slowly chewing his way into my pocket. ‘I couldn’t make him stay,’ I said, sadly. ‘If I tried, I’d only be doing what his wife did and manipulating him.’
Caro shivered. She really wasn’t wearing a lot under that hacking jacket, my brain told me.
‘Look,’ she said carefully. ‘I … have a feeling that this is the kind of thing he might do a lot, feeling bad about himself. I mean, look at his background, parents who are such high achievers they are practically giving God a run for his money! He was pretty much programmed to feel worthless from conception onwards, and if you want to talk about rubbish parenting, well, his he only got to see once a year! At least your mum was there for birthdays and Christmas and prize-givings, wasn’t she?’
‘How do …?’ Then the penny dropped with an almost audible clang. ‘Caroline Edwards! You’ve got Link in there, haven’t you? What, in your bedroom?’
Caro cast her eyes down, but they were sparkling. ‘Might have,’ she muttered.
‘But he—’
Now she looked up sharply. ‘Yes, I know, he’s a sexist idiot who writes greetings card verse and he’d probably sleep with steak if it was rare enough, but his parents have horses, so he understands and,’ now her gaze was diamond-hard, ‘he’s pretty damaged too. Your Doctor Delicious doesn’t have the monopoly on having had a rough time growing up. Plus,’ and the grin was back, ‘he’s got a huge willy and a trust fund, and that makes up for quite a lot.’
I was dumbstruck and couldn’t do much more than open and close my mouth, hoping something suitable to say would present itself, but all that came out was, ‘Huge?’
‘Oh, yes. Really quite enormous.’ Caro gathered the jacket back over her bust. ‘So I’m going to go back to bed before it evaporates or something. I haven’t had anything quite that glorious in my bedroom since I put up that print of William Fox-Pitt riding Idalgo over the dressing table.’
‘Or quite as well hung, apparently.’ I went to follow her out of the box. ‘I’ll just go back to the cottage then.’
Caro gave me an insouciant wave as she crossed the yard. ‘I’ll see you … in the morning. Yes, probably in the morning. But I don’t think I’m going to be riding out …’ were her parting words, before she slammed the side door quite emphatically and left me to walk across the track to my house, still in a stunned state.
Caro? And Link? Well, no, it didn’t surprise me that he would … well, that he would do anything really, but Caro? All right, she was probably lonely, and everyone’s entitled to some R&R but … seriously, Link? The man who put the ass in harassment?
Still shaking my head, I pushed open the cottage door, and picked up Folktales of Riverdale.
Welcome back to real life. You’ve still got an article to write, money to earn and a life to live, lights or no lights. I flopped down in the chair and opened the book to the last point I’d read. Phinn or no Phinn.
There was a huge emptiness in that thought and I tried not to remember that night, that one, crazy night when he’d been all fire and ice like a deep-space explosion. His fingers, so gentle and knowing, his joy in my pleasure. The sweet taste of him, the wildness that didn’t seem faked or drug-induced but more like an extension of who he really was, who he could be if he’d only stop being so afraid. I miss him. Ridiculous really, but I miss his sudden, frenetic pronouncements, his self-containment and his smile, I even miss his random anxieties. He’s a cross between Brian Cox and Woody Allen and I’ll never get to tell him that.
The book wobbled in my hands. If only he could see that he doesn’t have to live up to some macho ideal; that maybe gentleness and understanding are worth more than a sports car and ambition. That what we had felt like something real. The lights …
I shook my head. Why the hell was I worrying about the lights? He’d gone. Made his decision and left, and here was I, thinking about …
The lights.
I read the words that were leaping up from the page to meet my eyes. Then I read them again and my mouth fell open. Folktales. Only folktales. Just a story to make sense of an environment so harsh that people wear hats for ten months of the year … But I was swallowing hard as I went over each word again. Is there … could there be anything in it? I mean, really? No, of course not.
Of course not.
* * *
Phinn jerked awake to the pounding of his pulse, sat suddenly upright in the bed and tried to snatch away the sense that he was suffocating. ‘Molly!’
