The Reinvention of Martha Ross

by Charlene Allcott

  ‘We speak earlier?’ he asks.

  ‘Excuse me?’ says Greta, with haughtiness practically oozing from her pores. ‘Are you lost?’ The guy looks from her face to mine quickly.

  ‘Who’s Martha?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m Martha,’ I say quietly.

  ‘So are we doing this?’ He begins tapping his foot self-consciously. I look at Greta.

  ‘You want the weed, lady?’ he says.

  ‘Drugs!’ shouts Greta, as if she wasn’t gurning her tits off every Friday in her pre-baby days.

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’ I say.

  ‘Lady, this ain’t how I like to do business,’ says the boy.

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘I’ll see you around,’ Greta says, still looking at the boy. Then she grabs my forearm and says to me, ‘Look after yourself.’ She speeds off, clearly eager to find someone with whom she can share this stellar piece of gossip.

  ‘Here.’ He looks around before handing me a small plastic bag full of what looks like dead parsley. ‘Get me next time. I don’t usually run tabs but, yunno, it’s Cara.’ He turns and jogs out of sight. I stuff the package in my bra and walk home quickly.

  Back at home I lock myself in Dad’s office, which is actually a very large shed in the garden, and since he recently retired, is more or less functionless. In the shed I set about rolling my first joint. I’ve smoked cannabis before – there was a semester of university when I was more often stoned than not – but it was always a guy procuring the drug and preparing it for consumption. I’m not sure how much to put in and I forgot to purchase tobacco when I self-consciously asked Mr Chaudry for Rizlas, certain my intentions were clear on my face. I take about a quarter of the bag and pack it in to the paper. I look back at the house to check my parents haven’t come home before lighting up and taking the first drag. I’m hit by a familiar light-headedness and almost immediately I think that maybe, possibly, I can do this audition; so I take another deep inhalation.

  I hold my breath for as long as I can and when I finally release it the sensation takes me back to a moment with Alexander. Shortly after we became a couple he convinced me to go to a world music festival in Spain. My taste in music falls more into the category of pop than progressive but at the time I carried a feeling that having snagged Alexander I should not let him out of my sight. On day two of our trip Alexander managed to buy a batch of brownies, baked with an extra special ingredient. We spent the afternoon sitting on the grass, chasing our treats with warm beer. By the time the evening had set in, I was done. Alexander tried to encourage me back to the tent but I just settled down on to the cool grass. I felt very sure that if I attempted anything vertical I would vomit or worse.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I murmured. ‘I’ll just stay here.’

  Alexander tugged at my vest top. ‘You can’t stay here, baby, we have to go to bed.’

  ‘We don’t have a bed,’ I said very logically.

  ‘Well, tent then.’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘here.’

  Alexander lay down and spooned me on the grass. ‘You are so mashed, my beautiful, so very mashed.’

  ‘Hmmmmm,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever my little mashed princess wants she will receive. We will make our bed on this Spanish soil and I will protect you from the beetles.’ I know he said that last bit to inspire me to move but I didn’t care, I kinda liked the idea of it. When my only response was to pull his arm tighter around me he laughed.

  ‘So we’re really gonna stay here then?’ he asked.

  ‘If that’s OK.’

  ‘Whatever you want; we’ll stay here all night,’ he said. I think he was trying to be dramatic but that’s what we did. I woke in the morning to discover that my neck no longer had a full range of motion and my mobile phone had been stolen but I was so very happy.

  After my second toke everything starts to feel a bit furry. My body feels too heavy, particularly my head. I lie down on the tatty two-seater sofa Dad rescued from Mum’s last home makeover and close my eyes. That feels terrible so I open them. It’s times like these that you need a boyfriend, for when you get disastrously stoned by accident and need someone to remind you that you’re probably not dying. Also for when you can feel something strange on your back and you need someone to check if it’s a zit or something more sinister; or for when you want to call in sick but you know if you do it yourself you’ll fake-cough a suspicious number of times; or for when you bump into Chloe Leonard, who used to terrorize you at school, and you want her to believe that you are loved, that you are capable of being loved.

