Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  ‘No, you look.’ Said in a hiss. ‘While all the other mothers were hugging their new-born babies to their breasts, feeding them, bonding . . . You know, those first few minutes, hours, days of bonding are crucial to a baby’s development – every touch, every look, every whisper, I’ve not worked with mothers and kids all this time and not picked up stuff. It means something – you had it, Claudia did, Issy did, Manjit, Nige, don’t know about Bo – I didn’t have it. She probably never even held me once. It must have been: get this thing out, now take it away, I don’t want it. For the first weeks of my life I was fed cows’ milk from bottles—’

  ‘Nicky, sweetheart, no one fed you cows’ milk—’

  ‘No, Holly, that’s what formula milk is! I was fed cheap milk from bottles by nursing staff. Strangers. And clothed in a scratchy regulation babygrow handed out to rejects by the NHS. And shipped off in the back of a van by authorities to some scuzzy adoption agency. To be bought. My very first experience as a human being on this earth was rejection. Rejected by my own parents. And, I look about me, see everyone else’s doting mummies and daddies. No one else rejected but me. I looked at myself in the mirror before and I felt I didn’t know who I was looking at. How do you think I feel?’

  I hesitated. ‘I don’t think I’m qualified to say, Nick. It must be incredibly painful.’ I wondered how long I should pause before saying ‘but’. A while.

  Nick’s shoulders heaved. He looked utterly deflated. I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Nick. This is a terrible, terrible thing for you to learn. I can see how it rearranges your whole world. It’s a loss for you, a great loss.’

  He nodded.

  ‘No one can understand what you’re going through. And what you will go through. It will take a very long time to accept. And adjust. You have a right to feel sorry for yourself.’

  Was there a less insulting word than ‘but’?

  ‘Although. Be careful. You don’t want to make this harder than it already is. It’s hard enough. Maybe it’s not wise to let your imagination run wild. It won’t do you any good to recreate the first weeks of your life in the worst way possible. I’ll bet you were a gorgeous baby. I’ll bet you weren’t even scaly. I bet the nurses loved you. I truly, and, Nick, I say this from my heart, I truly believe that your mother was sad to give you up. But – and of course you’ll wonder about her and your dad – but it’s important to remember that you do have what I and Issy and Claw have – you do have doting parents. My God, do they adore you. I’ll bet the first time they saw you you took their breath away—’

  ‘Oh bullshit, they probably chose me over the kid in the next bed called Winifred who had a pointed head!’

  ‘Nick. I really don’t think it happened like that. Your, your now parents wanted you. You were a gift. It must have been amazing. The most precious moments of their lives. I’ll bet when they first held you, they felt a snap inside their chest, a physical sensation of falling in love—’

  ‘Stop it now.’ Tears streamed down his face. He wiped them away fast with the back of his hands, and more fell. Maybe it wasn’t wise to try to minimise his trauma. I felt this was probably a good time for me to go.

  Immersing myself in Nick’s problems removed me, a little way, from my own. Made me feel normal. Call me shallow but the first thing I did the next morning was to ring my own parents and invite myself to stay that weekend. Cue, boundless joy. Issy was coming down on Friday night with Eden! They’d have a full house! The more the merrier!

  I also thought it would do Nick and me good to have a few days off from each other. Thursday and Friday, he rang me three times, and two of those calls lasted several hours. He spat fury, and had sore knuckles from punching Bo’s flowery walls. I’d realised he wasn’t ready to look on the bright side so I just shut up about it and listened. There was no making it right, so it was selfish of me to try. When he wanted to, he expressed himself beautifully. The words poured out of him. I applauded Bo for having an itemised phone bill.

  He hadn’t told anyone else, not even Manjit. ‘I’d like to,’ he explained, ‘but Bo makes him tell her everything. He’d try and keep it secret but she’d prise it out of him. She says a hundred per cent honesty is crucial in a relationship. Christ, doesn’t the witch know anything?’

  I enjoyed those conversations, even though I knew I shouldn’t. It was exhilarating, Nick inviting me in to share his feelings. He hadn’t done it for so long, I’d forgotten how much I’d missed it. I felt privileged, close to him. This was how we should have operated as a couple. Instead, we’d got lazy, shutting ourselves off. I don’t mean to sound pompous, but there can be no intimacy without self-disclosure. It can’t be that most of us dry up of things to say about ourselves and the world, but we act like it.

