The Reinvention of Martha Ross

by Charlene Allcott

  ‘What’s that?’ I hear Greg say from beside me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, and quickly fold up the bit of paper.

  ‘I’ve not got a lot of education but I know what nothing looks like,’ he says. ‘Is it a secret plan to kill us all?’ He sits down in his chair and loads up his computer. ‘Actually, don’t tell me ’cause then I’ll be forced to push the button.’ I’m still a little annoyed with him but I can’t resist biting.

  ‘What button?’ I ask.

  ‘You know, the button you press when you find out people are doing something untoward. We did that training.’

  I laugh. ‘It’s a whistle, Greg, you blow the whistle.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s a bit naff, innit. Makes me feel like a Boy Scout leader or something. Pressing a button, that’s more dramatic. You know, like, boom!’ He slams his hand on his desk.

  ‘Shut up, Greg,’ I whisper. ‘You’ll get us both in trouble and you better know that before that happens I will throw you under the bus so fast.’ Greg turns to me and narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to measure a distance.

  ‘Really?’ he asks. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘No question,’ I say lightly.

  ‘Really?’ repeats Greg. His face looks searching now and, unexpectedly, I feel self-conscious. ‘Are you gonna blow my whistle, Martha?’ He holds my gaze for a couple of seconds before his mouth betrays him with a twitch that is clearly an effort to conceal a smirk. I smack him hard on the arm. He bats my hand away with his, ineffectually – an imitation of schoolgirl fighting. I pull my hand back and take a sip of the coffee he brought me; it’s good. I put on my headset.

  ‘You know I wouldn’t push the button though, Martha,’ says Greg. ‘I mean, I know we’re supposed to but you might have a good reason to want to top us all. I feel like you’d rather I asked you about it, right? Sat you down and said, “Martha, you seem a little maniacal. Is there any way I can help?”’

  Just as he finishes speaking my first call comes through, so my response to him is, ‘Hello, Martha speaking, how can I help you today?’ Greg winks at me and puts on his own headset.

  ‘I want to know why I keep getting all these charges when I int bought nuffin?’ says a gruff Bristolian voice. And so it begins.

  The day goes by quickly and for once this doesn’t feel like a good thing. At lunch Greg asks if I want to go and grab a sandwich with him. He tells me he’s planning a trip to Peppa Pig World with the girls and that Moses and I should come. To be honest, it’s bad enough having to experience that wretched, porcine brat for five minutes every day; a whole afternoon sounds like a pig-themed hell, but also, I’m not completely sure when I will be free to go with him; what my long-term co-parenting arrangement will be. I tell Greg I’ll take a rain check on the sarnie because I have to run to the high street. I need something – a crutch, a talisman – that will give me the strength not to blurt out all the questions in my head when I see Alexander.

  In Boots, I wander up and down the make-up counter, waiting for something to jump out at me, some magic fix that I’ve missed despite a twenty-year commitment to women’s magazines. The woman behind the counter offers me her counsel and I tell her, ‘I need something that will make me feel like myself again.’ She ducks behind the divide for a few seconds and then stands holding a gold tube, a lipstick.

  ‘It’s just been released,’ she says. ‘It’s really natural but it’s got these little gold flecks that make it shimmer just the right amount. It’s basically you but better.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I need,’ I say, and put it on my credit card.

  I can tell Moses is a bit confused when I change his clothes after nursery.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m confused too.’ I put him in a clean pair of jogging bottoms and a polo shirt that Mum bought but I’ve never put him in because I think it makes him look like a tiny golfer. I want Moses to look like he is being parented by someone strong and capable, someone who owns an iron.

  As my parents leave, Mum tells me she didn’t cook but there’s pizza in the freezer. I feel irritated that she thinks I can’t fend for myself and simultaneously annoyed that I have to, so I mumble goodbyes to her and Dad and pretend to be preoccupied with packing Moses’s bag, even though I can tell she’s waiting for more from me. When I don’t supply it she leaves wordlessly, and I go to the big mirror in the hallway to apply my new lipstick. It doesn’t look like me but better; it looks like me with some slightly shimmery, beige stuff on my lips.

