Getting Over It

by Anna Maxted

  He passes me my shirt. I try to look carefree. Marcus twirls my ratty period knickers around his stubby finger and pings them in my direction. They hit me in the face and he bursts out laughing. ‘Lighten up, Hellie,’ he grins, ‘the wind’ll change.’ He pulls an exaggerated impression of my sullen face. I try to keep it stony but I can’t. I stick out my tongue.

  This is obviously the correct response because Marcus winks and says earnestly, ‘You know, Hellie, I’d love to spend the night with you. But this way you’ll get your beauty sleep! Another time, eh?’ He delivers this cliché like it’s a Perrier Award winning joke.

  ‘Ha,’ I say. He’s alright. He’s Marcus. Marcus is Marcus. With an entire body pointlessly pumped up except for that one crucial part. My resentment dissipates. ‘Go and have your shower,’ I say in a kindly tone, ‘and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  This elicits a showcase beam. ‘Night, night,’ he says.

  He turns away (phew he’s hairy!) and walks, starkers, towards his en suite bathroom and I feel a pang. ‘Marcus!’ I blurt.

  ‘Yes?’ he says, only a tad tersely.

  As I speak I am wriggling into my worst-ever knickers. ‘I’ll make you dinner tomorrow night, if you like.’

  I can’t quite decipher his expression but he replies cheerily, ‘Sure, yeah, great, see you then,’ disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door.

  I heave myself out of his bed, collect my trousers, socks, and boots, plod to my bedroom, remove my shirt, take a pair of scissors from my drawer, cut up my granny pants from hell, throw the shreds into the bin, and fall into bed. I haven’t removed my make-up, washed my face, cleaned my teeth, or flossed. ‘Big fat hairy deal,’ I say sarcastically to the ceiling. Then I lie stark staring awake till 4 a.m.

  I open my eyes at, according to my under-used alarm clock, 2.18 p.m. and for the second time that week think – without yet knowing why – ‘Oh no.’ My memory allows me half a second’s grace before it all comes trickling back. Oh no. I churn over last night’s events. The U-Bar. Alan. The pensioners. Marcus. The cocktail sausage. The shower. The dinner offer. The acceptance.

  Maybe not so oh no after all. Then I run through what I can cook and am back to oh no again. I peek out of my room but the flat is silent and Marcus’s door is ajar. He must be at the gym. Luke must be at the pub. I ring Tina at home but there’s no answer so I leave a succinct message: ‘Oi, slag, where are you. Call me the minute you get this.’ Then I march to the untouched clutch of cookery books on Marcus’s highest kitchen shelf and pull down a few.

  The Italian one falls at the first chapter because I don’t know what a trevise is. The English one devotes 100 pages to stodgy main meals and 425 pages to full-fat desserts. As Marcus would rather boil himself in oil than eat anything cooked in it, I’m left with the American one which lists recipes for mashed potatoes (I can do that!) and chicken pot pie. Easy! Oh bugger. It expects you to make your own pastry. Get real. I abandon the books and decide to improvise.

  I’ll make mashed potato (peel potatoes, boil potatoes, mash them, stir in tub of margarine) and the fish dish (chop leeks, wok them, put them in baking dish, plonk block of frozen fish on top, plonk Greek yoghurt on top of fish, grate Cheddar on top of yoghurt, cover and stick in oven for as long as it takes to seduce your guest). Lizzy told me how to make the fish dish and it’s delicious. And, more importantly, it requires four ingredients as opposed to ninety. Tediously, though, I now have to go to the supermarket. I check the fridge first. My section (Marcus has partitioned it to cut down on pilfering) is empty except for a carton of solidified milk, a cracked yellow rock of Cheddar, and a crumb-encrusted pat of butter. I could trim the butter but the cheese is on its deathbed.

  Which reminds me. I really should call my mother. As of Wednesday she’s stopped phoning which is brilliant but curious. I’ll ring her tomorrow. I’ll just try Tina again before schlepping to Waitrose.

  This time, she answers. ‘And why haven’t you rung?’ I demand.

  She ignores the question and simpers, ‘Oh Helen! Bloody hell!’ Her voice oozes woozy post-orgasmic wonder.

  I say accusingly, ‘It’s that blond bloke!’

  She sighs blissfully, ‘Oh Helen, it certainly is!’

