by Rosie Fiore
‘Come on, little bear,’ I called. ‘Pizza!’
I loaded him into the pushchair and galloped back down the hill. We went so fast and the rain and wind were so dramatic that we were both laughing and pink-faced when we stopped under the awning in front of the pizza restaurant. The owner was standing in the doorway, his face a mask of consternation. I was about to go inside when he held up a hand to stop me.
‘We are closed. Sorry,’ he said.
I glanced over his shoulder and saw three waiters with brooms and mops, attempting to sweep puddles of rainwater out of the door. The whole restaurant floor was awash. Clearly their location at the bottom of the hill was to blame – it simply couldn’t cope with the torrential rain that had continued almost without a break since the early hours of the morning. The owner looked mortified and apologetic. ‘I can do takeaways’, he said.
‘Not to worry,’ I replied. We could do without pizza. But then I thought about Sam, coming out of the cinema with six little girls all expecting a pizza meal and birthday cake. There wasn’t another restaurant anywhere nearby, and, anyway, it was pouring with rain. Miranda hadn’t looked too happy at the start of her birthday party, and Sam had looked strained, rumpled and possibly hung-over. This was gearing up to be an unmitigated disaster.
At that moment I saw Sam come out of the cinema complex holding Marguerite’s hand. The bigger girls trailed behind him in an excited knot, chattering animatedly, probably about the film. Miranda had a little colour in her cheeks and was smiling. I stepped towards him and waved. I could see Frances’ lips tighten when she saw me, because I was being ‘an embarrassment’. Never mind, I was used to that.
‘Little hitch,’ I said brightly, and I saw the smile fall from Miranda’s face like a shadow. I took Sam’s elbow and led him a little way from the girls.
‘The restaurant’s closed,’ I said quietly. ‘They’ve had a flood.’
I don’t know what I thought he would do. I suppose I expected him to behave like most people would under the circumstances – maybe swear, then come up with a solution. A bus trip to McDonald’s or something like that. But he sort of slumped, and his eyes went red. I genuinely thought he was going to burst into tears.
‘Sam?’ I said, concerned.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know what to do. Today’s been such a fuck-up already.’ He paused for a long second. ‘I can’t take them back to the house. It’s a tip. When I asked Miranda if she wanted her party at home, she told me she’d be ashamed to have people in our house because it’s so messy and dirty. I don’t know what to do,’ he said again, and his voice cracked. And then he did cry, or at least a tear escaped and rolled down the side of his nose. He brushed it off clumsily, and then he looked up and stared into my eyes, and his whole face was a mask of pleading. ‘Please help me,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘I’ve got nothing.’
There was no time to think. I spun on my heel and turned to the little knot of girls who had crowded round Jonah’s pushchair and were talking to him in exaggerated baby talk.
‘Right!’ I said briskly. ‘We’ve got a tiny emergency, but we have a solution. The restaurant has had a bit of a Noah’s Ark situation, and it’s flooded.’
There was a collective wail. ‘But. . .’ I cut in with my best crowd-management voice, ‘we’ve got a plan. They can still do takeaways, because the kitchen is upstairs from the main part of the restaurant, so we’re all going back to my house, and we’ll have a rainy-day picnic on the living-room floor!’
The girls started to chatter and squeal all at once and bombarded me with questions. I dealt with each issue one at a time. Sam and I would ring all of their parents and let them know about the change of plan. Sam would take three girls in his car, and the other three would come with me and Jonah in a taxi. Look, I was ringing for one now. I spoke firmly to Sam, as if he too were one of the children, and sent him into the pizzeria to order the takeaways. I even reminded him to collect the birthday cake from the proprietor, with whom he had left it before the film. I took all the girls back into the cinema complex to use the loo, and then managed to load everyone into the various vehicles. En route, I rang my mum, to warn her of the impending invasion.
She’s a legend, my mum. By the time we got to our house, she had cleared the living-room carpet of toys and spread picnic blankets. She’d made a couple of jugs of juice and squash and put crisps in bowls (thank heavens I’d done grocery shopping that morning), and she’d even tuned the radio to Radio 1 and cranked up the volume so music blared through the house. The girls all spilled into the living room, chattering and giggling. Miranda still looked pale and miserable, but her friends were so full of bubbling excitement, it was hard for her to stay upset.