  I always feel sad when I see a couple in a café or restaurant and the woman just sits there and the man is having an animated conversation on his mobile phone. Or vice versa. It’s so disrespectful. Nick and I never got to that stage but only, I suspect, because I tend to turn off my mobile in restaurants – I can do without the glaring hatred of the person at the next table – and Nick’s friends are expert at the six-second chat. (Manjit is the exception, but he’s been trained to ask if this is a convenient time to speak.)

  Now, Nick was awash with eloquence. And, surprisingly, amid the gush, he asked my opinions. I stopped being nervous of saying the wrong thing because if Nick disagreed, he’d say so straight out. For the first time in years, our conversations were no longer a duel. In the light of new knowledge, he’d revised history. His easy relationship with his fake parents (as he called them) was harshly reinterpreted. They hadn’t spoiled him because they loved him, but because they felt guilty about not loving him.

  I think he wanted me to argue with him. I did. ‘In one way,’ I said, ‘our parents – no, sorry, Nick, I refuse to call the Mortimers your fake parents – are identical. They’re proud of us, they adore us, no strings attached. Your parents treat you like a box of jewels. They look at you, I’ve seen them do it, and it’s like they can’t believe their luck. The love shines off their faces. They’re not demonstrative people. But they can’t help it with you. Remember that summer when we . . .’

  We talked freely about everything but Wednesday’s sex.

  Chapter 21

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON, I rang my parents to check that they were still expecting me. I needed to be babied. But I also needed to speak to them about being Stuart’s clients. Jesus. That man had a reach like a fucking octopus. He really did manage to spoil everything.

  ‘Tell Em and Dee I’m coming too,’ said Claudia gloomily, from behind a copy of What Car? ‘In fact, I may move to Penge. There’s nothing for me here.’

  I sighed. Even Nige was subdued. Filming of his advert had been a ‘disaster’. He refused to divulge the number of takes. Secretly, I found it hard to believe that such an outfit would permit more than three, even if the actor was as wooden as the nest of tables he was supposed to be selling. Nor did I take seriously Nige’s announcement that he had ‘died a death’. I knew he was a good actor. It was false modesty, designed to elicit reassurance and praise.

  I couldn’t be bothered. I was sick of everyone.

  Nick, still ringing me on the hour, was refusing to speak to Michael and Lavinia and torturing himself with thoughts that he hadn’t been kissed until he was six weeks old and that his real name was Percy.

  This was all very well but I was torturing myself with the fact that I’d slept with Nick. One minute I loved him, the next minute I felt disgust and loathing for both of us in equal measure. Now he shared the blame for how I felt. I no longer saw my body as sexual, I wanted to cut myself off from all that messiness and be pure, a born-again virgin. Sleeping with Nick had been a potential route to redemption. But no, it was yet another blind alley.

  It seemed as if I wasn’t the only one with – God, what an ineffectual phrase – ‘man problems’. I noted that Frank wasn’t joining Issy and Eden in Penge at
the weekend. And, in a suspicious coincidence, Rachel was avoiding me. I hadn’t heard from her since my birthday dinner, the entirety of which she’d spent baiting Nige. I hadn’t the energy to quiz her on the identity of her mystery man. If it was Frank, what would I do? Rachel preferred to dally with other women’s men. She’d once told me, ‘I am phenomenally bad at the task of making the other person feel good in a relationship’.

  Presumably, this was why she felt safer in a threesome.

  I caught myself condemning one of my best friends and felt a twinge of shame. Here was I, committing the very crime I despise in others: presuming a person guilty until proven innocent. Then again, so what? It’s true, isn’t it? If people have a tiny chance to think the worst of you, they will. This made me relieved that I hadn’t told Nick about Stuart. I don’t think I could have stood it, if he hadn’t believed me.

  After what Rachel said, I realised that a lot of people don’t think women are trustworthy. Even other women. Their theory is you feel bad because you were an easy lay and the man never called. You’re a victim of torture and they think you’re telling them something distasteful about your sex life! I thought that, and then I thought, yes, but these torture victims are other women who are properly attacked in less comfortable venues than their own kitchen. I felt defensive for them, but didn’t include myself in this bracket. What enraged me was that everything everywhere, conscious or unconscious, asleep or awake, seemed to boil down to sex.

