Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  It shows how lucky I’d been so far, my life going so neatly that I expected to get through the whole of it unscathed. But then most people I know are the same. Even Nige, who had a miserable childhood – his mother, unmaternal to say the least, specialised in petty cruelties like cutting his nails so short they bled – believes he’s exempt from dying in a car crash, because he is Nige. When Issy gave birth, she barely blinked at the baby, she was so offended at the pain. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for it. Trauma is for idiots. I suppose optimism is a survival skill.

  When I arrived home, the day after Party Night, with my new pink jumper and saw Manjit’s girlfriend’s car parked in the drive, my optimism scarpered and I couldn’t blame it. Everything about Manjit’s girlfriend grates. For a start, her name is Bo – which she once told us, is Chinese for Precious. And she is, although not in the way she thinks. (Nick went through a phase of pronouncing it Boh to annoy her.) Her car is a green Citroën 2CV, you can hear its approach from neighbouring counties. It’s as much a statement as a shiny red Porsche. She makes me feel guilty, and I don’t feel guilty that easily. I suspected I knew why she was here.

  I composed my face and unlocked the front door. As I pushed it, she pulled it open.

  ‘Hello, Holly, been shopping?’

  Already I felt about six years old.

  ‘Yes, I needed a new jumper.’

  There was a meaningful pause, during which Bo’s unconscious screened third world scenes, for my benefit.

  Bo, an academic, is paid less than a nurse or a teacher, and resents other people earning money. Even nurses and teachers. Even though she has a profitable sideline – she thinks up questions for University Challenge. When I launched Girl Meets Boy, the curl of her lip could have rivalled Elvis. You could tell she was dying for the business to go under with debts of three million. She’s the sort who feels that if you are successful, there’s less chance she’ll be. When Nick told her the agency had accepted its 100th member, she raised her thin eyebrows and said, ‘I’m impressed.’ She meant, of course, ‘I’m surprised.’

  But mainly, I can’t forgive her for coming to our house and saying in front of the cat, ‘Whenever I see an animal charity I walk straight past it.’ What, I thought, and you’re proud of that?

  There was a thump above our heads and a bark of laughter. Bo and I glanced at the ceiling as if we expected to see through it. Bo smiled at me, and I felt an uncharacteristic desire to shake her firmly by the throat. She knew I wanted to know what was going on. We smiled thinly at each other, wondering who would crack. I was about to, when Nick and Manjit saved me the trouble, by lumbering downstairs with the spare futon.

  ‘Beeeeek areful, you’re scraping the wallpaper!’ screeched Bo.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Manjit. (This is pretty much the only word he ever says to Bo. We went to the theatre once and Nick and I kept count. Twenty-three sorries.) ‘Hello, Holly. Er.’

  When Manjit – who was facing down – said this, Nick – facing up – tried to swivel, tripped and was nearly crushed by the futon. Manjit laughed.

  ‘Manjit!’ said Bo. ‘He could have hurt himself.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Manjit. ’Er, how’s it going, Hol?’

  I smiled at him. Manjit is one of the sweetest men I know. Doubtless he’d been ordered to give me the cold shoulder, but couldn’t manage it. Manjit finds it very hard to be nasty to people, something others might take advantage of, were it not for the fact that he is a black belt in karate. I made him give me a lesson once and he nattered between chops.

  Nick, red faced, reached the safety of the hall parquet and let go of the futon. He scowled at Manjit, then me. ‘You locked Emily’s catflap and she had an accident.’

  I felt nausea high in my throat. ‘You haven’t let her out, have you?’

  Nick’s eyes widened at my stupidity. ‘Of course I let her out. She’s an outdoor cat and she was crying to go outside!’

  I barged past him, ran through the kitchen, pulled open the back door, and shouted, ‘Emileee, Emileee’. Then I ran back in, grabbed her biscuit box, darted back into the garden and shook it. ‘Emileee, Emileee, biiiiiiiscuit!’

