The Godmother

by Carrie Adams

  “I’m glad you got my message,” I said, smiling, to Caspar while the rest of the table busied itself with a milkshake spill. Then I lowered my tone and leaned closer. “But perhaps you didn’t read the subtext. Turning up was one thing, but a smile clinches the deal. And while we’re on the subject, I’m adding another clause. Sit up straight right now or I’ll return the iPod and buy myself the pair of shoes which your birthday gift just barely beat out.” It is what my mother did with me when I was a baby, apparently. She said it was all in the tone. Tone and expression, the words didn’t mean a thing. It must have worked with Caspar because for a moment he looked afraid and sat up. Francesca looked over just as I moved away and her son joined his party.

  As far as conversation went, it felt like I was in sole charge of the ball. I dribbled and sashayed, passed and quickly retrieved, but if I dropped the ball, the table went quiet again. By the end of lunch I was exhausted. The monkey was all performed out. The only reward for my dazzling verbal dexterity was the attention I received from Zac, who, it turned out, was unquestionably flirting with me—terrifyingly successfully, at that. He was good with Francesca too, polite and charming, but always deferring to Nick. But I had no Nick to defer to, so he could let rip on me. The sly innuendoes were always delivered solely in my earshot, the personal questions disguised as polite conversation—it was impressive, to say the least. I thought it best to return to “batty aunt”–style conversation before I crossed a line, so I put a questionnaire to the table, hoping that the family bond I knew so well would return.

  “To the table, in no particular order: who was the last person you kissed?” I looked at Nick.

  He turned to Francesca and kissed her on the mouth. “My wife,” he said.

  “Quick thinking,” I replied.

  “Caspar?”

  “This is a stupid game.”

  “Oh dear, I don’t think Caspar has kissed anyone,” said Nick.

  The girls giggled. I pointed at the youngest. “Snoopy,” Poppy replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Francesca?”

  “The gardener, but don’t tell Nick.”

  “We haven’t got a gardener,” said Poppy.

  “Dad is the gardener,” said her elder sister. “Derr.”

  “Zac?”

  “In real life, or in my imagination?”

  I had a horrible feeling I was blushing. “Real life.”

  “Jen Packer.”

  Caspar sat up. “You said you hadn’t.”

  Zac shrugged. “What can I do, mate? She threw herself at me.”

  “Paul?” I asked quickly. “What about you?”

  He took a deep breath. We waited. “Gary.”

  Nick and Francesca swung round to face him. Paul shrugged. There was a nervous silence.

  “Ice cream anybody?” I asked and winked at Paul.

  As we walked down High Street Kensington, Zac caught up with me. “You didn’t answer your own question.” Although only sixteen years old, he was taller than me, and I’m not short. His legs were so long and his jeans hung loose over jutting hipbones. I had a crazy desire to clench his belt hooks between my teeth and rip the jeans off. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. So I said nothing.

  “I know who I’d like it to be.”

  “And who would that be?” I asked before I got control of my tongue.

  “I think you know, Mizz King.”

  The laughter exploded out of me. “Sorry,” I said, and held my breath. It didn’t help. The laughter erupted again. I couldn’t speak. He looked so crestfallen, but I had terrible schoolgirl giggles and they would not stop. I tried to apologize, but the earnest look on the boy’s face kept returning to me, the lick of his lips. I imagined him practicing in front of the mirror in the privacy of his own home, working on his lines, his long, languid looks, and the laughter would not stop. I tried to take his arm to offer some sort of physical apology, but he shook it off. I was in trouble now, and that made it even funnier. Just when I thought I’d got control of myself, the explosion came again, sending spittle flying into the pedestrian in front of me. Zac stopped walking. I continued, absorbed in my own mirth. Perhaps that was why I never had a boyfriend when I was that age. Perhaps that was the reason I still didn’t. I guffawed all the way home, intermittently over the afternoon and many times in front of the mirror as I got ready to go out that night.

  I opened a bottle of wine and treated myself to a long bath. Every person needs a constant in their lives, this was mine: lying in hot, oily water with wine.

