Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  The truth, which gushed out in a rush, proved more acceptable than the blather about ‘stuff’.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. He gave my stomach one last rub – ‘I probably shouldn’t grope the boss in the office but it is my first day’ – and returned to his desk.

  That evening, I arrived home (a light awaiting me in every room, I’d resigned myself to an extra few hundred pounds on the electricity bill), went through my usual twenty-minute checking ritual – ensuring Emily wasn’t lying dead in the garden, her brains bashed out by a passing thug, marching round the house with a bread knife, yanking open doors to reassure myself that no intruders were crouching in wardrobes – and threw out the pregnancy book. Then I rang Gloria.

  ‘Ah bloodyell, I’ve not forgotten to clean have I?’

  ‘What! No. No. You were only here a few days ago, it’s still spotless, I’m living in clinical conditions. No. I’m calling about something else.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that. What?’

  ‘You know. Your cousin. The one who . . . was raped. You gave me the title of a website she found useful. I put it away, and then I lost it. I wondered if you could give it to me again.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Gloria spelt out the name for me.

  ‘Great. Thank you. And. Did you mention that there was a psychologist she spoke to?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. His name’s David Goldstein, hang on a sec . . .’ I heard a scrummage, then Gloria was back on the phone. ‘He’s NHS and private, ask your GP to refer you.’

  I took down the number. ‘And he was . . . nice was he?’

  ‘Oh! Yes! He was wonderful. So kind. And understanding. You’ll never be a good therapist if you’re not a nice person. No matter how many certificates you have. She’d have been done for without him. I mean, she still takes the pills, but a much lower dose than what she did, and that would never have happened without his help. She’d seen a psychiatrist, and he’d given her anti-depressants, but the dose was so mental she was in a constant fug. It was like being preserved in ice. But it was better than having to feel. Sometimes a load of feelings drop on you before you’re ready for ’em. The drugs helped that way. But Dr Goldstein was a godsend. She’d have gone round the twist if it weren’t for him. So . . . you gonna get referred? Didn’t the police give you Victim Support?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I replied. ‘And yes, they did. But I’d rather try the, you know, personal recommendation first. Thanks, Gloria.’

  I put down the phone, and stood there for a while looking at it. The last thing I wanted to do was to follow in the Clouseau-ish steps of Claudia and Camille, but I suspected that Gloria wasn’t entirely telling the truth about her cousin.

  Chapter 38

  I DIDN’T CALL my GP, I called my mother. I think everyone needs their mother. I hadn’t told Nick, but after his adoption news I’d searched the internet and ordered a book entitled The Primal Wound. I just wanted to understand how he felt a little more closely. Understanding is the key to forgiveness. Mostly.

  The book cited an anecdote similar to a tale Nick had told me, having heard it from Pamela Fidgett. A grown woman, who knew she was adopted, breaking down at a time of stress and wailing in her bedroom, ‘I want my mummy’. She’d never met her mummy – unless you count the nine months of gestation – and her adoptive mother was perfectly lovely. In truth, she hadn’t a clue who this ‘mummy’ was, if she was alive or dead, wouldn’t have known her had they met in the street, but when this thirty-four-year-old’s emotions were stripped to the raw, what emerged was the child crying, ‘I want my mummy’.

  It made me want to hug her. It also turned my stomach. Grow up, why don’t you, and do without! No one wants to be reminded of their own weakness. But then perhaps we all have the same weakness, except some hide it better than others. Nige had a friend whose father had been in the Israeli army. Three of their unit were captured and tortured, and because they had their walkie-talkies with them, the friend’s father heard his colleagues’ last moments. ‘They were calling for their mothers,’ he’d said. ‘Ima, in Hebrew.’

  Ah, God, it was too horrible, I wished Nige hadn’t told me. But again, it proved my suspicion, that at heart we are all children. We just play at being adults.

  When I spoke to my mother that evening, maternal concern oozed warm and treacle-like from the receiver. She and Dad were so looking forward to being grandparents again. If we wanted the baby’s room painted, Dad would be honoured. I so badly wanted to tell her the truth, but my voice stalled. How did I begin to inflict that much pain? I’d more easily hurt a kitten than my parents, that’s how vulnerable I felt them to be. They didn’t seem to need their mothers, but I thought of them as childlike. I wanted to protect them.