  Emily, whose acuteness of hearing depends entirely on whether food is imminent, trotted out of the green towards me and curled around my ankles. I scooped her up, shut the door behind us, and poured a small pile of biscuits onto the floor. ‘Good girl, good girl, who’s got such lovely furry knickers!’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Nick. This was mean of him considering he also turns into a loon around Emily. (‘Who’s Daddy’s special whisker kitten?) The great pleasure of sharing your living space with an animal – I prefer not to say ‘own’, it’s insulting – is not that it enables you to indulge your parental instincts without being answered back. The best thing about a pet is that it allows you to regress to toddlerhood. You speak in a silly voice, you buy yourself a great many brightly coloured toys, allegedly for the creature, and its benign presence is a fine excuse to spend many happy hours talking to yourself.

  I swung around. ‘Where’s Bo and Manjit?’

  ‘Putting the futon in Bo’s car. I’m moving out.’

  I did think it was sweet that Nick felt the need to tell me this, even in the face of overwhelming evidence. When he’s nervous, he has this habit of rubbing a hand over his hair and mussing it up so that it covers his eyes. Right then it made me want to cry.

  I said, ‘But the futon won’t fit in that car. A knife and fork won’t fit in that car.’

  I hoped he’d laugh but he didn’t. He replied, ‘Then we’ll tie it to the roof.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That was pathetic, what you did last night, Holly.’ He looked at the floor, and rubbed at an invisible mark with his sneaker toe. ‘You don’t even like that bloke. And you accuse me of behaving like a child.’

  I was unfaithful. That’s what I was. It helped to have it spelt out. I shook my head and stared at his feet. I felt a pang at their familiarity. It takes an awful lot to stop loving someone. We’d both pigeon-toed away from the relationship, step by step. Every inch, I’d wanted him to drag me back, but he hadn’t. I’d found myself dreaming like a teenager. Imagining myself being swept away in his arms, creating desperate situations he’d rescue me from. Not that I needed rescuing, not that I wasn’t more than capable of rescuing myself should the need arise, but if he did the rescuing it might make him feel useful. Now I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I’d ever made Nick feel useful.

  He swept his hair from his eyes and said, ‘I don’t like to be humiliated.’

  I nodded, vaguely. Maybe I did humiliate him. I was one of those terrible women who wait, tight-jawed, for their partner to finish speaking, then roll their eyes at his friends. But what he said embarrassed me sometimes. And often he’d say the words so slowly, with long pauses in between, as if he was barely able to form a sentence. It wasn’t that. His brain had jumped to an unconnected thought that was more interesting; his mind was a butterfly, flitting from lilac to daffodil as the mood took it. I found that charming, then I didn’t. I’d always be marching ahead, wanting to get somewhere, and he’d be lagging back, enjoying the scenery.

  ‘So I’m out of here. Goodbye, and give my regards to your parents. It was nice knowing you.’

  ‘Wait.’ My hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, and my voice was a silly shrill squeak. What had I been thinking? All my plotting, for this? I felt like a city dweller who fantasises for many years about giving it all up for a fairytale cottage near the coast and then does. And realises she’s trapped alone in the middle of nowhere in a cold damp crumbling shack with a broken toilet far away from anyone she cares about.

  ‘Nick.’

  Nick’s parents owned a country cottage, but it wasn’t a shack. It was fantastic, I think I preferred it to the Italian villa. That villa had a haughty look about it, and I never quite forgave it for the olive/lemon incident, but this cottage was so darling you’d swear it was built by pixies. I
t was the cottage that Americans think England is made of. Its white beamed walls seemed to swell in the middle, and its thatched roof sloped almost to the ground, reminding me of a person with a hat pulled down over their ears. Blowsy pink roses rambled around the oak door, and its garden was lush, unruly and beautiful, teeming with lavender, white lilac, poppies, blackberry bushes and apple and pear trees, around a green lawn.

  Some of the happiest days of my life were spent there. Nick’s parents love to make a fuss, any day or occasion that even suggests you might be justified in making a fuss, they make a fuss. St David’s Day (the family isn’t Welsh) Nick’s mother decided to bake Eccles cakes. Cooking isn’t her forte and they tasted like Play Doh. Easter, they had us painting eggs, laid by a hen. Well, of course, they were laid by a hen, but what I mean is, they were laid by a hen we knew. This is sounding worse and worse. But it was wonderful. Then Emily dragged in a hare. It was dead and very bloody. I didn’t scream, I had a suspicion that Lavinia, Nick’s mother, didn’t respect women who screamed, I just about swallowed my tongue instead.

