Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers

by Wendy Perriam

  The notion was a shock, requiring a fundamental rewrite of eleven years of marriage. Perhaps Pat was actually right in criticizing Daniel as highhanded and overbearing. Certainly, she, as wife, hadn’t had much chance to develop her own talents or follow her own interests; his had always taken precedence, just as his decisions had invariably been sacrosanct.

  Disoriented by such a shift of viewpoint, she needed time to speculate on who she might become if she removed herself from Daniel’s custody and compass and struck out on her own. Would she develop as a person, begin to grow in her own right? As if daring to test the theory, she emerged cautiously from the dark sanctuary of the tree, taking her first hesitant steps from engulfing shadow into air and sunlight. And, as she stood in the full light of day, between the tree and the church-porch, the sun no longer seemed gloating or spiteful, but just a simple fact of nature. She could even see it as a blessing that she had come to this peaceful village on such a benignly mellow day. And, because this was Sussex, not Siena, she had to make a conscious effort to shift her mind from the wedding reception – due to start at any moment – and, instead of feeling excluded and rejected, try to move on, as she’d vowed.

  Slowly, she began walking back towards the churchyard gate, suddenly recalling the pub she’d passed when driving through the village an hour or so ago – an attractive-looking, ivy-covered structure, its window-boxes glowing with gold and red chrysanthemums. After a scanty breakfast of tea and toast, her stomach was growling with hunger, so a pub lunch would be welcome before setting out on the long drive home. The prospect made her nervous, though. She never went to pubs on her own, let alone in an unknown place and when feeling so lonely and fragile. Yet couldn’t the very fact of her aloneness provide a chance for change; transform the lunch from an ordeal into a small but solid achievement: her first tiny success in learning she was sufficient in herself? And surely it was significant that the pub was called The Rising Sun, because, if the yew had any lesson to impart, it was that, after night, the sun would always rise, and that cold and darkness must simply be endured, because, like all else, they would pass.

  What might take longer to accept was that every end, however hard and heart-breaking, could be a new beginning, and that even death might – sometimes and just possibly – herald a rebirth. But, however tough the challenge, she had to make a start on crawling free from the crushing weight of her former Daniel-centric universe. The task would call for wisdom, and what better source of wisdom than adopting the perspective of the dispassionate, judicious, far-seeing, grounded yew.

  Determinedly, she turned to face her future and began running down the path towards the car and – she was probably just imagining it – but already there was a strange sensation that she was actually putting out new shoots.

  ‘Ta–ra!’

  My God! She was actually there – at last, in the flesh, just five or six yards from his work-station, miraculously alone at the water-cooler. He had been watching that cooler since Rosie first joined the company, yet never caught a glimpse of her, so far. Not only did they work in different departments, but the firm was so large and anonymous it was easy for a new employee simply to be swallowed up. So why was he sitting paralysed, instead of seizing this one perfect chance to get to know her better?

  He smoothed his hair, straightened his tie and got up from his desk – only to sit down again, not daring to cross the tantalizingly short space between them. Yet, only a month ago, he had actually had the audacity to follow her almost home. By a stroke of luck, he had seen her leave the building – although not alone, alas, but arm-in-arm with Harriet from Accounts, which made it impossible to speak to her. He’d shadowed the pair to the tube, keeping a safe distance behind them, then continued down the escalator to the Piccadilly Line and boarded the same train, watching surreptitiously from behind his newspaper as they talked and laughed together. Sadly, Rosie was oblivious of his adoring scrutiny, but, when, eventually, she alighted at Arnos Grove, he remained in close pursuit. However, although Harriet was no longer with her, he hadn’t liked to approach her in the street, for fear she might realize he’d been stalking her.

  But now there was no need for stalking, because, if he could only pluck up courage, all he had to do was stroll across and join her. Indeed, if he didn’t act immediately, there might never be another opportunity, and he’d spend the rest of his life single, loveless, frustrated and alone. So, despite his semolina legs and steam-pistoning heart, he tried to assume a casual, spur-of-the-moment manner, as if he merely needed a cup of water, rather than being absolutely desperate to initiate a relationship with the woman he’d fallen in love with at first glance.

