by Tracy Bloom
She smiles at me. I cross my fingers. We are not quite there yet.
‘I’m coming with you.’ Her hand flies up to her mouth in amazement at what she has just said.
‘Oh no, it’s fine,’ she says. ‘Jenny will take care of him or she can get him into the care home she works at. To be honest, I think he might quite enjoy that,’ she giggles.
She goes quiet for few moments as my brother presumably flounders around for other excuses as to why she can’t join them.
‘Antony, Antony,’ she interrupts after a while. ‘It’s fine, we’ve already checked. I can book a room now if I like, there are lots available. I think I’m going to really treat myself and go with a sea view actually. Waking up to that every morning, well, I can’t believe it. It will be like a dream come true. No, actually, it will be a dream come true…
‘Okay, darling, you go if you need to, but I thought I’d let you know. Yes, yes, okay. I’ll wait until you call me tonight and then I’ll book it. Bye, darling.’
She puts the phone down. She’s grinning from ear to ear. I look down and my phone instantly starts to ring: it’s Antony. I cut him off and shove the phone in my pocket.
‘Well, I’d better go,’ I say, standing up. ‘Things to do, you know.’
‘I’ll need you to come and look after Dad so I can go and buy new clothes for my holiday,’ she says. ‘I might need two days,’ she adds thoughtfully. ‘I bet you have to dress for dinner – you know, in a hotel like that.’
‘I bet you do, Mum,’ I say, turning to leave. She follows me to the door.
‘I’ll give Roy a ring as soon as you’ve gone. Let him know. Gosh, they’ll need to reorganise the bridge night whilst I’m away. Yes, I’d better ring him straight away so they’ve got plenty of notice.’
‘Bye, Mum.’
‘Bye, Jenny. At least you don’t have to cook Christmas dinner now after all,’ she says and gives me a little hug.
Yes, a hug.
Twenty-Five
I drive around the corner, park on the side of the road then get my phone out and call my brother back.
‘Did you get my message?’ he barks.
‘No, I thought I’d just ring and actually talk to the real you.’
‘Mum just rang and says she’s coming on holiday with us at Christmas.’
‘I know. I gave her the idea.’
‘What the bloody hell did you do that for?’
‘Because she’d much rather spend Christmas with you than me.’
‘Oh, thanks a bunch! That’s great. You’ve just done it to get her out of your hair. How very generous of you!’
‘No. Generous is me hosting Mum and Dad for Christmas every single bloody year whilst you swan off to get pissed on cocktails and congratulate yourself on what an amazing man you are because you cut people up for a living. Generous is me visiting at least twice a week so Mum can get out and do stuff, despite the fact she doesn’t appreciate it and treats me like a dogsbody and an utter failure, whilst you remain on her pedestal even though you do absolutely fuck all to help her out. And generous is me sitting with my sick dad and talking to him and holding his hand, despite the fact he mostly doesn’t remember who I am, when you haven’t seen him for nearly a year. That is what I call generous.’
There is silence on the end of the phone.
‘We live three hours’ drive away and my job—’
‘I know about your bloody job. I get it rammed down my throat every single time I see Mum. You becoming a surgeon is the best thing that ever happened to her. You may be a brilliant surgeon but you are an utterly shit son.’
‘I don’t have to take that from you.’
‘Yes, you do. You really do. Because I’m not doing it any more. I can’t do it any more. You have to be involved with Mum and Dad, you can’t just swan in and out on your state visits and expect that to suffice as your family duty. I’ve got stuff going on, you know. I’m not a surgeon but I still have a life. They’re your responsibility too. What if something happened to me?’
There, I said it.
‘But you are on their doorstep, Jenny. I can’t be doing a six-hour round trip every five minutes.’
‘But what if something happened to me?’
‘You’re just being ridiculous now. Don’t talk like that.’
‘I’m just saying that you can’t take this situation for granted any more. We need you back in the family. I need you back in the family.’
