Minnie bends her head to her plate and ingests at least a third of her lunch before she comes up for air, while the rest of the restaurant looks on and tries to work out exactly where she puts it or to see if she will belt to the bathroom immediately afterwards for a quick barf. She is smiling now. Food is the only thing that has a tangible effect – for the good, I mean – on Minnie. Food and maths. When she eats, or does maths-related things, there is a subtle shift and something slips into place; so, when Minnie looks at me, I know that she cares about me, even though she would never say such a thing out loud.
It’s the same when she’s at a restaurant with a big group of people and the bill comes at the end. Minnie says, ‘I’ll do it,’ and her voice suggests she would rather be dipped in bloody fish guts and lowered into the Great White Shark-ridden waters off the Cape of Good Hope.
But the truth is, she loves it. There’s no splitting the bill’s total plus tip by the number of people at the table. Not with Minnie around. No. Instead, she will work out – to the last penny farthing – how much everyone owes. Who had the early bird? Who said they were having the early bird but then went for the fillet steak with its sneaky little fifteen per cent supplement in tiny lettering underneath? Who didn’t have any wine? Who had more than their fair share? Who had two starters instead of the traditional starter and a main? Who insisted on dessert? Who ate some of the dessert that someone else ordered? The list of possibilities are endless at such a table but Minnie will tap-tap-tap at the calculator she carries in her bag at all times (the way most women carry a compact and a stick of mascara – although, of course, Minnie carries these weapons in her arsenal too). There is a carefully crafted ‘weighting’ system. Minnie will take into account things like age (students and OAPs get a ‘Minnie-calculated’ discount). Ed has to pay full whack; there is no disability discount in Minnie’s calculations and for this – and many things – I love her. If people are ‘between jobs’, as many people are at the moment, there’s a discount for that too. Everything – and everyone – is taken into account. Is given due consideration. She works it out while the rest of us are scraping the froth from the bottoms of our coffee cups. It takes her about five minutes. Less, probably. She tells everyone what they owe and if there is a problem with change, she will sort it out. That’s what Minnie does. She sorts things out.
I say, ‘You were right about Thomas, by the way.’
She says, ‘What? That’s he’s a skyscraping muck savage with Monaghan silage-breath?’ And the funny thing is that Thomas is one of the few people that Minnie genuinely likes.
I say, ‘No, the bit about him seeing someone. He’s seeing someone.’
‘So?’
‘Nothing. I just . . . I thought I’d tell you. Confirm it.’
Minnie says, ‘No need.’ And then she scoops couscous out of a clam shell. When it’s all scraped out and tipped into her mouth, chewed, swallowed and washed down with water, she continues, ‘A creature like Thomas doesn’t get to sit in the swamp licking his balls for any length of time. Especially in a recession, when people are desperate. I’m just surprised he managed to hold out this long.’
If I say, ‘I miss him,’ Minnie will laugh and say, ‘Catch yourself on, girl.’
So I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.
Minnie says, ‘Anyway, it’s just as well.’
I say, ‘What’s just as well?’
Minnie has two settings on her optimism metre: none and bizarre. If nothing else, her response will distract me from the beef and Guinness stew.
‘You and Thomas. It’s good that you realised you weren’t suitable. When he got all domestic. It’s good that he played his hand so early. You’ve wasted less time.’ Minnie looks at me like I’m a balance sheet that doesn’t add up. ‘It’s not too late. You’re still fairly . . . viable’ she says eventually.
‘Good to know.’ I pierce a chunk of beef with my fork and scrape the Guinnessy sauce off it before putting it in my mouth. I manage to get it down by drinking most of my glass of wine. The carafe is nearly empty now.
We order dessert. Carageen for Minnie, which is, at the end of the day, nothing but seaweed. And Baileys cheesecake for me. Baileys cheesecake makes you feel really good and really bad, at exactly the same time.
I say, ‘I’m done.’
Minnie looks at my plate. ‘Can I have the rest of your cheesecake?’
‘No, I don’t mean . . . I mean I’m done with dating. All that malarkey.’
