Everyone claps, even Emily.
*
Later that afternoon Ben, Emily, Louis and I head back to my flat, armed with slabs of chocolate pirate ship cake and party bags. Without much prompting Louis and Emily play sweet shops in his bedroom, giving Ben and me a moment to flop on to the sofa and shut our eyes.
‘Gabriella fancies the pants off you,’ I can’t help saying, breaking the silence.
‘Lovely tits.’
I roll my eyes. ‘So predictable.’ Long pause. ‘She’s such a flirt. I think her husband’s always away. She must get lonely,’ I reflect.
‘Jim has a crush on you.’
‘No he doesn’t.’ But then I do confide to Ben that Jim did have a small crush, about a year ago. It was during a bad patch in his marriage, when his wife was always working, even at weekends, and it was driving him mad. There was this one moment, over coffee, when he began to say I was the only one he could talk to. I remember him reaching for my hand, loneliness killing the usual shine in his eyes. I don’t fancy Jim, and besides, I knew he loved his wife and I was dating David the lawyer. I told him to talk to her. So many times people kill their relationships through lack of communication or misunderstanding. ‘I don’t know why I was giving Jim relationship advice,’ I add. ‘I mean, look at my track record.’
‘I’m not ready for a relationship.’
‘I think Gabriella’s after a hot steamy affair, Ben.’
‘I’ve had my fill of that too, Polly. Can’t do it anymore. I want something real. You know, I’ve rarely had sober sex.’
I turn to him, curious. ‘Is anyone else in your family an addict?’
‘My stepdad.’ He pauses, as if knowing what he’s about to say is going to unsettle me. ‘I don’t believe addiction is genetic.’
I shift in my seat. ‘I do.’
‘Polly, we’re not puppets.’ Ben wobbles his arms and hands in front of me. ‘See that glass.’ He’s gesturing to the tumbler of water on the coffee table. ‘Imagine that’s wine. No one is forcing me to pick it up. No one was forcing me to do an all-night session, from eleven to noon the next day …’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Are you saying you didn’t have a choice? That someone was holding a gun to your head and making you drink?’
There is nothing judgemental in his tone but still I feel my blood coursing through my veins. It doesn’t work like that. I tasted wine and that was it. It was like a virus. I would love to have a civilised glass of wine with dinner or be that person in the pub who jangles her car keys at the bar saying, ‘just the one.’
‘My grandfather was a heavy drinker. Aunt Viv was an alcoholic. I picked up the bad gene,’ I insist. ‘I’m praying Louis doesn’t have it.’
Ben remains unconvinced. ‘I believe we mirror our childhoods. If we’re fed fizzy drinks and burgers as kids, we’ll probably feed our children that crap too. If …’
‘Hang on …’
‘Let me speak,’ he says, his tone firm. ‘My dad died when I was four, in comes my controlling stepfather who hits my mother, and who drinks like a fish and, in return for his charming behaviour, we get shipped to exotic islands for our holidays. Mum loves the glamour, boasts about how most families go to Cornwall but here we are on a private yacht, drinking champagne. She didn’t want to hear me crying about how my stepdad stamped on my favourite record or hit me with his belt. I loved my mum dearly, and I know she loved me, but she protected my stepdad, made endless excuses for him. “He’s stressed, he’s busy, don’t worry, Benjamin.” My stepdad’s addiction was catching. Mum was beginning to lie too because she didn’t want to admit our family was shattering into tiny little pieces. I don’t think she knew half the time if he’d come home after work. If he didn’t, she’d pretend to herself it was work pressures, but the truth was he was drinking. He had the choice, Polly. He chose to be a wanker. Mum also chose to stay with him. Perhaps being brought up by an alcoholic stepfather makes me more predisposed to drink, but I still have that choice. That’s why I have a problem with relationships now! I can’t commit because I don’t want to turn out like him, but it’s my problem, up here.’ He taps his head. ‘We have to take responsibility for ourselves.’
