The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  “Good stuff. Who’s acting for you?”

  “I’m a litigant in person.”

  “Unwise, old girl, very unwise. You know what they say, ‘A man who is his own lawyer has a fool for his client.’ Don’t forget I said I’d look over the papers for you. Give my clerk a ring. Must dash, got an ex parte application listed at two. Ta-ta.”

  With that she was off, barging her way through the lunchtime pedestrian traffic with her document case in tow.

  * * *

  It had been a unique start to the year. The morning before New Year’s Eve I’d received a phone call from Rob. I hadn’t expected to have any further contact with him until I was in a position to retrieve my belongings from his house. He said he’d been invited to a party in Brixton, only a short walk from where I lived, and asked whether I’d like to go along with him. He assured me that Edward wouldn’t be there; my brother was celebrating in Birmingham with a gang of friends of which Rob wasn’t a part. I said no. Why on earth would I (a heavily pregnant woman) want to go out on New Year’s Eve (the wildest night of the year) with a man I hardly knew, to a party at the house of people I’d never met? I told him I preferred to see in the New Year quietly at home. He tried to persuade me of the merits of a sociable celebration, but I told him he was wasting his breath.

  Coming off the phone I had a heavyhearted feeling that I couldn’t quite define. Not disappointment, exactly; that would make no sense, seeing as it was my decision to decline the invitation. More like glum resignation, perhaps to the sheer inevitability of the decision I’d made. You might find this hard to believe, but I’ve never celebrated New Year’s Eve. I’m not a person who has close friends, and my acquaintances have never thought to include me in their celebrations. Richard, during the years of our arrangement, always had commitments elsewhere on that particular night.

  When I popped upstairs to tell Kate about Rob’s ludicrous invitation, she reacted with unexpected enthusiasm.

  “Susan, you’ve got to go,” she said, pressing down the sticky tabs on the nappy of the uncooperative Noah, who was kicking his legs like the pistons of an engine. The flat was messier than ever. Kate was about to start her master’s degree, and there were now books, pens and notepads jumbled up with the customary domestic debris. “He’s a lovely guy. You’ll have a great time. What else have you got to do?”

  “I couldn’t possibly go,” I told her. “I’d be expected to make small talk with people I have no interest in. And I’m quite sure there’ll be dancing. What’s more, I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. If a man and woman attend an event together it gives the impression they’re a couple.”

  “And what would be so terrible about that?” said Kate, doing up the last popper on Noah’s dungarees and sitting back on her heels.

  “It would be humiliating,” I explained. “He’s obsessed with this Alison, and I’m due to give birth in a few weeks. He’d be mortified if people assumed we were in a relationship and that he was the soon-to-be father, and I’d be equally mortified at his mortification. Plus, more important, I don’t want people thinking I’d choose someone like Rob as my partner.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s not like me.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s not cultured.”

  “Are you sure? He seems pretty well-educated to me. Anyway, you don’t have to share a partner’s tastes in everything for a relationship to be a success. Look at Alex and me. We always loved the same things.”

  “But Rob’s a manual laborer.”

  “He designs and landscapes gardens. And if he was a manual laborer, what difference would that make?”

  “And he’s friends with Edward.”

  “That just shows how independent-minded he is—that he’s prepared to befriend someone who’s an adversary of his best mate.”

  “Kate, listen carefully. I do not want a personal relationship, even if that’s what’s on offer, which it very definitely isn’t.”

  “Fair enough. Then just go along to the party as pals and have some fun. Do something different. You’re a wonderful woman, Susan, but you’re very stuck in your ways. You’ve had the same job for years, you’ve lived in the same flat for years, you never go out and meet new people. You hardly go out at all these days. I know I mightn’t seem like the best person to give advice, because I’ve had a few confidence issues recently, but I’m getting back out there again. Don’t you sometimes feel a bit claustrophobic? Like you just want to kick down the walls and do something really crazy and different and out-of-character?”

  “I’m having a baby, in case you hadn’t noticed, Kate. How much crazier and more out-of-character can you get?”

