by Anna Maxted
A faint tremor around her mouth.
‘What, Iz?’
She gulped. Shook her head. Huffed through her nose. ‘Here I am,’ she said, ‘preaching to you about denial. When I’m the worst offender I know.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Denial. Off the record, I recommend it. What idiot would embrace awareness, when the closer you get, the more anxious and miserable you become?’
She’d lost me. I thought I was keeping up, I was mistaken. It was the same feeling I got when attempting to read Don DeLillo.
Issy stabbed at her rock cake with her knife. ‘Frank’s having an affair. I’ve been kidding myself that he isn’t for months now. I can’t do it any more.’ She threw down the knife, crumpled her napkin, dabbed at her eyes. ‘Sorry. I hate to make a scene.’
It was my turn to squeeze her hand. Rachel. I knew it. ‘Issy, that’s terrible, I’m so sorry. Is there . . . do you know for sure? You haven’t, er, caught him in the act, er have you?’
She shook her head. ‘Phone calls to the same number. Mysterious late nights. Unexplained disappearances from work in the middle of the day. But it’s more than that. It’s his atttitude towards me.’
‘Cold?’
‘No! Extra loving! Guilt!’ she hissed. She lifted her gaze to mine. ‘I know who it is.’ Her voice turned shrill.
My mouth was dry.
‘Your friend Rachel.’
To her credit, Issy managed not to emphasise ‘your’.
‘Oh God,’ I whispered. The irony was, Rachel considered herself a good friend of mine and yet at the same time was capable of betraying me and my whole family with a clear conscience. She didn’t have the same social ties as other people. I’ll always remember remarking on her room at college. All the students, myself included, feverishly covered every inch of their walls with posters of Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Taxi Driver, the usual. Rachel’s walls remained bare. ‘I don’t,’ she said when I questioned her, ‘feel the need to externalise my personality for the benefit of others.’
‘Oh Issy.’
‘I found her card in his pocket. It’s her number he’s been calling. The other night he came home with lipstick on his cheek!’
This was indefensible. I tried, feebly, to defend it. ‘Thing is, Issy, that anyone who comes into contact with Rachel comes away with lipstick on their cheek. No one ever tells you and you spend the whole day looking like something out of Risky Business.’
Issy bristled. ‘Yes, Sherlock, but ask yourself what was he doing with her in the first place? At least do me the courtesy of allowing me my pain. If you minimise it, or disbelieve me, you make it worse.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, chastened. ‘Of course. What are you going to do?’
‘Don’t breathe a word to that slut friend of yours. I plan to confront him. It’s our tenth anniversary soon. I’ll do it then. He’ll book somewhere glamorous, exclusive and expensive for dinner, and I intend to stand up, in front of London’s snootiest, and throw the vintage champagne in his bastard two-timing face.’
It was reassuring to see how the expert in human behaviour was so much more refined in resolving relationship conflict than the rest of us. Issy and I dragged our heels back to the office, dreaming of Saturday.
Saturday arrived, although it damn well took its time. My mother rang at ten thirty (‘I worry about waking you up otherwise’) to check it was still convenient for me to visit. No doubt Claudia had received an identical call.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I thought, and dialled Claudia’s number. ‘Hi, it’s me,’ I said. ‘Just so you know, I told Nick the truth – as you might have guessed from his demeanour today. The engagement is off, obviously.’
‘Hi, you,’ she cried. ‘I know. He said. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too.’
We giggled.
‘Do you want to drive to Em and Dee’s together?’ I asked.
‘Defo. What time?’
‘One?’
‘I’ll pick you up.’
I sighed with relief. Claw was the most aggressive driver I knew and the journey was bound to take a year off my life, but at least she and I were friends again. Nick, though, was going to be harder. That morning, I’d picked up the book he’d thrown across the room. The Social Baby. It contained a series of photographs of a baby moments after birth, showing how it was fascinated by its mother’s face and intolerant of any interruption (the midwife, picking it up to be weighed, the father, stroking its brow). Further pictures showed it reacting to the sound of its mother’s voice, straining eagerly in the direction of the sound. And in an illustrated experiment, another newborn had a pad placed either side of it. One smelt of its mother, the other of a stranger. Even when the pads were switched, the baby turned towards the pad that smelt of its mother, focusing on it seventy-three per cent of the time.
