She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him from far away. For many years now, they had only ever been in the same room or apart. There had been no situation in which she’d been able simply to watch him being himself, unaware that he was being observed, his behaviour not tailored to her company.
She was at first primarily struck by his handsomeness. He was a fine specimen, and he carried himself well. Having watched the subtle shifts in her own husband’s body over the previous forty years, she could see now that Matt was in his physical prime. She knew what the next stages would be in the decades to come, as the hair greyed and thinned, the stomach swelled, and the taut ripple of muscle under his clothes softened and sagged. But for now, he looked just fine. She knew she was biased, but she felt sure he was one of the most attractive men in the room, even in this room full of people whose primary goal in life seemed to be to look good.
And Carol had made him. He was hers. The thought of it made her tingle.
Matt was talking to a group of people, all of whom were wearing the kind of clothes Carol simply didn’t understand. Everything, to her eyes, was either too long or too short or simply the wrong shape, but from the way they stood and moved, Carol could see that every element of how they looked had been thought out, and was just how they wanted it. They all looked attractive, not because their outfits had any aesthetic merit, but simply because they looked as if they liked how they looked, giving off an aura somewhere between confidence and smugness.
Matt’s attention was principally focused on a man with rectangular glasses dressed in a curiously tight suit, and an Asian woman with a crew cut whose T-shirt appeared to have shrunk in the wash. Matt was telling them a story that was making them both laugh. The woman interrupted Matt a couple of times, as if jokingly disbelieving him, and touched Matt lightly on the upper arm each time she spoke.
Watching Matt hold his own among these people, she felt a swell of pride. The shame she had felt only the previous day, reading his magazine, had not been dispelled, but had somehow found a way to coexist with its exact opposite. Her initial ideas of him as a seedy pornographer working among unsavoury men in a fetid Soho basement were now growing into something a little more ambiguous. Perhaps the world had changed more than she realised. Even if she thought his work was disgusting, these people appeared to find it acceptable. He clearly fitted in among this clique who looked, well, not exactly pleasant, and certainly not generous or kind, but who were obviously, in their own way, successful.
Perhaps it was a failing in her, a sign of moral weakness, but she found she couldn’t remain indifferent to her son’s achievement in becoming someone who could hold his own in this kind of company. She absolutely did not want Matt to do his current job, but at the same time she was glad he was succeeding at it. For all his faults, her precious little boy had at least grown into a somebody, a man who felt confident among the confident. Whatever mistakes she may have made, for this, at least, she knew she could take the credit. If you have given your child the strength to believe in himself, you haven’t failed.
As the alcohol began to percolate into Carol’s brain, she felt a surge of contentment and sociability begin to prickle inside her. She had done enough watching. She was ready to chat. So what if everyone else there was young, beautiful and rich. None of those attributes was anything a woman of her age ought to be intimidated by. She had nothing to be afraid of, least of all Matt.
He’d be annoyed to see her there, and she had at first intended only to watch him from a distance, but among all these fancy-looking people, Matt would be forced into putting a brave face on it. He’d accuse her of embarrassing him in front of his friends, but she felt reasonably sure she’d be able to win them over and have a pleasant talk. People made much too big a fuss about the generation gap. Surely the mere fact of her being a little older than the other guests was no reason for Matt to feel ashamed of her. There really was nothing for her to fear. All she had to do was walk over and say hello.
Carol waited for another waiter to pass, took a few gulps of a fresh drink and, clutching her glass for courage, sidled towards her son.
The closer she got, the more her confidence ebbed away. Beyond ‘Hello, I’m Matt’s mum’, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. These people didn’t live in her world. They barely spoke her language. There was a significant chance she’d make an utter fool of herself by being unable to comprehend what they were talking about.
She was close now, close enough to reach out and touch Matt’s back, and she suddenly wished she was at home with a cup of tea, not in this dismal cellar filled with ludicrously dressed, self-satisfied pipsqueaks braying to one another over a din that bore more resemblance to the sound of a cash machine having a nervous breakdown than to anything that could honestly be called music. It occurred to her that she appeared to be having a mood swing, and might perhaps be a little inebriated.
Matt’s feet shifted and Carol realised he was about to turn towards her. She immediately spun on her heel and darted for a nearby pillar, behind which she barged, drink first, straight into a woman. It was a messy collision that somehow left Carol dry, and the unfortunate woman heavily cocktailed.
‘Oh my God!’ shrieked Carol. ‘I’m so sorry. Really. I’m so embarrassed.’
The woman, now Carol looked at her, was the first person she had seen who didn’t look like she belonged to the Dynamite fashion crowd. She was young and pretty, but was dressed in the kind of clothes you might see beyond the Circle line. It wasn’t that she looked exactly unfashionable, it was rather that she seemed to be the only person in the room, other than Carol and the waiting staff, whose clothes weren’t in some way showing off.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said.
‘It’s OK. I didn’t see you coming.’
‘It was all my fault,’ said Carol.
‘It wasn’t. I shouldn’t really have been hiding behind a pillar. It was stupid of me.’
