Whatever Happened to Vicky Hope's Back Up Man?

by Laura Kemp

  ‘This is amazing, Murphy!’ she said, lying back and resting her head on the cushion. ‘It’s so quiet up here.’

  ‘Apart from that siren.’

  He walked over and hesitated at the bed: he didn’t want to barge into her space. But she was lost in the sky and so he joined her, settling down as far away as he politely could, putting his arm beneath his head.

  ‘And I can see the stars.’

  ‘If you block out the orangey glow from the lights.’

  ‘Mike… Murphy, I’ve just had the weirdest déjà vu. To that night before I left. We were star-gazing then.’

  His heart almost stopped at the memory of their hug.

  ‘Almost nine years ago,’ she said.

  He didn’t dare breathe. He didn’t want her to go back because he would follow her.

  ‘Remember… that was when I asked you to be my back-up man? How blinking rid-ic-ulous!’ She laughed and he shut his eyes as he recalled how he’d tried to resist her suggestion. He’d told himself then he hadn’t wanted to be tied down but now he knew it was because he’d never wanted to be her second best. To not be her first choice.

  And as his father was sleeping a couple of floors down from him, he found himself wondering if all he’d been doing in between that night they made their pledge and now was drifting to avoid anything that would ask difficult questions of him. It struck him that all he wanted was to belong to her.

  ‘Mad we’re still here, now, isn’t it?’ she said, her voice louder, which meant she’d turned to look at him.

  He fought the urge to face her but failed: there she was, across from him, her eyes searching his and he felt himself being sucked in, falling.

  ‘I wish we hadn’t lost touch, you know,’ she said.

  He knew exactly how she felt. This conversation, the one he’d been avoiding all his adult life, was going to happen. But he couldn’t do it now because he wanted to hold onto this moment.

  Then he felt her hand brush his and he couldn’t help it, he was done for. She rubbed his scar with her finger as if trying to heal him. He shifted over, not breaking eye contact, wary to see if she didn’t want this. But she was looking at him with some kind of need, mirroring his and she rolled into him and their bodies came together in a moment of sheer bliss. Murphy wrapped his arms around her and held her into his chest, the top of her head nestled in beneath his chin. Nothing but their hearts beating: his was calling to hers and he didn’t know what the fuck was happening but it was the most beautiful and pure hug of his life.

  As if he’d found the missing piece.

  *

  St Mary’s Church, Cardiff, November 2008

  The tears won’t come. Even when he thinks of Mam down there, alone, in the freezing ground, dressed in her Sunday best and her pretend pearls.

  He turns away from the freshly dug earth covering her grave to face the biting wind which whips his chops. At least he can feel that and the grit of the soil in his palms. But beyond that, there’s a vast nothing, a numbness that goes on and on.

  He sniffs, wondering if it’s the beginning of emotion. But it’s only from the cold. He’s made of ice and his feet are blocks as he walks to Orla, who’s weeping in her boyfriend Phil’s arms. Mikey didn’t bring anyone. He’s seeing a girl at work who’s on the rebound, it won’t be permanent, he can never find one who fits.

  Across crunching grass and gravel, they go to the car, where Dad’s already waiting, his knee jerking, his nose red. A battered silver hip flask is in his shaking hand, already near-empty, he can tell by the way he has to tip it high to get a drink.

  For fuck’s sake, he’s going to be legless before the cling film has been taken off the buffet.

  The motor starts. It feels like they’re in a giant airless coffin, travelling in silence, bar Orla’s juddering sobs, beside him: Phil is in the front, so she tucks her head into Murphy’s neck. Her mourning veil, Mam’s one, is scratchy on his skin but he can bear that. They hold hands as Dad stares straight ahead the whole journey, just as he did in St Mary’s and in the graveyard.

  It doesn’t hit him when he enters the house either: that Mam’s not around. She was in the hospice for the last weeks, so it’s not a shock.

  He left for good in March, before he found out it was cancer, went to London, sleeping on Orla’s floor in her student hole, eventually getting his chance to start at the Apple store when a position came up. It’s everything he wanted: people into the same stuff as him, quick minds and fast fingers. He’s doing well, better than actually, on the Genius bar now. In the nights, he’s working on an app, it’ll take him forever to get it right, a game of some sort. The App Store only opened in July but one-hundred million were downloaded in the first sixty days alone. That’s the future, right there. His life is miles away from here in this room where a handful of people stand talking quietly and give him sympathetic looks.

  Mam didn’t have many mates; the church lot got dumped long ago. A few from her work, Dad’s drinking pals, a couple of neighbours and a middle-aged woman he doesn’t recognize. She was at the mass too. Turned up late, by herself. Hovering now by the table, ready to hoover up her share.

  Murphy opens a can and stands with Orla at the fireplace. There’s chit-chat of the priest doing a lovely funeral and wasn’t she a lovely lady, all that shite.