  ‘Hi! You’re Rosie, aren’t you?’ He cleared his throat. A damned great boulder was obstructing it, making his voice ludicrously high and squeaky – hardly a turn-on for any female. ‘We were introduced your first day here, but I expect you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Not at all. You’re Stephen. I remember your red hair.’

  Bugger his hair – the subject of countless jibes. No redheaded man was ever taken seriously. And, now, to humiliate him further, he was blushing like a teenager; his crimson face clashing, no doubt, with his curly, carroty mop. That brash and bumptious hair, with its defiant corkscrew curls, continually resisted his attempts to dampen it down. If only he, its owner, had as much sheer chutzpah, he would have stormed into Rosie’s department weeks and weeks ago and simply carried her off to some island paradise, where they would now be living blissfully as man and wife.

  ‘I was just wondering if’ – the boulder in his throat had assumed the dimensions of the Himalayas, making it hard to speak at all – ‘if you’d, er, have time for a coffee one day, or maybe lunch or… . There’s a nice little place in Earlham Street – inexpensive and simple and… .’ God! That made him sound mean, as if were trying to ration her. He’d gladly take her to the Ritz, if only she’d say yes; spend the rest of his life paying off the debt.

  ‘I’d love to, Stephen, but I’m afraid things are pretty hectic at the moment. You see, I’m about to move to America.’

  ‘America?’ he gasped. And he’d considered Arnos Grove to be achingly far.

  ‘Yes, it’s terribly exciting! My dad works for Adobe in London, but a fabulous new job came up for him in their Seattle offices, so he and Mum have decided to settle out there permanently. And they’re so thrilled with all things American, they suggested that I join them and, if it grabs me, too, start a whole new life there.’

  His mouth tried to say, ‘Great!’ or ‘Good luck!’ or something appropriately congratulatory. Instead, it was screaming ‘Horror’, ‘Disaster’, ‘Tragedy’, ‘Don’t do this or you’ll kill me, Rosie.’

  A lame ‘Oh’, was all he finally managed, although he began desperately seeking reasons why the plan was fundamentally flawed. ‘But how will you find a job?’ he demanded. ‘I mean, it’s tremendously difficult getting a Green Card, or being allowed in to the country at all.’ There must be some reason she would be barred from ever setting foot there: she was a terrorist, a drug addict, a Communist, a spy – or, to be absolutely certain, all four at once.

  ‘Oh, Dad’s already pulled strings, found me a temporary niche at Adobe. It’s very low-key, of course, but I prefer that anyway. I’ve never been an ambitious type, so it suits me fine doing something small but useful.’

  They were gratifyingly alike in that respect. Indeed, the very reason he was attracted to Rosie was her simplicity and naturalness, her soft voice and self-effacing manner, which tallied with her looks. Her face, as rosy as her name, was free of all the gloop and glitz most other females wore; her long, flowing hair not stiff with lacquer, or coloured an unlikely shade. He would be terrified to touch such women, for fear of disarranging their coiffures, or kissing off their lip-gloss or whatever it was they wore. Nor did Rosie go in for the sharp, threatening talons that Harriet seemed to favour, painted shiny blue or bilious green, or even studded with fake rhinestones, and looking nothing
like real nails at all. He’d bet his bottom dollar that Rosie had never visited a nail-bar in her life – except he mustn’t even think of dollars, because they reminded him of her imminent move to America.

  ‘Er, when exactly are you going?’

  ‘Three weeks’ time. I’ve given in my notice and I stop work on the tenth. Then I have a week free before my actual flight. My boss is pissed off, of course, because I’ve only been here a couple of months, but I just have to take this chance, Stephen. My parents have already found an apartment – a fabulous one, they say, with plenty of room for me!’

