by Anna Maxted
I interrupted, ‘Easy, Marcus, keep your hair on’ – Marcus is paranoid about balding – ‘I’ll pay you and tidy up tonight. But hush. Puce doesn’t suit you.’ I grin cheekily, skip down the path and out of sight.
Then I allow my expression to revert to its customary blank. But as I plod along I think of Marcus and feel the shards of hate sharp inside me. How I ever fancied him I do not know. To think I thought he was funny! He’s as funny as being mown down by a truck. Not only that, he’s as shallow as a puddle and about as thick. He’s full of smart remarks yet lacks the wit to dump me with courtesy. And I live in the same flat as him! And his hair is receding, now I’ve been close enough to check. He should transplant some off his back. The loathing churns and shifts, and I realise. I have a gift. I am a genius! I am superb at needling Marcus. The remainder of my journey is altogether bouncier.
Lizzy, who has just been promoted to Beauty Editor, is not impressed when I tell her about it. ‘It’s not a very positive way to live,’ she says.
‘But I feel deceived by Marcus,’ I bleat.
‘How?’ demands Lizzy.
I sigh. ‘All his sharking about, for a start,’ I say. ‘I assumed it reflected his prowess, when in fact, it reflected his lack of it.’
Lizzy giggles and says soothingly, ‘Well you weren’t to know.’
I add, ‘And he’s such a gossip – which is all very amusing when he’s yakking about someone else, but less amusing when he’s yakking about you. My tiny bosoms are going to be all over Swiss Cottage. If they aren’t already. So to speak.’ I glare at Lizzy so she doesn’t laugh.
Lizzy makes a sympathetic face, so I say grumpily, ‘And there were other things.’
‘Oh?’ says Lizzy politely.
‘His neatness for one,’ I blurt. ‘I thought it was sweet. Proof he didn’t expect a woman to tidy up for him. Now I think it’s grotesque.’
Lizzy is silent. Then she says, ‘But Helen, why does that matter?’
‘Oh Lizzy,’ I say, foiled by her generous nature and trying to sound jolly rather than spiteful, ‘You’re such a’ – I want to say ‘Pollyanna’ but I know it will seem bitter – ‘so sensible,’ I finish lamely.
She shoots me a look. She knows. ‘I hope you’re not upset about my new job,’ she says mildly, ‘I worked hard for it.’
I feel small. ‘And you deserve your promotion,’ I say with real warmth. ‘I’m delighted for you. I really am. Sorry to be such a grouch. The truth is, I suppose, I’m jealous. But I have no right.’
Lizzy pats my arm. ‘It’s been difficult for you, Helen,’ she says. ‘You’ve had too much on your mind to, to focus on your career. You’re practically a full-time carer! And ah, I’m a year older than you. It’s about time I was made a deputy!’
This, as we both know, is an irrelevance. Lizzy has been promoted because beneath that soft, shimmering exterior is a determined, ambitious woman who is great at her job. I make a mental note to send her a congratulatory card. When Lizzy joined Girltime, fourteen months ago, my first impression was that she was weak, silly. She’s neither, although I still think she’s naive because she doesn’t understand people who are nasty for fun, like Marcus. She doesn’t expect deviousness because she would never behave cruelly herself. I used to look down on her for it.
And then, one night, she came round to help me dye my hair red and afterwards we chatted with Luke. The next morning Luke said, ‘She’s cool. I like her.’
I pounced like Fatboy on a shoelace. ‘Oh ho!’ I crowed. ‘Luke fancies Lizzy! Join the queue!’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said – and from the way he said it I believed him – ‘she’s gorgeous but she’s too confident for me.’ He grinned and added, ‘I like my women damaged.’
I beamed back, ‘You mean,’ I said teasingly, ‘you need to be needed. You big sap!’ Then his verdict on Lizzy sank in. ‘You think she’s confident?’ I squeaked in surprise. ‘But she’s so quiet!’
He shrugged. ‘If you’re happy inside you don’t have to convince everyone else.’ From that day my regard for Lizzy and Luke blossomed. Despite the fact that when I pressed him for a compliment on my newly auburn locks, he fidgeted for a picosecond then blurted, ‘You look like a mangy old cat!’