  Alexander rings the bell at exactly ten past the hour. His lateness was one thing I couldn’t bear about him, even when I was tits over arse, can’t see the wood for the trees in love with him. He is never anywhere on time; it’s as if he’s physically incapable of it. Even on our wedding day I had to circle in the car, which was in fact a taxi clocking up minutes on the meter, so that I could arrive after him. At times it felt like a message, never to forget that, whatever the occasion, his time was more important than mine. Not any more – he is no longer entitled to any of my time and I open the door prepared to let him know that.

  ‘If you can’t be on time, you’re gonna have to be early,’ I say. ‘Don’t ever keep our son waiting.’ I finish before the door is even fully open. Alexander’s face is crimson and he nods his head with a nervous energy.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I was in this meeting and the director kept banging on. I should have just said something but you know what I’m like, I was being all British about it and just sliding my chair across the room, hoping no one would notice.’ I really don’t want to but I smile because I know this is exactly what he would do. I recall all the dinners where he battled his way through overcooked meat or stone-cold vegetables, never willing to draw attention to his unhappiness. ‘It won’t happen again.’ I believe him and I don’t know if it’s because I don’t have all the doubts about our relationship clouding my thinking or because he’s started being honest.

  ‘It’s OK, come in,’ I say, and step aside to allow him space to walk through. Moses waddles up to him and Alexander picks him up and holds him over his head. Moses giggles and kicks his feet and I feel a spark of joy that is quickly extinguished with a bucket full of cold grief. From now on Alexander and I will each revel in Moses’s happiness but we will never share it. Alexander settles our son on to his hip and pulls at the collar of his shirt.

  ‘What’s this,’ he says, ‘channelling Tiger Woods’s son?’ Alexander smiles at me but I don’t return it.

  ‘Bring it back, it’s new,’ I say.

  ‘No problem,’ says Alexander in a businesslike tone. ‘Anything I should know?’

  My stomach jolts. ‘About what?’

  ‘Food, poos, you know, the usual.’ I feel a bit disappointed. The moment, the one where Alexander tells me all the ways he’s hurting and why not having me in his life is tantamount to torture, is not coming. Not today, not ever.

  ‘No, he’s been great. How are you?’

  ‘Yeah, good,’ says Alexander. ‘I’ve got this new account and they are sucking me dry but they’ve got three offices in the UK so I’m hoping if I can get my foot in the door …’ It’s like a time machine, Alexander banging on about his work as if it’s the most significant thing going on in the world. I swear there could be a sudden outbreak of war and all Alexander would care about would be submitting his invoices before getting to the bunker. ‘I’m bringing in someone part-time,’ he continues. ‘I’ve got help, obviously, but I’m getting a freelancer to do some of the artwork.’

  I grip the sideboard and focus on not screaming, ‘I don’t care, no one fucking cares!’ I hate that he wants to just pick up where we left off and the hate is glazed with a coat of rage, that in mentioning ‘help’ he is referencing Poppy the anorexic intern, however obliquely. I pick up the backpack that gets passed between us along with Moses and say, ‘That’s brilliant, just wonderful. Have a good night.’

  ‘Hey, you asked me,’ says Alexander, with the audacit
y to look wounded.

  ‘Right, but you were late and I’ve got stuff to do. I don’t have time for the whole song and verse.’ Alexander looks at me with an expression en route from confusion to amusement.

  ‘What stuff?’ he asks.

  ‘Stuff, stuff. My stuff. Stuff that’s none of your business.’ Alexander doesn’t move and I’m forced to walk past him and open the door.

  ‘OK, OK, I’m going,’ he says. ‘I’ll let you get on with your stuff.’ He says this with a half smile he does, a smile that has always been an instant aphrodisiac. I’m horrified to discover that even though I hate him in this moment (I hate him in the way a proud, retired man hates the foxes that shit on his lawn) if he kissed me, I would kiss him back.