There’s a long silence before he speaks.
‘Fine. I’ll take her on holiday.’
It’s a start, I guess. I look forward to it all being Antony’s idea and hearing from my mother that he’s the best, most considerate, most caring son a mother could wish for.
Twenty-Six
It’s very strange. Your thoughts can run along on a fairly positive thread for quite some time and then something happens or is said and you are winded by the starkness of what it means. It could be as simple as someone telling you they can’t wait to see the next series of The Great British Bake Off and that they’re thinking of applying to be on it next year. Next year? Will I be here next year? It hits you physically in the gut and you have to choose whether to let it fell you and stop you in your tracks, or to fight back and bat it away with everything you’ve got.
Of course, you don’t always have a choice. You will be felled and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. And then you will find yourself crying over cake. Well, pretending you are crying over cake rather than something that’s really worth shedding tears over.
1996 is my defence. My weapon against death. 1996 will keep me up above the depths of gloom. I dig out the Trainspotting soundtrack on CD and post it into the battered stereo in the kitchen, praying it will work. It does and the next minute I’m dancing around the kitchen to ‘Born Slippy’ alone, apart from a flood of memories making me feel warm and happy and alive. 1996 will barricade me against the grim reality of now.
I’ve decided to hold back on mentioning the ‘party’ at home until I have some of the details nailed down. I can see Mark throwing ice-cold water all over my secret wake that I have every intention of attending and enjoying. Clearly I wouldn’t tell him the motivation behind the event but that would only make his pooh-poohing even harder to bear. His casual dismissiveness of one of the most significant moments in my life would hurt, even if he had no idea of its importance.
Instead I decide to lead him in gently to my rekindling of the nineties. I get in the car and drive to his office. I park outside then send him a text suggesting we revisit an old tradition we have long since neglected.
IT’S A LOVELY EVENING!
I wait for him to reply to this well-used signal. Back in the day, if it had been a particularly sunny day, we would call each other at work and one of us would inevitably end up saying, ‘It’s a lovely evening’ – basically code for ‘I’ll meet you in the beer garden of The Bridge at 5.30pm’.
I sit with my phone in my hand, willing him to reply. Praying he remembers those long warm nights spent eating scampi and chips and drinking warm white wine.
?
This was his reply.
I SAID – IT’S A LOVELY EVENING
* * *
I HAVE TO WORK LATE
* * *
I’M OUTSIDE – I’LL DRIVE
* * *
?
* * *
I’M OUTSIDE. COME ON – YOU CAN GO IN EARLY IN THE MORNING.
* * *
I’M REALLY BUSY.
* * *
RIGHT – I’LL GO AND GET FISH AND CHIPS AND A COUPLE OF TINNIES AND I’LL BRING IT UP TO YOU IN HALF AN HOUR. YOU NEED TO EAT.
* * *
NO – STAY THERE. I’M ON MY WAY.
Next minute he’s hurtling through the door not looking remotely like he’s looking forward to a lovely evening.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demands.
‘Come on, Mark. It’s such a lovely night, you can’t waste
it here. Let’s go sit in a beer garden.’
‘Are you insane, woman?’
‘Insane? Insane? Insanity is to sit in a glass house on a night like this staring at a computer screen.’
‘But you know I’m busy.’
‘I know you are but everyone deserves a break, Mark. Come on, what have you got up there in that office of yours that could be more exciting than spending the evening with your wife?’
I hold his stare. I watch him recoil ever so slightly at my remark. There have been no further attempts to end our marriage since the weekend, largely because I have ensured we have not been in the same room alone together. I’m hoping he’s bottled it for now and told ‘her’ that it’s just not the right time yet. And you never know, taking him down memory lane might also make him think twice about what he’s doing.
‘Anyone would think you have a hot new secretary or something. Is that what’s keeping you at work so late?’ I plough on.