  “I know, and I can see how you’re changing already. I just want the best for you—you’re my friend. And it seems that Rob wants to be your friend, too. Stop saying ‘no’ to everything and start saying ‘yes.’ What’s the worst that can happen? A bit of embarrassment, a bit of awkwardness. And what’s the best that can happen? You might meet some interesting people, have some new experiences, enjoy yourself. Tell Rob you’ll go. And you can blame me if you have a rubbish time and never speak to me again. Come on, Susan, pick up the phone.”

  She can be like a Rottweiler sometimes. We were silent, watching Noah trying to pull himself forward on his tummy to get something just out of his reach. He’d be crawling soon.

  “So?” said Kate.

  “What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?” I asked.

  “I haven’t decided. Alex is having the kids for a couple of days because he missed out at Christmas. Why?”

  “I’ll go to the party if you come, too,” I said. “That way no one will get the impression that Rob and I are a couple.”

  “Okay, done.” She looked very satisfied with herself.

  I went back downstairs and phoned Rob. He expressed delight at the fact that I’d changed my plans, and he had no objection to Kate coming along, too. I was going to a party. A New Year’s Eve party. With two other people. If you’d told me that a year ago, I wouldn’t have believed you.

  * * *

  That night, as I was lying on my back feeling the twisting and flexing of the new life inside me, I thought about what Aunt Sylvia had said on Christmas Day. I’d tried to push it to the back of my mind—as, it appeared, had everyone else by the following morning; it was as if nothing untoward had happened. During the course of Boxing Day my aunt was as bright and breezy as usual: pestering us to join in charades; producing a new set of cringe-worthy party hats; making plans for a big family get-together in Estepona when the baby arrived. She remained so until my departure. As I was climbing into my taxi, she held on to the door and leaned in.

  “You know I’m always there for you, don’t you, love? I wish you’d drop this silly dispute with Edward, but if you’re dead set on going on with it I’ll support you. Just write down what you want me to say and I’ll sign it.”

  “But it has to be the truth,” I said. “I’m not asking you to lie. I want you to give your honest opinion.”

  “I know, love, but I’m just a silly old woman. You know the truth better than me. Maybe I didn’t really notice what was going on with your mum. I get caught up in my own little world sometimes. You just write it down for me.”

  Despite her erratic behavior and acute self-centeredness, Aunt Sylvia seemed genuinely to have my best interests at heart. I was glad she would support my case, but I wished she was more reliable in her recollection of events. Her claim that my mother cared for Edward more than me was troubling, even though it was unfounded. What if the case came to court, and she said as much in evidence? No, I told myself, that wouldn’t happen. Aunt Sylvia had been tipsy and confused on Christmas Day. If it came to a hearing, I’d make sure she was well coached.

  * * *

  I had no alternative but to wear a black trapeze dress to the par
ty. It was the only item of clothing I had in my maternity wardrobe that looked even vaguely like something a person might wear for a night out. In the last week or so I’d started suffering from swollen feet and ankles, so along with the billowing tent I wore support tights and comfortable low-heeled shoes. Of course, you can always dress up an outfit with costume jewelry (which I have in abundance from my evenings out with Richard) and artful hair and makeup.

  When I finally finished getting ready and looked at myself in the full-length mirror, I wasn’t too displeased with the overall result. Until, that is, Kate knocked on my door. I’m not sure I’d ever seen her legs before; they were usually encased in jeans or jogging bottoms. She was certainly not reticent about revealing them this evening. She was wearing a short, sleeveless midnight blue velvet dress with silver high-heeled sandals. Her long hair, which was usually scraped back into a ponytail, was loose and swishy. Youthful, lively and fun were the words that came to mind. There rose inside me a pitiful wish that I hadn’t persuaded her to come along to the party. The thought was perverse. I suppressed it.

  Rob, who was staying at a cheap hotel nearby, arrived over ten minutes late. He’d obviously failed to learn his lesson from his last visit. I drew his attention to his poor timekeeping, but all he did was roll his eyes. Dealing with members of the opposite sex isn’t that dissimilar from training a dog; you need to be firm and persistent.