  Apart from these things, being single isn’t as bad as I thought it would be; it’s like a whole drawer of my brain has been cleared out of Alexander and is now available to hold so many other cool things. Like maybe I will learn to waterboard or maybe I will keep bees. I think maybe I have confused waterboarding with something else but it’s the concept and not the details that is important. The freedom to explore who I am, without the annoyance of having to manipulate the experience to accommodate someone else’s wishes. Not having to consider someone else’s feelings every minute of every hour is good, but I must admit it is nice to know there’s a person thinking about you. Little updates from George are what get me through the day at the moment; for example, he’ll message me to say he had some chicken and he didn’t think it was cooked through. It’s uplifting to know that I am the one he needs to tell him he might get the shits.

  This, I realize, is a brilliant idea for a business. I’ll provide a service that messages single women with cute, affirming messages throughout the week. I’ll get them to create their own list of the perfect man’s attributes and base my communication on it; a kind of virtual boyfriend. He will tell you he loved last night’s dinner and he thinks you’re beautiful; he will never forget your anniversary or start sleeping with his barely legal personal assistant. I haul myself to sitting and grab a piece of paper and pencil from Dad’s desk to scribble down my business idea. I can already see the logo – an outline of a man sitting on a moon. Maybe I will call it Man in the Moon or maybe To the Moon and Back. Maybe I won’t go with the whole moon thing but the rest is gold. I sink back on to the sofa. I’ll just have a little nap, go to my audition and then take over the world.

  I wake up an hour later, fifteen minutes into my audition. A piece of paper beside me says, ‘Fake … Messages … All the pretty things …’ I call Marc and tell him my son is unwell and I can’t leave him.

  ‘Little fuckers,’ he says. ‘No worries, I trust Car. She knows her talent. I’ll put you in for a full set in a couple of weeks.’ I can’t feel my legs but I have my first singing gig.

  19

  WHEN I READ the email, I think I’m still high. It’s so unreal I print it out so that I can actually hold it. I then keep it in my pocket for the entire afternoon and it plays on my mind like a backing track throughout the day.

  Collecting Moses from nursery, I take on the role of an engaged parent. I ask about his day and praise the artistic talent displayed in his haphazard splodges, but despite my efforts I pull on his coat a little too briskly and push him into the buggy hurriedly because I know my mind will not quieten until I have addressed the contents of the message, which reads:

  Martha,

  I want to apologize for how things with us ended. Don’t feel bad, it was absolutely my fault. I thought I was ready to move on but being with you made me realize that I was still in love with Rhiannon.

  We’ve reconnected and I knew that I couldn’t let her get away from me again so I’m pleased to tell you we’re engaged.

  We’d both like you to come to our engagement party on 4 November, at OhSo from 8 p.m. You are an important part of why we are able to celebrate the occasion.

  I hope you are well and have been able to make positive decisions of your own.

  Kind Regards,

  Tom

  I must have read it a dozen times and at every reading the structure and content is the sa
me. It’s enraging and also completely baffling – for a start, how did he get my email address? I guess it’s true that with a little time and effort he could have investigated me online but Tom is not that guy. Tom would only have my contact details if they were right in front of him.

  Leanne opens her front door. I have Moses in one arm and with the other I hold up the email like it’s a search warrant. ‘What the hell is this?’ I demand.

  Leanne lifts her left eyebrow. ‘A piece of paper,’ she says.

  ‘Where’s James?’ I say. I hand Moses to Leanne and push past her, leaving the buggy on the porch.

  I walk straight through to the kitchen and Leanne follows me with Moses, saying, ‘Hi, Leanne, how are you doing? Oh, I’m fine, yeah the kids are great.’ I ignore her; I have no time for pleasantries. James is sitting at the kitchen table, his slippered feet resting on a chair. When he sees me, he swallows the biscuit he’s eating guiltily.

  ‘Hi, Martha,’ he says, but his greeting is a question. I give him the answer.

