by Anna Maxted
I sucked in my cheeks. ‘Of course I still love him. All I’m saying is that now is not the right time. Not for him, especially. He can hardly bear to look at me. Tricky when we work in the same office and I’m his boss.’
Rachel snorted.
‘Babes, I could have told you that was a mistake on a par with white tie. What were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking that your precious darling Niggle or whatever hideous name you’ve thought up for him had abandoned me to be a West End starlet and who the hell was I going to get to replace him?’
Rachel lit a cigarette in lieu of a put-down.
Nige shook his head. ‘Is matching people even Nick’s thing?’ he asked hopefully.
I shook my head. ‘Not really. He’s done a beautiful job of the website, but the day-to-day dealing with clients, nurturing them, deciding who they’d like, stroking their egos, managing them on Date Nights. It requires concentration, dedication.’
‘Oh stop,’ lied Nige eagerly, ‘you sound like Roy Castle. Any moment now you’re going to heave out a trumpet and break into song.’
‘Well, it does require concentration. Patience. It’s a lot of sitting still. And Nick isn’t fabulous at sitting still. He’s too creative. Darling.’ I added, for fear of seeming precious.
‘I hope he’s still doing his Mr Elephant work?’
I sighed. ‘Well, Rach, that’s the thing. He’s put it on hold. And I know I used to nag him about it, about it not being a vocation—’
‘Shame on you, babes, it was what he loved doing and he was superb at it. The brats doted on him.’
‘Yes, I know, shame on me!’ I snapped. ‘But what am I going to do about it? Sack him so he’s forced to go back to entertaining four year olds? I don’t want to do anything to destabilise him.’
‘No, babes,’ said Rach, who had either missed the sarcasm or chosen to ignore it. ‘Don’t sack him. That wouldn’t be clever.’
I must have been single for too long, because this (as far as I could see) perfectly innocuous statement elicited a passionate kiss from Nige. Love was so inexplicable, who could tell what fanned the flames? The trigger was unique for each one of the zillions of people living on this earth. Sometimes, I doubted I was in the right job.
I got to my feet and wobbled to the door. ‘I’m exhausted. And horribly aware that I broke up the party. I’m going to leave you two to . . . it.’ I grinned and left.
My only other mission that night (thank goodness) was to ring Issy and break the glorious news that her marriage was in rude health.
I explained about the no longer surprise anniversary party and there was a long silence. Then, in a very cross voice, she exclaimed, ‘The stupid arse!’
I held the phone a distance from my ear and gazed at it. Issy’s language was famously clean and free of slang.
‘What a bloody idiot!’ she continued. ‘What an utter fool! The agony I’ve gone through, the misery, the dread of spiteful rumours spreading round the Montessori! Good God, I came this close to instructing my lawyers! Another twenty-four hours, I’d have cut up his Savile Row suits and roasted our wedding album in the Aga! As it is, I’ve already keyed his car. He thought it was the eleven year olds from the estate.’ Pause. ‘Holly, I am astonished. Astonished and speechless – lost for words! Ten years of marriage, an entire decade! Does the man not know me? I hate surprises, they put one at such a disadvantage. My God, Saskia from the health club would have been there, all diamonds and nails and VPL, positively gloating.’
I knew she shook her head in disgust at this point because I heard her earrings jangle. ‘Has he no idea about women?’ she cried. ‘Doesn’t he realise we have to prepare for a social event as a soldier prepares for battle? Unbelievable. And I’ll bet he and that Rachel woman – she needn’t think she’s off the hook, she’s got that sly, mistressy look about her – have invited people I’ve been carefully snubbing for years. Then they’ll refuse and feel they’ve got one up on me. The imbecile, it’s too exasperating!’
Issy laughed in a witchy way. I think she was slightly hysterical. With relief, I hoped.
‘He meant well,’ I said. Meekly. ‘And Rachel is obsessed with Nige. I’m sorry to say I saw the evidence for myself. Come on, Issy. Five minutes ago you were convinced your marriage was over, you’ve got to be grateful, surely?’
‘My God, what a bore!’ she declared, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve been the Queen of Mean for months on end. Now I have to execute a full and dramatic U-turn! Awkward and humiliating.’