I keep the tone light and jovial. I’m teasing him. Fear flashes over his eyes.
‘Of course not,’ he says sternly. ‘I’ve still got Jean.’
Oh, so he wasn’t shagging his secretary then. Jean is at least sixty and a bit of a bulldog, to be quite frank.
‘Well, you’d better get in then, hadn’t you?’ I say, nodding at the passenger seat. ‘Or else it will be last orders by the time we get there.’
He stares at me for a moment longer then sighs and walks around the front of the car to the passenger seat in the lolloping style of a teenager having been picked up too early from a party. He gets in and puts his seatbelt on then instantly gets out his phone as I put the car into gear.
‘I’ll just need to tie up a few loose ends,’ he mutters.
Let her know that he won’t be out to play tonight, I think.
‘Okay. Then shall we leave our phones in the car?’ I say. ‘I sometimes feel there are three of us in this marriage.’
He turns to look at me sharply as I nod down towards his phone.
‘Oh, okay,’ he says. ‘Or I could just put it on silent?’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘No way! Even worse. You’ll be looking at it every two minutes if you do that. It stays in the car. She’ll have to cope without you for a couple of hours.’
‘Who?’ he says, turning to look at me sharply again, the fear back in his eyes. A part of me is enjoying this.
‘Who what?’
‘Who’s she? You said, “She’ll have to cope.” Who do you mean?’
‘Oh, I meant your phone, silly. You’re so attached to it, I assumed it had a personality and everything.’
Mark shakes his head in bewilderment and returns to tapping frantic messages for the entire duration of the short drive to the pub. We pull into an already busy car park despite the fact it’s still before six.
‘See, lots of other people have worked out it’s a lovely evening,’ I say, leaning forward to open the glove box, indicating he should deposit his phone in it.
‘But what if one of the kids needs us?’
He has a point. George is still reeling over the disappearance of Betsy and it’s my mobile number on the missing posters.
‘I’ll keep mine in my bag,’ I say. ‘Just in case someone rings about Betsy. And at least I’m capable of having it on my person and not checking it every two minutes,’ I conclude, giving him a knowing look.
He throws his phone in with a sigh and jumps as I slam the door shut. That’s her out of the picture for the evening.
* * *
‘I haven’t had scampi for… I don’t know how long,’ says Mark, leaning back in his bench seat overlooking the river and taking a swig of rosé wine.
‘The nineties probably,’ I murmur.
‘You’re probably right. It was surprisingly good.’
‘Mmm,’ I nod. ‘So simple.’
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘You’re right. Just simple. Easy.’
I smile to myself. It’s been a remarkable evening. Truly. A few days ago and this scene would have seemed improbable at best. To me, never mind anyone else. Sitting with my husband having a pleasant meal on the banks of the river enjoying the late-evening sunshine. No way, so many things were going on that would prevent that happening. He has a mistress, I have cancer and it’s a school night. Oh, and the minor detail of the fact that we haven’t been out together like this alone in goodness knows how long.
We did try to keep having date nights after the kids came along but at some point they dwindled to nothing. We stopped going out together as a couple. I don’t know why. Who knows? Babysitters were too hard to find, we were too tired, we had too much good stuff backed up on the TV to watch. We were too busy socialising with other couples. Whatever it was, we stopped doing it: we stopped dating. Maybe that’s the key to a good marriage. You must never stop dating. Never stop putting yourself through the sheer exposure of being out and about and being solely responsible for the other one having a good time. Perhaps if Mark and I had carried on dating there wouldn’t have been room for someone else.
‘Shall we see if they still do the New York cheesecake?’ asks Mark.
‘Only if it’s part of a meal deal,’ I say, grinning.
He grins back and my insides light up.
‘I wasn’t that bad, was I?’
‘You were. The times I asked if we could share the chocolate fudge cake and you wouldn’t let me because chocolate fudge cake wasn’t in the Monday night offer so it would have cost us a whole fifty pence extra.’