  I rang Billy. “Hey, Billy, it’s me.”

  “At last. How are you? When am I going to see you? Was it great?”

  “Seems like years ago already. What about one evening next week? Are you busy?”

  “Ha, ha.”

  Billy was a single mother with no money to go out with and even less inclination. I should have known.

  “I’ve got a movie out if you want to come over tonight?” asked Billy.

  “Thanks but I’m…”

  “Course you are, being stupid. Um…” Billy paused. “So, was it great?”

  “You could come if you want, tonight?”

  “Thanks but I can’t. Madga is out, so…But have a good time.”

  I knew the answer would be no. It always is. Probably a good thing in this case since I didn’t think Billy and Samira were a good mix. Billy wasn’t robust enough for the likes of Samira and, if I was being truly honest with myself, I didn’t feel like carrying Billy that night. I had a hard enough time holding my own against Samira’s exceedingly forceful gravitational pull.

  “How’s my baby girl?” I asked.

  “Wonderful.” Billy’s voice softened as it always did when she was talking about her child. We chatted about Cora, how school was, her health, her latest favorite teacher.

  “I’m sorry,” said Billy. “This is boring. You’ve got a party to go to.”

  “Nonsense,” I replied in jest. “Knowing this stuff makes me feel part of the human race.” I didn’t realize the accidental truth of my words. “But I am beginning to wrinkle, which will not help my ever-diminishing ability to pull.”

  “You’re gorgeous—stop it.”

  “I’ll see you next week.”

  “Love to. Bye, Tessa. Thank you so much for calling.”

  I made a real effort with my clothes and make-up for one reason and one reason only: I imagined there was a slim chance Sebastian would be at the party. One friend of Samira’s was likely to know another, right? The hair was straight, the boobs were out, the legs were on show. Normally I don’t do legs and boobs, it’s a little over the top and I’m the wrong side of thirty-five, but I was feeling daring. No, not daring. Hopeful. I would not use the word desperate. Earlier in the week, I had sat in front of my laptop and flicked at Sebastian’s card. The one he gave me before we shagged. The one he probably wouldn’t have given me after we shagged. But I wasn’t thinking like that. I was hopeful. He’d reawakened my taste for lust. Fuel for the soul, which I feared I would never have an appetite for again.

  I don’t want to go over and over what happened with my boss. I’m bored of it. But there were times when I thought I was wholly responsible, just for being the way I was. It was noted that I had been out to drinks with him. I had, that was true, but only ever with the rest of our department. It was said that I sometimes dressed provocatively in the office. Every working girl has an outfit that transforms itself into evening attire. The hours I kept didn’t make room for time to go home and change. With a different top and fabulous shoes I often tottered out of the ladies to meet friends. I knew I had not done anything to lead the man on, but sometimes I doubted myself.

  In the fallout of the whole debacle, there was rage. Pity. Sadness. Guilt. Disbelief. Meeting anyone during that time was not going to be successful because I wouldn’t have let it. But then that thing with Sebastian had happened. And now my taste buds were alive again, I wanted more. One sweet wasn’t e
nough. I wanted the whole damn factory. I had “recovered” so well that I could even see the fuzzy outline of a fairy-tale ending to a story that hadn’t yet made it to print.

  Eventually I had succumbed and typed in his email address and started writing a jaunty “don’t worry I’m not crackers, I’m a perfectly well-adjusted, independent (but not aggressively so) woman.” It didn’t work. Even the “Hi” looked suspicious. I deleted it and threw the card in the bin. It was not a particularly rash act as I knew I could get his number from Samira at any time. But perhaps I wouldn’t have to. Perhaps he’d see me, looking fabulous, at the party, come marching up to me and tell me he couldn’t get me out of his mind, and how did I feel about the suburbs, since his salary wouldn’t be able to buy a place big enough for the kids…

  The taxi pulled up outside the address given to me by Samira. I glanced up at the illuminated five-storey house in Belgravia, and wondered if the driver had got it right. Excited, I opened up my wallet to pay when I remembered I had completely forgotten to get cash out. It didn’t matter. I always had a £50 note stashed away for emergencies. And for times when I forget to go to the ATM. It had been there for ages. I looked but the fifty quid wasn’t there. I checked again in case I’d missed it the first time, but it was not there. Was I going mad? Had I spent it and forgotten?