  I remembered when Nick’s parents visited a few years back, the day after Boxing Day. My mother’s friend Leila had dropped round and, with her usual lack of finesse, hogged the conversation.

  The subject of literature had arisen, as Lavinia had received a vintage edition of the complete works of Tolstoy for Christmas and good luck to her. Leila piped up in her Wiltshire accent – its softness was entirely unsuited to her brash personality, her fleshy pink face seemed to swell as she spoke – ‘Oh, Linda’s a great reader, Lavinia, she’ll get through a Danielle Steele in, like, ten minutes!’

  I’d squirmed for my mother who – I wanted to shout in her defence – was just as likely to read John Steinbeck as Danielle Steel. Mrs Mortimer had smiled and said, ‘Goodness,’ and my mother had smiled back. Not one other person in the room seemed bothered, but to me, my mother’s smile revealed that she was too naive to know she was being patronised. I’d mentioned it to Nick afterwards, and he’d snorted, ‘Do you think my mother is actually going to open War and Peace? Holly, she barely gets through the Daily Mail!’

  In the end, talking to my mother that evening proved harsh comfort, rather in the way that Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup is soothing in theory, but stings the back of your throat. I’d lied to her unforgivably, and now her generous words bounced off me. Doesn’t everyone want to be better than their parents? Isn’t that the point of evolution? I was so much worse. But it had started with Stuart. Stuart was responsible for destroying all the good relationships I had.

  The next day, I rang the surgery on the dot of nine and – in a rare break-out of luck – got an emergency appointment with my GP at half past. I explained about Dr Goldstein, and said I’d go private. (I’d rather he got my money than Stuart.) My GP, whose primary aim seems to be to get you out of his office in under six minutes (when apparently, your official NHS allocation is seven) agreed to write a letter.

  Not a moment too soon. At work, Issy and Nick were full of baby stories, gabbling happily about first smiles and breast pumps and different makes of pram. Claudia kept silent, hurling me sour looks with the force and regularity of a putting machine. A padded envelope arrived from my parents, addressed to me. Inside was a pair of the tiniest socks you ever saw, pink and white, they could barely fit over my thumb. I slid them into my desk, and scurried to the toilet to compose myself. Soon, I’d tell them. Soon. And the writ, remember? What are you going to do about that? Twenty-six days, ages. It was a relief to distract myself with the business of Girl Meets Boy.

  ‘Is everything set for tonight?’ I asked Claudia, smiling at a point beyond her left ear.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, addressing my right shoulder. ‘Tabitha from Glamour is being put with Xak, this new guy, Jim – a real sweetie, no pretentions, chatty, relaxing to be with, according to Issy – my painter friend Karl—’

  ‘Eh?’ said Nick.

  ‘He is single,’ replied Claudia. ‘It’s not cheating, he is up for meeting women. I think it’s a clever idea – he gets a few free dates, Girl Meets Yob gets the benefit of his good looks and sparkling personality. Well, bizarre personality.’

  ‘I’ve got friends who’d like to meet women.’

  ‘Yes, dear, and they can pay.’

  ‘What, even Manj
it?’

  ‘Manjit’s not single!’ said Claudia and I together.

  ‘Nick,’ I added, ‘that is precisely the sort of trick that journalists like to write about. And Manjit can’t keep a secret.’

  Nick stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Well, if you must know, Bo has requested a trial separation. She went on a date last night. With this awful pompous balding meeja bore who works for the BBC. He was wearing beige cords. I think it would be good for Manjit, he’s been mooning around the house.’

  ‘A trial separation, and she goes on a date?’ I spluttered. ‘Poor Manjit!’

  ‘God, she’s a cow,’ offered Claudia. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but she’s punching above her weight with Manjit anyway!’

  ‘A trial separation,’ declared Issy, ‘is the emotionally constipated method of saying “I’m not happy in this relationship”. It means she’d like to end the relationship but she lacks the courage to express herself honestly. This is a half-arsed precursor. Disgusting, cowardly, selfish! Weak people who manipulate their innocent partners like that make me sick!’

  ‘Of course Manjit can come tonight, we’d love to have him,’ I said, trying not to mind that Issy’s passion had caused her to accidentally spit on my hand. ‘Tell him it’ll be fun.’