I got them all on to the picnic rugs and we opened the pizza boxes. While the girls ate and talked, I put together a quick playlist on my iPod, closed the living-room curtains and turned on the fairy lights we have draped around the fireplace. With Taylor Swift singing and plates full of pizza and crisps, the girls looked happy to hang out. Jonah was delighted at this turn of events and he wandered between the girls, eating off all of their plates and putting up with being hugged and cuddled wherever he went.
‘This is so cool, Miranda!’ said Florence, biting into a huge, floppy slice of pepperoni pizza, and I saw Miranda allow herself a small, twisted smile. It was kind of cool – a bit hippie and bohemian, not at all the sort of thing Miranda would have chosen, and a million miles from the perfection Helen might have engineered, but in a funny way that was probably better. There was no way this birthday party would remind her of any of the ones that had preceded it.
I realized I had forgotten Sam altogether. I looked around for him and he was standing awkwardly in the doorway, still holding the big, grease-spotted cake box, looking with bewilderment at the scene before him. I went over and took the cake box out of his hands and motioned for him to follow me to the kitchen. Mum was already in there, and she had a pot of tea brewing.
Sam sat down at the kitchen table and my mum plonked a mug of tea in front of him. ‘Thank you,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m not quite sure what happened, but you averted disaster, and somehow Miranda’s having the time of her life.’
‘I think that depends on us staying in here, out of the way, and not going through to be lame parents in the sitting room,’ I said. ‘Just let them hang out. It’s only for an hour or so, and then their parents will be here to collect them.’
He nodded and sipped his tea. ‘Thanks again,’ he said, and I could see he had regained his composure. He’d plastered on his usual, charming, slightly distant mask again. I felt a small pang of regret. It had been revealing and interesting to glimpse the real, damaged man behind the smooth facade.
Everyone at school keeps going on about how well he’s doing. He drops the girls off every day, on time and neatly dressed, and looks smart and together himself. All of those school-gate mums believe that their husbands are useless morons, so any level of competence from Sam seems to astound them. They can’t quite believe he can get the girls into their uniforms and into school punctually. Their own husbands couldn’t do that if their lives depended upon it, they maintain.
I know from experience that sometimes making sure everyone’s hair is brushed and that you’re on time is the only, wafer-thin, barrier between you and total meltdown. It’s having to do the little, practical things that keeps you going. In public, Sam appears to be functioning far better than might reasonably be expected. But in that moment outside the pizzeria, I had glimpsed the real Sam. The one who doesn’t sleep, who weeps and rages, who possibly drowns his pain in booze, or videogames, or porn or God knows what. I suppose the school gate isn’t the place to let that side of him show. I’m sure he has friends and family with whom he could let his guard down. . . people who will support him when it all gets too much. I hope so.
He was chatting to my mum now, easily and charmingly, about books. She was smiling. She tends to rega
rd all men with amused detachment, as if they’re a species of large and dangerous animal – nice to look at, but you wouldn’t want one in the house.
I heard the music being turned up in the living room – a Justin Bieber song was playing – and lots of whooping and excited chatter followed. Sam looked towards the door enquiringly.
‘Dancing, I think,’ I said. ‘Unless we hear glass breaking, I’d leave them to it.’
‘Will the neighbours not complain?’ he asked.
‘The ones on the left-hand side mow their lawn at seven on a Sunday morning. And the ones on the right have a seventeen-year-old who owns one thrash-metal album and a set of drums, or at least that’s what it sounds like. No one complains about noise in our road.’
I managed to make him laugh. He looked handsome when he smiled. But sitting that close to him, I could see the damage. He’d gained weight and he was in need of a haircut. His nails were chewed and looked terrible. And while the girls were always neat, the T-shirt he was wearing was frayed at the collar and had a bleach stain near the hem. Helen would never have stood for a garment like that.
