Getting Over It

by Anna Maxted

  I gulp and close my eyes. I’ve never sky-dived but this is what it must be like.

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ I joke feebly. ‘Me, Helen.’

  Silence.

  ‘Tom?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes?’ His voice is ice.

  ‘It wasn’t what you thought with Ja—’ I begin. I can hear the sickening desperation in my own voice.

  ‘I’m—’ says Tom.

  ‘Please listen!’ I beg. Begging. Always works.

  ‘Helen,’ says Tom.

  ‘Jasper and I weren’t—’ I say. He said my name. It’s a start.

  ‘Helen,’ says Tom again.

  ‘Yes?’ I breathe, hoping.

  ‘No,’ says Tom.

  ‘No what?’ I say in a small voice.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Tom.

  ‘What?’ I blurt. I think, he doesn’t get it. I should be more specific.

  ‘I—’ begins Tom.

  ‘I’d like to ask you out!’ I exclaim.

  Silence.

  ‘Tom?’ I whisper.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Tom. ‘But you’re too late.’

  Clunk!

  Chapter 48

  EVER SINCE I emergency-babysat for the neighbours and their child bit me, I’ve firmly believed that no good deed goes unpunished. The sadistic truth is proven again and again. Lately, I’ve noticed Fatboy showing interest in the small grey tabby who lives next door. Unfortunately his orange paunch terrifies her. So this morning I tried to bath him to boost his chances and he yowled and squirmed and bolted. ‘I’m your owner!’ I screeched after his vanishing bottom. ‘I won’t be treated like a casual acquaintance!’

  And this afternoon I get my comeuppance for being civil to Vivienne. My mother rings me at work, as I polish my feature How To Beat A Bully (When You’re 24). Currently, it’s 8,236 words long so it may need a slight edit. Laetitia is already muttering about lack of space in the issue. ‘Darling?’ says my mother in a voice I recognise as wheedling.

  ‘Yes?’ I say suspiciously.

  ‘Darling, I have a favour to ask you. But it’s a fun favour.’

  My disbelief proves unwilling to suspend itself, but I say, ‘Really?’

  My mother launches in to what is obviously a preprepared introduction:

  ‘This Sunday Vivienne is having an afternoon tea.’

  The words ‘afternoon tea’ explain my mother’s tone. Vivienne’s afternoon teas are legend. Vivienne adores giving afternoon teas. They provide her with an excuse to splurge on a new sequinned red dress. Her husband falls asleep in his salmon pink leather armchair, presumably wiped out by the expense. Vivienne flirts with her current hunk of arm candy, thus providing every guest with sufficient gossip for the week. And she trawls the crowd for a young woman to marry her son.

  This is where I and the afternoon tea connect. Not that Vivienne would dream in her worst nightmare of matching Jeremy with me – my mother once heard via a friend of a mutual friend that Vivienne considers me unsuitable for marriage as I’m too ‘volatile’. This offended my mother but was fine by me as I consider Jeremy unsuitable for marriage as he’s too ‘gay’. But Jeremy’s mama refuses to twig, and I and the afternoon tea connect because even the volatile have friends.

  ‘It’s catered,’ adds my mother, unnecessarily.

  ‘Mum,’ I say, ‘it always is. The last time Vivienne baked was when she fell asleep on the sunbed. Go on.’

  Pause, then my mother blurts, ‘A cold and hot buffet.’

  I sigh, ‘Very nice. And what’s the gimmick this time?’

  Vivienne always insists on a superfluous element. Last year it was Morris dancing and everyone under retirement age left early. The year before it was a group of Jeremy’s actor friends doing improvisations. I recall my father telling a man in a leotard to ‘piss off’.

  My mother says testily, ‘It’s not a gimmick. It’s finger painting. I suggested it!’ I am reflecting on what a sweetly typical and terrible idea this is when my mother gabbles, ‘andshedloveitifyouandallyourfriendscamebecauseshelikeshavingyoungpeopleabout.’

  This is such a brazen hussy of a lie I emit a derisive squeak before I can stop myself. ‘Mum, you know that’s not true! Vivienne loathes young people, they make her look old! Unless they’re sleeping with her. The only reason we’re invited is because she wants Jeremy off the shelf – even though he’s having a perfectly nice time out of the closet.’

  ‘Darling,’ says my mother, ‘Vivvy doesn’t believe in all that. She has her heart set on a wedding. She was very helpful when you were looking for builders, wasn’t she? And I was invaluable, you said so yourself!’ Admittedly I did, and I belatedly realise that my praise will be held hostage until the seas run dry. ‘And Vivvy has been very kind to me so it’s the least we can do. And it’ll be nice to go to a party, and I don’t want to go by myself with all those married people saying “haven’t you found anyone yet?” and I haven’t seen Lizzy and Tina and Luke for ages and I don’t want to be stuck with Nana Flo the whole time, I want to go with a pussy!’ The strain of hard work has affected my hearing.