  ‘Should we risk putting him with Tabitha?’ said Claudia.

  ‘He’ll be as good as gold,’ cried Nick. ‘I’ll tell him to talk about Bo in the past tense. It’ll be good practice for him.’

  ‘Hm,’ I said.

  I was still saying ‘hm’, when Manjit arrived at the Date Night wearing a beige suit. Then I saw him tug at his pink and blue tie – any tighter it would have choked him – and my stern heart melted.

  ‘Oh crikey,’ I said to Nick. ‘He is so adorable. Go and tell him he doesn’t need to wear a tie. Or jacket. Unless he wants to.’

  ‘You tell him,’ said Nick. ‘He was looking forward to seeing you.’

  I lolloped over. ‘Hello, you. Would you like a drink?’

  Manjit smiled his beautiful smile. ‘Alright, sorry, how are you? Yeah, go on then. A pint of lager, I mean, glass of white, please.’

  ‘Manjit. You can have whatever you like. Would you like a lager?’

  He paused. ‘Yeah, go on, you twisted my arm. How’s the self-defence going then? Practising on Nick are ya?’

  I made a face. ‘Not lately. But you’re the best teacher, really excellent.’

  Manjit dipped his head. ‘Ta, Hol. Thanks. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it’s not going so well with Bo,’ I lied. ‘How are you doing?’

  Manjit rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Ah, you know. Bit shell-shocked. That’s what she wants, though, I can’t stop her. What you see is what you get with Bo. She’s . . . feisty.’

  The word ‘selfish’, popped out of my mouth. I handed him his lager.

  Manjit sighed. ‘This geezer. I think he was scared of me. I think he thought I was going to beat him up. Like I’d do a thing like that! I think he was taking her to have tea, dinner I mean, at his house. Nothing dodgy, I don’t think. He’s writing a documentary for Radio Four on the Czech Republic, he wanted her opinion. He’s also writing a novel. When he said that, I said, that’s brilliant, what, like High Fidelity? and his nostrils went all big and he goes – I can’t do his voice but he sounded a bit like a girl – he goes, “My work is rather more profound than that Dick Lit shit, ‘Gary snogged Julie, oh, Tracey he’s such a good kisser, better than Steve!’” And then he and Bo both laughed. I don’t think he’d read Nick Hornby, he’s not like that at all, but I didn’t say nothing, I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of Bo. It’s not fair.’

  ‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ I replied. ‘Especially in the face of such bad manners. This guy, what’s his name?’

  ‘Lance.’

  ‘Lance? Blimey. Lance has obviously been badly brought up.’

  ‘I think he thought I was a bit of a scummer. He lives in Islington. Bo says he’s very left wing. I think he thought my hair was too short, like I was a bit rough, you know, National Front-y.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said. ‘That’s common. British Asians joining the NF. What a prat.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Manjit looked hopeful.

  I grasped his shoulders. ‘Listen to me. Forget Lance, forget Bo. She doesn’t deserve you. I know you . . . I know you’re very fond of her, and I don’t want to criticise your relationship, but, if you don’t mind me saying, I think she’s acted unfairly. So just enjoy yourself tonight and don’t feel guilty. All it is is a bit of chat, lighthearted, nothing heavy. Personally, I think the women here will swoon over you, you are – and I’d say this in front of Nick – bloody gorgeous. You are what they call a catch.’

  I stopped short of saying he was too good for Bo. Manjit laughed. He was that one in a million man who was God’s gift but couldn’t see it. Alright, that one in twenty million. But I was spot on. He got two friendship ticks and two date ticks. Georgina, trainee solicitor, part-time model and full-time flirt, didn’t take her panda eyes off him once. All through the break, he talked and she stared at him, mouth half open, ready to laugh. When I’d come to tell her their date time was up, she’d pulled an unattractive face. As it was, she’d dragged her chair round the coffee table and was just about sat in his lap. She’d even switched off her mobile.

  She had competition, however, from a new member called Verity. Verity was half-Chinese, a research scientist, and wore her shiny black hair in two sticky-out plaits. She was as slender as a reed with impossibly smooth skin, and I got the distinct impression that Georgina wanted to slap her. Verity certainly came across as a man’s woman – preferably, Manjit’s woman – but when you talked to her she was friendly and chatty. She giggled at everything Manjit said and she made him laugh too. I didn’t hear him once say ‘sorry’. I felt she was far better suited to him than fun-buster Bo.