  I offered the driver a card; he told me his machine was broken, and drove around for another £3.80, locating a machine. The red lights on the way back put on another couple of quid, and when I paid I noticed that the light on the card machine was on. I think someone was taking the piss. Did I complain? Make a fuss? No. I handed over the fee, and because I am an idiot who wants to be liked, I tipped him too. As the taxi pulled off I wanted to run after it and demand my hard-earned money back, but, as if by magic, all the lights went green, and anyway, I was in heels. I had hoped that India would stop these silly setbacks affecting me so; that I would see them for the city-life trifles they were and not take them as proof that the world was conspiring against me. But watching the tail lights fade into the night, like watching Helen being pulled back home by her loving husband, just made me feel alone.

  I walked into an amazing house, which promised to hold an amazing party, but saw nothing except that Sebastian was not there. All the glitter of potential faded. The party spirit in me vanished. I had to admit to myself then, my first night home had not been a blip: all that brown rice had counted for nothing. No amount of downward dogs was going to change how I felt. All the immaculate miniature food and vats of champagne weren’t enough any more. A tall, dark, handsome (young) waiter approached me with a frosted glass of champagne. I took it. It was delicious. Well, maybe champagne would have to do for the time being, I thought, taking another large sip.

  Despite my initial grouchiness, it turned out to be a fun party. There were people there I hadn’t seen for a long time who were from different aspects of my life. Old colleagues. People from college. Even an old boyfriend, which was satisfying, because I knew I was looking good, and I could tell he thought so. When he later asked me why we’d split up, I caught myself putting an imaginary red line through that chapter and scrawling “Finished business” on it. What he’d done many moons ago was tell me over a pint that he didn’t fancy me. He liked me a lot, he had insisted, just didn’t fancy me. That was no longer the case. I made my excuses and moved towards Samira. I looked better now than I had when I was twenty. Perhaps that was something to celebrate. More champagne, please.

  We were flying when we left the house in Belgravia. There was a plan to go to a private members bar in Soho. There was a nice-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair who asked if he could come in the same taxi as Samira and me. He was on his own. Then two silly girls made a fuss about being split up and wanted him to go in another. He looked so sad standing on the pavement that I got out too and said I’d wait with him for another taxi, at which point someone else shouted there was a space in another cab and pulled me in. So salt-and-pepper man had to get back in my original cab. It all happened in a matter of minutes. But it is quite crucial for later, so I am giving disproportionate amount of attention to that merry little taxi dance.

  Salt-and-pepper man was waiting in the medley of people outside a nondescript door. Apparently, there was a private party on and even the private members couldn’t get in. We would have to cross Soho to go elsewhere. Remember—I was in pretty impressive shoes. Walking was not pleasurable. I was beginning to wonder whether gallivanting around town was a good idea. I’d had a great night, it was late. Did I really have to go on somewhere? I certainly didn’t need another drink. But the wavering ended when salt-and-pepper man offered me his arm. Of course I needed another drink. I am a weak, weak woman.

  Halfway across Piccadilly Circus, my evening took a dramatic turn. We’d actually been discussing the sorry state of modern life which saw kids, boys and girls no older than sixteen, sleeping rough. There was a scary-looking posse of hooded lads sitting around the base of the Statue of Eros. The boys carried cans of lager, the girls sucked on bottles of Bacardi Breezer. And over them all hung a pall of dope. That’s when I saw Caspar. A can of Red Stripe in one hand. A spliff in the other. Suddenly nomenclature didn’t matter so much as that it was in Caspar’s hand, in the early hours of Sunday morning.

  I stopped walking and swore quietly beneath my breath.

  “What is it?” asked salt-and-pepper man, looking concerned.