‘What’s awkward and humiliating?’ I couldn’t see the problem.
‘Being nice to your husband after months of being horrid to him!’ she screeched. ‘You can’t snap out of the habit just like that. For crying out loud, now I’ve got to be loving. I don’t have the energy. I’ll have to fake it, and hope that in the end it comes naturally. Mind you, I’ve hoped that before.’
Issy laughed but I refused to collude.
She hesitated.
‘The silly sausage.’
Progress, I suppose.
‘Oooh,’ she simpered. ‘I wonder what I’ll wear?’
Chapter 47
TWO DAYS LATER, Nick resigned. I wasn’t sorry. We’d had two superb Date Nights, no thanks to him. I’d spotted him chatting to one of our new girls, Sian – she had a face that would look washed out after a month in the Caribbean, think Hepburn meets Trainspotting – but her complexion was chalkier than ever. I sidled up and, to my despair, he was discussing haemorrhoids, in graphic detail. (Thanks to his Esso station diet, he’d suffered all through college.) ‘They itch,’ he told her, ‘you want to drag your bum along the ground like a dog!’ Couldn’t he tell Sian was nervous, reserved, not a haemorrhoids kind of gal? I’d steered him away before she sicked up her Cosmopolitan.
Now, he sat opposite me in Martha’s, mussing his hair. I’d suspected mischief was afoot when he’d asked if I fancied going for a cup of tea. All recent communication between us had been on a need-to-know basis. As he spoke, I wondered if there was a blues soundtrack playing in his head. That happens, when a relationship ends. You’re so used to talking to your lover on an almost subliminal level that when you split and the shorthand of intimacy is no longer acceptable, you feel the full weight of your loss. Now there is no one in the world, you think, who prefers me. You think that even if he was a nightmare and you ended it.
‘I’m leaving you, Hol,’ he said, looking up from a heavy mug of brown tea. He made it sound friendly. ‘Rach has offered me a job.’
I crumbled my scone, and tried not to show relief. I smiled into his eyes. I’ve always wondered if it’s really possible to see hurt in the eyes themselves, surely, any pain is betrayed by the surrounding features? The skin beneath was dark, with a slight puffiness to it. He was tired, I decided, that was all.
‘She wants to extend her party business. Cater for children, as well as adults. It would be great for me. With Rach, I could offer the whole package, food, as well as entertainment, venue, theme, decor, if they needed it. Parents,’ he grinned, ‘are always knackered. Mostly, they want the easy option. And the cheapest. This way, we’d be able to offer them a good deal.’ With effort, he wiped the grin. ‘I’m sorry, Hol. I’ll work my notice—’
‘Nah. Don’t worry. You go when you like. You’ve done a lovely job on the website, it’s already attracting quite a few new clients.’ Good Lord, listen to me speaking like a computer salesman. That’s what comes from disengaging brain from heart. Nick, went the internal soundtrack, look at you so cool and in control. You don’t need me any more, do you? You’re finally getting yourself together. Once, you told me, I made your life. Not ‘I made your life complete’ – just, I made your life. Which meant so much more. And once, I told you it was over and you were desolate. How do you travel such a long emotional distance in such a short time?
‘Rach has offered you a good deal, hasn’t she?’
Nick smiled. ‘Oh, Hol,’ he said. Fondly. ‘You
always did baby me. Of course she has. Very generous. Shares in the company, even. I wouldn’t take anything less. I’m not an idiot.’
I didn’t baby you. Well, not that much. And if I did, it wasn’t my fault. Not totally. Some of the time you behaved like a baby. So I was forced to treat you like one. I hope your mind doesn’t select just the bad memories. We had so much fun. There was a lot of happiness in our relationship. What about when we moved into our new house, and halfway through the day you dragged me out of the kitchen, out onto the porch and carried me over the threshold in front of the whistling removal men . . .
‘Nick, that’s not what I meant.’
I felt hurt.
He placed a hand over mine and stroked it. Excitement crackled briefly. Stupid Holly. What would Issy call me? A silly sausage. A light-as-air phrase that was cruel at heart because it denied a person’s emotions and reduced them to a clown.
‘Ah, Hol, I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. You only do it because you care, and that’s a lovely thing.’