  We’d put Tabitha from Glamour with Xak for her last date. If her behaviour at Bernard and Sam’s wedding was anything to go by, I thought she’d appreciate it, and she did. She posed for the photographs eagerly enough. Afterwards, when she interviewed me, Xak stood bashful guard nearby, his floppy blond hair hiding his blushes. She kept darting glances at him, but even so, ‘Manjit,’ she said. ‘I did like Manjit. He was plain lovely. The kind of bloke you want to introduce to your sister.’ I could tell she meant it, or she’d have referred to him as ‘Number Three’. (Our members do this alarmingly often, even if they like someone.) Tabitha grinned at me, slyly. ‘Whereas Xak’s the kind of bloke you want to keep for yourself. Holly, don’t look so nervous. It’s been fantastic. Much better than I’d thought, to be honest. This is going to be a great piece.’

  The rest of the week was notable for only two reasons. The first was that Manjit dumped Bo. Apparently, she had a habit of kicking him, in bed, if he snored. Or grunted. Or breathed too heavily. Or rolled over. Or tugged the duvet. On average, Manjit received eight kicks per night. They’d been together for three years, two months and seventeen days. Three times three hundred and sixty-five, plus sixty-one, plus seventeen, times eight, minus the three nights Bo had spent with Lance, equalled nine thousand, three hundred and eighty-one kicks.

  Well, on his return from Girl Meets Boy, Bo was in a foul mood. (Despite the ‘trial seperation’ they still slept in the same bed, unless Bo chose to go missing.) That night, Manjit dropped off into a contented sleep, let out a snuffle, and Bo attempted the nine thousand, three hundred and eighty-second kick. Nick and I liked to think it was the admiration he’d received from all the women at the agency – that maybe their friendliness highlighted Bo’s disrespect and gave him confidence – but Manjit felt the kick, started awake and realised he’d had enough. He snatched up his pillow, smacked it down hard on the bed, and yelled, ‘Remember that kick, because that was the last time you ever kicked me – this ain’t love, Bo, it’s boot camp, and I’ve ’ad it. You’re ’istory!’

  To everyone’s delight, Bo was inconsolable.r />
  The second thing was that on Friday morning Dr Goldstein’s office called. He had a waiting list, but there’d been a cancellation, and if it was convenient, he could see me on Tuesday at five fifteen.

  Chapter 39

  MY MAIN WORRY was that Dr Goldstein would think I was a nut. I asked Issy if therapists ever entertained such unorthodox thoughts about their clients, and she said ‘God, yes! At least a quarter of mine are totally mad. They’re loons. Crazy. Mental. Insane. Bonkers. Barking. Gaga. Round the—’

  ‘Alright, Isabella,’ I said. ‘I get the picture.’ I felt I’d encouraged her to be unprofessional, and been duly punished. ‘God, yes!’ was not the answer I’d been hoping for. She should have refused to discuss the people in her care, even in the abstract. I hoped Dr Goldstein wasn’t so easily led.

  Tuesday at five, I rang the polished bell of a green door on Harley Street. I wondered if the builders on the scaffolding across the street thought I was a nut. I’d tried to dress sane (no haute couture or hats with earflaps) but then, look at Hannibal Lecter, so well turned out. I announced myself to the receptionist – I wondered if she thought I was a nut – who pointed me to the waiting room. By then, I was weary of trying to appear in peak mental condition. The two people already sitting in the waiting room were probably also nuts, so it hardly mattered.

  The waiting room had green and beige armchairs scattered around its edges and a grand oak table in its centre. The magazines on display were of an altogether finer quality than on the NHS. Current, pristine issues of the Tatler, Country Life, Harpers & Queen, broadsheet newspapers. In the surgery a few days before, I’d picked over an ancient, torn edition of Woman & Home. Now, I divided my time surreptitiously assessing the man in the corner reading the Daily Telegraph – compulsive obsessive? manic depressive? borderline personality disorder? – and considering the practicalities of moving to a ‘Prominent 17th-Century Country Property in Montgomeryshire’, or a ‘Triple Oast And Barn Conversion Dating Back to the 19th Century in Kent (Tunbridge Wells about six miles)’.