  ‘Pardon? You want to go with a what?’ I say.

  ‘A pussy!’ bawls my mother.

  ‘Fatboy?’ I say, stumped.

  ‘No!’ shrieks my mother. ‘A group!’

  ‘A posse,’ I say solemnly.

  ‘As I said,’ says my mother airily. ‘So will you?’

  I say, ‘Yes, alright. It’ll be nice to see Jeremy. I’ll have to see what the others are doing though. I’ll call you back.’

  My mother says, ‘It’s okay, I’ll call you.’ When she says this I know that she wants us to attend Vivienne’s afternoon tea very much indeed.

  ‘Finger painting!’ trills Lizzy. ‘How creative! It sounds delightful! I was going to go have an extended session with my cranial osteopath but I can always reschedule.’

  Tina says, ‘Ooh, matron. I wouldn’t.’ Then Tina and I snigger at Lizzy’s unamused face.

  ‘Please come,’ I say. ‘I won’t be forgiven if you don’t.’

  Lizzy chirps, ‘I’m coming! I love this sort of thing!’

  I reply, ‘Actually I don’t think you do,’ but I say it in my head. Aloud, I exclaim, ‘Lizzy, it’ll be great. Tina?’

  Tina wrinkles her nose, remembers Lizzy is present, and unwrinkles it before she’s told off.

  ‘There’s free food,’ I say shamelessly.

  ‘I’m not a student!’ snaps Tina.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, then ‘Do it for me? For meeeeee? Oh go on, please? Pleeeeeeze? Pretty pleeee—’

  ‘Oh bloody hell, alright!’ shouts Tina.

  ‘Yesss!’ I bellow, and attempt a victorious high-five with Lizzy who doesn’t know what to do and botches it, making us both look stupid. ‘No, like this, berk,’ I say, grabbing her arm and showing it what to do.

  Tina covers her eyes, ‘Stop it,’ she begs, ‘I can’t believe you’re my friends. You’re so square.’ Outrageous!

  ‘I’m not square!’ I say indignantly. ‘It’s her! I know how to do a high-five—’

  Tina looks at me from under her eyelashes. ‘Darling,’ she says, ‘that you even call it a “high five” is embarrassing. It’s so plonky. Stop digging.’

  Tina and Lizzy have agreed to come to tea. So, graciously, I stop digging.

  All that remains is for me to ask Luke. Here’s how I predict the conversation will go:

  Me: ‘Hi, I’m calling to ask you to come to a tea party on Sunday hosted by a friend of my mother.’

  Luke: ‘Are you having a laugh?’

  Me: ‘Tina’s coming.’

  Luke: ‘What’s the address?’

  When I do ring Luke, the conversation evolves as I expect. Which makes me all the more miserable that I didn’t foresee Tom’s new girlfriend before I ate a thankless meal in a noodle bar and rang him.

  Naturally Tina and Lizzy have been supportive of me and dismissive of Tom. Not. Lizzy was ‘disappointed’ in him, but maybe he was go
ing out with someone ‘as a joke’. And Tina was even slower to condemn. I think she remembers how sweet Tom was after he’d booted in her door. She said, ‘You broke his heart, Helen.’ I was about to bristle when she added hurriedly, ‘But he’s still a prat.’ The upshot is, I’m officially in mourning. This has one advantage – it entitles me to the fluffy treatment. I’m not that daft. If it wasn’t for Tom, they wouldn’t have accepted Vivienne’s tea invitation in a million years. Not even if Will Smith and a chanting troupe of Gregorian monks were invited.

  Sunday dawns and Tina rings to cancel. She can’t spend a quarter of her weekend with a bunch of gin and catatonics, it’s not very rock ‘n’ roll. ‘It’s only an eighth if you count the nights,’ I argue. ‘And Luke will be devastated,’ I add, ‘and so will I.’ Tina goes silent so I say – my voice starting to whine like a mosquito in a dark hotel room – ‘We’ll stay for twenty minutes, then we’ll go to the pub.’

  All Tina says is, ‘Bradshaw, – your mother doesn’t appreciate you. And right now, nor do I.’

  Lizzy is the first to arrive, chic in a black cotton shift. ‘It’s washable in case I spill paint on myself,’ she trills. ‘It will be water-soluble, won’t it?’

  I say, ‘Don’t know, don’t care.’