  “That’s my godson over there, and I am pretty sure he’s not supposed to be.” Caspar was easy to pick out because of what he wasn’t doing. He wasn’t chewing some girl’s face off with his hand up her skirt. He wasn’t crashed out on the ground. He wasn’t in any leery group of tracksuited boys challenging tourists to fights. He was sitting on his own, looking glazed, taking intermittent swigs of lager and long tokes of spliff. It didn’t look right to me.

  “I’ll catch you up,” I said, pulling my arm away and heading into the throng.

  I sat down on the cold stone. He didn’t respond until I spoke.

  “Happy birthday, Caspar.”

  He jumped, scrambled to his feet and threw away the nearly burnt-out spliff.

  “Settle down, I’m not the police.”

  “What are you doing here? Did Mum send you?”

  “Charming! Do I look like I’d go trawling the streets for wayward teenagers in these shoes? Have a little fashion respect.”

  He stared at me nonplussed, swaying gently, like a poplar tree in the summer breeze.

  “I’m with friends,” I explained slowly. “In fact, there’s a bloke with salt-and-pepper hair who seems quite nice, so please don’t puke up on me, it may put him off.”

  He tried to fight it, but the smile escaped.

  “Then again, I’ve probably had enough. Maybe it’s time to go home. Do you want to come with me?”

  He shook his head.

  “You’d be doing me a favor. I’ve promised myself no more one-night stands. You’d be a perfect contraception.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “What?” I eyed the nearest couple to us; they were getting steamy right there on the pavement. “Am I too old to have sex?”

  “Shut up, Tessa.”

  “Don’t speak to your elders like that.”

  He laughed at the hypocrisy of my statement. I was pleased. I wanted him on my side. I wanted the amusing, clever little boy back, the one that took the piss out of me and got away with it.

  “Sure you won’t come with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are your mates?”

  “Around,” he said, getting defensive again.

  “Do Francesca and Nick know where you are?”

  He shrugged. I didn’t want to lose what ground I’d won, so I passed him my card with my mobile number on it, and held my nagging tongue.

  “Don’t tear that up for roaches,” I said as he slipped it into his back pocket. “And don’t give it to Zac either.”

  Caspar smiled aga
in. I had obviously scored highly with Caspar for not falling for Zac’s charms. Having a very good-looking friend can be difficult and I wondered if that was the cause of his moodiness. Caspar had a sweet face, but he wasn’t very tall, and he had curly hair. He was more cherub than sex-god, but I knew his looks would catch up with him again, and he’d be fine in the end. His father was the same, and now he was a very handsome man. But I don’t suppose that mattered to Caspar; what mattered was now. What mattered was that Zac was probably somewhere surrounded by girls and Caspar was sitting here all alone.

  “Have you got money to get home?”

  “No,” he said straightaway. I opened my wallet. That was when I remembered the missing £50 note and the day I’d asked Caspar to watch my bag, but I put the unbelievable thought aside and handed him a twenty. He practically snatched it out of my hand.

  “That ain’t a gift, boyo. You have to clean my car for that. Inside and out. Twice.”

  “Whatever,” he mumbled. And I knew I’d lost him again.

  I found the club eventually, but not salt-and-pepper man. Every time I was about to leave, someone brought me another drink. And just another fifteen minutes turned into another hour. I finally found salt-and-pepper man but the way the group had gathered it was difficult to get near him. It didn’t matter; I was having a grand time without him, but it was nice to occasionally catch his eye and share a smile.

  I was having a nice little fantasy about him when he appeared before me and asked me to dance. I must have been really pissed, because I thought that was a great idea. To the dance floor we went where some pretty steamy dirty dancing followed. He was very tall and nimble and could do all those spinning around moves that only work if you’re a professional or drunk enough to go floppy. I fell into the second category. God only knows how I managed to stay upright. At one point I remember walking backwards over the dance floor, beckoning salt-and-pepper man to follow me. I’m not sure who I thought I was—but I fear it might have been Cyndi Lauper. Even so, it was fun and when I wasn’t pouting suggestively, I was grinning like an Olympian.