I’d slammed shut The Social Baby.
Oh Nick. What must he have felt, reading that? To think of yourself, new to the world, wanting your mother, knowing your mother, reaching for her, getting a stranger. To feel scared and alone, and yet to have no understanding of why. To hope and hope and hope, until that hope slowly ebbs away.
I decided to take whatever he threw at me (books, blame . . .). I had to show him that, despite our shaky past, I would stand by him. He could push me, but this time I wouldn’t go. Someone in his life had to stay. I wanted him to see this. Even if our relationship was over, I could be his friend. The world owed him that.
‘So today’s the day,’ said Claudia, as we checked on our food supplies. (A barrel of Minstrels, left over from a cinema visit, four cans of Coke. We were travelling light.) My stomach lurched. I presumed she was referring to the fact that, in roughly two hours, I’d be breaking the baby news to my heartbroken parents.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be a complete nightmare.’
Claw gave me a foul look, as she turned into the traffic. ‘Thanks for your support, Hol. That really – fuck off, you fucking wanker, you drive a fucking Lada, for fuck’s sake – helps my confidence.’
‘Your . . . ? Oh no! Sorry, sorry. I thought you meant about the baby. You’re going to tell them you’re gay?’
She laughed grimly. ‘Yes. What, you were planning to announce the non-existence – piss off, yeah, yeah, give me the finger, stick it up your arse, you imbecile – of their grandchild? Jesus. What did they do to deserve us? I hope the accumulated shocks – hello? beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! no, no, you don’t have to use your signals, you’re above the law, obviously, you arsehole twat – aren’t too much for them. If either Mum or Dad drops dead of a heart attack in the next few days, we’ll have to toss a coin – Jesus, hog the road, why don’t you, in your gas-guzzling Land Rover, why not cut to the fucking chase and drive around town in a Chieftain tank? – for whose fault it is.’
‘Well, don’t hold back, Claw,’ I said. ‘The most important thing is, you say what’s on your mind.’
She laughed, her features reverting to glumness the second her mouth shut. ‘Camille couldn’t find the stuff,’ she blurted. ‘But it’s okay. I’m just going to have to tell Mum what we suspect – Jesus, do you want to come any closer up my arse, fuck you you fucking fuck, yeah, emergency stop, that’ll teach you beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep to you too. The evidence is still there. The Paris apartment exists, and Stuart’s made sure they don’t know about it. That’s dodgy enough.’ She paused. ‘So, another cheery revelation – yeah, flash me, would you, stupid bitch, fuck off and die – It’ll be a while before Em and Dee ask us to stay again.’
‘About Stuart. Would you—?’ she began, after a short silence.
‘No. Not yet.’
Claudia lifted a hand and nodded her agreement, for a split second she was the image of reason.
‘Fair enough,’ she said, hooting and gesturing at a defenceless meathead in a white van. ‘In the rotten stinking circumstances, fair enough.’
Chapter 42
OUR PARENTS SAT huddled on their khaki green velveteen sofa, their h
ands clutching their knees. Claudia and I were all but pinching ourselves. If we weren’t mistaken, my mother had just said, in a clear tinkly voice, ‘As long as you’re happy, dear. I must say, we had suspected, for ever so long in fact.’
And my father had chipped in, ‘We’re delighted that you finally decided to tell us, Claudia. We felt it was important not to push you. She’ll let us know in her own time, when she’s good and ready, that’s what we told ourselves, isn’t that right, Linda?’
My mother nodded, and stood up. ‘Well done, darling,’ she said, bending to hug Claudia. My father followed.
‘But . . . how did you . . .?’ croaked Claw.
‘Darling, after this long, we do know our own children. We might not ring every day but we think about you constantly. Stanley, would you, dear?’ she added. Obediently, he trotted into the kitchen. My mother smiled. ‘So. Is there anyone special at the moment?’