  Tina turns up at three fifty, grizzling that north London is ‘confusing’. At four, I ring Luke’s mobile. He sounds flustered, and I can hear shrieky voices in the background. ‘I got held up, I’m nearly with you!’ he says.

  ‘And who’s with you?’ I reply.

  Luke’s voice soars proudly like an eagle in flight. ‘Marcus and Michelle,’ he sings. ‘Michelle wanted to see you, she said you’d be pleased. I thought it would be a nice surpr— bollocks!’

  I croak, ‘Nice surprise! What, to see the landlord who turfed me out and my ex friend?’

  Luke pauses then says, ‘I can’t say anything bad about them, they’re with me.’ At this, the shrieky voices get shriekier.

  I shout, ‘serves you right!’ and blip off the phone. Tina and Lizzy are consoling me – ‘maybe wear higher heels and tartier make-up?’ . . . ‘chant a self-affirming affirmation’ . . . ‘when she asks about Tom say you ditched him’ . . . ‘or say “I suppose, being engaged, you find single women threatening because we’re innately powerful”’ – when Luke’s Fiesta judders to a halt outside the door.

  Michelle spills from the Fiesta, all puff and flounce, like a cloud of candyfloss. ‘Helen, honey, it’s been yonks!’ she cries, her hair and bosom bouncing in unison. ‘Say, you’re looking healthy, did you put on weight?’

  I am trying to drum up a wittier riposte than ‘possibly’ when fast as a well-mannered bullet Lizzy blurts, ‘Silly you – Helen’s a slip of a thing!’ and Tina chimes, ‘But Michelle, aren’t you filling out! A bit of what you fancy and all that!’

  Michelle’s fluffy pink coat trembles as if it’s about to explode and she snarls, ‘I don’t even touch what I fancy!’

  Tina glances at Michelle’s fiancé who is standing behind his future wife as meek as a heavily sedated lamb, and croons, ‘Poor Marcus!’

  For the safety and sanity of all concerned, we proceed to Vivienne’s in two cars. ‘Oh come on,’ I shriek at the car in front which is dawdling along at 40 mph, ‘it’s like she’s driving a hearse!’

  ‘We’re okay, aren’t we?’ says Tina.

  ‘I said I’d meet my mother outside the house at four,’ I bleat, ‘she’ll be incandescent.’

  Sure enough, as we approach Arcadia I spy an irate leprechaun doing a war dance on the pavement. Closer up, the leprechaun morphs into my mother in dark green sweater and matching trousers. Nana Flo is sitting in the Peugeot chewing what appears to be the cud but is probably a mint. I wave and clamber out of the Toyota singing, ‘Luke’s fault!’

  ‘Hurry up!’ roars my mother, face flushed under a fierce layer of foundation. ‘All the fishballs will be gone! Oh! Hello, Luke! Tina! Lizzy! And you two! Goody, everyone’s here. Where’s Tom?’ My face and heart turn to stone and Michelle’s ears flap like kippers in the breeze.

  ‘He’s catsitting Helen’s cat,’ says Tina.

  ‘He’s meditating,’ says Lizzy.

  ‘I ditched him,’ I say.

  ‘I thought he ditched you!’ says Luke.

  ‘He ditched you!’ says Michelle. ‘Gee, you must be devastated!’

  ‘You must be devastated,’ murmurs Marcus, resurrected as a faint echo.

  The only dignified response is for me to laugh breezily and mutter ‘tiny penis,’ under my breath. Then I gesture towards Arcadia, pinch my nose and nasally intone, ‘Okay guys, I’m going in.’

  There is a collective gasp as Vivienne swings open the door, sausaged into a straining red dress.

  ‘Wow, that dress looks tight,’ says Luke in awe. Tina treads heavily on his foot.

  ‘Your dress is to die for!’ breathes Michelle. Vivienne recognises a kindred spirit and smiles broadly.

  ‘Vivvy, there’s lipstick on your teeth,’ says my mother.

  ‘Versace,’ murmurs Tina. ‘Six grand, easy.’

  Nana Flo shuffles and says, ‘Are we going to stand here all day? My legs are killing me.’

  Chastened, Vivienne ushers us into her hallway where we are accosted by a pinafored waitress carrying a tray of champagne.

  ‘Come into the garden, darlings, here,’ – gesturing to a bronzed creature with fluorescent teeth – ‘Zak will take your coats.’ My mother looks narked and makes a swigging gesture behind Vivienne’s back.

  ‘Do you have cranberry juice?’ says Lizzy politely.

  ‘Never,’ replies Vivienne coolly.