  I was glad I did. Nick’s father, Michael, picked up Emily in one hand, the hare in the other, deposited both outside the back door, washed his hands in the deep enamel sink and said, ‘That’s nature for you.’ Lavinia lit a cigarette in a holder and blew smoke to the ceiling. I nodded and continued painting my egg. And then, a couple of times, we spent Christmas there.

  My parents, as with everything, have a sensible attitude to Christmas. The tradition in our family is that everyone’s name goes into a bowl and each person is assigned the task of buying one present, for the person whose name they pick out.

  Forgive my capitalism, but I thought it a rotten tradition. (Nearly as bad as Rachel’s parents’ tradition: the tree is decorated on Christmas Eve, and no one is allowed to open their presents until 8 p.m. on Christmas Day.) I didn’t like receiving only one present, especially if Issy chose it because then it would be miserably educational, and I loathed giving only one present. I’d go to town and look in Liberty’s windows, Selfridges’ windows, and I’d see about a million presents that I knew my family would love – a silver rucksack for Claudia, the Complete Works of Jane Austen for my mother, a cable-knit jumper for my father, make-up in gold cases for Issy, a black rubber bustier for Claudia (she went through a phase of claiming to be a vampire, to the point of having fangs filed; she still has them, they’re cute when you get used to them, although my parents never have), navy Italian leather shoes for my mother, an antique footstool for my father, La Perla lingerie for Issy – and then I’d have to resist it all and buy a boring old saucepan with a lid because I was only shopping for Mum and a saucepan with a lid was all she knew to ask for.

  Nick’s parents celebrated with a fury at Christmas. My God! The first December I went to the cottage, Nick bumbled and delayed so we got stuck in traffic and arrived at 5 p.m., three hours late. By the time we crunched into the gravel drive, I was tense.

  ‘Ta da!’ cried Nick. I gasped. The apple and pear trees twinkled with tiny lights, and each dinky window of the cottage glowed orange, except for the one that was filled green with the midsection of a great fir tree, studded with red baubles and bows. A fat sprig of mistletoe hung from the porch. I felt like Cinderella, stepping from the coach in glass slippers. ‘See! See why I wanted us to get here in the dark!’ We couldn’t wait to reach the porch, we kissed in the car.

  I squeezed my eyes shut tight and the vision faded. I was back in the kitchen and Nick was going to leave me forever.

  ‘Nick,’ I said. ‘You know, I was thinking. And I thought, this is ludicrous, you moving out. It’s really okay for you to stay, really, it is, if that’s okay with you.’

  I could hear myself using too many words, but I couldn’t shut up. I felt myself shrinking, all the air fizzing out of me, like a witch evaporating to smoke. The more I said, the weaker I became. I had no dignity but I didn’t care. I had to keep him in the house. He wouldn’t have to talk to me, do anything, as long as he was there, a warm, safe, presence. Now that he was leaving, I loved him again. It all came back.

  ‘Are you insane?’ Nick was looking at me as if I was some kind of nut. There was disgust in his eyes, and it got me, pck! right in the chest. ‘Let me remind you, last night you fucked some guy on our kitchen floor. Do you remember that or were you too drunk? Nice behaviour, Holly, really nice.’

  He turned and went.

  Chapter 8

  MONDAY MORNING IN the office, I caught Nigel counting my toes. It’s a compulsion of his, he has a fear of people having six toes. I’ve wondered if there’s a name for it, extratoephobia or something. Mostly, Claw and I tease him for being weird, but right then, I wasn’t in the mood. I wanted to tell him to stop looking at me.

  ‘Nigel,’ I said, curling my feet under my chair, ‘can you not do that? It’s unlikely that I’ve grown another toe since Friday, when I believe you last checked.’

  I felt mean as I said it, because despite being un-self-aware, Nige is painfully sensitive. He’ll judge everyone else in half a second, but he cannot stand being criticised. His wife Marylou (they’re separated but it’s on–off) once called him a ‘greedy bastard’. Consequently – so legend has it – Nige was ‘literally unable’ to hold up his head. He fled to the toilet and remained there, hunched and gazing at the floor until Marylou chanced to wonder, three hours later, where he was. She had to physically realign his spine and apologise for two days.