  ‘What moved you to talk about me to Tom?’

  ‘Huh?’ says James. I slam the email down on the table. James looks at it and then back at me and then behind me to his wife. I push James’s feet from the chair so that I can sit down and force him to look me in the eye.

  ‘This is an invitation to Tom’s engagement party. One that he has sent me as some sort of charitable act.’

  ‘Right,’ says James. Leanne places Moses in front of a wooden toy kitchen in the corner and comes and stands between me and her husband. She puts her hands on her hips, fully embracing the role of referee.

  ‘James,’ she says. ‘Did you and Tom talk about Martha after their date?’

  ‘No,’ says James. ‘Well, not really.’

  I slam my palm against the table, sending the family hamster into a flurry of activity in his cage. ‘You did or you didn’t: there are no “not really”s in this scenario,’ I say.

  ‘Erm, OK, so yes.’

  Leanne covers her face with her hands.

  ‘I mean, barely,’ continues James. ‘Obviously he asked me if you were OK – he said you seemed a bit angry after your date.’ James’s eyes flit wildly between the two women before him.

  ‘And …’ says Leanne.

  ‘Well, I said no,’ says James. ‘I said you were having a hard time, you … with … you know, stuff. I thought it might help to explain things …’ I smack my forehead with my hand several times. I consider that if I seriously injure him right now I could offer a very reasonable defence. Leanne crouches down beside her husband.

  ‘Honey,’ she says, ‘it almost never helps to explain things, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ says James. ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘Just stop talking,’ I say. Millie comes into the kitchen. She’s wearing a Batman costume and holding a small plastic handbag.

  ‘Mummy, can I have a snack?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ says Leanne. She prods James in the thigh. ‘Go get them something to eat.’ James gets up and pats me on the shoulder before rounding up Millie and Moses. Leanne takes his chair.

  ‘Don’t worry, if Tom mentions you at the party I’ll set him straight,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to the party,’ I say. ‘Thanks to your husband I have to.’ I look at James, who has the grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘But … I don’t understand …’ says Leanne. I hope I wasn’t this ignorant when I was in a relationship.

  ‘I have to go to show him that I am, and look, amazing,’ I say.

  ‘Let’s go see if Dora is on,’ says James, ushering the kids out of the room.

  ‘Why do you care what he thinks?’ asks Leanne. ‘Move on with your life; he clearly has.’

  ‘Ouch! Let’s just run that one in a little deeper,’ I say, and then, ‘Whatever. I don’t care what he thinks.’

  ‘You clearly care what he thinks,’ says Leanne.

  ‘OK, I care, but only in the most time-sensitive, transient way.’ Leanne gives me an unconvinced face. ‘Really, I just don’t want him to think all women are helpless little walkovers – it’s a feminist act really.’ Leanne opens her mouth to say something, something I know will be a chastisement, so I interrupt her and say, ‘Anyway, I’m kinda seeing someone.’

  Leanne closes her mouth then asks, ‘Who?’

  ‘His name is George,’ I say.

  ‘Like the list George?’ Leanne asks.

  ‘Exactly like the list George. He’s got red hair and everything.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’ she asks.

  ‘On Linger,’ I say. I can feel my blood pumping faster as I gear up to spill the beans. Leanne stands up.

  ‘I’m gonna need wine for this,’ she says. Leanne pours out two large glasses of shiraz and I tell her all about him. I downplay the overwhelming sense that we are destined to be together but she clearly feels the significance because when I finish talking she remains silent for a few seconds.

  ‘So his name isn’t George, it’s Nathan,’ she says. I understand this is why I didn’t want to tell people about him; because it’s human instinct to want to taint things. I remember going to visit a butterfly house at primary school. Before we went in we were told under no circumstances were we to touch the butterflies and we all nodded our heads solemnly, but of course as soon as we were ushered in, those beautiful but forbidden wings were far too inviting.

  ‘Well yes, but you’re missing the important bit!’

  ‘Which is?’ asks Leanne.