  ‘Vivienne is aiming to be the Raquel Welch of mother-in-laws,’ I explain as we step into the garden, ‘so you’ve just been ruled out as a potential wife for Jeremy. You’re too picturesque.’ I point out Jeremy, who is chatting to a waiter.

  ‘Jeremy is dashing,’ says Lizzy admiringly.

  ‘Nice too,’ I say glumly. Lizzy and I retreat to a shady corner and watch the spectacle.

  Vivienne is brushing a piece of fluff off Zak’s brawny arm – the piece of fluff totters angrily off on clicky heels to console herself with a vodka. Michelle and Marcus argue hissily by the trestle table. My mother flirts forcefully with Luke, who clings to Tina’s sleeve like a nit clings to clean hair. Nana Flo eats a gargantuan wedge of lemon meringue then graduates to trifle.

  ‘Shall we do some finger painting?’ giggles Lizzy, after twenty minutes’ captivating surveillance.

  ‘Why not?’ I sigh, and follow her to the huge blank canvas, propped towards the back of the garden at a safe distance from the conservatory.

  Vivienne’s party organiser has squirted a rainbow of paints into plastic basins and placed them in a neat row on the lawn. There is also a bucket of soapy water plus paper towels.

  ‘Do you think we’re allowed?’ whispers Lizzy.

  ‘Vivienne will be thrilled,’ I say. ‘Mum says she wants every guest to contribute a hand print and make a collage. Then she’ll frame it, or sell it to the Tate.’

  Lizzy gingerly dips a finger in red paint and, bang in the middle of the canvas, draws a heart. ‘What fun!’ she simpers. ‘Go on, Helen! I can’t be the only one!’

  I look at Lizzy’s heart and say, ‘Tom used to paint.’ Lizzy smiles sympathetically. I sigh deeply, dip a finger in the blue, and add a dagger to the heart.

  ‘Oh Helen!’ says Lizzy crossly. ‘Don’t be destructive!’

  I scowl and say, ‘I thought being creative was about expressing your feelings.’

  Lizzy dips both hands in the purple and prints an odd-looking butterfly above the heart.

  ‘You two are crap!’ says a cheerful voice. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’

  I roll my eyes at Luke – who is high with relief at escaping my mother – and say, ‘Stand back for Leonardo then.’ Luke dips his right hand in the bowl of black and in huge sprawling letters, which cover at least half the canvas, writes

>   ‘Luke 4 Tina 4 Ever.’

  I glance at Tina who covers her mouth with mock embarrassment. ‘Luke,’ she says, ‘this isn’t school.’ But she smiles the luminous smile of a woman who knows she is adored. My throat constricts. And in a rush I think, ‘Luke used to like me.’ I look at Luke, who has swivelled round for applause. He has a black splodge of paint on his forehead. His shirt is rumpled and there is a dubious stain adjacent to his jean zip. I look at my favourite human labrador but he doesn’t see me because he is blinking shyly at Tina. And the truth washes over me in an ice-cold ripple.

  I love Luke.

  Chapter 49

  IF I REMEMBER correctly, and I probably don’t, a dog in a manger is a person who can’t make use of something but doesn’t want anyone else to have it. I think it’s a biblical reference – as I explained to Jasper, after calling him a dog in a manger for refusing to lend me his driving gloves. ‘But you don’t drive,’ I squawked, ‘and I want to see what it’s like to drive wearing the correct gloves!’ Jasper insisted they’d be too big for me. ‘I don’t care!’ I said. ‘I’m only going to drive round the block!’ Jasper suggested I buy my own pair.

  ‘Don’t be mad,’ I snapped. ‘Only nerds actually buy dri—’.

  Jasper glared and said, ‘You can’t borrow them so don’t ask me again.’ So I called him a dog in a manger and he said, ‘What the hell’s that?’ I said I thought it was to do with Joseph and Mary looking for a manger in which to have Jesus and a dog refusing to let them have his manger.

  Jasper suggested I didn’t know what I was talking about and it was probably allegorical – Jesus being a lamb, and a dog being a dog, and a lamb belonging in a manger and a dog belonging in a kennel, and was I sure the dog was in a manger and was I sure it wasn’t that the dog wouldn’t let Mary and Joseph have Jesus in his kennel? By then I was nearly screaming with frustration. ‘Jasper, I don’t care, they got the manger in the end, now can I borrow the gloves?’

  I remember this particular row with a distinct lack of fondness. I remember it because I am wondering if I am a dog in a manger. I might possibly be the biggest dog (not literally, of course) in the biggest manger in the whole wide world. For instance, have I wanted Tom purely because I like attention and selfishly didn’t want anyone else to have him? Has it been a mere crush? Have I been obsessed by Tom when all the time I was subconsciously in love with Luke?