  Nige cinched his mouth into a pout. ‘Holly, Holly, grumpy grumpy! It’s only because I care. You know what I think, your blood sugar’s low. What you need is a frosted bun. I’ll just nip across the road to M—’

  Remarkable. I’d known Nige for seven years and worked with him for one, and yet he still hadn’t processed the fact that I dislike frosted buns. Our downfall – well, I only say that to sound pious – our saviour is the bakery – café across the road. It’s called Martha’s Got Buns, and we’d probably starve to death without it. Their cheesecake, vanilla, crumbly, sweet biscuity base, could take over the world. One bite and nations would submit. Their chocolate croissants, light, feathery, oozy with liquefying chocolate, should be classified as a drug. God didn’t create doughnuts, Martha’s did. Their frosted buns, however, are vile. Studded with hard pellets of sugar that just about crack your teeth, no icing to speak of. just an unpleasant sheen and a dry tongue-clacking dough containing tiny particles of fruit that might be candied peel but might also be earwax.

  ‘I don’t like frosted buns, I’ve told you before.’

  ‘Sweets, you don’t know what you’re saying, everyone likes frosted buns, you—’

  ‘Nige. I don’t want a frosted bun.’

  ‘Sweetheart, you do, you’ve just forgotten what they taste like. Now you wait here and—’

  My heart was pumping at four times its normal speed and my hands were trembling. ‘Nigel,’ I said. ‘Are you deaf because you don’t seem to be able to hear me. In the last twelve months, I must have told you at least four times that I don’t like frosted buns. Hear me. I don’t like frosted buns therefore I don’t want one. Trust me. I know what I want. You do not know what I want. Do you understand me when I say that?’

  Silence. Then the sound of my sister applauding. ‘You tell him!’

  I blushed. My blood sugar probably was low. But there is something deeply insulting about a person reinterpreting what you say – when you speak perfectly clearly – to suit themselves and their desires. And Nige did suffer from selective deafness. I knew that if I were a casting director every time I spoke his ears would prick up like a coyote’s. People like him choose who and what they wish to hear and I call that dangerous.

  I expected a huff, but to my relief the deaf one skidded across the room, sank to his knees in front of me and – making full grandiose use of his Las Vegas singing voice – bellowed, ‘I’m sorreeee, so sorree, please accept my apologeee ah ha ho ho.’

  ‘Please,’ said Claudia, looking up from Ro
lling Stone magazine. ‘Less of the Shania Twain. What you so cheerful about?’

  Nige got up and tried to brush the dirt off his white jeans. The knees were grey. He beamed. ‘All I did was sing. And I’m accused of being cheerful! Quite the opposite, actuellement. I’m still in recovery from a grotesque and monstrous affront.’

  Nige paused for effect. Claudia and I made ourselves comfortable.

  ‘Yesterday at 3.30,’ began Nige, angling his chin to its best advantage, ‘I had an appointment with Derek.’

  Nige said ‘Derek’ in a meaningful tone, as if he were someone Claudia and I were closely acquainted with, possibly related to.

  ‘Who the sod’s Derek?’

  ‘Derek. My deep tissue masseur!’

  Claudia snorted.

  ‘And the man insulted me. It took every fibre of resolution not to rise from the massage bed and stalk from the room. Plus I’d paid forty quid.’

  I could stand it no longer. ‘Right. So what did Derek do?’

  ‘I asked how my shoulders were and he said’ – Nige’s voice rose to a near scream – ‘“There’s not much tension in them!” Not much tension! How dare he, him and his hairy fingers! The cheek of him! He knows I live for the verdict, “You are knotted!” It’s a matter of personal pride! It’s a badge of honour! For my shoulders not to be knotted . . . it’s like, it’s like not being stressed! In the modern world, if you’re not knotted, if you’re not stressed, you have no life, you’re a nobody!’

  ‘Alright, Gielgud, can it,’ said Claudia. ‘What is it really?’

  His smile rearranged his eyebrows and tweaked the tips of his ears. ‘I’—Nige stretched this humble vowel into a grandiose three-second syllable – ‘have an audition on Wednesday for the Courts ad! Yaaaaayyyy!’ He jumped in the air, snatched us from our seats, and forced us to gallop round the office with him.