  I needed to be in a sex-free zone. My parents’ house.

  ‘Claudia,’ I said. ‘I think we should leave for Penge now to beat the traffic. Can you call Issy and see if she wants a lift?’

  ‘Holly, I don’t know why you bother sending Issy, you know she always comes back with a load of cr—shi—uninteresting foods. Wait here. I’ll go.’

  I creaked the handbrake, while Claw dashed into the petrol station. It was true, Evian and liquorice was not what either of us had in mind for the car journey to Penge. Even Eden looked unimpressed.

  Claw returned with four bags of cheese and onion Monster Munch, four packets of Hula Hoops, four tubes of fruit-flavoured Toffos – ‘You should have got plain,’ I said, ‘they all taste foul apart from the banana flavour’ – four bottles of full-fat Coke, a packet of Magdalenas fairy cakes, a packet of milk bottle chews, one tube of Wine Gums, a packet of all-over chocolate Jaffa Cakes, and four packets of milk chocolate Aero. ‘And don’t complain, Issy, the air bubbles stop them from being fattening.’

  Issy glared. ‘Claudia, are you worried there’s going to be a famine? You do know what sugar and E numbers do to Eden? Were you under the misapprehension that we were driving to Italy? It takes an hour and fifteen minutes. There is food in Penge. This is ridiculous.’

  ‘No one with a brain could ever mistake Penge for Italy. You don’t have to eat everything, Isabella. I wanted there to be a choice. I thought Eden might like a fairy cake instead of the usual wheatmeal cr—sh—stuff you feed her.’

  ‘As you are childless, Claudia, I’ll thank you not to tell me how to raise my own daughter.’

  (All said in a light, breezy tone so that Eden would be less likely to pick up on the animosity. As if. That child is as sharp as a box of hedgehogs.)

  ‘Why don’t we play a game?’ I said, before the mood deteriorated. ‘Eden, what would you like to play? I-Spy?’

  ‘No, that’s for babies. I want to listen to my tape of Peter and the Wolf. Peter tells lies and the wolf eats him.’

  I wasn’t sure if this was true or Eden’s wishful thinking, but I didn’t dare argue. I did as I was told and switched on the tape.

  Claudia peeled open the tube of Wine Gums. ‘Bug—shi—bother! There’s not a single red one in the whole packet! Are they allowed to do that? Isn’t it illegal? So unfair. I’ll have a black one instead.’

  There was peace for thirty seconds while she chewed. Then, ‘Hmph! Weird. These have got a before taste – sort of like envelope glue – and an aftertaste. The middle taste’s quite nice though.’

  ‘Cordia, will you please be quiet, I can’t hear Peter and the Wolf, I missed a bit. Mummy, rewind the tape!’

  ‘No, Eden, you be quiet. I’m older than you. I’m a grown-up. I can talk when I want.’

  Issy turned round busily in her seat. ‘Claudia. As you seem to be under the curious impression that you’re an adult, do you think you could try not to pick a fight with a four-year-old?

  And so on, ad nauseam (I had to stop the car for Eden to vomit seven fairy cakes on to the pavement) until we reached Penge.

  Mum was doing her best not to peer down the garden path. Dad was peeling potatoes in the kitchen. I felt myself soften as I walked in. Everything about their house was comforting. From the crooked line of rose bushes on each side of the garden path and its carefully tended square of lawn, to the grandfather clock ticktocking loudly at the end of the hall. The yellow velveteen sofa clashing cheerfully with the orange shag pile in the lounge, my mother’s collection of blown glass animals on the mantelpiece, the white hand-crocheted tablecloth, the sound of local talk radio from the kitchen, the receding smell of fried bacon. Theirs was a home to give the editor of Elle Decoration a heart attack, but it boasted an aura that few interior designed properties could – contentment.

  ‘Hello, Granny, I’ve just been sick, can I look at the photographs?’

  ‘Oh dear! Were you car sick?’

  ‘No, she was cake sick,’ replied Issy, with a sharp glance at Claudia.