So, while I have intrinsic respect for Lizzy’s opinions, I vow to continue my anti-Marcus crusade. After all, in the absence of Jasper, I lack focus. Apart from pandering to my mother’s every whim – I’m beginning to admire my father for what he put up with – I have no life. Occasionally I go flat-hunting with Lizzy who is determined to buy before Christmas. That’s it.
And anyway it’s a pleasure to irk someone who’s as catty as it’s possible to be without actually being a cat. Which reminds me. Fatboy is due to return to Megavet for another worming session this week. Actually, it doesn’t remind me at all. I’ve been thinking about it all day and trying, without success, to picture Tom’s face. (Of course, I can picture oily Alan’s in spotless – sorry – spotted detail.)
Tom’s rudeness last time we met deeply offended me but, in retrospect, I’ll grudgingly admit I deserved it. Although I partly blame Marcus. What I cannot blame Marcus for however, though I’d like to, is Fatboy’s stern refusal to lose a single pound on Tom’s diet. When I went to collect the worming pills, Tom enquired how many times a day I was feeding Fatboy. ‘Er, five,’ I said, cringing in anticipation of yet another reprimand. He saw me off with a snide lecture and some puritan low-fun cat food.
Now, Fatboy eats two and a half, maybe three times a day, but bigger portions. I also suspect he sneaks through other people’s catflaps and pilfers. ‘Poor angel!’ I croon later, forking a large chunk of lamb and rabbit pâté into his blue bowl. ‘It’s not your fault you’re big boned.’ He snarfs the lot in twenty seconds flat and stretches, elongating his torso and dragging his back legs. He looks like a warped reflection in a fairground mirror. I brim with pride. Fatboy is, at the risk of sounding like a big sad loser, the cheeriest part of my existence. And when the cheeriest part of your existence pukes a great lake of brown purée on to your carpet just as you drop into bed, your existence isn’t terribly cheery.
Fatboy’s appointment with the doctor is at the ungodly time of 9.45 a.m. on Saturday. As I do not wish to arise one moment earlier than 8.45 – and even that’s cutting it fine – I plan my wardrobe in advance. Towering black boots, black trousers, plain white scoop-neck T-shirt, and black cardigan. Minimalist, classical, elegant. Especially as I intend to trowel on a good thick inch of subtle make-up. Tina would be proud. If, that is, she could stop dribbling and mooning over Adrian long enough to notice. She is shameful! A lesson to us all. Well, to me anyway. I pray I was never ever like that. Even with Jasper. She rarely sees us outside work and when Lizzy suggests a girls’ night out she looks uncomfortable and makes a weak excuse such as ‘I promised Adrian I’d make him dinner that night.’
To think I used to admire her untameable free spirit. Envy her level-headed approach to romance. Wish for a wisp of her immunity to infatuation. Initially I put it down to her growing up with three brothers. She put it down to her growing up with three brothers. She never said so of course, as she was too busy masquerading as Mae West. But now and again – usually after an alcohol glut – unguarded comments would slip out. Such as ‘They’re not another species for chrissake!’ All highly impressive at the time.
However, in regretful hindsight, I am forced to conclude that her brothers had diddly-squat to do with her bold invulnerability. Not that they didn’t help her learn to understand men, to get along with men, to get along on her own. Doubtless they did. Yet I think the simple truth is, that until she met Adrian, she had never fallen in love. Not even for one mad minute, blissful hour, or whirlwind day. So my admiration is cancelled out.
I awake on Saturday at 8.45 a.m. feeling groggy. Is there no justice? I went to bed at ten! I bolt to the mirror and my worst fears are confirmed. I’m piggy-eyed. My peepers are as puffy and bloated as if the five D
ime bars I ate this week – tiny little things, can’t possibly be fattening – went straight to my eyelids. I snatch up the phone to call Lizzy then remember it’s practically the middle of the night. I’m sure she’s up, all shiny hair and glowing face, running round a meadow or something, but if she is living dangerously and lying in till half nine I’d hate to disturb her.
So instead, I creep to the fridge and steal two slices of Marcus’s cucumber, replacing it in an upright position to give him an inferiority complex. If I was him I’d stick with baby sweetcorn. Then I lie on my bed, with cucumber eyes, for five tedious minutes. When I can bear it no longer I jump up and rush to the mirror. As puffy as Puff the Magic Dragon after a birthday blow-out. And my skin is as scaly. Bugger. I slap on about twenty quid’s worth of moisturiser, use eyelash curlers to disguise the eyelid bloat, then spend a full fifteen minutes tweaking and fluffing my hair in a vain attempt to stop it lying flat on my head. I end up looking like David Bowie circa 1972. Let’s hope Tom is a fan of Space Oddity.