Anyone else in the room would probably have tried to sue Carol for dry-cleaning bills and emotional distress. This woman seemed curiously human.
‘Can I … let me get you a napkin. I’ll get some napkins. Don’t move.’
Carol scurried away, returning at a trot with a fistful of paper napkins and two fresh cocktails. The woman dabbed at her clothes and accepted the drink.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ said Carol.
‘Julia.’
‘I’m Carol. Matt’s mum.’
‘Matt?’
‘Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I was just trying to explain why I’m here.’
‘And you’re here because you’re Matt’s mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know who Matt is.’
‘No. No. Ofcourse you don’t. There’s no reason why you would. He’s … he’s a journalist. He’s here for work and … I was supposed to be meeting him afterwards, but … there was a confusion. So I’ve come in with him for a little while.’
‘Oh. OK. It’s funny, because the way you jumped behind the pillar, it was like you were running away from someone.’
‘Oh, no! Don’t be ridiculous. Absolutely not. I don’t even know anyone here, so who could I be running away from?’
‘Well, if your son’s the only person here you know, it would have to be him, wouldn’t it?’
‘You’re … you’re a very sharp young lady. I can hardly keep up. And what is it you do? What brings you here?’
‘I’m not really supposed to be here, either. I’m just temping at the PR firm that set up the event, and everyone from the office is supposed to come, so the room doesn’t look too empty at the start.’
‘Are there lots of other people here who are doing the same? Pretending to be guests?’
‘It’s not pretending. It’s just something you’re supposed to do. I can probably go now. I’ve got lots of work to do.’
‘More work? They keep you going round the clock?’
‘No, no. It�
��s my master’s. I’m studying.’
‘What subject?’ said Carol, relieved to be at last engaged in a conversation, the parameters of which appeared recognisable. Perhaps all parties, at heart, were the same. Wherever the venue, whatever the guests were wearing or drinking, perhaps it always just came down to the same thing: people standing in a room asking one another what they did. If you knew how to do that, you’d be all right. Maybe there was nothing to be afraid of after all.
‘It’s OK,’ said Julia. ‘You really don’t have to ask me lots of polite questions. I don’t belong here. I’m nobody.’
‘Young lady!’ snapped Carol, her face suddenly pinched and angry. ‘Nobody is nobody. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘And politeness is not insincerity.’
‘No. I suppose it isn’t. Sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ said Carol.
‘OK.’
‘Are you going to answer the question?’
‘You really want to know what my MSc is?’
‘I asked, which means I want to know,’ said Carol, sternly.
‘Well, it’s on development. I’m writing a paper on nutrition, about the Masai in Kenya.’
‘How fascinating! I could tell just by looking at you that you’re an interesting person,’ said Carol, a surge of cocktail-induced garrulousness flowing through her once more. Now she had something to distract her from the confrontation with Matt and his friends, Carol felt happy again, and she realised she definitely was drunk. There was one sure sign: she felt liberated from all worry.
The liberation-from-worry litmus test usually had one immediate effect. She’d begin to worry about being drunk. The only time Carol was ever entirely free of anxiety was in the gap between getting drunk and becoming aware of it. On this occasion, it hadn’t lasted long.
‘Thank you,’ said Julia. ‘Tell me, do you often come to parties with your son?’
‘Oh, no. Never.’
‘Why did he bring you to this one?’
‘I didn’t actually come with him. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I just made up a story at the door about me being a journalist and they let me in.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I had to make up something. That’s what came to mind.’
‘What, he isn’t your son?’
‘No, he is.’
‘And you came because of him, but he doesn’t know you’re here?’
‘It does sound a bit odd, I admit.’
‘Just a bit.’
‘I was just feeling curious about how he spends his time.’
‘So it was him you were running away from?’
‘Er … yes. Funnily enough.’
‘God, I hope my mum’s not here.’
‘If she was, I’d love to meet her.’
‘I think you’re probably the only mum that’s turned up.’
‘Yes, I realised that when I walked in. And I still don’t understand. Matt explained it very badly. Is this a party or not? Are people here for fun?’
‘That’s the big question. Nobody even knows.’
‘They don’t know why they’re here?’
‘No. No one does. But I don’t think anyone’s reason is as weird as yours.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You think it’s normal behaviour to come to a party to spy on your son?’
‘I never said it was normal. And it’s hardly spying. I’m just having trouble plucking up the courage to go over and tell him I’m here. Perhaps you could help.’
‘How?’
‘Would you mind awfully if I asked you to come with me? I could introduce you to him.’
‘Why do you need help going to talk to him? He’s your son.’
‘Well he may be angry that I’m here.’
‘Spying on him.’
‘He might see it that way. That’s what I’m hoping to avoid.’
‘By introducing him to me?’
‘Exactly.’
Julia looked at this woman who she had only met a few minutes ago, who had begun their interaction by throwing a drink all over her most expensive dress, and felt a sudden, strangely sad fondness for her.
