I still don’t know what I’m going to say, and every time I try to think about it, or try to rehearse a speech, I don’t get very far. I begin by saying I’m sorry. I try to explain things from my point of view. I try to defend myself against the accusations I anticipate Ben will make. I try to ask him how involving solicitors can possibly help. Maybe I’ll get angry. I’ll tell him not to forget the actual people involved in all of this. It’s us. Eric and me and Ben. We are a triumvirate.
And then the imaginary encounter stalls and I can’t get any further. So, instead, I shake out a sleeping bag, turn it inside out and hang it over the edge of the banisters to air, roll up a camping mat, and scrunch sweet wrappers into the pocket of my jeans.
Vincent’s room begins to return to its former state, not immaculate but not quite such a bomb site as it was half an hour previously. I drag the last mattress from the floor down the corridor to Harvey’s room. He has a futon base tucked in an alcove next to the chimneybreast in his. The mattress belongs with it.
Before I put it back, I drag the wooden frame away from its position against the wall to retrieve some of the things that have become lodged underneath: loose change, CDs, various bits of junk which could either be rubbish or vital components of something Harvey plans to make. I don’t know which and therefore daren’t get rid of it.
‘EDF’ is under there too, a toy which belongs to Vincent and which I suspect may have been hidden there by Harvey after an argument more heated than the one they were having this morning.
EDF is one of the energy suppliers to the area. They have adverts, which feature an animated gas flame. When he was younger, Vincent found it hilarious. He’d double up with laughter watching the black-eyed orange flame shimmying around a show home. He laughed so much that Gabriella decided to make him his very own EDF, out of felt, with buttons for eyes. Vincent became ridiculously attached to it for a time. He couldn’t sleep without it, resulting in lengthy searches of the house at bedtime.
I pick it up, intending to return it to his bedroom, but underneath I find an epipen.
Is this the one Harvey is supposed to keep in his school bag at all times, just in case? I look at my watch and think that I don’t have time to jump in the car and run it up to the school before Ben arrives, but I start to feel anxious. What if he doesn’t have another one in his bag, and what if he has something to eat at school? He should be being extra-vigilant after last week, but he’s a twelve-year-old boy and the fact that he ate Vinnie’s chocolates, without checking, shows he’s not really taking his condition seriously.
I push the futon base back into its space, folding the mattress on top before heading downstairs.
I am almost certain Harvey has another epipen with him, but it would be sod’s law, if I don’t check just because I’m expecting Ben, that he doesn’t, and someone will offer him something he should not eat.
So I phone the school, glad of something to distract me.
‘Hello, it’s Isobel Jordan.’ I use Eric’s name to avoid confusion as the kids have it too. ‘Harvey’s mother. He has a nut allergy and I’ve found an epipen in his bedroom. I just wanted to make sure it’s not the one he should have in his school bag.’
The woman in the office asks which class he is in and I tell her.
‘I’m sure he has one, but he had a reaction a few days ago so I just wanted to double-check.’
The woman says she will find out what lesson he is having, go and check, and call me back.
I put the kettle on and realise that after my cleaning blitz there is not much for me to do, other than wait for it to boil and think more about what I’m going to say to Ben.
The phone rings before I have put my thoughts into any sort of order (which maybe just isn’t going to happen) and the woman from the school office tells me she dug Harvey out of science and he showed her he had an epipen in his bag.
I’m thanking her when the doorbell rings and it flusters me. I’d thought I had ten minutes in which to change the top I’d been cleaning in, tidy myself up a bit, and brush my hair at least. Instead I open the door, feeling caught on the hop, and Ben looks at me strangely, taking me in in a slightly unnerving way.
‘Come in,’ I say, and I head for the kitchen.
Ben follows, dropping his backpack from his shoulder into his hand and knocking the neat row of post-party Space Hoppers I have lined up in the hallway, ready to return to the various people who lent them.
‘Vincent’s birthday,’ I explain. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ Ben says, and he surprises me by producing a present from his rucksack.