  ‘Well, darling, she takes after her mother. I never saw a child with a sweet tooth like yours – you wouldn’t leave the table unless we provided pudding – and remember when you nearly missed being a bridesmaid for cousin Neville because you ate three Mars bars when Leila took you ice skating and got a terrible tummy upset? We were a little late to the ceremony because of it – we decided you’d change when we got there in case you had another accident on the way – and the bride’s mother was in such a tizz she tried to undress you in the hall. I seem to recall you kicked her bad leg – but, well, it never did you any harm in the long run.’

  ‘Debatable,’ murmured Issy. My mother was already leading Eden by the hand into her study, an Aladdin’s Cave of crinkle-edged photographs, ancient yellowed copies of Women’s Realm, and fusty-smelling story books for children of the fifties. Personally, I’ve looked through the Monster Book for Girls and it’s one long riot of racism and sexism. But Eden likes the stiff pages and old-fashioned pictures, and happily the text is too advanced for her. I think if my mother actually read some of the stuff she’s hoarded since puberty, she’d pale and throw it straight in the bin (or in the recycling unit by the library, at least). My mother’s motto is ‘live and let live’, she has no patience with prejudice.

  Claw dropped her bag in the hall and trotted into the kitchen to talk to my father, probably about caravans. Secretly, I think she’s his favourite, although he’d die before admitting it. I gazed after her. Her moods seemed to dip and swing, almost by the minute. I supposed I should confront her, ask her straight out what was bothering her, but I was too afraid of the answer. If it was to do with me, I didn’t want to know, and if it wasn’t, I wasn’t sure I was capable of dealing with even one more problem, itty-bitty or not.

  Issy had stomped outside to have a smoke in the garden. I hovered in the lounge, knowing that Mum would return in a second to offer cups of tea and a plate of the cakes she liked, dry swirls of pastry stuck together with jam and raisins. Nige would have had a fit. I’d bought a book to read but I didn’t feel like reading it. The brief sense of relaxation was wearing off. I sat down and flicked through a copy of Gardeners’ World. I had no choice, whatever it did to them – and I felt in my heart it would kill them – I had to tell my parents about Stuart.

  There was no way they’d break their agreement with him otherwise. They’d see it as a breach of honour. Right. I’d tell them . . . today. Some time this afternoon, Eden would ask if she could play house in the caravan
and Issy would be forced to join her. Inevitably, Claudia would receive a call on her mobile from one of her many mystery friends (when I thought about it, I knew very little about Claudia’s social life) and wander off to a far corner of the house so as not to be overheard. How long would it take to explain, five minutes? They didn’t need to hear details.

  ‘Would anyone like some tea and cake?’ called my mother on cue. (At any given point in the day, at least one horrible meal is being prepared in their house.) ‘It’ll be in the lounge. And there are Marmite sandwiches if Eden wants,’ she added, as Issy came in from the garden, frowning. Members of my family milled into the lounge like lemmings.

  ‘One can never have too much cake,’ said Claudia. At least, I think that’s what she said. What she really said – the sound was muffled – was, ‘Wuf can neger hag koo muk cake’.

  I allowed my mother to hand me a bone china cup and saucer. No matter how often we say to her, ‘We grew up here, remember, you don’t have to put on a show’, she point blank refuses to serve us a hot beverage in a mug. But I like it, I like the ceremony. I notice she always gives herself the chipped one.

  ‘Stanley, dear, can you bring in the sugar and a coffee for Issy?’

  Time passed gently, as the usual conversations progressed along well-trodden routes. Uncle Barry. Leila. Our work. Eden’s progress in school.

  There were, however, a few interesting departures from the norm. Claudia blurted, ‘So when Gran’s money comes through, are you going to move to a big house in a nicer area?’

  My parents looked startled and embarrassed. My mother said, ‘All our friends are here, dear. We don’t need a bigger space. We’re more than happy where we are.’

  My father added, ‘It may take quite a while for probate to be granted, Claudia. But while it’s wonderful of Granny to have remembered us, we don’t feel it would be . . . I think it might be a little upsetting to your mother if we . . . we’d rather leave the, the proceeds in the hands of our lawyers, at least for now, until a rainy day.’