  Three weeks still offered hope – time enough to make her change her plans, although, first, there was the little matter of getting to know her better. A hundred schemes began flashing through his mind. He must move to Arnos Grove, so he could catch the same train home, bump into her at the local shops, join her at the weekend in some trendy North London café. And, once they were seeing more of each other, he would find the courage to declare his undying love – the only problem being that he couldn’t afford to rent a flat in any part of London. Yet, on second thoughts, who needed a flat at all, if Rosie were at hand? He would happily sleep on cardboard, or spend the nights on a park bench, so long as he could see her, touch her, smell her scent, hear her lilting voice.

  He noticed, with alarm, that she’d finished her water, put the cup down and was obviously about to leave. He must be bolder, for heaven’s sake, stop wobbling like a jelly and arrange some sort of meeting before it was too late. ‘Look, I … I totally understand how busy you must be, with all that going on. But how about a quick drink after work?’

  Before she could say no, he resorted to a little creative improvisation. ‘You see, strangely enough, I’m hoping to move to the States myself. It’s always been a dream of mine to work on the West Coast, so if you could spare the time for a brief chat, just to fill me in on job opportunities and immigration procedures and—’

  ‘I’m afraid I know very little about them. My dad’s taken care of all that.’

  ‘Just half an hour,’ he begged, not caring if he sounded desperate. He was desperate. ‘There’s a Café Nero in Long Acre, very close to your tube station, so at least it wouldn’t take you out of your way.’ Shit, he thought, he wasn’t meant to know where she lived. He blundered on, however, determined to persuade her. ‘Is there the slightest chance you could meet me there today – say, at five-forty-five, after work?’

  By nature bashful and accommodating, he was acting totally out of character, maybe actually alienating her by coming across as insensitive, even overbearing. But this was a crisis situation and he dared not risk losing the woman who made all other females seem crass, false, lumpen, plain and pushy.

  The pause that followed his audacious invitation lasted so long he felt himself grow old. His hair was turning white, his back was sprouting a hump, and he now walked with a stick and wore a hearing-aid.

  ‘OK, Stephen, I guess half an hour won’t hurt. And, anyway, it would be great to get to know you better.’

  The walking-stick and hearing-aid fell magically away. He was not only young again, he was tall, dark, handsome, courageous and utterly irresistible. ‘Fine,’ he said, trying to sound as if all he had in mind was just a casual coffee, and not, to use her own phrase, the start of a whole new life.

  ‘I must get back to work, but see you at Café Nero, quarter to six. Ta-ra for now, Stephen.’

  ‘Ta-ra for now’ – he savoured her farewell like a sweet, pink puffball of candy-floss. But it was those other unforgettable words that were replaying over and over in his head: ‘It would be great to get to know you better.’ Not only would she get to know him; she would realize they belonged together. Indeed, work was out of the question for the rest of the afternoon, since every shred of his concentration was focused on the challenge of how best to effect that miracle in so worryingly short a time.

  ‘Stephen! What the hell are you doing? Your supper’s getting cold.’

  He groaned aloud at his mother’s wrathful summons. How could cold chips or a congealing lamb chop be of the slightest importance compared to trying to sort out the intricacies of obtaining a visa to America and, more difficult still, a Green Card? He had long ago given up on the official sites – too complex and too technical – and had now resorted to Yahoo, where there were yards and yards of detailed answers to the basic question: ‘How hard would it be for a Brit to move to the States?’

  Extremely hard, apparently. He could apply to study at an American university – so long as he could lay his hands on $60,000 for the fees. Or he could become a nurse, a special-needs teacher, an Olympic athlete, or a famous actor or rock star, none of which seemed exactly feasible. If he owned a business worth $200,000 or more, America would welcome him with open arms – as it also would if he held at least $1 million in assets and planned to invest the lot in the States. Alternatively, he could discover Jesus, train as a minister of religion and follow his calling in an American church – tricky for an atheist. The final route open to a would-be immigrant was to make a claim for political asylum; one likely to be supported by a private bill from Congress – not a hope in hell.