‘Oh. How kind. I didn’t think you’d remember.’
‘I didn’t. Maggie did,’ he says, and I smile, momentarily reassured that in the midst of all of this Maggie still remembers Vincent’s birthday. Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem. Maybe, because we haven’t talked, I’ve built up the antipathy I think Ben and Maggie must feel towards me, to a level it may not actually have reached, not personally anyway. Maybe the legal action is separate. It’s devastating for us, obviously, but, for them, perhaps it’s just what they need to do for Iris.
‘I’m afraid it’s not what he asked for,’ Ben says.
‘What was that?’
‘A straitjacket. He told me that was what he wanted, in France.’
I wince at the mention of France but Ben seems not to notice. ‘I tried the children’s section of Ann Summers,’ he continues, ‘but I couldn’t find one.’
I laugh despite myself as I make coffee. It feels almost normal until Ben’s face clouds, as if he’s just remembered something.
‘Sit down,’ he says, when I bring the coffee over and hover, unsure.
I sit, but neither of us says anything.
I start.
I begin the apology I’ve half rehearsed, but it’s harder saying it out loud to Ben than rehearsing it upstairs.
‘Ben… I’m so sorry,’ I begin. ‘For everything that’s happened. You’ve no idea how bad I feel. If there was anything I could do to turn the clock back, I’d do it. I’d never have left Gabs with Iris. I’d have had the kids vaccinated. I’d have been in touch with you before now; I’d have done something, anything to try to make things different…’
I can hear myself gabbling. My voice is racing, too fast for me to keep up with the words, and then it falters. I feel a bit detached from myself, but I recognise the faltering sounds as upset.
I said I would not cry. I am not going to cry, but it’s so difficult.
I don’t even get to the point where I get stuck. Ben interrupts me.
‘Why now?’ he asks, and his voice has a harsh edge I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. ‘Why after all this time?’ It’s his turn to stream thoughts and questions now. ‘Why didn’t you get in touch with us b-before, when you heard that Iris was deaf? Why didn’t you call and apologise or do something? How could you live with yourself, knowing you were responsible, knowing you were to b-blame?’
I have not heard Ben falter over his words for years. He’d told me he used to have a stammer, when I first met him, but I hadn’t believed him, he had it so well under control. Only very occasionally, when he’d been flustered, had I heard him pause slightly before getting a word out.
‘You fucking forced me to take legal action, Isobel, by sitting at home and refusing to face up to the consequences of your decision. My daughter is deaf. She can’t hear a fucking thing. Maggie’s a musician. I’m a fucking drama teacher. Our worlds are full of sounds and words. Our kid will never be part of that world. Have you got any idea how that feels?’
‘I know it can’t be easy,’ I begin. ‘I know it’s not the same, having a child with a disability.’
‘But you don’t know, do you?’ Ben interrupts me. ‘You’ve got no idea. You’ve got your three perfect children and you’re not really interested in anyone else’s, especially if they’re not perfect themselves.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
>
‘You know what I mean. You’re so wrapped up in your own life that you don’t really care about anyone else’s, not even your oldest friends.’
‘Of course I care about you,’ I begin.
‘I’m not talking about me,’ Ben says. ‘I’m talking about Yasmin. I saw what you were like with her on holiday, irritated every time Conrad upset your children, and I know she feels you’ve let her down.’
‘I haven’t let her down. I hardly see her!’
‘Exactly,’ Ben says triumphantly.
‘Did Yasmin say something?’ I ask.
‘She didn’t have to,’ Ben says, but I suspect something has been said and I know it’s partly true, whatever it is that Ben is accusing me of.
I say nothing. I can’t think of anything to say. All those rehearsed words escape me.
‘If it had been anyone else. Anyone other than you!’ he carries on shouting.
‘What do you mean?’ I say this quietly.
‘You know what I mean!’ He is screaming at me now.