Helen. She hovered like a ghost in the room, ever present, never mentioned. I glanced down and saw Sam was still wearing his wedding ring. Of course he was. He was still married. When would that change? Could it change? Can you divorce someone who has simply chosen to disappear? I had no idea. Marc and I never married (thank God). And what had Sam done with all of Helen’s stuff? I knew she had left everything behind when she disappeared. If someone dies, you would dispose of their things, wouldn’t you? But Helen wasn’t dead. Was Sam living in a house that was still full of Helen’s clothes and toiletries? Or had he had a giant bonfire at the bottom of the garden?
I realized Sam had asked me a question. I’d been so busy speculating about where Helen’s Clinique had gone, I’d tuned out.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Miles away.’
‘What time is it?’ he asked. ‘Only the mums are coming at six, so I thought we should probably do the cake if it’s getting close to that.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘Five-forty, you’re right.’ I jumped up and fetched plates and napkins and a knife, and dug a lighter out of the kitchen drawer (one of the few relics left from Marc’s last whirlwind visit to our lives).
Sam carefully lifted the cake out of the box. It was a generic Costco cake, but on the top he’d iced a detailed picture of Harry Potter flying on his broomstick.
‘That looks amazing,’ I said, looking over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t know you could draw like that. And especially not with that writing-icing. It’s a bastard.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiled at me as he studded candles in a crescent shape above Harry’s head. ‘All those years as a graphic designer had to be worth something. It wasn’t easy, though. You’re right, that icing is a bastard. Many Anglo-Saxon expletives were uttered during the icing of this cake.’
‘Well, excellent job. I bet Miranda will be totally thrilled with it.’
‘I doubt it,’ he said, and there was real sadness in his voice. ‘I mean, nothing about this birthday is right and if Helen. . .’ He ran out of words as soon as he said her name. He clearly wasn’t up to dropping her casually into conversation yet.
‘So what’s the plan of attack then?’ I interrupted cheerfully. ‘Shall we put the cake on the table and then orchestrate the Happy Birthday singing, or enter in procession, already singing?’
‘Oh, orchestrate,’ he said, recovering quickly. ‘A procession of singing parents with cake. . . it is actually possible for nine-year-old girls to die of embarrassment, you know. We don’t want to be responsible for their early demise, do we?’
I picked up the plates and led him into the living room.
The impromptu disco was in full swing. A few of the girls, Frances included, were doing self-conscious jiggling from leg to leg, but Miranda and one or two others who do ballet or tap or jazz dancing were giving it their all and showing off their moves. Jonah was bouncing up and down on the spot like a tiny, enthusiastic pogo dancer. Dodging a high kick from Florence and a flamboyant pirouette from Lily, I got the plates to the table and waved my arms to get their attention. ‘Cake time!’ I called, and turned down the music. They gathered round expectantly and Sam brought in the cake and placed it in front of Miranda. There was a moment of silence and then Jonah let out a long, husky, appreciative ‘Wow.’ No one else said anything.
I should have known, of course. They’re nine-year-old girls, not three-year-old boys. They attend a nice, middle-class school and have mummies who either bake as a kind of competitive sport or buy in designer cakes because they can afford to. Those girls could spot a bought, supermarket cake and bit of homemade icing at a hundred paces. And they weren’t impressed. They were well-brought-up and polite though, so after a silence which was far too long, Lily piped up in a bright, stagey voice, ‘That’s a brilliant cake, Mr Cooper! So cool! Blow out your candles, Miranda!’
Miranda managed a desultory puff and the girls all cheered. They stepped away from the table immediately, and Frances started the music up again. I turned to Sam. ‘Let’s cut it up in the kitchen and wrap slices in napkins. They can take them home.’
The mums all came promptly, and the girls left happy and enthusiastic, chattering about Miranda’s cool picnic party. Even if the cake hadn’t been a winner, I thought we could declare the party a success overall.