  Alexander moves past me and I shout to his retreating back, ‘I will! I’ll enjoy doing my stuff a lot, thank you!’ And then I throw the door closed behind him. Afterwards, I feel like the door slamming might have been a bit much.

  When I’m alone I can feel my tears are close to the surface and I dig out the list to remind myself of what I’m waiting for, because despair can’t live in the face of hope.

  I message George hello and a few minutes later he replies:

  Undeterred83: HOW ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? TELL ME, I WANT TO BE ABLE TO SEE IT. SORRY DON’T KNOW WHY MY PHONE IS DOING CAPS.

  2) Must be intrigued by me.

  His words are like a virtual hug. I swear, if men asked women how they were doing seventeen times as much as they currently do, the divorce rate amongst heterosexual couples would plummet.

  Marthashotbod: Just getting ready to go out.

  It’s a small lie, a white lie, because God help me, I’m going to find something to do. Alexander thinks I have nothing in my life because I gave up what little life I had to cater to his needs. If a man is going to be intrigued by me, I must do some stuff that makes me intriguing. So I put on another coat of my more-me-than-me lipstick and make a call.

  18

  IS IT IRONIC that I work in a call centre but hate making phone calls? If it’s someone I know and trust, I can cope, but when I have to reach out to someone new and by default intimidating, I always imagine they’re in the midst of something terribly important and my interruption only serves as an irritant. Unfortunately, Cara’s gig contact ‘doesn’t do internet’ so ringing is my only option. And however much my pits are sweating, I’m going to call him because people with stuff to do pick up the phone and make that stuff happen.

  ‘Marc Billingsworth,’ he says after a lifetime of rings.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘This is Martha Ross.’

  There are several seconds of silence in which I think we may have been disconnected and then he suddenly barks, ‘Good for you, love. What do you want?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I hadn’t really planned beyond this point. ‘I think Cara messaged you about me …?’ Marc coughs, seemingly without moving his mouth away from the phone. ‘I’m … are you there?’

  ‘Yes, love, spit it out.’

  ‘I’m … I’m a singer.’ Now I’ve said it, I suppose I am.

  ‘I gather that. Yeah, all right, anything jazzy will do. You’ll have to do all the standard stuff but at the end of the night we mix it up a bit. Can you come down about half nine and let me hear a number? If it goes all right I can get you on for a full set next week.’

  ‘Tonight?’ I manage to squeak.

  ‘No time like the present, darling,’ he says.

  After our call I go into what can only be fairly described as complete meltdown. The problem with my singing goals is that they have pretty much only manifested in my head. When I was eight my mother, father and I stayed at a self-catered apartment somewhere in Greece. The holiday itself was a bit of a disappointment; the resort appeared to have a concrete theme and my father got second-degree sunburn on our first afternoon there. On our final evening, in a desperate attempt to rescue our disastrous trip, my mother made us all attend the dinner and cabaret put on at a local restaurant each night. As we sat in front of rubbery chicken and watched a string of failed musical theatre students leave their souls on the stage, I felt increasingly tired and fidgety and full to bursting of that end-of-holiday feeling when all you want to do is return to the damp comfort of home.

  Maybe it was because I was feeling so despondent that the headline act had the impact that she did. She was tiny, so small that at first glance I thought she was my age or even younger. Then I clocked her tight purple dress and deep red nails and, to me, she was the epitome of womanhood. Little as she was, her presence filled the room and had she simply stood there I would have been in love. But she didn’t only stand; she released the purest, most moving sound I had ever in my short life experienced. She sang an old Whitney Houston song, and the themes it covered – sex, infidelity – I knew nothing of but the feeling she sang it with, that I knew. That was universal. I told myself that when I was a grown-up, I would be that woman, or as close to her as I could be.