I arrive at Megavet – Fatboy wailing and clawing inside his Pet Voyager – in bad humour. It is not improved when I see Celine. She blanks me. I return the compliment and assume the expression of one who has just smelt a decaying corpse. I pretend to be engrossed in Dogs Today and am wading through a three-page feature on mange, when the surgery door swings open and a deep, resonant voice shouts ‘Next!’ I nearly faint with nervous tension and look hesitantly into those blue eyes. ‘Hi,’ says Tom, not quite smiling. ‘Won’t you come into my parlour?’
‘Delighted,’ I whisper, trundling into the surgery. I spend a full minute coaxing Fatboy out of his Voyager in order to compose myself. Then I lift my wriggling cat on to the table and mutter – in a pre-emptive strike – ‘He hasn’t lost much weight, but he seems happy. It must be his metabolism. I don’t want to give him a complex.’
Tom looks sceptical and declares, ‘I’m going to have to pull you in on that one. Madam! Please blow into this bag of shit!’ But his tone is friendly.
‘Tom,’ I blurt before I can stop myself. ‘I just wanted to say, I mean, I’ve been wanting to say for ages, I’ – Fatboy chooses this delicate moment to emit a silent but poisonous fart – ‘I, that wasn’t me by the way, I swear, he always does that when he’s nervous, but the point is, well, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. You know? I’m sorry that I was so rude to you on the phone and I still cringe about it.’ As the words jumble tumble out it hits me that they sound arrogant. As if I assume Tom has spent the past three months withering away in his room because of my childish telephone snub.
So I blather on, ‘Not that, I’m sure, you care or you’ve thought about it much or anything but’ – I am about to explain I was under stress because of Marcus, my mother, my father, oily Alan, the Toyota, but realise they are all monstrous excuses so I finish with – ‘but I have thought about it and’ – Jesus, I’m making a hash of this – ‘I wouldn’t want you to think badly of me.’ I stop. Oh God, that sounds self-centred! I add in a rush, ‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’ So presumptuous!
‘I mean, not that you were hurt but it wasn’t nice and I really regret my behaviour. I still feel terrible.’ I dig my nails viciously into my palms to prevent myself bleating out even one more brain-dead syllable. Why doesn’t Tom speak instead of gazing at me like that? Finally he grins.
‘Apology accepted. And I don’t think badly of you. Not that badly.’ He grins again to indicate that this is a joke. Fatboy parps out another evil fart. I’ll kill him, the spiteful orange git.
Tom gives the windbag the once over, skims his medical notes, and says casually, ‘And I’m sorry if I scared you about Fatboy’s health. I went a bit over the top.’
I shake my head, jumping at the chance to be magnanimous. ‘I deserved it,’ I say. If Fatboy could find it in his heart and bowels to withhold any further farts, I’ll play the coat game every day for a week, I pray silently.
‘He’s got a good colour’ – it takes me a second to realise Tom is referring to Fatboy’s gums and eyeballs rather than his fur – ‘and a nice shiny coat. He’s still a podge but otherwise healthy. I’m just going to give him his worming pill. If you hold him like that, while I prise open his jaw. Good. Alright, big chap’ – grraowwww – ‘There! That wasn’t too bad, was it?’ As Tom strokes a glowering Fatboy I think to myself, ‘No. It wasn’t bad at all. We were standing so close I could breathe in the clean smell of your hair and it’s having an extraordinary effect on my knees. And, if I’m being crude, higher up as well.’ I force my face into a non-leery expression.
‘Thank you,’ I say, lifting Fatboy into the Voyager. I am reluctant to leave but I don’t want to loiter foolishly like an infatuated schoolgirl. My thoughts bypass my brain and whirr into speech without permission. ‘You probably won’t but—’ I begin.
‘Don’t if you—’ Tom starts.
We both stop. I giggle. ‘You first,’ I say.
He rakes a hand through his dishmop hair. ‘Do you want to go for a drink sometime? Orange juice even?’