Julia spoke to her own mother once a week, on a Sunday evening, never more, rarely less. Their relationship was easy, cordial and neutral, heartbreakingly so. Julia sometimes felt orphaned by her mother’s politeness and reticence, by her brand of courtesy that was hard to distinguish from disinterest. Julia’s mother certainly didn’t suffer from curiosity about how Julia spent her time. The idea that she might actually pursue her to a nightclub to get an answer to this question was preposterous.
This Carol, however nuts she seemed to be, deserved Julia’s help. Julia liked her, and even if her method was a little eccentric, a little wayward, her cause was admirable, and Julia would be pleased to play a part in it.
Her pang of sadness, Julia suddenly realised, was for herself, for what she was missing. It was a twinge of grief, almost, for the mother-love that was missing from her life. Everyone deserved to be loved how this man, Carol’s son, was loved. Everyone ought to know there was a mother somewhere who was wondering what you were doing with your time, and if you were safe and happy. But you just had to take what you were given. Some were lucky; others, like Julia, weren’t.
‘Maybe I should just go home,’ said Carol.
‘You can’t do that,’ said Julia.
‘Why?’
‘He might have seen you. How will you explain that? To come here and not talk to him is even weirder than coming and owning up to it.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think I should just go up to him and tell the truth.’
‘Probably. Even if his first reaction is bad, in the long run he’ll be pleased you came.’
‘You think?’
‘He’ll be touched. To know you care. When he’s had time to think about it. But he might be kind of freaked out at first.’
‘Will you come with me?’ said Carol. ‘He’s a lovely boy. And he’s a very successful journalist. Actually, he’s working for a frightful magazine at the moment, but he’s looking for a job elsewhere. I mean, he hates it. He’s a very intelligent and sophisticated boy, and he’s found himself working in an area that’s quite frankly beneath him. And he’s single. Still holding out for Miss Right.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Julia, her tone of voice disguising the fact that her curiosity had now been piqued.
‘You’ll like him. I promise. Then you can go and do your homework, and you’ll know you haven’t wasted your evening because you’ve made two new friends.’
‘Two new friends?’
‘Yes. Me and him.’
‘This is kind of strange.’
‘It’s what you do at parties. You meet people. It’s perfectly normal. Come with me.’
With that, Carol took Julia by the arm and marched, with only slightly faltering confidence, towards Matt, who was still in the same spot, chatting to what looked like a different group of people.
Carol tapped Matt on the shoulder. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Decided to come along anyway.’
Matt turned and gaped at his mother, aghast, speechless.
‘This is Julia,’ said Carol. ‘I spilt my drink on her, but it’s already blossomed into a friendship. I thought you’d like to meet her.’
‘Er … hi,’ said Matt.
Julia gave an embarrassed nod. Matt was certainly handsome, but he looked off-puttingly aware of it. Perhaps this was what excessive mother-love did to you: turned you into the kind of person who spent that little bit too long each day looking in the mirror.
‘Sorry for interrupting,’ said Carol to the group around Matt. ‘I’m Matt’s mum. I’m staying with him for a few days.’
‘What are you doing here?’ spat Matt.
‘I came to see you.’
Matt turned his body to screen his mother from the gr
oup and bent to talk sharply into her ear. ‘Why? How did you get in?’ He could feel a cold sweat beginning to leak through his back. The strangest thing of all about his mother was that, though she was a deeply anxious person, cautious to the point of paranoia, you could never predict which bizarre things she’d be unafraid of. Matt was astonished and at the same time wearily unsurprised by the fact that she had taken the psychotic decision to follow him to this party.
‘They just let me in,’ said Carol. ‘It was no problem. I don’t know why you said it would be.’
‘But why are you here?’
‘I just felt like it.’
‘That’s not a reason. You’re freaking me out.’
‘Don’t be so sensitive. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ she said, stepping around Matt to put herself back within sight of his friends, who were all still staring at her blankly, seemingly struck dumb by the horror of Matt’s plight.
As if in a punch-drunk stupor, Matt went round the group, introducing his mother, telling them all, for a reason Carol couldn’t fathom, that her visit had been prompted by a ‘family tragedy’. The last person was introduced as ‘Tony, from Stuff’. He had the smallest beard Carol had ever seen, the size of a bit of carpet fluff. She had the urge to turn a Hoover on him, to see if it came loose.
‘You’re from stuff?’ said Carol, rather at a loss, fishing for an explanation.
‘Yeah, I’ve been there for a couple of years.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘And is it a nice place?’
‘It’s an OK job. I like it.’
‘Oh, it’s a job! You work at stuff.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Stuff, the magazine.’
‘Stuff what magazine?’
‘The magazine. The magazine called Stuff,’ barked Matt.
‘Oh,’ said Carol, beginning to worry that she might be making a fool of herself. ‘Is that a cookery magazine?’
‘Er … no,’ said Tony. ‘Technology. Gadgets. That kind of thing.’
‘Oh. I see.’
This was going badly. Carol wasn’t doing quite as good a job of charming Matt’s friends as she had hoped. ‘This is Julia,’ she said, in desperation. ‘She’s doing an MSc on nutrition in the Third World. She’s an expert on Kenya.’
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