‘I do take responsibility,’ I stress, raising my voice. ‘I never have blamed anyone but myself. That’s why I go to meetings and make sure I see my counsellor every week. I can’t mess up again. I have to work hard at it. Me, Ben, no one else messed up but me, but I still think I had something in my genetic make-up, something that made me unable to stop. Hugo was lucky he didn’t have the rogue gene.’
Ben turns to me. ‘Shall we not talk about this?’
I lean back into the sofa. ‘Perhaps. Before we kill one another.’
At that moment my mobile rings. Relieved for the interruption I pick it up off the coffee table, glance at the screen, not recognising the number. ‘Hello?’ I wait. Hear nothing. ‘Hello?’ I repeat before ending the call. Oh well. I turn back to Ben.
‘Who was it?’ he asks.
‘No idea. Probably a wrong number. What made you stop?’ I go on, wondering if I’d have ever pulled myself together without Louis or Hugo and Aunt Viv, or my friends in AA.
‘This is going to sound mad. Don’t laugh, but I had this dream about my real dad. He was a pilot. I remember him being a big kind man; he’d sit me on his lap and read me stories,’ he says nostalgically. ‘He told Grace and me always to have dreams, that we could be anything we wanted to be. Anyway,’ says Ben, trying to blot out the pain of losing him so young, ‘he told me to stop the drink, the partying, the drugs, the women. He wanted me to leave the City before it killed my soul. I woke up drenched in sweat, thinking I was going mad, but as the day went on I was convinced it was real, that it was a message. I’m not in any way religious,’ he mentions.
‘So what happened next?’
‘I knew he was right. I’d often thought I needed help but each time I talked to Mum she’d tell me there was nothing wrong in enjoying a good old drink. Mum never wanted to talk about anything deep. She wanted everyone to be happy, brush all the bad stuff under the carpet. But I knew I couldn’t sustain my lifestyle. Grace did too. I couldn’t hide what was going on inside of me anymore.’
‘What was going on?’
‘Nothing. That was the whole problem. I felt nothing.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Went to see a doctor. Grace came with me. I quit my job and booked myself into rehab in South Africa. Best time of my life. I watched some amazing cricket.’ He smiles, surely underplaying how hard it must have been. Ben turns to me. ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time, Polly.’
‘Go on.’
‘What happened to Louis’s father?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘How come?’
‘I met the wrong man.’
‘In what way?’
‘Every way.’
‘He didn’t stick around?’
‘I left him.’
‘Were you married?’
‘No. We were only together for two years.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know, hopefully miles away.’
‘Let’s put him on the North Pole.’
‘That’s not far enough.’
‘Does Louis ask where he is?’
‘Sometimes. Since school he’s begun to ask more questions.’
‘Does he miss him?’
I think about this. ‘Yes. He doesn’t miss Matthew, he was too little to know him, but he misses having a dad. He’s beginning to compare, see his friends with both parents.’ In a way it’s good for him to spend time with Emily; to understand that families aren’t always like the pictures of a house with four windows and a pretty front door, daisies in the garden, sunshine and figures of a mummy and daddy holding their child’s hand.
‘Emily hasn’t asked me at all about her father, maybe it’s because he’s never been around.’
We sit quietly for a moment. ‘I enjoyed today,’ Ben says. ‘Who would have thought going to a bouncy castle party could be quite fun?’
‘I saw you dancing with Emily. She’s really coming out of herself, you know.’
For a brief moment his eyes glow with pride. I picture Ben when I first met him at the school gates, his head down and hands deep in pockets.
*
Later that evening, when I’ve kissed Louis goodnight, I think about Matthew. I didn’t tell Ben even half of the truth about him.
13
‘How are you feeling today?’ Stephanie asks. Stephanie Green is my counsellor. She’s in her mid-forties, with chestnut-brown hair styled into a neat bob and blue eyes that narrow when she’s listening to me.
‘I couldn’t sleep last night,’ I tell her. ‘I was thinking about something Ben said. We didn’t have an argument, exactly, more a discussion. He disagrees with me that addiction’s genetic. His stepfather was an alcoholic, but no one else in his family drinks. What do you think?’