I said goodbye to the last of the mums and daughters and turned back into the house. Sam was in the kitchen washing up, and Mum had gone to sit in the living room, where Marguerite and Jonah were flopped on the sofa side by side, watching a Disney film. When I glanced in, they both had that glassy stare which suggested they’d be asleep within fifteen minutes or so. Frances and Miranda were nowhere to be seen. I assumed they’d gone upstairs to play in Frances’ room.
But when I stepped out into the corridor, I saw a shadowy figure standing in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. Miranda was staring up at a framed photograph on the wall. She jumped when she saw me coming towards her.
‘You all right?’ I asked.
‘Is this you?’ She pointed at the picture.
It’s a black-and-white image from years ago – years and years ago. I must have been about nineteen. I was dancing in an avant-garde piece at the Edinburgh Festival. In the picture, I’m wearing a sheer white leotard and I’m in a pose one could only describe as ‘crane about to take flight’, poised on the toes of one bare foot, the other leg high and bent in front, arms raised like wings. There’s a diaphanous scarf twisted around my body. I look improbably thin, lean and muscular, and my hair is flying around my head like an electric cloud. Marc discovered the image in a box of old pictures and dug around until he found the negative. He had it blown up and framed. I don’t look at it often. It reminds me how earthbound I have become.
‘Yes,’ I said shortly.
‘I didn’t know you danced.’
‘Not any more. I did, when I was younger. Even professionally for a while.’
There was a long silence, and she said in a small, quiet voice, ‘I’m a dancer too, you know.’
There was something in the way she said ‘dancer’, with a hint of reverence in her voice, that let me know how serious she was.
‘I do know,’ I said. ‘I remember seeing you in the babies’ class, when you were little. Even then you were very good.’
She nodded, acknowledging the compliment. ‘Why did you stop?’
Why had I stopped? There was no money in dance, obviously. So I’d started working in bars and restaurants to make ends meet between gigs. And gradually the gigs had got further apart and the bills had got bigger, so I did more and more restaurant work. I was very close to being a restaurant manager who danced a bit, rather than a dancer who worked in restaurants, when Frances came along, and then I’d put my dancing shoes away forever.
I looked again at the girl in the picture. She was so strong and fiery and certain. Even though the image
was in black and white, she crackled with colour and energy. I didn’t recognize her at all.
‘It was a long time ago,’ I said lamely. I knew this wasn’t an answer to Miranda’s question, but I didn’t have one that wouldn’t do damage to her dreams.
There was a noise behind me, and Sam came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. Miranda turned and saw him, and her face tightened.
‘Almost time to go, sweetie,’ he said. She turned back to the picture and ignored him. He came up behind us to see what we were looking at.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘It’s Lara, obviously,’ said Miranda, her voice dripping with weary sarcasm, even though she’d asked the same question not two minutes beforehand.
‘Really?’ Sam leaned in. I felt suddenly self-conscious – I was all but naked in the photo and you could, if you looked closely, see the faint shadow of my nipples through the white leotard. Sam spent a long moment examining at the picture. ‘Exquisite,’ he said quietly, almost to himself. ‘The shadow of the collar bones, and the line. . . beautiful.’
I remembered that he’d said something in the kitchen about being a graphic designer. He was obviously viewing the picture with an artist’s sensibility. And anyway, it wasn’t a picture of me. It was someone I had once been, for a tiny, fleeting moment when gravity did not apply.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sam
Debit: We had a row about the presents first thing.
Credit: I apologized and we made up.
Credit: She liked her sparkly top after all and she almost smiled when I said she looked pretty before we left.
Credit: All the girls liked the film.
Debit (massive): The flooded restaurant.
Credit: Lara’s amazing rescue and the impromptu pizza picnic. Debit: My lame cake.
When the girls were in bed and I was on beer number three, I ran through the events of the day in my head. I’d emerged if not unscathed, at least just lightly scratched. I thought I’d probably come out with a positive balance where Miranda was concerned. It had all looked ropey in the morning, but when she had had her bath and climbed into bed, I got a quiet ‘Thanks, Dad’ as I switched off the light. I didn’t turn back to her, or try to begin a conversation. I paused in the doorway and said, ‘It was an absolute pleasure, chicken,’ and then I went.