‘What about her? Thought you’d be dreaming about all those London sci-fi fans.’ The laconic voice of Link drawled into his panic, accompanied by the reassuring sound of a mug being put down beside him. ‘And your daily time check – it’s twelve fifteen, p.m. Saw you were back last night, and, believe me, I have had to sacrifice quite a lot to come over; warm bed, hot food, basic hygiene.’
Footsteps creaked across the boards. ‘Still, horses are horses and it’s all early mornings and healthy exercise when they come into the picture.’ Link’s face suddenly lurched into approximate focus. ‘You came back then. What’s this, a flying visit? One last look over the old roots before you leg it for the joys of fame and fortune?’
The face backed away and blurred. Phinn screwed up his eyes but without his glasses Link’s expression was just a pale smudge.
‘Are we okay?’
The sudden change in conversational tone, coupled with his abrupt awakening, made Phinn feel dislocated, a bit Alice Through the Looking Glass, and then he had to berate himself for waking up in a camp metaphor. What’s wrong with a Matrix comparison? He ran hands through his hair and searched almost subconsciously for his glasses. ‘Okay? What?’
Link kept his face turned away. Phinn could see the dark smear that was the back of his head outlined against the window. ‘I hoped I’d never have to say any of this, that none of it would come out.’ His voice was low and the words were barely audible. ‘But I guess, if you’re off hitting the dizzy heights, this might be our last chance to have this shit out and settle stuff. I should have realised – I wasn’t keeping quiet to protect you, I was doing it to keep myself in the clear.’
‘I know.’ Although his heart felt as though it had turned sideways, Phinn managed to keep his voice low.
‘You know? What do you know, man? That I was screwing around with your wife? Yeah, thought you’d have figured that one by now. Or you know that I spent so long lying to you that I can’t even remember what the truth is? I can’t remember who started it, or even much about how it ended, only that it did, that she went back to you. Even then, even in the end I lost out to you, man.’
Phinn dragged himself up out of the bed, feeling the strain and pull on
muscles that had been stiff with misery for so long. He unfolded himself and tried to judge how far away Link was standing. Without his glasses his depth perception was gone and his friend was a smudged shadow in front of the bright daylight.
He raised a hand and tried for a shoulder-slap. ‘Suze … I think we both got taken in. She didn’t want me, not really, with, you know, the terrible eyesight and the obsession with the skies; she wanted the illusion of me that she had in her head. And when I couldn’t be that man, she moved on to the next illusory male she could find, one with the money and the family connections to really be someone.’ His hand dropped through empty air. ‘She never really wanted either of us. She wanted what she thought we were.’
‘But she knew I was never going to follow my father into all that landowning crap. Soon as he goes I’m selling all that rubbish. All those acres and acres of mud and sheep and toffee-nosed gimps with guns, all “haw haw” and spaniels. That’s not me, Bax, that never was.’
‘But it might have been, and that’s what Suze saw. She had problems, I know we don’t want to admit it, we want to keep her memory all pure and make her the victim in all of this, but she used both of us, plain and simple. She was a player.’ He shuffled another step closer and this time his raised hand made contact. ‘We got played. Let it go.’
Link’s head dropped forward. ‘She was going to have my baby.’
Phinn felt the air sting his throat. Pain settled like a rock in his belly. ‘It could have been anyone’s baby. Mine, yours, some other random guy that she thought was offering more than he could ever fulfil. Suze was lost, looking for something none of us could ever give her. I thought I could make her happy, but …’ A deep indraught of breath. ‘The only thing that can make someone happy is themselves. Suze was doing what I did, trying to find happiness through other people, and it’s only now …’ Phinn felt the steel thing that lay deep within him, coiled and ragged, ‘… I’m realising what she never got the chance to. We have to make ourselves happy. We have to find out who we really are, not pretend, not try to lay all that on another person. She never found that, never could. She never knew how.’
How I Wonder What You Are Page 24