  “I’ll be the envy of all the men at the party, turning up with two such lovely women,” he said, as Kate and I were putting on our coats. Hmm. Rob had made a bit of an effort himself. Gone were the khaki combat trousers, baggy sweatshirt and donkey jacket, and in their place were dark-colored jeans, a charcoal-gray jumper and Crombie-style overcoat. He smelled of soap and aftershave instead of soil and manure. Obviously, he still looked gangly, and his unruly hair would have benefited from a good trim.

  We walked the half mile to the party, Kate cursing her heels that she said she’d pulled out from the back of her wardrobe.

  “I’ll be walking home barefoot,” she said.

  “I’ll give you a piggyback.” Rob laughed. Good to see them getting on so famously.

  The party was in a Victorian semidetached house off Acre Lane—palatial by London standards, in that it hadn’t been subdivided. One of the hosts, Lizzie, had been at college with Rob and Edward in the early 1990s and now worked in a community arts center. Her partner, Liz (unwise to choose a life-partner with the identical name, in my opinion), ran a small gallery. As we entered the hallway, Rob embraced them both, then turned to introduce me.

  “This is Ed’s sister, Susan, who I was telling you about yesterday. And this is her friend Kate.”

  There was a crush in the kitchen, especially near the drinks counter, but a short man in a novelty Christmas jumper, noticing my bump, shouted, “Make way for the pregnant lady.” With those magic words my path cleared. Kate spotted a couple of women from her local mums-and-babies group on the other side of the room. They waved her over. After sloshing prosecco into a pint glass, she abandoned Rob and me and half danced across to where they were standing. So much for having a chaperone to ward off any presumptions of coupledom. As it turned out, though, there wasn’t quite as much embarrassment as I’d feared. When introductions were required, Rob referred to me as “my friend”; in response to questions implying that he was my partner or the father of my baby, he said, smilingly, “’Fraid I don’t have that honor.” And whenever the conversation was heading toward the subject of my domestic situation, he neatly steered it in another direction.

  Surprisingly, Rob’s friends weren’t, for the most part, the uncivilized rabble I’d imagined. I began to relax somewhat and even to enjoy myself. Rob found a couple of free chairs at the dining table, and we engaged in conversation with a plump woman and a skinny man—a potter and a stained-glass craftsman—who Rob hadn’t seen since his college days. At one point Kate, flushed and breathless, tried to persuade us to join her in the dancing room. I was pleased to have the excuse of my swollen ankles; Rob said he was too comfortable where he was. After what felt like only an hour, Lizzie—or it could have been Liz—announced that it was five minutes to midnight and that we should charge our glasses.

  “You’ll toast the New Year with champagne, won’t you?” asked Rob.

  “Yes, why not,” I replied. He eased through the throng to the drinks counter.

  I may not have been to a New Year’s Eve party before, but I’ve seen enough films to know exactly what happens; on the stroke of midnight there occurs a torrent of kissing, hugging and general physical contact, the thought of which was excruciating. Taking advantage of the fact that everyone was occupied with popping corks and filling their glasses, I found the bathroom and locked myself inside. As the chimes of Big Ben filtered upstairs, followed by cheering and the singing of “Auld Lang Syne,” I perched on the edge of the bath. I stayed there for quite a few minutes, enjoying the peace. I thought about the events of last year, and about the year to come, as is traditional at such a time. My life, as I’d so carefully organized it, was shifting, adjusting. Perhaps not entirely for the worse.

  When I eventually rejoined the party, Rob was scanning the room anxiously. His face relaxed when he saw me.

  “Susan, where were you? You missed the chimes. I thought you’d gone home.”

  “No. Nature called. Here’s to the New Year,” I said, accepting the glass that Rob was proffering. I was resigned to the fact that the occasion would have to be marked by some sort of embrace. To head off anything more demonstrative, I gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It seemed to make him happy enough.