‘I think it can be. There’s also learned behaviour. Your friend Ben grew up as a child watching a grown-up drink. As a child you only know what you see. Many people are born with the potential for addiction. Sometimes it gets realised, sometimes it doesn’t. Often there’s a catalyst. I don’t think it happens by accident, there is always something underlying going on and, from my experience over the years, I see a certain personality type. The main thing is, whatever the reason, we learn from our past and take responsibility.’ She stops, as if she’s talked too much. Sometimes I wonder if she’s talking from her own experience.
I’ve seen Stephanie for the past four years and our relationship is professional, but there is no doubt we are getting closer; yet I know nothing about her. Her room is cosy, shelves filled with books and there are always flowers on her desk, but no photographs. There’s nothing personal that hints at the life she has outside this room.
‘Tell me more about Ben,’ she says, making sure the conversation leads back to me. ‘Is he a new friend?’ Stephanie likes to build a picture of my life.
I end up telling her all about him, not realising how much I am talking until our time runs out.
On my way home, I realise that’s the first time Stephanie has offered any encouragement over a friendship with a man. She was always quiet when I told her about my last boyfriend, David the lawyer, the one I met in front of the Picasso sculpture. She did smile once when I marvelled at how controlled he was in all aspects of life. He lived by the motto, ‘Everything in moderation’. I told Stephanie that if I opened a bar of chocolate it would be wolfed down in virtually five seconds. I teased David, calling him Mr Two Cubes as he’d only allow himself two cubes of dark chocolate after supper, before carefully wrapping it back in its silver foil and putting it back in the fridge. I see now, that it was never going to work between Mr Two Cubes and me.
*
It’s bedtime. Louis has been quiet since I picked him up from school and took him to the café.
‘What’s the best thing you’ve done today?’ I ask, tucking him up in bed.
‘Nothing,’ he mumbles, his little jaw clenched.
‘Louis, is something wrong?’ I stroke his hair.
A thundercloud descends over his face. ‘Everyone at school has a daddy, where is mine?’
‘Oh, Louis, we’ve talked about this.’
‘Luke’s dad helps him take his shoes off at school, and his coat.’
‘Emily doesn’t have a daddy,’ I say. ‘She has Uncle Ben. Sometimes in life things aren’t as simple as they should be, but you have Uncle Hugo and …’
‘But he’s not my daddy! Where is he?’ He kicks his feet under the duvet.
‘He has problems.’
‘What problems?’ More kicks. ‘Why can’t I see him?’ He hurls Fido the dog on to the floor, tears rolling down his face. ‘I want my dad,’ he sobs.
*
I sit on my rocking chair, unable to sleep.
I stayed with Louis until finally he drifted off.
Not a day goes by when I don’t feel guilty that Louis doesn’t have a father. Stephanie tells me I must move on, that the only thing I can do is learn from a bad relationship. She’s right, but it still doesn’t stop me wishing I could rewind time and do things differently.
If I could do one thing differently, I’d go back to that night when I first met Matthew. I was teaching nursery children back then, but I would come home, strip out of my uniform and party all night.
We met in a bar.
I knew he was trouble.
I should have listened to Hugo.
Should have walked away.
14
2006
I run down the corridor and into the kitchen, leaning against the counter to catch my breath. The school mums can’t see me like this! I’ve just been promoted to head teacher! I can’t lose this job. I love my job. Thank heavens it’s Friday. I press my head into my hands. What was I thinking last night? I shouldn’t have gone out again. I told Hugo it wasn’t a great idea to have his birthday party on a Thursday. No one can get trashed if they have to go to work the next day. His argument was that a few of his friends were going away at the weekend; it was the only night when everyone was around. I dig into my handbag to find my breath freshener. I almost choke. It smells nothing like mint but it certainly beats breathing toxic fumes all over the parents.