  At this point I’ll interrupt to say, this is peculiar. Not normal. Usually when Tina meets a man – with, say, the looks of Matt Dillon, the wealth of Bill Gates, and the wit of Jerry Seinfeld – the most you’ll get out of her is a grudging ‘he’s okay’. I am rapt. ‘Tell me. Now.’

  She sighs down the phone, ‘We-e-ell, his name’s Adrian—’

  ‘Adrian!’ I squeal.

  ‘Yes, Adrian!’ she says sharply. ‘What’s wrong with Adrian?’

  I gulp, ‘Nothing, nothing, it’s a lovely name. Yes, so carry on.’

  Adrian, apparently, is perfect. His perfection kicks all other men on this earth into touch. He is perfect from the tips of his perfect toes to the top of his perfect head and he is particularly perfect around the groin area. He has a perfect husky voice, he tells perfect pithy anecdotes, he has a perfect job as an architect, he owns a perfect bijou flat just outside Maida Vale, and, most perfectly of all – he thinks Tina is perfect.

  ‘What, already?’ I say. ‘But you’ve only known him eight minutes.’

  Tina cackles down the phone, ‘I’m telling you, girl,’ she says, ‘this is the big one. I feel it in my . . . pants!’

  I am not entirely delighted about this. I rely on Tina’s eternal disenchantment with men – despite the fact it’s a sham – as a reassuring romantic barometer. This abrupt disruption of the cynical status quo alarms me. Suddenly we’re playing musical chairs and I’m the odd one out. Her reaction to my news about Marcus doesn’t make me feel any better.

  ‘But he wears tanga briefs!’ she shrieks.

  This stumps me for a second so all I say is ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I can see them through his chinos!’ she shouts.

  I speedily recover composure. ‘So what!’ I snap. ‘We can’t all be members of the fashion police!’

  Tina chooses to ignore this jibe. ‘Helen,’ she says in a more serious tone, ‘I don’t want to rain on your parade, I know you’ve fancied him for years, but we’re all agreed, he’s even worse than Jasper. He’s an enormous great plonking plonker.’ If only. ‘I mean,’ she continues blithely, ‘what about the aspirin habit?’

  I am afraid she is refering to Marcus’s custom of carrying a soluble aspirin in a silver pill box at all times in case he has a heart attack. ‘He’s not what you call hip and happening. He doesn’t exactly live on the edge—’ Now, she’s ranting. And even though there is a seed – oh alright, a Redwood tree – of truth in what she says, her preaching from the sanctimonious altar of newfound love is really pissing me off.

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly say living on the edge of Maida Vale is living on the edge, would you?’ I snap.

  A frosty silence ensues until Tina breaks it with the polite enquiry, ‘So how big was his todger?’ I admit it is bonsai, we honk with laughter, and cordial relations are resumed. ‘So why bother with him?’ she gasps, eventually.

  I shrug down the phone. ‘It’s just . . . I can’t explain it. I like him. I feel – don’t laugh – drawn to him. And he was so sweet when I was upset. And, it was the first time. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe it was cold in the room—’

  ‘Maybe,’ Tina interrupts, ‘he has a needle dick!’

  We chortle some more – although her chortling is rather more hearty than mine – then I excuse myself and plod to Waitrose.

  Five exhausting hours later, the lair is painstakingly prepared. I’ve banished an incredulous Luke to the pub (he didn’t take too much persuading) and tidied the kitchen. The mash is mashed, the fish is cooking, the table is laid, the candles are lit, the wine is chilled, the butter is trimmed, I’ve bought a large French stick to go with it although I had to fold it in half so it would fit in the bag, and I – aka dessert – am washed, brushed, dressed and
tarted to the max. The only missing ingredient is Marcus.

  I wait until ten to ten, eat the entire fish dish myself and let Fatboy feast on the mash.

  Chapter 10

  IT’S DAYS LIKE today I wish I’d invented Tetra Pak. Billions of quid for one minute of basic origami. To add insult to jealousy, yesterday I tried to squeeze open a Tetra Pak carton of mushroom soup and it didn’t work! I had to pick and rip it apart with my nails – and instead of neatly transforming into a controlled, soup pouring lip it became a raggedy mess and the soup glooped all over the floor.

  Luke suggested I was attacking it from the wrong side but I snarled, ‘Since when are you the expert? You only ever eat out of boxes and tins.’