I ate a bit of scone and tried to look nonchalant. It never does to be seen to care too much. Certainly not with a former boyfriend eager to explore fresh pastures. I decided to change the subject. To hint, perhaps, that he wasn’t made of steel, because he seemed to need reminding. But that wasn’t the only reason. He was right. I did care.
‘Tell me, how are things with your birth mother?’
Nick scratched at the table with a fingernail. ‘She’s been in touch. Suggested a day, a time, a place to meet, all sorts of conditions, if Malcolm was working. I said it wasn’t convenient – which was the truth, I was going to the footie with Manjit – so she went all sullen and said she’d call back. I’m still waiting.’
He caught my expression, and shook his head. ‘Don’t look so fierce, Hol. You don’t have to fight my battles for me. I’m fine with it. Well, not fine, it hurts like fuck, but, well, you try to be rational rather than emotional. If I wanted I could torture myself about all kinds of stuff that’s not my fault. And, you were right. Lavinia and Michael do love me, and as far as I’m concerned they are my real parents. I love them, I fit with them. All that crap I said before, it wasn’t true.’
He paused, blinked.
‘They made a big mistake, but their intentions were honourable, and they really do regret it, and I respect them for that. We have a way to go with trust and all that, but I know we’ll get there. I don’t feel angry with them any more. I don’t even feel angry with my birth mother. I feel sorry for her. I think she’s a woman too afraid to commit to anyone or anything. I tell myself that’s her problem, not mine, it’s not personal, how could it be, she never knew me, me.’
He took a sip of murky tea, and stared into it.
‘You have hopes. After they told me, I dreamed about her. Every fiftysomething woman on the street, I’d think, are you her, are you her? I couldn’t sleep for wondering where she was, what she was doing, did she think about me? It was hard not to imagine a grown-up fairy princess. In my head she was a cross between Glinda, the white witch, and Fern Britton. And then I met her. Boof! It’s hard to give up your dreams, Hol. No one wants to do that. It brings you closer to death.’
‘Oh, Nick.’
‘I’m fine.’ He smiled. ‘I wanted to change her life. I wanted to walk back into her life, and I wanted her to be awestruck, lovestruck. I wanted to see what we had in common, did we laugh the same way, I wanted to go on picnics with her, for chrissake, watch her eat. I wanted her to be besotted, to follow me around like a puppy, to be desperate to get to know me. I wanted to tell her every stupid little thing about me, things she should have known, like when my first tooth fell out and I swallowed it, how I played a pirate in the school play aged five and smuggled in a real knife, the time I got a haircut like Luke Skywalker. But she didn’t ask, she wasn’t bothered. She had no idea who I was, and no real interest in finding out. She had her life, her family, she didn’t need a new addition, she didn’t know what the hell to do with me. She’d never tried to trace me. She made me feel foolish for wanting.’
‘Nick,’ I whispered. ‘That’s so sad, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ he replied. He seemed to mean it. His gaze was direct. ‘You can’t force someone to change their nature. Think of all the bad parents out there. My biological mother isn’t the only one. There are millions of them! All useless, in different ways. I’m lucky in that I have Lavinia and Michael who aren’t perfect, but who love me and are deep down good. I have their adoration, their approval, their never-ending interest, the fact that however little I’ve achieved they’ve remained impressed by me. How many children – well, you know what I mean – have that? You know what Lavinia showed me the other day? A snowball I’d bought into the house when I was nine. She’d kept it in the freezer. It was the size of a cannon ball! That taught me something. I was happy before I met my birth mother. I don’t need her to be complete, that’s what I realise.’
‘You’re being amazingly mature about all this.’
Nick smiled. ‘Did Manjit tell you I put my fist through Bo’s glass door the other week? Then fell to the floor and howled like a baby? And left a large blood stain on her white carpet. Believe me, I have not been mature. Sometimes you look at your friends and envy them. You feel futile, and I mean that in the most literal sense. As if there’s no point to you. Some days are dark as hell. And I’m not sure the worst is over. The grief comes in waves. But gradually, you – I, I should say – I accept it, accept her for what she is.’
He broke off a piece of my poor, decimated scone and squashed it flat on the plate, pressing it into a dirty yellow dough with his thumb.