As I mix the paints, ready to make Christmas cards with the children, I have a hazy memory that Hugo was in a grump with me last night. I tell myself I’ll stay in this evening. I’ll clean the flat. I’ll cook, maybe bake us something. Hugo and I share a poky two-bedroom flat in Shepherds Bush, off the Uxbridge Road. On the whole it works well, except sometimes I sense he disapproves of my lifestyle. Come the weekend I’m ready to party and often crawl home in the early hours of the morning, not surfacing from my duvet until late afternoon. But come on, Hugo, I’m twenty-six. That’s what weekends are all about. We’re young! Everyone drinks in their twenties. I left school when I was eighteen. Hugo read English at Durham. He loves socialising and has many friends, but unlike me he has never enjoyed the party scene because he feels vulnerable in crowds or dark nightclubs. ‘If I go to the loo and people move to the dance floor, I can’t find them again,’ he says. ‘If it’s a place I’ve never been before it’s even worse, Polly, especially if they’ve had a few drinks and forget about me.’
After mixing the paints and setting the tables up in the classroom, I apply some make-up to try and look half decent.
Believe it or not, I love my job. I teach a class of eighteen two- to three-year-olds. The one thing I have always enjoyed is playing with children. Mum says I have a real gift with them. ‘Probably because you haven’t grown up yourself,’ she adds. Typical Mum. Can’t give a compliment without a put-down too. Anyway, I don’t want my own children just yet. I don’t want any responsibility beyond helping them learn their alphabet, add and subtract and blow their noses.
As I brush my long dark hair and pin it back at both sides, I think back to my own schooldays. I left with three underwhelming A levels: two Ds and an E. Mum insisted I retake them, Dad paid for a tutor over the next year and I did surprisingly well (three Bs) when they suggested that if I did better the second time round, I could go to Paris for a year to learn French. Paris seemed so glamorous. It reminded me of Aunt Viv’s comment about going to Paris to run a patisserie. Well, I didn’t cook so much these days but I could stroll along the Champs-Elysées and have a Parisian affair.
I was twenty when I returned, broken-hearted. The French had been fine; I’d passed both the oral and written exams but my love life had taken a battering. I’d met someone called Adrien who worked at the Rodin Museum and modelled part time. I can see us now, running down the streets in the pouring rain, laughing, kissing and holding hands. One time we were so stoned that we’d gone into a church, I can’t even remember where now, and had grabbed the priest saying, ‘We’re
in love. Marry us!’ When he’d asked if my parents knew what I was up to, I had replied, as if acting on a climatic scene of Romeo and Juliet, ‘My parents won’t understand! They’ll think I’m too young!’
Adrien left me a few months later. ‘I have met someone else,’ he’d said nonchalantly. Looking back now, I have no regrets. It was innocent love and inevitably it had to come to an end. When I returned home, I wanted to be in London. I found work ushering at Les Misérables. I moved flats constantly, kipped on floors to save cash, until finally I’d saved up enough to move in with Hugo. We’d always wanted to live together, since we were young.
I wipe away a glob of mascara before glancing at my watch and making a run for the classroom.
*
I stand at the front of the class. ‘And what noise does a dog make?’
‘Woof woof!’ they all reply, a few of them laughing.
‘And can we say PIG?’
‘P …’ they pronounce, ‘I-G.’
‘And what noise does a pig make?’
‘Oink oink!’
I glance out of the window; it’s a glorious winter’s day, the sky a clear blue. ‘Right. Tell you what. It’s too nice to be stuck in here,’ I say, thinking the fresh air will be good for all of us. I help them pop on their coats and scarves. Some of them have brought woolly hats. There’s lots of buzz and laughter as I lead them out into the playground, the sun beaming on our faces. ‘Life is about being outside four walls,’ I tell them.
I could do this for hours, I think to myself as we sit down in a circle and sing the curly caterpillar song. At the end of our song Lottie, one of my favourites, throws her arms around me, saying, ‘I love you, Miss Polly. Can we sing song again?’
During playtime, I head to my usual quiet spot where no one can find me, at the back entrance to the school. I reach for my crumpled pack of cigarettes, am about to light up when my mobile rings. It’s Hugo. I didn’t see him this morning before he left for work. ‘Polly, you have got to say sorry to Alex’s girlfriend.’
‘Why? What did I do?’
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