Claudia indicated that there was. I think she was too surprised to speak.
‘That’s wonderful! What’s her name? What does she do? And when do we meet her?’
Our love for our children is unconditional, Mum once told Leila, who was gossiping about a friend’s daughter who’d married out of the religion and was duly cut off by her parents. All the same, it was one thing to say it. Easy to make such grand declarations when she hadn’t yet been tested. Claudia hadn’t even been a proper vampire. She’d just liked the black clothes. She’d resigned at the first suggestion of blood drinking. And she’d only been caught shoplifting once. Issy’s grades had been consistently brilliant. I’d tried smoking and failed. Our parents had had it easy!
But now, they were showing more grit than I’d given them credit for. They’d sailed over the first fence with ease. Still, would they have the mental strength to complete the course? I tuned back in.
Claw and my mother appeared to be discussing lesbian friends of my parents. Mum volunteered once a week at her local infant school, helping children learn to read. Janice was deputy head, and they’d started chatting. The chats had grown into coffee breaks, until Mum – and Dad – had been invited to Janice for Saturday tea. Janice and her partner Brigid had been together for thirty-six years. They’d met at Oxford, and in those days homosexuality was taboo, so they’d had to conduct their relationship in secrecy. Now, of course, young lesbians were fortunate that society was so much more accepting, although Janice kept her orientation hidden from the parents as unfortunately some ignorant people confused being gay with paedophilia, and there was no point in inviting trouble . . . Mum thought it was shocking, that people could do that.
‘You haven’t had any offensive comments, have you dear?’ she asked.
‘God, no, Mum. I’ve had more hassle off bull dykes in lesbian bars for looking girlie.’
My mother sipped her tea. Au courant though she was, I think this lost her slightly. Claudia caught my gaze and widened her eyes. I smiled and shrugged. ‘So, Mum,’ I said – I couldn’t resist – ‘What do you and Dad and Janice and Brigid talk about?’
‘Literature and caravanning,’ replied my mother. It emerged that Brigid and Mum had hit it off immediately, when Mum shook Brigid’s hand and cried, ‘What cold hands! You must make wonderful pastry!’ Brigid and Janice were members of a book club, and Mum and Dad had joined. ‘So far, we’ve discussed Angela’s Ashes, The Corrections, and, oh, a host of others,’ said my mother, dunking a biscuit in her tea and losing half of it. ‘It’s so pleasant. And makes a nice change from television. I’ve never really warmed to television. Everyone takes it in turns to bring food. I was nervous about saying what I thought, but everyone is so interested, aren’t they Stanley?’
Dad nodded. ‘Janice and Brigid have been thinking of buying a caravan, so I’ve been advising them. They were wondering about a second-hand Honda Romahome. It was reasonably priced, but I had reservations about it suiting their requirements.’
‘They respect his opinion,’ added my mother.
Intriguing, incredible though this exchange was, my attention drifted. I realised that I couldn’t stand my parents not knowing about the rape for one more minute. The secret was straining at my chest, about to burst every button off my cardigan. Much as I struggled with the knowledge, what had occurred with Stuart was now a part of who I was. It had changed me as a person and there was no going back. It was essential for my peace of mind that Mum and Dad knew the real me. Until then I was a stranger, sitting before them. I saw Claudia who – having revealed an essential part of her identity to two of the people in our lives who mattered most – looked more happy and relaxed than she’d done in a long while.
I considered what Dr Goldstein had said in our second session, squeezed in at the crack of dawn on Friday morning. At the risk of sounding like a big fat cliché, we’d discussed my parents. Why, I’d asked Dr Goldstein – who despite his knack of reducing me to rivers of tears on sight was fast becoming my own personal Oracle – was I so scared of telling them about Stuart?
I could remember his reply just about word for word.