The cafetiere sits between us, its plunger still up. The social niceties we intended to perform, to keep this civilised, are abandoned. It seems we are going to have a good old-fashioned screaming match instead. Maybe this is good. Maybe Ben needs to scream at me. Maybe it will make him feel better.
‘You know why.’ He spits the words out. ‘You know why it’s worse because it’s you. You’ve got fucking everything, Isobel. You’re married to fucking perfect Eric. You’ve got three fucking perfect kids. A lovely house by the fucking seaside. You don’t have to work. But that wasn’t enough, was it? It wasn’t enough for you to have it all. You couldn’t let me have a tiny bit of that too. Why couldn’t you just be happy that I was happy?’
‘Ben, that’s not fair,’ I try to interject, but Ben doesn’t stop.
‘Me,’ he says. ‘Why have I always been the stooge in your life? It’s always been me. Isobel arrives at uni, nursing a broken heart, and who does she use to help her get over it? Me. Ben, who can always be trusted to be there, no matter what I do to him. Ben, who comes running every time things aren’t going your way. Ben who can always be relied upon to care for you, even though you hurt him again and again. And the first time, the first fucking time I am really happy, you have to go and ruin it all. You just had to, didn’t you?’
All the while, he’s moving his face closer to mine. And the closer he gets, the more I can feel his anger, in the contortions of his face and the volume of his words, and I don’t think I can soak it up any more. I’m going to crack. One way or another, I am going to crack. I’m not sure if I’m going to start yelling too, scream back at him, or if I’m going to cry. Maybe that’s what he wants.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Really, truly. If I could change things, I would. If I can do anything now, anything at all, I’ll do it.’
I start to cry and Ben stops shouting, but his face is still up close, intent on something. I don’t know what. It’s as if he’s looking for something. Fear? Contrition? Some sort of resolution?
I hold his look, even though he’s scaring me slightly. But it feels important that I don’t turn away. I have to face him, whatever he does next. I have to face up to it. That’s why he’s here.
For a second I think he might be going to strike me and I flinch slightly in anticipation.
And then he kisses me. He takes my face in his hands and I know what he’s going to do and, when he does, it’s not gentle or tender, it’s urgent and necessary and it doesn’t make sense. He’s been sitting there yelling at me, as if he hates me more than anyone.
And now we are kissing.
It feels as if Ben might swallow me up. And, despite the sudden transition, I find myself responding. I have to stand up from my chair, because the corner of the table is digging into my rib, and when I do Ben reaches up and grabs my breast and his other hand is on my buttocks, pulling me towards him.
Is this it? I think. Is this how we resolve this one?
Ben stands up and pushes himself against me and I can feel him hardening and there’s a sense of illogical inevitability to this.
We are going to sleep together again, and I don’t know if it will help or not but I think I am going to do it, if it’s what Ben wants.
And then the doorbell rings and we spring apart, shocked and repulsed. And I tidy my hair a bit and look at the clock. I don’t know why. I’m not expecting anyone.
I’m not expecting anything either, but I can see the red of a postman and his van through the glass on the door.
‘Would you mind signing for this for your neighbour?’
‘Sure,’ I say, and I take the pen the postman offers and make a shape that bears little resemblance to my signature on the screen thing.
‘A parcel for one of the neighbours,’ I say to Ben, returning to the kitchen.
‘Saved by the bell, Bel,’ he says, and we are awkward now, unsure what to say to each other.
‘The thing is…’ I begin, but I don’t actually know what the thing is. I’m starting to lose the plot.
‘I’m going to drop the legal action,’ Ben says, suddenly, in such a way that I can’t tell if this is what he came to tell me or if he just made a spur-of-the-moment decision.
‘Really?’ I say.
It would be wonderful it were true. I feel relief begin to creep over me but I don’t feel I should give in to it. He might change his mind.
‘I know you’re angry with us, with me, and I can understand that, but it was affecting all of us and…’ I don’t finish my sentence.