‘What about sex? Are you done with that?’
‘Do forty-year-olds still have sex?’
‘Well, my parents are in their sixties and they’re still at it. I rang them yesterday afternoon and Mam said they were in bed and that’s why her voice sounded post-coital.’
‘She actually said post-coital?’
‘Swear to God.’
‘Let’s face it, sex is overrated.’ This may not be true of Grey’s Anatomy but nobody knows about that.
Minnie says, ‘Hmmm,’ and I know immediately that she’s probably having terrific sex, even if it’s only with Maurice, and she doesn’t want to tell me because she feels sorry for me since Thomas dumped me and I’m about to turn forty. In less than two months. A matter of weeks, really. I’ll be forty and I’ll probably be a virgin again because I won’t have had sex in so long.
And I can’t even write anymore. Which is the only thing I was ever any good at. My English teacher would be horrified if she knew that. She’d give us a three-page essay to write and I’d stop at the bottom of the third page. Even if I was in the middle of the story. Even if I was in the middle of a sentence. She said she’d never witnessed such indolence.
Minnie looks at her stopwatch thingamajig. ‘I should go, I’m out of time.’ Which really means that I’m out of time. In fairness, we’re at minus six minutes and forty seconds.
‘How about coffee?’
‘Kat, I really should . . .’
‘Espressos.’ This is pathetic. I know it is. I don’t even like espressos. That sharp, bitter taste and the way I have to squash my finger into the handle of the cup. If I had my mother’s fingers, I could drink espressos to a band playing.
Minnie nods and puts her handbag back on the floor. In my head, I hear the conversation she will have with Maurice, later: ‘. . . letting herself go . . . drinking at lunchtime . . . not touching her dinner . . . yes, it wasn’t bad actually. I had the couscous with the clams and jus de blahblahblah . . .’ I can hear it all as clearly as if Minnie and Maurice were standing on either side of me, talking over my head. Couples always talk about their single friends. I overhear them, when I’m sitting in a restaurant, or a café.
We drink the espressos. Minnie stands up, puts her time-ometer into her bag and slips on her coat, which is actually a cape, on closer inspection. Everyone in the restaurant gazes at her as she does this, some with open hostility and some with hopeless adoration. It’s always been the same where Minnie is concerned.
Minnie says, ‘I’ll call you.’
I nod.
Minnie bites her lip and shakes her head, like she’s having an argument with herself. ‘I feel like a heel, abandoning you like this.’
This is unusual territory for Minnie. I must look really miserable. I try to maintain the expression. ‘Does this mean you’ll come to Lincoln’s with me and get pissed?’ I say, taking advantage.
‘No.’ But she leans across the table and kisses me – briefly – on my cheek. Her lips are warm from the espresso.
She straightens and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
She says, ‘Are you going to be OK?’
I say, ‘Yes.’
Minnie nods but she’s looking at me funny. She reminds me of her mother when she looks at me like that. Like her mother looked at me afterwards. Back when I was fifteen. All worry and concern. I don’t like it.
She looks away but she doesn’t move. Instead, she stands there. A bit shifty.
I say, ‘What?
’
Minnie takes a breath, the way people do when they’re gearing up to say something that may be like a lead balloon, in terms of the way it’ll go down.
I say, ‘What?’ again. I’m worried now. I’m thinking the worst. I’m thinking tumours. Big, malignant ones.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know, I know. I said I’d never have one and I’m too old and we’re too set in our ways and there’d be no more hopping to Bilbao to visit the Guggenheim at a moment’s notice. But that doesn’t mean we’ll never be able to go again. Besides, you can bring buggies into the Guggenheim. I Googled it.’
I begin to say something that goes like, ‘Minnie . . . I think that’s . . .’
‘You don’t have to pretend to be delighted or anything. I know how you feel about babies.’
Sometimes I hate her. I hate the way she knows everything about me.