I beam as widely as it’s possible to beam without straining a face muscle. I squeak joyfully, ‘I’d love to.’ Fatboy immediately farts again but my delight is such that frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn.
Chapter 15
PEOPLE WHO QUOTE other people do so because they’re too stupid to think of anything clever to say themselves. That’s what I used to believe. As of five minutes ago I’ve changed my mind because I want to quote W.C. Fields who once said, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.’ Sensible man! I’m about to employ his advice with my mother.
I’ve tried with her for over four solid months, and now – feeble though it sounds – I’m quitting. I give up. Why? Because I’m tired. I don’t understand her. I don’t know what she wants or how her mind works and nothing I do for her makes her happy. If only Dad were here, he’d know what to do. He was, I think, terrified of being a father, but he made a brilliant husband. He managed my mother beautifully, and in the tender light of his gruff adoration, she shone. She enjoyed being bossed by him, it made her feel centred. Without him she is dull and incomplete, like a book with pages missing. I can’t compensate for what she’s lost, I can’t compete with my father. I never could. Not that I mind, I love my mother but I don’t particularly like her. I like my Mary Poppins role even less.
Oh don’t misunderstand me. I’ll still be events manager, organising reiki, forcing my friends round to eat her food, and prising her out of the house on zoo visits (although on the last outing she got upset because so many of the animals were in pairs). It’s just that I am, in my head, still eighteen, and used to looking after myself and only myself. I am not used to parenting and protecting other, helpless people. It’s not as if my mother set a stunning example. She is the epitome of egotism. Yet she expects me to pick up where my father left off – just like that! How the hell do I know what to do? No wonder she’s frustrated. And the more I do for her the less she’ll do for herself.
She frets and stresses about work, even though I practically sacrificed my own job to save hers. While my mother wailed like a banshee with a stubbed toe, I called Mrs Armstrong, the headmistress, to inform her of my father’s death so she’d know to organise cover for the last few weeks of term. When my mother afforded herself the luxury of going on mental strike, I called Mrs Armstrong again – interrupting her summer holiday in Umbria – to warn her that her most treasured staff member had flipped and I had a doctor’s certificate to say so.
While my mother rocked on her bed in a tight ball, I explained that she’d been signed off work by her GP for, well, for as long as it took. Yes, of course I understood that Mrs Armstrong wasn’t being unsympathetic in asking if there was any indication how long it would take. Absolutely. I’d keep her informed. And I did. My mother drifted along with all this, without a word of gratitude. She took the medication but refused to see a counsellor. Then, mid-Octob
er, forty minutes after an upbeat lunch at The Bank with Alex Simpkinson, she abruptly declares herself fit, well, raring to return to work. Thus, bang after the half-term break, the supply teacher’s reign ends and the prodigal mother is reinstated.
And yesterday – a piffling four weeks later – she rings me to say she thinks she no longer has the strength to ‘hold it together’. My heart sinks and I ask if she’s mentioned this to Mrs Armstrong. My mother replies, ‘Mrs Armstrong makes it quite plain she doesn’t want to know.’ I say that Mrs Armstrong’s attitude is understandable – after all, she’s been forced into breaking her measly budget to accommodate your needs, what more do you want? I make this reasonable if innocuous comment and my mother just about bites my head off. Do I think she doesn’t realise this? Do I think she isn’t frantic about disrupting her class? Do I think she isn’t aware of her colleagues’ resentment? Do I think she doesn’t feel a sense of responsibility? Do I think she isn’t distraught about unsettling the children? Do I think she’d be complaining if she wasn’t at her wits’ end about it?
Er, yes. However, I ride out the verbal assault and say, ‘Mum, it’s difficult for me to advise you because I don’t understand how the school system works. You must have one colleague you can confide in.’ I know I am passing the buck but I am also at my wits’ end. I thought she was getting over it!
My mother replies in a flat, zombified voice, ‘I suppose so,’ and puts the phone down. I can’t deal with this! It’s not my job! It’s my father’s job. I am furious with him for deserting us. How dare he go! How dare he? My mother needs him. I can’t believe he didn’t have some control over dying and I feel that being dead is no excuse for abandonment. If he was alive, he’d think his behaviour shocking. How inconsiderate can you get? I feel a niggle of angst and – for lack of anyone better to bother – call Vivienne. What does she think?