  Mam’s friend, Siobhan, who did cleaning with her, is in charge. Mam told her what she wanted and fair play she’s done it to the letter. She knew Dad would be incapable. Intoxicated. There was no wake, Mam didn’t want people tramping dirt into the house while she was still in it. But there’s a vase of wildflowers and a good spread of sandwiches cut in triangles, cocktail sausages and a tea loaf.

  The woman he doesn’t know comes towards him. Something familiar about her hair, black with silver streaks, and golden eyes.

  ‘Hello there,’ she says, softly in an Irish accent. ‘We haven’t met. I’m your—’

  ‘They don’t want to know who you are,’ Dad says, lurching in.

  ‘Dad?’ Murphy says, looking at him. He’s got spit at the corner of his mouth and he’s already taken his tie off. He looks ready for battle and this isn’t the place.

  ‘I didn’t tell you lot about Bernie for you to come.’ Dad is jabbing his finger in the air which is thick with musty suits and hairspray, what Mam called lacquer.

  ‘Please…’ The woman looks as if she’s been stung by a wasp. ‘Brynmor, not today.’

  Murphy hasn’t heard anyone call him that for years. They know each other, of old.

  ‘Don’t you come in here telling me what to do in my own house.’ He’s gone white now.

  Murphy can see people looking and he knows Mam would be losing it if she was here. ‘Dad, come away. Leave it.’

  He stands in front of him, holds up his arms and shuffles him out into the gloomy hallway.

  ‘Calm it, Dad.’ Sometimes this works, taking him out of a situation. ‘You need me to make a speech? I’ll do it if you need, thank everyone for coming.’

  His father dips his head, breathing hard. Which way is he going to go? Come on, Dad, do the right thing, for once.

  But he pulls his spine up and steps towards Murphy.

  ‘This is my bloody house,’ he says. He’s close enough for Murphy to smell his sour breath. His eyes are bloodshot and a lock of his hair has come loose. ‘No one is telling me what to do.’ Full of menace and fury.

  ‘Course not, it’s cool.’

  Dad’s sizing him up and Murphy waits, willing him to pull himself back from the fire.

  Suddenly Dad shoots out his hand and puts it round Murphy’s neck, pinning him to the wall. He’s much stronger than he’s ever given him credit for and his grip is tight. Murphy knows the old man isn’t going to kill him, but even so he shits himself because it makes breathing hard. He wants to throw him off but he can’t, like he just wants it over with. He can’t fight his father at Mam’s funeral.

  ‘You get that woman out of my house. Now.’
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  His hand falls and he stands there shivering as Murphy backs away, sucking the air, scared not by his father but by the demons in his head.

  Into the room, the woman sees him and the situation and she gets her handbag. Orla has her mouth open.

  ‘I’m going,’ the woman says, picking her coat off the stairs, fumbling to get it on, to get away. ‘I didn’t mean any of this,’ she says, slipping out. ‘I wanted to pay my respects. Because times have changed.’

  What the hell does that mean?

  Orla is in the hall now, still with a gob like a bucket.

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Mam’s sister…’ Orla whispers it like it’s a secret.

  ‘Jesus.’ They’ve never ever met any of Mam’s family. It was never discussed. It was just the way it was. ‘Bad people,’ Mam only ever said.

  ‘Brigid. She said she came to represent her brothers. One’s in America, the other in Ireland, too ill to fly. She flew in this morning. That’s why she was late.’

  Murphy clutches his neck which feels sore. Swallowing hurts and his head is going off on one.

  ‘Did she say why we never met her? Any of them? Why Mam cut them out?’

  Orla’s eyes, usually the colour of flames, have gone rusty.

  ‘Problems in the past was all she said. Then you came in. What happened with Dad?’

  Murphy cranes his head into the room and sees him slumped in his chair, his knuckles white round a bottle of whisky.

  ‘Nothing.’ He’s not going to tell her the score. He picks at a bit of peeling floral wallpaper. It’s bumpy underneath. Woodchip. Like that Pulp song.

  ‘I wish Vicky was here,’ Orla says out of nowhere, her lip wobbling. He knows exactly what she means. She’d make it all all right, dilute the tension. Why didn’t he just knock on her mam’s door last week? He’d gone there after Mam died, his hand was about to bang the knocker. He was sure Vicky would come if she knew what had happened. But then he’d thought, what if she didn’t? What if her mam told her and then she stayed away? It was better not to put himself through that.

  ‘Well, she’s not,’ he says, grimly. For the best because he couldn’t face her after what he did with Kat. He has to shut this down because Orla knows nothing of that night – she’d been at uni then, oblivious. He doesn’t know where Kat is – she could be beneath the rubble of the banking crisis for all he cares. For any thought of her reminds him of what they did, how they abused each other because they were fucked up without Vicky - now they’re forever contaminated by it. Even if he wanted to build bridges with Vicky, that night would always be lurking in the background.