‘Of course I’m delighted. That’s fantastic news.’ And it is. Fantastic news. I just wish it wasn’t Minnie’s fantastic news. I hate myself for thinking this thought but there it is. It’s done now. Stuck in my head like a piece of spinach gripped by front teeth. Everything changed when she met Maurice. Changed a little more when they moved into their monstrosity in Ballsbridge. Then the wedding. Then the foodie holidays. And now this. I know this is the way things are supposed to go. It’s just . . . it feels like she’s slipping away from me. Like I’m being left behind.
‘How many weeks are you?’
‘Only eight so don’t say a word to anyone. Maurice is superstitious about not telling anyone till I’m twelve weeks. It took us a while. To conceive, I mean.’
‘You never said you were trying.’
‘We’ve been trying for a few months now. I didn’t want to tell anyone in case nothing came of it.’
I want to say, ‘I’m not anyone,’ but I don’t say that.
‘So we just kept ourselves busy, having sex and eating anchovies.’
‘Anchovies?’
Minnie explains about anchovies then. About how they’re a superfood when it comes to sperm speed and agility.
I say, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Puking around the clock and gorging myself in between the puking.’
‘You don’t look sick.’ My tone seems accusatory so I add, ‘You look great’ in a more ordinary voice.
Minnie beams then and I recoil a little. It’s the shock. She’s never beamed before. ‘I feel great. It’s the weirdest thing.’
I say, ‘You’ll make a great mother.’
Minnie rummages in her handbag for her keys. I don’t know why I said that. That’s what Thomas said to me, back when he was trying to change everything. After the accident. The bloody miracle. Why do people say that? What do they think they know?
‘I’m a terrible mother,’ I told Thomas.
He was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
I changed the tense. The tense made no sense. ‘I mean I’d be a terrible mother. That’s what I mean.’ And that’s what he couldn’t understand.
How I knew.
For sure.
Faith says, ‘Have you seen my cigarettes, Milo?’
I say, ‘No.’ Which is not really a lie. I haven’t seen them. Not today anyway. I put them in the cupboard under the stairs at Mrs Barber’s house. She never goes near that cupboard because of her hip. I don’t think it can bend, even though it’s brand new.
Faith’s voice is muffled because she is under my bed, which is where I put them the last time. She slides out and sits up.
I say, ‘There’s chewing gum you can buy. Whenever you want a cigarette, you just chew a piece of gum instead. Damo’s mam chews them and she hardly ever smokes anymore.’
She says, ‘Milo . . .’
Her voice is sort of sad but she doesn’t look annoyed, so I ask her, ‘Will I go and stay with Ant and Adrian when you’re not here?’
Mam always said that she didn’t know how Ant and Adrian would look after themselves in London. They couldn’t even use a tin opener. But you can buy tins now that you can open without a tin opener. I saw them in Damo’s house.
Faith says, ‘Why wouldn’t I be here?’ She opens the drawer on my bedside locker but there’s nothing in there except my post office book and the football cards that come with the Hubba Bubba. The apple ones are my favourite. They make your tongue green. But not green enough so your mam thinks you’re too sick to go to school. Damo already tried that.
‘I don’t know.’
Faith closes the drawer and looks at me. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Milo.’ She sneezes. She’s allergic to dust and there’s a lot of it around.
‘What about the tour?’
She stands up. Then sits down again. ‘Nothing’s been decided yet.’
Rob is excited about the tour. He talks about it nearly as much as Damo talks about girls and Sully.
Rob says, ‘Supporting the Crowns. That’s something, Faith. That’s really something.’
‘I know, but . . .’
‘And it’s in the summer. So you won’t miss any college.’
‘Yes, but what about Milo?’
I don’t hear what they say after that because Faith closes the door into the kitchen.
She probably said something like a tour’s no place for a nine-year-old boy. She’s always saying stuff like that. There are loads of places that aren’t suitable for nine-year-old boys, according to Faith. Like Damo’s house when his mam or Imelda aren’t there. Or the bit of the park that’s near the river, where all the squashed beer cans are.
I say, ‘So, will you try them?’
Faith says, ‘Try what?’
‘The chewing gum.’