  He had, in fact, given every option due consideration; even toyed with the idea of taking up the guitar and adopting a Mick Jagger look (not easy with his pallid skin, impossible hair and non-existent musical talent), but apart from robbing a couple of banks, the only possible means of entry was marriage to an American citizen. And the more he thought about it, the more satisfyingly simple that solution seemed to be. If Rosie applied for citizenship, then all he would need to do was book a holiday to Seattle and, after a couple of weeks with her, go down on his knees and whip out the engagement ring.

  However, he had to face the depressing truth that they were nowhere near the ring stage yet. After a scant half-hour in Café Nero, she had rushed off home, claiming an evening engagement, which had left him devastated; forced to consider the possibility that she already had a boyfriend, or, worse, a live-in partner. Desperately, he had asked around the office, even quizzed the forbidding Harriet, but no one seemed to know, or, if they did, had no intention of telling him. So his number-one priority was to arrange another meeting and somehow bring up the subject. How he hadn’t yet decided.

  What he did know, after those thirty enchanted minutes – and the Café Nero was now analogous to Heaven – was that Rosie was utterly his type: sweet-natured, unaffected, in a word, angelic. They both loved cats and country walks and both supported Spurs. Indeed, he’d been so thrilled to learn more about her, it had proved extremely difficult to keep up the pretence that he merely wanted information about moving to the States, when it was all he could do not to strip off her clothes and make love to her right there. In his mind, he did exactly that, ignoring the disapproval of the waiter to lay her tenderly on the counter and trust that the throbbing gurgle of the espresso machine would muffle their ecstatic cries, as they embarked on the most passionate encounter in the whole history of the world.

  ‘I’m not calling you again, Stephen. If you don’t come down this minute, that’s the last meal I ever cook for you!’

  His mother was now yelling from the bottom of the stairs, drowning out his fantasies. Once he married Rosie, his bewitchingly beautiful wife would never need to summon him to any meal or activity. He would be cemented to her side morning, noon and night – especially night. He had taken her to bed so many times, he now knew every nook and cranny of her body; had sucked her nipples, tongued her breasts, let his mouth move slowly lower, lower, until it penetrated the glorious thicket of her bush… .

  Another bellow from below. Hastily, he banished Rosie, leaping naked from their dishevelled double bed. ‘Sorry, Mum. Just coming!’

  But, once at the door, he couldn’t resist doubling back for one last look at the screen. Millions of Americans are being made redundant, so you haven’t got a dog’s chance of employment, unless you can offer something really, really special.

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nbsp; Did they have to be so damned depressing? His lowly job as an assistant credit controller in an obscure hire-purchase firm was hardly likely to cut much ice with the American Embassy. And, of course, it was also pretty pathetic to be still living with his parents in a dreary part of suburbia, but he couldn’t afford the rent on even a tiny bedsit, let alone the deposit on a house. However, Rosie would inspire him – that he knew as a fact. Once they were together, his earning power would magically increase; he’d be promoted to CEO, manage a vast portfolio of investments, own a string of racehorses, even the odd Picasso or two.

  ‘Stephen, your mother’s going bananas!’

  His father suddenly erupted into the room. Quick as a flash, Stephen closed down his laptop. The last thing he wanted was his parents getting wind of his immigration plans. His dad, however, glanced from his guilty face to the now-blank screen, looking increasingly suspicious.

  ‘Look here, Stephen,’ he said, sounding both accusing and embarrassed, ‘your mother and I are beginning to suspect you’re watching porn up here. I mean, the hours you’ve been spending closeted alone of late, and the fact you’ve just turned off your computer shows you’re up to no good. I’m well aware how easy it is to log on to these so-called adult sites, but I need to warn you, son, you could end up as a sex-addict, unable to have any normal relationships.’

  ‘It’s not porn, Dad, I swear.’

  ‘Well, what is it, then, that’s so damned secret, and means you never join us downstairs these days, for your favourite telly programmes?’

  ‘I’m er … just studying facts and figures – all that sort of stuff.’ Those figures were hardly encouraging: a miniscule number of Green Cards issued every year, as against millions of applications.