  I smile. ‘That he gets me, that he wants me. I’m so excited about meeting him and I’m nearly ready, I just need to lose a few pounds and get the work thing sorted …’

  Leanne shakes her head as if she’s trying to empty it. ‘What’s the point of him wanting you if you’re just going to change who you are?’ she asks. Leanne is really annoying sometimes.

  ‘You know, you’re really annoying sometimes,’ I tell her.

  ‘Annoying or right?’ Leanne asks.

  ‘Definitely annoying,’ I say.

  20

  LISA HAS PROCURED a clipboard from somewhere. I’ve never noticed one in the office before, so I suspect that she has purchased this specifically for her role of Unpaid Christmas Party Planning Dictator. Lisa informs us that the theme of the party will be tapas and almost everyone nods agreeably. Lisa’s hair is styled in a very intricate arrangement. Waves muddle with plaits and meet in a glossy ponytail at the nape of her neck. It’s the sort of style that should be impressive but makes me feel a little bit of second-hand embarrassment, because I know it has taken three YouTube videos and a can of hairspray to achieve the look and that the whole thing was contrived in the hope that just one person would say, ‘Ooh, that looks nice.’ That makes me feel a little sorry for Lisa because it’s a hope I recognize – that something I have achieved, however minor, will be acknowledged. That’s why I feel a little guilty when I raise my hand.

  ‘Yes?’ asks Lisa, with a glare that says, ‘Who let you in?’ I lower my hand, conscious of the other people in the room waiting for my response.

  ‘Uhm, it’s just I’m pretty sure tapas isn’t a theme.’ Lisa rolls her eyes and throws me a smile that could be given no other description than patronizing.

  ‘A theme is just a feeling, Marsha,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, Marsha,’ says Greg from beside me, ‘it’s just a feeling.’ I can hear the catch in his voice, where I know a laugh is lurking. I stare at my knees so that I can’t look at him and fail to keep my composure.

  ‘See,’ says Lisa, ‘Greg gets it.’ I raise my head, expecting to see him pulling a face or sneaking me a sideways look, but he is winking at Lisa and for a minute I’m unsure if he was joking and that uncertainty makes me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Let’s all decide what area we’re going to cover,’ says Lisa enthusiastically. I am given olives. I think it’s a punishment. I decide not to care. As we’re leaving Lisa asks me to stay behind, as if I’ve been caught passing not
es in the back of her class. I really want to walk out but my feet are politer than my mind.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ask. ‘I really got behind the tapas thing in the end.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Lisa, and I’m annoyed she thinks I was. ‘I just wanted to ask you something.’ She stops and her mouth twists to one side. She’s assessing me, checking if I’m a worthy source of information.

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  ‘You sit next to Greg, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I say. For a second I think she’s going to make a complaint about him and I want to run. The thought of pushing the button on Greg makes me nauseous.

  ‘I was wondering if he’s single?’ She lowers her eyes bashfully as she says this and I’m glad because it means that she doesn’t see my own widen with surprise.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, after too long a pause. ‘I mean, yeah, I think so.’

  ‘And you’d say he was a good guy?’ she asks.

  ‘He’s the best guy,’ I say, and I mean it. Her body relaxes and she lets out a pretty laugh.

  ‘I know he’s not the tallest but he’s so funny and, I don’t know, he’s sorta got something about him. He’s really kind, you know.’ I do know this and I feel embarrassed because I realize that, in a vague, unformed way, I had believed his kindness had been inspired by me.

  ‘He’s tall enough,’ I say, a bit offended on Greg’s behalf. Lisa smiles.

  ‘I guess so. I mean, I usually wear flats so it’d be OK.’ Even in her kitten heels, the top of Lisa’s head only reaches my nose. I don’t know why she would want a tall guy. What exactly would she do with all those extra inches? Put them into storage? Share them with her friends? Lisa’s response is jarring; I didn’t intend to communicate that he was tall enough for her – I meant tall enough for someone, tall enough for anyone – but I can tell that my throwaway comment has greenlit whatever fantasy Lisa has been concocting in her head.