‘If I chose, I could stay in that place forever, being that wounded, abandoned, resentful kid, waiting for his mother to rescue him. But isn’t that where every sad, damaged, unpleasant adult is stuck? Acting out their childhood disappointments, replaying them, chasing away every chance of happiness because once, an age ago, someone hurt them, so they refuse to let anyone close again, and insist on living mean, meagre, miserable lives, punishing themselves for – what? Nothing. Someone else’s crime. It’s senseless. No fucking way is that going to be me.’
He grinned, his old sloppy smile, the smile that could weaken my knees. ‘I’m stronger than that, I’m a big boy now, baby!’
The next time I saw him was at Isabella and Frank’s anniversary party. And he did look different, older. He was dressed smartly, in a suit, but a rather modish one, if that word doesn’t make me sound about sixty-five. There was colour in his cheeks. He had a pen tucked behind his ear and was in animated conversation with Rach. Always a fan of his cooking, she’d asked him to try out as catering manager. Add this to his other role as Mr Elephant and she was paying him, as she’d told me with her usual indiscretion, ‘a fuck-off salary’. I didn’t want to think about who exactly was being told to fuck off here.
I was glad I’d made an effort for the party. I was back to my normal weight and it was good to feel substantial again. I was wearing a red Grace Kellyish cocktail dress and pink mules. Even now, when I watch The Wizard of Oz (which tends to be every other Christmas but feels like every second month), I itch to own Dorothy’s sparkly red shoes. My pink ones are a modern, funkier approximation – skinnier, higher heels, open toes, and an elegant band of hot pink fake crocodile skin. Now I’ve described them, they couldn’t be more different, but their aura is identical. You could wish for anything and get it, in those shoes.
My first thought on seeing the ballroom was that Frank had a grudge against minimalism. If the central chandelier were to fall on anyone’s head, they’d be crushed to the thickness of a wafer. I made a mental note never to pass beneath it. There were monster displays of flowers everywhere, big fat ostentatious blooms and so many it was as if we had been transported to the rainforest rather than the other way round. The pink lilies, I recognised and breathed in their cheap heady scent; the others I steered clear of, they looked red and ferocious, as if they might
try to take a bite out of you when your back was turned.
In a corner lit by – what would you call these things, fire cones? – a man in a stripey hat was handing out pink candyfloss with whirly gestures like a magician performing a trick. I accepted a stick, because it suited the decadent atmosphere and matched my shoes. Nige appeared – a dead ringer (he hoped) for Jay Gatsby – clutching a bowl of champagne, and swiped a wisp of fluffy cloud without asking.
‘Can money buy you love?’ he murmured. ‘That is the question.’
‘Hamlet never said that,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, glad as I am to see you, who invited you? Surely your girlfriend wouldn’t abuse her position?’
‘That entirely depends on which position she’s in,’ said Nige, adding a Sid James cackle in case I was too pure of mind to get the joke. ‘No. Frank invited everyone, darling. Look at Sam and Bernard over there, lowering the tone – village high street fash-ee-own ahoy. The trouble is, when people like Sam and Bernard invite you to their wedding, you become embroiled in a ceaseless round of counter invitations that – unless you can qualify for a witness protection programme – dog you for the rest of your life. Talking of unwanted invites, my new D-grade celebrity seems to be working wonders. I’m so popular, Hol. My old tutor rang my agent last week – simpering, he said she was. Having been perfectly content to ignore my existence for twelve years, she’s suddenly gasping for me to attend some lecturey dinnery thing at the college. I suspect her to be motivated by money, rather than by sudden recall of my super personality. Academics obviously don’t know how much stage actors get paid.’
I shook my head. ‘Aren’t people embarrassed to be so openly shallow?’
Nige grinned. ‘Why should they be? Without the lubricant of insincerity, society would grind to a halt. Bernard! Samantha! Two of my favourites, what an absolute treat! Kiss kiss!’ – said with not the slightest attempt to perform the action – ‘Samantha, a vision, where did you get that dress? I must have one! West End play? Oh! Just a little thing I do! No, no, let’s talk about you! Bernard, old chap, how the devil are you? What? Orange juice? Good lord, am I the only alcoholic here?’