It sounds like an Americanism, but there is such a thing as the inner child. Part of you permanently wants the approval of parent figures, and to be looked after by them. Even when you become an adult, there is a part of you that wants to be cuddled in a primitive way which, of course, is a resonance from early childhood. As it is not socially acceptable to adopt an infantile role with one’s parents, that kind of parenting is encouraged in other ways – adult children receive material presents from their parents, and help. But there’s a part of you that wants to be cuddled, nurtured, told it’s alright. To retreat to your mother’s bosom and feel secure. You want that naive and very primitive security that often can only be felt as a child in the presence of a stable parent figure. So, Holly, there is a primitive pressure to disclose about your experience . . . You are looking for something that perhaps you won’t get, but still, the desire to get it is there and never fails. In your heart of hearts, you still want your parents to do the job properly, to behave like Mum and Dad, even if they adamantly refuse to . . . there’s always a little version of you, wanting Mum and Dad to love you in an idealised way. You’re always carrying that needy child within you. So there’s a fear of punishment, a fear they won’t deliver, or they’ll deliver the wrong thing.
But, I’d exclaimed in great excitement, my parents do deliver. They’re not so big on the material gifts but their emotional support is unconditional. They’ll be horrified and devastated, but now that you say all that, I’m sure they wouldn’t be disappointed in me, and they certainly wouldn’t punish me.
I thought of Nige. Not so long ago his father had peered at an old family photograph, pointed at Nige, aged eighteen, and said in all seriousness, ‘Who’s that?’ Perhaps I’d underestimated my parents. Under-used them, even. It was wrong to expect the whole world to parent you – and anyway, I felt I’d grown out of that at last – but apparently, it was entirely natural to want your parents to parent you, if you were thirty, forty or fifty. Only now did I appreciate how beautifully they’d done their jobs – and would still do them, if only I gave them the chance.
Dr Goldstein had looked amused. I thought, he really enjoys his job. Aaaaaar!
‘Holly,’ he said. ‘Supposing you tell your parents and they behave in the right way. What’s the cost of that? Zero. What’s the benefit? Huge. On balance of probabilities, what do you want to do and what have you got to lose?’
And yet, I was still hesitant. Gloria’s cousin had told her sister about her rape. Her sister had replied, ‘Why can’t you just admit you like sex?’
Then she’d told her mother but, after her sister’s mind-blowing response, had struggled to find the words. ‘I was raped’, is almost impossible to say. Her mother had snapped, ‘Either you were or you weren’t.’
What did I have to lose? While such inhumanity was beyond my mother, I didn’t want her to, in the shock of the moment, blurt something ill-advised for which I could never then f
orgive her. Nor did I want my father to think he was ineffectual. Late in life, he seemed to be finally stumbling upon the self-confidence that most of us acquire in our thirties. I presumed it was a delicate process – sort of like glass-blowing – and I didn’t want to jolt him. From what I could tell, in such situations, men always feel they should have done something. Quite what my father could have accomplished from Penge, I’m not sure. Though if his thinking was anything like Nick’s, it would have involved telepathy, pants over his trousers and a big red cape.
I stared at them both, cosy on their shabby sofa in their shabby, cosy home. As ever, they looked content. God, hey loved each other. It was low key, but it emanated from them in waves, even in the way they sat beside each other. Over the years they’d adapted to the other like two rose bushes planted on the same spot gradually entwine. If my mother said ‘Would you, dear?’ my father made tea. Some people might prefer to shoot themselves than live such a life, but I felt that if Nick truly valued excitement over happiness he was insane.
Little did my parents know their cosiness was about to be torn away by the grey gusting might of the cruel world. But then, why did I persist in seeing them as tiny acorns instead of mighty oaks? You needed strength of mind to be at peace in this world. You required iron-cast self-belief – when every powerful voice in the twenty-first century coaxed you to need big cars and designer clothes and mansion houses and millions to be content. My parents were immune to it all because they had each other, and us. Not only was I more resilient than I’d presumed, my parents were too.
‘Mum, Dad,’ I said, in a much louder voice than I’d planned on, ‘I also have something to tell you, but I have to warn you it’s upsetting. I’m fine, well, I’m recovering and I don’t want you to worry, but—’
I tailed off. Claudia quietly left the room. My parents looked terrified.
‘I was sexually assaulted.’
I couldn’t believe I’d said ‘sexually’ in front of my father. ‘Raped,’ I added, ‘technically speaking.’