  He looked hurt and about to argue then noticed my rabid expression and kept quiet. Luke has been tiptoeing around me ever since Marcus went AWOL. Admittedly, on Sunday morning he did exclaim, in a voice of epiphany, ‘He must be staying with that pop star from Second Edition!’ That apart, he’s been a model of sensitivity and tact. I, meanwhile, have been a model of sourness and temper. Partly because of Marcus, partly because of Tom, mainly because – thanks to my non-innovative mind – I have to return to work today.

  I slink into the office, trying to avoid attracting attention. There is a barely perceptible hush as I walk in, almost as if I’m wearing last season’s trainers. Which I am. Tina breaks the silence by shouting, ‘Bradshaw! Welcome back!’ Lizzy rushes over to give me a fierce hug and three kisses (left cheek, right cheek, then just as I’m backing off – a surprise swoop on the left cheek. I think it’s a continental thing). ‘Helen,’ she says bossily, ‘take it easy today. If it gets too much go for a walk. And here, take this. It’ll help you sleep better.’

  She presses a small object into my hand before running back to her desk. It is a bottle of aromatherapy oil. ‘Lavender Green Absolute’, it reads – and underneath in smaller letters for the more intellectual users – ‘Lavandula officinalis’. I’m touched, although the last time I had trouble sleeping (I was worried about failing my A levels, with good reason as it turned out), herbs, roots and blooms had sod-all soporific effect. My doctor – who, for reasons best known to himself, hates to prescribe medication – dared to suggest I turn off the television three hours before bedtime and drink a soothing cup of camomile tea! I had slept a total of three hours in two weeks and was crazed with exhaustion so this blathering hocus-pocus did not go down well.

  I am grateful for Lizzy’s gift though, because – contrary to myth – when you are features assistant on Girltime magazine you receive one freebie a year which is inevitably a piece of tat no one else wants, like a fluorescent orange mobile phone case.

  Some colleagues – after wary observation of my apparently stable exchange with Lizzy – trundle up to say they’re sorry about my dad. Others send me kindly e-mails, and a few look shifty and treat me as if I have Ebola. Laetitia doesn’t know what to do. Our wonderfully brusque agony aunt has sent me a sweet letter (no whimsical lily sketch sympathy card for her) advising me not to feel bad about the difficult times nor sad about the good times and that my father will always be with me. I turn pink with annoyance – people seem determined to distress me with sentimentality.

  Laetitia mistakes my displeasure for a mewling-alert and murmurs, ‘Stiff upper lip, stiff upper lip.’ Then she dispatches me to fetch her breakfast (one slice of wholemeal toast with peanut butter, no butter, and a cappuccino with cinnamon, no chocolate). I buy a double espresso and a blueberry muffin for myself, which I eat guiltily while Lizzy’s back is turned (‘Muffin is just a sneaky word for cake!’).

  The day isn’t too bad. I spend it transcribing readers’ letters and other yawnsome copy on to the computer system (our octogenarian film critic insists on writing his reviews manually!). I ring freelance writers to remind them of the impending features meeting (the layabouts never send in ideas otherwise). I call a rent-a-quote doctor to get him to detail the symptoms of chlamydia (answer: barely any, so unless you strike lucky with discharge the first thing you know about it is, you’re infertile). And I collect Laetitia’s trouser-suit from the dry cleaners. The one advantage of being back at work is that I have less time to brood about Marcus. Or Jasper who – I realise – hasn’t rung me for over two and a half weeks. The one disadvantage of being back at work is that when Lizzy, Tina and I go out for lunch I am forced to listen to the wonder of Adrian for sixty minutes. Even Lizzy stifles a delicate yawn. It looks like being an uneventful week.

  Wednesday evening. I slouch home and slam the door. As I expect, the flat is empty. Luke is probably at the pub – he divides his time between bar work and bar play, and selling advertising space for a car magazine. The bar work I can understand, the selling of advertising space confused me. Luke tried to explain. He doesn’t meet his clients. He sits in a stuffy room in a crumbly building full of scruffy men and tired women and old telephones. No one wastes time saying hello. They come in, sit down, and plough through other car magazines containing lists of second-hand cars for sale. Then they ring the contact numbers in the other magazines and persuade whoever is trying to sell their car to cough up again to advertise with this magazine. As he is freelance, Luke is paid entirely on commission.

  A few months back, I tried to establish how, with his infamous diplomacy skills, he makes any money. ‘I only phone people from Wales,’ he replied. ‘What!’ I said. According to Luke, the Welsh are the most friendly and least shouty people in the UK. They often take pity on him and pay up. I smile to myself as I recall this conversation then I hear a noise and stop smiling.