Faith looks out of the window. You can see Damo’s house from my bedroom window. We signal each other with torches when we have batteries.
She says, ‘Come here.’ I sit on the bed beside her.
She says, ‘I’m not going anywhere, Milo. And I’m not going to die from cigarettes. I only smoke about seven a day. When I can find them.’ She reaches over and takes my fringe out of my eyes. ‘We have to get that mop cut.’
Dad says my hair is just like his, except he doesn’t have hair anymore. His head is very shiny and there are freckles all over it.
I hear the sound of someone walking down the driveway. Then the plop of something through the letterbox. Faith jumps up and runs out of the door and down the stairs.
I stand at the top of the stairs. Faith grabs the post. Two brown envelopes, which means they’re bills. And another takeaway menu for the curry shop on the high street. She puts the menu in the recycling bin and puts the brown envelopes on the hall table, without opening them.
She sees me then and says, ‘Milo, make your lunch and go to school.’ She walks down the hallway, towards the kitchen.
If the lady writes to Faith, she’ll probably have to go and live with her. And then I’ll have to go and stay with Ant and Adrian in their student flat in London and make sure I buy cans you can open without a tin opener. I don’t want to live with Dad. He’s nice and everything, but I’m supposed to be doing my lifesaving exam in the spring. How could I do a lifesaving exam if I was in Scotland? And Damo wouldn’t be able to visit because Scotland is miles away. Me and Mam drove there once and it took us about a hundred hours. Anyway, the new baby is coming and everyone knows that babies are noisy. Imelda was supposed to be getting one but she isn’t anymore. Damo’s mam hates noise.
London’s not so far. Perhaps Ant and Adrian would bring me to Brighton once a week. On Wednesdays, maybe, so I could go to lifesaving and see Damo.
Brona rings. She says, ‘I don’t want to put any pressure on you but . . .’
This means she’s about to put pressure on me. I’m not going to make it easy for her. I say, ‘What?’
She says, ‘Oh sorry, Kat, I’m probably disturbing you, am I?’
‘I’m in the middle of a pretty tricky chapter, to be honest.’ When I say ‘to be
honest’ at the end of a sentence, that often means I’m lying through my teeth, but Brona doesn’t know that because she takes everyone at face value, which is both her greatest gift and her biggest failing, if you ask me.
‘Oh gosh, I’m terribly sorry. Should I ring back later?’
The choice is to have pressure applied now and thereby get it over and done with, or later, which would allow me to continue what I am doing, which is, in fact, nothing at all.
I say, ‘No, it’s fine, now is fine.’
‘I’m just wondering about the book. Did you have a date in mind?’
‘A date?’
‘Yes. For the drop.’
Brona can’t understand why I can’t just email the manuscript. Or put it in a Jiffy bag. She insists that none of her colleagues would open a Jiffy envelope that is addressed to her. I’ve never worked in an office but I’ve seen them on the telly. Everyone wants to know everything about everyone. You can’t be careful enough.
The drop never takes place at or anywhere near the publishing house. In fact, I’ve never been to the publishing house. Instead, I meet Brona at various train stations around London. I ring her when my plane lands at Heathrow and give her the name of the train station. I vary it. We’ve never met in the same place twice. We often meet in bookshops at the stations, although never in the crime/thriller section.
Brona says, ‘Hello? You still there, Kat?’
I say, ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’
‘Penny for them?’
It’s true. I am miles away. I’m in Paddington station. The Mind, Body and Spirit section of WHSmith, to be precise. I remember every drop, but this one in particular. Brona was there when I arrived, leafing through a book entitled Soulmates and How to Get One. Beside her, on the floor, was a black leather briefcase, with a combination lock.
I moved towards her.
We didn’t speak to each other. Or even look at each other. We never do. I stood near her and set my briefcase – a black leather one with a combination lock – on the floor, then picked up a random book, which happened to be Love in the Time of Cauliflowers, and which Brona would later deem to be a sign. It was a cookbook for food-lovers in search of aphrodisiacs.
Lifesaving for Beginners Page 12