‘We were saving for our wedding.’
‘Fifty pence at a time?’
‘If we’d have put all those fifty pences in a jar I bet it would have bought us—’
‘Three boxes of confetti,’ I interrupt. ‘Seems odd sat here at the end of a meal and you not getting the wedding spreadsheet out,’ I add.
It was all coming back to me now. I’d forgotten how we’d planned our wedding in this very beer garden. I say plan. What I actually mean is that Mark would cross-examine me on any decisions I had made over the weekend that might have a cost implication on the big day. He would scribble notes on his spreadsheet then screw his nose up for a while and ask me questions like, ‘If you really want another bridesmaid then we really have to decide if we want to take a couple of guests off the daytime list or reduce the honeymoon by a day because there will of course be another outfit to pay for.’
The funny thing was, my dad was actually paying for the majority of the wedding, but in his wisdom he had taken Mark to one side and jokingly said he needed to keep an eye on my extravagant tastes. Mark had taken this to heart and in order to impress my father had constructed a spreadsheet to control the expenditure on our romantic day. It was worthy of an entire government department. The only spreadsheet to rival it may have been the separate file set up purely to establish the best-value napkins for the reception. (A search that went global once Mark found out that one of his company’s suppliers in China had a sister factory producing paper goods. The columns and rows required to establish the best-value white paper napkins were shockingly numerous once shipping costs from Taipei had to be factored in.)
‘But didn’t you enjoy the wedding so much more knowing that it hadn’t got out of control and cost your father a small fortune?’
Did I? Yes, I did, but only because I loved the fact Mark cared about how much my dad was spending. He didn’t take it for granted. I even enjoyed the close scrutiny on the day of the stiff white thick paper napkins that cost the same as the cheap two-ply you could get from Wilkinson’s. We took several home with us and they were proudly stored in a memory box as a key symbol of a successful day.
It was getting chilly now but I didn’t want to suggest going inside. That would break the spell. Inside was all fake rustic charm with manufactured vintage screaming from every corner. Outside was still stuck in the nineties with rickety wooden picnic benches set on islands of concrete, cigarette butts floating in little puddles of water on the nearby grass.
Not attractive, not comfortable, but real.
I’d take real nostalgia over the fake kind indoors any day. I’d take sitting there waiting for a massive plate of fried food and a basket full of plastic wrappers containing non-brand ketchup that tastes like vinegar and vinegar that tastes like acid. I’d take being surrounded by tables still waiting to be cleared from lunchtime excesses, tomato-stained napkins stuffed into pint pots and dregs of wine attracting half the local flying insect population. I’d take it because I’d take the buzz of people slowly winding down from a hard day at work. Kicking back, letting go, being a happy contented version of themselves. No longer trying to be anything other than just someone sitting in a beer garden having a drink and a laugh. I’d rather be that person there than the one indoors trying to fit into the hipster vintage decor. Where the surroundings lead me to a version of myself I don’t want to be. Trying to act cool despite the fact I don’t have a beard. No, all I want to be is sitting in a beer garden, having a drink and a laugh, just like I used to in 1996.
Mark is scrutinising the laminated dessert menu. I realise he’s not mentioned Sebastian’s once. He’s not once said that he’d rather be in the stiff, perfectly creased surroundings of the city’s premier fine dining establishment. He’s having a good time. I knew he would.
‘Yes,’ he says, pumping his fist ever so slightly. ‘Want to share a cheesecake?’
I shake my head. I wish I could but my insides are doing somersaults already from having eaten too much scampi.
‘All right then, I’ll let you have a chocolate fudge cake. As long as you let me have a bit.’
That’s it, I’m winded. Tears spring to my eyes like blood seeping out of a freshly cut wound. I’m going to cry over cake, I think. Bloody cake. How can I cry over cake? I rub my eyes quickly, hoping I can get away with some comment about the cigarette smoke sweeping over us from the next table.