  The noise is a seductive giggle and it comes from the lounge. I curse myself for slamming the front door and start to creep to my room. Too late. Marcus – last seen retreating butt-naked into his bathroom – pops his head round a corner and says in a jolly voice, ‘Hellie, meet Catalina!’ A pretty woman with bright red plaits and huge green eyes bounces into the hallway. Interestingly, she is wearing a peasant smock and a woollen hat with ear flaps.

  ‘Hey Helen,’ she says.

  ‘Hello, Catalina,’ I reply. I suspect that while she looks like a Bosnian refugee she is actually a pop star. She is chemically friendly which makes it even worse. This must be Marcus’s inimitable way of telling me he doesn’t want a relationship. What a coward. I fix him with a steady look of disdain.

  ‘Hellie,’ he cries, ‘why so stern!’ He addresses Catalina. ‘When I first knew Hellie she was such fun! But now she’s so stern!’

  Catalina rattles out a machine-gun laugh and squeals ‘Rearlleee?’ as if she’s just been told her abysmal record has sensationally reached number ninety-four in the charts.

  ‘My father just died,’ I say for dramatic effect and to make Marcus look stupid. ‘It tends to make you less fun.’ I give Marcus another sour look and shut myself in my room. I feel sorry for myself and, amazingly, for Catalina.

  On Thursday morning I notice that Fatboy is – for the first time in his well-fed life – off his food. He opens his pink triangle mouth and miaows loudly, slinks around my ankles – leaving a fine dusting of orange fur on my black trousers – leaps on to the kitchen surface (Marcus would freak but he’s still in bed with Catalina) and butts my arm affectionately with his head. But when I open a tin and empty the gunk into his blue china bowl, he sticks his tail in the air like a mast, and swaggers off. Then he starts howling. This is a truly terrible noise. It starts as a deep groan and ends as a high-pitched wail. I feel I have failed as a mother. ‘What?’ I say in exasperation.

  ‘Ma-uuaaaaaaaa-w!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say crossly, ‘I don’t understand.’

  He then – and this is the worst part – goes and sits, like a Sphinx, on the windowsill. And sits and sits, nose facing the garden, bum facing me. When I kiss his head he gets up irritably and relocates further along the windowsill. To be honest, he hasn’t been eating much all week, but I thought it was because the summer has suddenly turned summerish and he was hot. Possibly he’s
sulking because he doesn’t like the fact I’ve abandoned him for work. ‘I work to keep you in Whiskas, you lazy pig,’ I say before realising I’m late and running out the door.

  I brood all of Thursday morning about Marcus and Fatboy until the afternoon when I call my mother. There’s no reply. So I start brooding about her. Since the funeral day, I haven’t been very attentive to my mother. That is, I haven’t seen or spoken to her. I should have. But I didn’t want to. I feel as warm and compassionate as a block of ice, I’d have been no good to her anyway. I won’t feel bad, I refuse. Why can’t I cut off for two, three weeks without it being a bloody great issue? Fuck it. I call her mobile. It’s switched off. Please try again later. Where is she? I call the house again and let it ring and ring and ring until finally it clicks on to the answer machine. I almost drop the receiver as a voice intones, ‘You have reached the home of Maurice and Cecelia Bradshaw. We are not available to take your call. Kindly leave a message after the long tone.’

  My heart is hammering at such a rate I expect it to explode out of my chest – my father’s voice. I replace the receiver and dial again. Then I hunch over my desk, close my eyes and relish my father’s deep, powerful voice. ‘We are not available . . .’ Mesmerised, I visualise him sitting in his favourite armchair in his study, blithely ignoring the ring-ring because he hates answering the phone. He could still be alive. I listen to his message one more time.

  Finally, I leave a message. ‘Hello, Mum, it’s me. Hope you’re okay. Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve just been mad at work. Give me a ring. Okay. Bye then.’ Maybe she’s out shopping with her friend Vivienne. Or gone swimming. This is what I tell myself. But I don’t believe it. I am sitting at my desk and Laetitia is ordering me to ring the book critic to remind her that her copy is a week late and all I can think is that my mother is dead and it’s my fault. She’s had a stroke and is rotting away at the bottom of the stairs. She’s had a car crash and suffered fatal head injuries. (I inherited my driving genes from her.)