  It might seem strange but from that evening forward I knew singing was something I would eventually do; it was only a matter of when. According to Marc, my when is now; the panic I feel is induced by years of longing and not an ounce of preparation. I don’t even have a song ready, and more importantly, what will I wear? I spend thirty minutes pulling all my clothes out of my wardrobe and rejecting them as too old or too sad or too trashy. Eventually I settle for a black dress I bought for a funeral – not that exciting but clean and vaguely flattering. I find an old songbook from my piano lesson days in a cupboard. It’s filled with wartime songs but I figure I can jazz them up a bit. I sing the opening lines of ‘A Sentimental Journey’ but it doesn’t feel right. I think maybe it’s because I don’t have music, so I find a video of Doris Day singing the song on YouTube and try to duet with her. This only serves to emphasize how far from competent I am and my head starts to itch as the sweat collects in my hairline. I call Cara and tell her about the audition.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ I tell her.

  ‘Sure you can,’ she says. ‘You book an Uber and get your butt into it.’

  ‘No, no, I mean I’m not ready,’ I say.

  Cara tuts. ‘Martha, I do not have time for your histrionics.’

  ‘I just need to relax a bit. I can’t curb my nerves.’ I hear what sounds like Cara getting into a car.

  ‘Relaxing I can do,’ she says, ‘gimme five.’ And then she ends the call. I sit on my bed, staring at my phone. The problem with having a soon-to-be boyfriend in Africa is it’s not really convenient to ask him for a hug.

  A number I don’t recognize flashes on the screen and when I answer a voice says, ‘You want a twenty-five bag or a forty?’

  ‘Uhm, I think you have the wrong number,’ I say.

  ‘Nah, Martha, right? Cara said you needed me to hook you up.’

  ‘Hook me up how?’ I ask.

  ‘With weed, right? It’s good stuff. So, twenty-five or forty?’

  ‘Twenty-five or forty what?’

  ‘Pounds, lady.’ I’m silent for a few seconds whilst I contemplate the madness of this call. Like many things Cara does, it’s crazy but also a little genius. I realize that being a single parent could be kind of like living a double life. I can spend part of my time being a responsible parent and my childfree evenings enjoying a life of glamour and debauchery.

  ‘Twenty-five, I guess,’ I say.

  ‘Safe, let me know your address and I’ll be over in thirty.’

  I stand up. ‘No, no, no.’ I imagine my parents’ neighbours watching me open the door to the friendly local drug dealer. ‘Can I meet you somewhere?’

  ‘Whatever you want, lady. Meet me outside the cinema on London Road in thirty.’ He hangs up.

  ‘OK,’ I say to no one in particular.

  I am completely clueless as to what one wears to meet a drug dealer so I put on the funeral dress. When I reach the cinema, there is no one to be seen and then I realize I don’t know who I’m looking for anyway. What does a drug
dealer look like? It’s not as if they can wear a company T-shirt. I’m starting to think the guy’s not coming when I hear a voice behind me call my name.

  ‘Oh, hey Martha!’ shouts Greta as she waves energetically.

  Greta attends the same mother and toddler group as I do, when I have the mental strength to attend. Her partner goes for the odd pint with Alexander and we’ve had dinner at their elegant Victorian terrace on several occasions. Greta has sharp but beautiful features and always looks harassed but in a smug way, as if she’s only flustered because she is consistently running from one fabulous thing to another. When Greta reaches me she briskly kisses me on each cheek. As she withdraws she slowly looks me up and down and says, ‘You look good,’ because what else are you supposed to say after you’ve examined someone in this way?

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply.

  I’m about to return the compliment when she says, ‘I’m sorry about you and Alexander.’ It’s strange, hearing about the split from outside my own head. Whenever someone else brings up the separation, the outline of the concept becomes more solidified.

  ‘Oh, thanks. It’s OK, though,’ I say.

  ‘Between you and me,’ Greta says conspiratorially, ‘I think it’s really tacky, him taking up with that Poppy girl. Men are so lazy sometimes, they’ll just take the first thing in front of them.’

  I nod voicelessly. It becomes very important in this moment not to convey that this is the first time I am hearing this information. It comes as a blow, even though, if I’m honest, it was knowledge I already had on some level. I knew it the way that suspicious partners know the truth before they check their lover’s phone; my heart knew it but my head was holding out until the bitter end. Before I can think of a response we’re interrupted by a short, pale young man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles.