I suggested a regular catch-up for the three of us to talk through cases but Tim ducked out, saying he preferred not to discuss his work, it muddied things; he liked to keep his read clean. So Adam and I did it, alone, in a café across the park. We talked for hours, our clients a fine gauze between us. We learned everything about each other, told entirely through other people’s lives. It was a perfect and lucid exchange; I left those sessions euphoric.
There were the lunches the last Friday of every month with anyone who was around and for a while Lynn came, looking between us avidly as we spoke until one day she said: ‘My goodness. I can’t keep up with you pair,’ and never returned.
Tim had refused from the start. ‘I don’t drink during office hours,’ he said.
‘I never book clients on Friday afternoon,’ I replied, ‘and it’s not compulsory to drink, but suit yourself.’
*
When I wasn’t with him, I thought of Adam endlessly; he looped around my head like a track. On quiet afternoons he sat in reception – for a change of scene, to think, he said – and I watched him from my office, a pencil lodged above his ear like a waiter, his chin tilted to show his neck. I wondered if it was display; if it was, it worked. I watched him, and I craved him, like the mother in Rapunzel looking over the wall into the witch’s garden, and wanting what she saw, whatever the cost. I forced myself into the habit of closing my door.
It happened in increments, with the occasional quantum leap.
A power cut just after lunch on a short cold winter day. Three clients in the book who I managed to catch and rearrange. Tim was away skiing and Lynn, who mothered us anyway with stuff she’d baked and hokey cold remedies, was skittish and girly.
‘Christmas shopping!’ she declared, at my door, already in her coat. ‘Might as well make the most. Do you want to come?’ she asked. Adam had someone next door, I could hear the low drone of the client’s voice through the wall. I told her no and I waited.
‘Still here?’ he said, at last. My room was cooling steadily, its edges fading out.
‘I was just leaving, actually,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got loads to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh you know, home stuff,’ I said.
‘But you’re not expected until six,’ he replied.
‘I know, but now I’ve got this time—’ I said, briefly, weakly, hoping somewhere that he’d let me go.
‘Exactly. A gift. Let’s use it.’ He reached his hand towards me and then changed his mind, sweeping it back behind him in a gesture of invitation.
‘We can’t go to the pub. I can’t get home pissed,’ I said, desperately, in a final cursory act of resistance.
‘How about the cinema then?’ he said. ‘When did you last go to a matinee?’
‘That’s unbelievably decadent, Adam. It’s worse than the pub somehow.’
‘Do you think?’ he said. ‘How come?’ but I was up and around my desk, grabbing for my things.
Perhaps it started then. Walking fast into the wind to keep up with him, his coat billowing back, grazing my hand. His face, in profile, dear to me already, and that mouth, curved upwards in a lupine smile. We took the bus to the Ritzy and now and again, around a bend, over a bump, I felt the press of his leg and poured my intent into those points at which we met. There was a moment when one whole side of us was briefly connected and I thought I saw him acknowledge it with a slight sideways smile.
The film starred George Clooney, a slow tale of middle age and loss of hope that seemed too obviously to be sending me a message. A couple of rows back, a young couple kissed wetly, and more, which made me anxious, though Adam laughed at their noisier adjustments. The romantic convention, his hand dropped off the armrest, his fingers tiptoeing along the back of my chair, didn’t happen. We had a gin and tonic after at the bar. I had to ask.
‘What did you think of me, Adam, back at college? When you first knew me?’
He rubbed his throat. His earlobes are rather long and flat. ‘Let me think.’ His chuckle was like the beginnings of a growl. ‘Perpetually in motion, that’s what I remember. Even in class.’
‘Neurotic, you mean,’ I said.
‘No. Not at all. Just kind of buzzing. As if you couldn’t keep it all in.’
‘Why weren’t we friends?’
‘Friends?’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have got anywhere near you, Nancy.’ His smile showed teeth.
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘You were constantly surrounded. And forever on the move.’
He lifted his face up off his hand, his cheek briefly corrugated.
‘You’re a trier, you know. Always striving. And you haven’t changed one bit.’
We sat on short stools and his legs were crossed high and tight before him. He dropped his hands onto his knees.
‘It sounds exhausting,’ I said.
‘You tell me,’ he replied.
I raised my eyebrows, stirred my drink.
‘And we’re friends now, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘I took my time. I found my moment.’
We said goodbye, went home to our spouses, but our love took flesh that day. Tried a first wobbly step and found itself sound.
6
On the way to school Stef and I went through the sayables: stress or boys, maybe even something low level online. He’d thought there was no need when I told him we were to go in, so I shared a couple of approximate tales from my own case-load and he decided, where’s the harm? When we got to reception, I half-expected to find Frieda waiting, her little face beneath that morning’s hair, backcombed and sprayed and established off to one side; the cloth bag with the shoes in that I knew full well she changed into on the bus, in a puddle at her feet. But I had asked Miss Millar, a new teacher, to keep the meeting between us. I had the sudden wish to be in her office, out of sight.
‘No need to worry,’ Miss Millar said, when she came out, younger than me by a decade, dressed in practical jeans and canvas pumps. ‘She’s in class right now. You won’t bump into her. Can I get you some tea?’
‘So how can I help?’ she said, when we’d all sat down, looking between us cheerfully.
‘Well, things don’t seem quite right lately with Frieda,’ I said.
‘I see,’ she replied, with an exaggerated look of concern. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me more?’
‘It’s hard to put a finger on it exactly. It’s a general sense really,’ I told her. ‘I mean, I’m aware that with boys you tend to see explosions. I’m a therapist, you know,’ I said. Miss Millar acknowledged this with a thin little smile and I felt my own ridiculousness. ‘With girls, I find it can be subtler. More of a slide. I’m worried Frieda’s sliding,’ I said.
‘Any specific examples?’ she asked.
‘I think she’s got some sleeping issues,’ I replied, though Stef looked at me sideways for it. ‘And she’s been possibly faking, or rather exaggerating, illness to get out of school. So I was wondering if something had happened. Some problem here, perhaps?’
A kind of siren sounded, long and throbbing, and then another noise began, a rolling mass of sound. The accumulation of a thousand children’s feet and voices, oddly inhuman, just the occasional discernible word breaking free. It felt impossible to survive out there, in that.
‘None of that’s ringing any bells to be honest, Mrs Jansen, but let’s have a look,’ Miss Millar said. She woke up her screen.
‘So her grades are slightly down in these last tests,’ she told us. ‘No observations though. Nothing’s been red flagged.’
‘She’s spending a lot of time on her drama,’ Stef said. ‘Perhaps—’
‘Can I see that?’ I asked.
Miss Millar looked at me across the top of her computer. ‘There’s confidential stuff on here, I’m afraid. We’re tasked with safeguarding your daughter’s privacy as I’m sure you know.’ She flipped the screen back down.
‘What I certainly can do, though,’ she said, ‘is log your concern. An
d I’ll ping a mail over to all of her teachers to bring them up to speed. And I’ll need to ask you, now, if there’s anything else? Any changes in the home environment that we might usefully become aware of?’ she said, and then she watched us.
‘Oh. Wow. OK. Well, home. Things are fine, largely, I’d say,’ said Stef. ‘I mean we’re like any other couple in the sense—’
‘No, Stef. It’s big stuff she means. Health. Or issues with the other kids or something.’
‘Well actually, Mrs Jansen, I’m interested in anything which might give us some insight,’ she replied. She looked back to Stef but he was silent now.
‘There’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it’s just her age?’ and thought, I would pity that from a client.
‘Entirely possible,’ Miss Millar replied, ‘either way, I’m glad that you came in. We do like to be thorough. We’ve had a couple of missed opportunities,’ she went on. ‘We’re all doing our best.’
We had received the letter about the suicide attempt and I’d seen a couple of eating disorders in the corridors before. She took us through next steps. There is a system. Frieda could be talked to, gently; peer mentors assigned. ‘But the request for that action will have to come from you, Mr and Mrs Jansen. As you instigated the concern. As I said, there are no markers our end.’
On her wall were framed intentions. BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD. #EVERYDAY SEXISM. A photo of a group of girls playing an aggressive game of football. All that hope.
‘Oh no,’ said Stef. ‘That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your time.’
I drove, racing Frieda’s bus, though I didn’t say so. Stef was silent beside me, wedging the heel of his hand against the dashboard in response to one sudden turn. I made no comment, and he dropped his arm and drummed his thumbs. We got home with minutes to spare and Stef passed straight through the house and out to his office, calling back to me that he needed to catch up with work. Meantime I stage-set the house to happy families. I lit each lamp. I advanced the heating. I cooked the chicken I had planned for the weekend and then the children arrived, together, the smaller ones shouldering their way in, pin-balling down the hall towards me. Lou, already indignant, Jake hunched low over his Muttley laugh.
‘What’s all this?’ Lou said, at the kitchen door, smelling my effort. ‘Is Dad’s light on out there? Why are you both at home?’
‘Why not?’ I said, chopping veg under task lighting.
‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘Why are we having a roast today?’
‘It’s your favourite, isn’t it? Get on with your homework. We’re eating at six.’
Lou let herself be appeased and settled at the island.
‘Will you help me, Mum? It’s History. Sources,’ she said. She spread open a huge exercise book before her.
‘That’s your dad. Call me when it’s French.’
Jake went to the fridge, shouting down at his friend on FaceTime and Frieda moved through the kitchen noiselessly with her earphones in and an abstract look. She took a glass of water and, by the sink, I approached and touched her shoulder. She blinked me into focus and gave a little wave and I saw a thick oval scab on her thumb, nail width, that I wondered if I should worry about. Then she left the room, her face cast down, a huge bag on her back. Her hair had sagged across the day, it lay over one shoulder sadly, like an animal’s hide. Stef came back through, clearing up the mess as I made it and I asked him to pour me a drink. The wine was from the fridge door and could have been colder, although it tasted better this way, peach and slate, a little oiliness. I stirred a splash into the meat juices, enjoyed the chemistry, and worked at the burnt bits with a wooden spoon. The heat of the hob, a six-ring range, steamed the windows, Radio 4 bubbled gently, low enough to obscure bad news, our kids – good kids – were all home and accounted for. There was a villa booked for summer, we had a tutor to help with exams. There was a dog, for God’s sake; his snout resting on Louisa’s foot as she worked, walked every day by a woman I paid to do it as none of the rest of us had the time, but it guaranteed nothing. None of it made us safe.
We sat to eat at six, ridiculously early, a little heap of amnestied devices winking at me from a shelf over Frieda’s shoulder. When I asked: ‘How was everybody’s day?’ Jake lay down his fork and said:
‘Lou’s right for once. This is actually very weird,’ and then despite Stef’s look, actively counselling me to stop, and in full knowledge that later, in bed, he’d tell me that I should try to ease up, be light, I said:
‘Guys, I just wanted to take this moment, now we’re all together, to say something important.’
I had their attention now, and the weight of it prickled at the back of my neck.
‘Look there’s nothing to worry about,’ I said, but my laugh was unconvincing and nobody joined me. The kids were still and alert. I saw my strangeness in their faces, the idea of my mutability begin. I thought I felt them pull away. A little crack start in the land between us.
‘No. Guys. It’s not something bad—’ I said, and then Louisa began to cry, quite suddenly, her face instantly wet.
‘Lou, what you are doing?’ I said ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ but still she cried, her head bowed, tears dripping straight down into her food.
‘I know what it is,’ she said. ‘You and Daddy are getting divorced.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing like that.’ I thought, again, how like Madeline she is, how very much third child. ‘I just wanted to check in, you know, a quick family audit, as we’re all here.’
Her father went to her. ‘Your mum didn’t mean to frighten you, Lou. It’s OK, honey,’ but she wouldn’t submit to him, her shoulders were set rigid.
‘More of that crap she does at work,’ Jake said, just loud enough.
‘What was that?’ I asked but didn’t press it. He looked down at his plate, his forehead compressed in fury.
‘Lou, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Please. Come on.’
‘Just shut up, Lou,’ Jake said, shoving his chair back from the table.
‘Hey, Jacob,’ said Stef, still kneeling, ‘you know that we don’t use those words.’
‘Why are you crying? Do you even know what you’re crying about?’ Jake said and Lou’s sobs escalated. She shook her head, like the dog, flinging snot and tears around her.
‘That is so gross,’ Jake cried, his mood flipping instantly. He snapped his thumb and middle finger together, making an impressive click.
‘Jake. What are you doing? Sit down,’ I said.
‘What’s the matter with her? She’s mad! You’re mad,’ he yelled at his sister, in glee, in sudden delight, and then Lou had pushed her plate away, gravy breaching its side and she was gone and Jake was calling: ‘I didn’t—She’s just—It’s not fair,’ in various rotations and I was shouting too: ‘Why do you always have to—’ but I wasn’t sure what, or at whom. Stef left, Jake tried for the door, and I let him. The dog bolted for bed.
Only Frieda remained. She held her place at the table, her hair tied back behind her, now, in a loose high bun, working her way through her dinner steadily. I took myself to the sink and drained my glass, long and deep. She reached behind her and pulled her iPhone from the pile.
‘Free, as it’s just you and me, could we talk, for a minute?’ I began.
‘I don’t think so, Mum,’ she said, sensibly. ‘It’s not the best time right now. Wouldn’t you say?’
I heard Stefan, upstairs, knocking gently on Louisa’s door. Frieda eased an earbud in with her thumb, moving her head against it in adjustment. I found my face in the window’s wet reflection and then the screen of my neighbour’s TV beyond. Stef was back, cool and sober.
‘Give it up for tonight, Nancy, eh?’ he said, as he passed, and I smelled his scent, cool and green, and his sweet clean flesh underneath it. The weight of our nineteen years pinned me back down into my life.
7
Six months until I touched him. Six months, living i
n proximity, Adam and I; a clear run towards that moment.
Friday lunchtime, then, the top of a tall office building, our meeting done. We waited for the lift, he wore that same fibrous jacket, his hair a mess above it, angling off this way and that. The lift arrived, the door opened to a pack of bodies and I stepped in, Adam at my back. We turned and began to go down. The drop to each floor was fast, landing with a deep voluptuous bounce that I felt low in my stomach. In the crush, it seemed OK to close my eyes. I let myself lean into my toes and my nose skimmed his coat. It got hotter and a bag nudged the hinge of my knees, nearly knocking out my legs. We hit street level and the lift emptied until just he, I and one other remained. What I should have done then, was take a big step back into all this fresh space, but instead I touched him, definitively. I laid my palm against his back, hard enough to feel the angle of his shoulder blade. He made no response, but kept his place until the lift’s last mineral grind and we reached the lowest floor, where I had parked the car. Then he reached his hand over his shoulder and laid it flat upon mine.
‘Bye, then,’ the other man said. Adam’s touch was a gentle pressure across my knuckles. ‘Guess I might see you guys there.’
Neither Adam or I flinched.
‘Yes. Goodbye,’ Adam said. ‘Perhaps you will.’
*
I was driving. The car was cold and we still wore our coats. I turned the heating up and a column of parched heat moved my hair and began to warm my neck. The outside of our little fingers grazed behind the gearstick.
‘Will you go?’ he said, eventually. ‘Shall we go?’
I nodded, my eyes on the road.
‘I think so. Don’t you?’
‘I do.’
Love After Love Page 5