‘Not because of you,’ Ben says. ‘Because of Maggie. And Iris. I’m not dropping it for your benefit, or Eric’s or anyone else’s. I’m doing it for Maggie and Iris. Because I love them both, more than anything in this world, more than I ever loved you. No, more than I ever could have loved you, even if you’d given me a chance.’
‘I know that,’ I say.
‘I hate you because of what’s happened but not as much as I love them, and my trying to fight you, trying to force you out of your cosy world to face reality, was upsetting Maggie and not helping Iris and I can’t do that any more, to either of them.’
‘Have you told her?’
‘Maggie knows,’ is all he says. ‘Just as she knows that I love her and Iris more than anyone.’
‘I know,’ I repeat. ‘And I know I can’t change things, but, if there is anything I can do, I’ll do it. I know things won’t be easy for you and Maggie. I’d like to help.’
‘I have to go now,’ Ben says, looking round the kitchen and catching sight of the parcel he brought with him. ‘Wish Vincent a happy birthday from us.’
‘I will. Thank you.’ It feels almost normal.
I walk behind Ben to the door and close it behind him when he’s gone. Then I go into the sitting room and watch from the window as he walks down the front path.
Our next-door neighbour, the psychotherapist, is walking up the path to his house. ‘Nearly everyone in Brighton’s a psycho-something,’ Eric always jokes. ‘There’s a psychologist living on the other side and the guy opposite is a psychopath!’ I see Ben nod to the psychotherapist now, catching his eye as he approaches his door, and I wonder if he could tell us why the exchange that just took place between Ben and me feels like some sort of strange resolution.
Ben is standing on the pavement now, taking something out of his rucksack. It’s his phone. He’s paused on the street and is talking to someone.
I presume it is Maggie he is talking to, reassuring her that he’s sorted everything out and is on his way home again.
And I decide to reassure Eric too. I text him.
‘Ben been and gone. Legal action dropped. Speak later.’
I wonder if he will call when he gets the message, but he doesn’t and I’m glad. I want a bit of time to myself first, before I have to relay a version of events to Eric.
When Eric comes home we are wary of each other, as people are who’ve had an argument and decided
to stop having it, rather than resolving it.
‘How did it go?’ he asks.
‘I let Ben shout and scream at me. It seemed to help,’ I say.
‘Help who? You, or him?’
‘Both of us,’ I say, half laughing, almost tearful, but relieved that at least one dark cloud has been removed.
‘What did he say?’ Eric asks.
‘He said I was selfish, self-obsessed, wrapped up in my perfect world,’ I begin.
‘That’s harsh,’ Eric says quietly, not as if he really means it.
‘Is it? It’s what you’ve been saying for the past few weeks,’ I remind him.
‘I was angry, Bel,’ he says, resigned to the tension that remains between us. ‘It was all such a fucking mess.’
‘He was angry too,’ I say. ‘Furious – that Iris is deaf, that it’s all so unnecessary, that neither of us got in touch.’
‘I did get in touch,’ Eric says, but has the grace to catch himself.
‘Well, he didn’t think either of us had done enough. But especially me. You and he were in accord there,’ I say.
‘Why you particularly?’ Eric asks, and he’s looking at me so intently now that I try not to squirm under his gaze.
‘I suppose because, like you, he thinks I am to blame, that it was my decision not to have the kids vaccinated that caused all this trouble.’
‘Is that all?’ Eric is still looking at me, and I try not to give anything away by reacting.
‘Not exactly,’ I say, looking away now.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I can’t quite remember what he said,’ I tell him. ‘The atmosphere felt so loaded.’
‘With what exactly?’ Eric is aware of my discomfort but he won’t let it go.
‘Anger, tensions, issues. You name it. It’s complicated,’ is the best I can manage.
‘What is, Isobel?’
‘You and Ben, Ben and I. It’s like you said. He probably was a bit hung up on me and maybe I didn’t tread carefully enough. I don’t know. It sometimes feels as if Ben is hostile towards me for being with you. You are his best friend and he doesn’t know which way his loyalties lie.’
Living With It Page 28