  * * *

  Rob absentmindedly held my hand as we walked away from Liz and Lizzie’s house. There was no need; I’m neither a child nor an invalid. It was a frosty night, though, and I had no gloves, so I didn’t protest. After a minute or two, he seemed to realize what he was doing and let go. Kate had decided to stay at the party with her two friends. They were having a night off from husbands and children and were keen to make it last as long as possible. As Rob and I walked along, he described the delights of his cheap hotel, which he regretted booking; the carpets were stained, there was fluff in the corners of the bathroom and his bedroom was so cold he could see his breath as he exhaled. On a whim, sensing where the conversation was heading, and feeling I owed Rob a favor for his assistance with my mother’s effects now that I knew it wasn’t part of Edward’s plot, I informed him that he was welcome to spend the night on my sofa if he so wished. He did.

  When we got home, I found I was livelier than I’d have expected at almost one in the morning; I had no desire to call it a night, and neither, it turned out, did Rob.

  “Got anything to drink?” he asked, throwing his coat over the arm of a chair. “The night’s still young and so are we. Well...”

  I found a bottle of cooking brandy at the back of a cupboard and poured him a glass. I asked what he’d like to do.

  “Dunno. Have you got Netflix? Or, I know, what about a board game? I play a mean game of Risk.”

  “I think I might have a Scrabble set from when I was a child.”

  “Let’s dust it off, then.”

  At my request, Rob crawled underneath my bed—a feat that was now well beyond my capabilities—and managed to locate it in a box of other childhood games. He set it up on the kitchen table, and I made us some hummus on toast while he updated me on his quest: one of Alison’s old flatmates had informed him that she’d been married and divorced, and he now knew the surname she used on Facebook. He’d sent her a friend request and was awaiting a reply. I told him I hoped he heard back soon.

  We played two games; I won both, but, to be fair, he put up a pretty good fight. I hadn’t guessed, from his conversation, that his vocabulary was so extensive.

  “I’ll get you back another time,” he said, folding the board and pouring the letters into the bag. “You had the adv
antage ’cos you’re stone-cold sober. Wait ’til the baby’s born and I can ply you with drink. Sorry, that sounded a bit creepy.”

  We followed up Scrabble with a few rounds of gin rummy, using a tatty pack of playing cards that had belonged to my father. Rob was the overall victor. I didn’t mind too much; I’d forgotten how much fun it is playing games.

  It was almost three o’clock by the time we agreed we should turn in. I wasn’t sure I’d ever voluntarily stayed up that late before. I gave Rob a sheet, a pile of blankets and one of my pillows, then put the oak casket containing my mother’s ashes next to the sofa for use as a bedside table. He seemed a little taken aback when he realized what it was, then shook his head and laughed.

  “Only you,” he said. I have no idea what he meant.

  19

  It was the most restful sleep I’d had for many a week; no waking in the small hours with troubled thoughts about the legal dispute or impending motherhood. Perhaps it was due to the late night or the small glass of champagne I’d drunk just before we left the party. I was woken shortly after eleven by a voice calling through my bedroom door.

  “Just wondering if you’re awake.”

  “I am now.”

  Rob strolled in and perched on the edge of my bed. A member of the opposite sex in my bedroom, and me in my nightdress—it was inappropriate, to put it mildly. I must say, though, with Rob it didn’t feel unnatural or threatening; he’s rather like a child who has yet to learn the niceties of social etiquette. At forty-three. Nevertheless, I pulled my quilt up to my neck.

  “My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,” he said, “but you haven’t got much in. What about going out for brunch? I know a place in Battersea that does a great veggie fry-up.”

  It was New Year’s Day; I had nothing to do, nowhere to go and no one to meet. I could see no particular harm in Rob’s proposition. Strange, I know, but I found I was becoming accustomed to his company. He might be rough-edged, but he was unexpectedly easy to be around. While he was retrieving his bag from the hotel and I was getting ready, Kate came down, bleary-eyed and disheveled, on a hunt for paracetamol. She asked what I was up to today, and I told her about brunch in Battersea.