  And then as Phil appears with a pork pie and puts his arm around Orla, Murphy points to the bathroom and walks in a blur through the kitchen to the back and locks himself in and sits on the loo and finally his shoulders begin to heave with sorrow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  V

  Murphy’s roof garden

  She was in his arms, breathing him in, unable to believe it was happening.

  It was the cuddle of her entire life. Yes, she’d been drinking and yes, she had longed for someone’s touch since the day she’d walked out on Jez. Yet she didn’t feel drunk on booze now: the vodka was untouched. She was drunk on Murphy. But at the same time, completely sober.

  Opening her eyes to the darkness of his body, she checked to see if she was rotating, seasick, but everything was still. It was impossible that this clarity was happening now when she was at her most wonky: when her life was in limbo. It had to be just a fleeting calm amidst a storm. But they’d been lying here for ages now, silent. Neither of them had pulled away in awkwardness, neither of them had cracked a joke or made excuses. There was just their shared warmth, their breathing in unison. Her face was tucked into the smooth skin of his neck and he smelled so good: salty from the gig but natural, his own personal scent which was masculine and earthy. She could feel his deep reassuring pulse against her cheek and his hands caressing her back. Smoothing strokes which became more intense squeezes every now and again. Her right hand was up against his chest: the thin fabric of his T-shirt barely concealed his muscular form which had a smattering of hair. Her left was wrapped around his waist, her fingers tracing the sinew of his back, and their legs were entwined. The only way they could be any closer was if they were as one: the thought made her pelvis ache and she wondered if his did too.

  Where had this come from? The night had been fantastic, as if all of their sins had been forgiven. Murphy had turned up a different person and they had got on so well. She’d gone out determined to have a good time, to go nowhere near the danger zones which had muddied their other recent contact. No expectations, no needing to heal herself, their relationship – she had had enough of the analysis. If he began to back off as he had done, as he’d always done, then she would accept it. She couldn’t force him to do anything. So what was behind the change? She had to know.

  ‘This is…’ she whispered, uncertain but unable to keep it within.

  ‘I know,’ he said into her forehead, his lips touching her skin as if it were a kiss.

  ‘How has this…’ she said, giving him permission to return to himself. To bring up their past.

  ‘Dunno. Truly.’ He sounded as spellbound as she was.

  And still they clung onto one another. Happiness but also desire was flooding through her. Could she trust herself to cope with whatever was going to happen if it were to happen?

  The feelings she’d had for him would come back stronger. Who was she kidding? They were already here: this was why she had got back in touch with him. She knew then that she had always been in love with him. Always.

  She anticipated suspicion: was he a player? Was he doing this because he was vulnerable? Were they using one another? She discovered she just didn’t care: she only wanted to be next to him like this under the orangey sky.

  Her thoughts translated into movement as her right hand reached up his neck, and his followed, their fingertips exploring what they had always seen but never known. She rested her mouth on his skin and allowed her breath to communicate her longing. He moved just an inch, as if he was giving himself to her, exposing his throat, unguarded, and she pressed her lips into his neck. Still she needed to know if this was right for him.

  It was. He rolled his chin up and stroked her back. Further, she thought, go further, and his hand went lower, lingering on her hip. Then it was on her backside, motionless, waiting for a signal. It was intoxicating, their slow movements both teasing but innocent because this was uncharted territory for them both. They moved a fraction, telling one another they were consenting, and so she kissed his neck once, twice, and his breathing became heavy. Again she nuzzled him and his hand around her back pushed her into him all over.

  Pulsing everywhere, she led her lips upwards as he dipped his head until their cheeks were touching. His eyelashes brushed her skin and his lips crept to hers. And then their mouths were tantalizingly close. She waited to hear a voice telling her it was wrong, they were friends, that this would lead to problems, but there was nothing.

  The anticipation of years and years came to an end in a split second as their lips met and Vee forgot all of the things she had been desperate to know.

  Only this moment mattered.

  Chapter Twenty

  K

  Cowbridge

  Kate saw her reflection in the window of Fromage and it confirmed what she knew already: she looked as if she’d been dragged through a jungle backwards.

  Her hair was wild from the blustery wind and she had the tell-tale signs of break-up make-up – almost cried-off mascara and barely there foundation from all the nose-blowing.

  But then what did it matter? She was hardly game for the deli’s Summer Singles Cheese and Wine Night. Only here for Vee, who’d been frightened it would be just her, Pierre and the beardy bloke who, she said, smelled worse than his beloved Époisses de Bourgogne and wondered why he was alone in this world.

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nbsp; But by the looks of it, Kate thought as she walked in, a fair few, around twenty, had turned out. It occurred to her that it was busy enough for her to walk straight back out again but too late, she'd been seen.

  ‘Kate! You came!’ Vee said, weaving through the still-self-conscious throng. Initially flushed with excitement and nerves, her face had changed to deep concern by the time she got to Kate. ‘How are you? You really don't have to be here, you know, you must be feeling awful. Go, really. Don’t stay here for me.’

  ‘I owe you,’ Kate said, not just for the shoulder when they’d gone shoe shopping but for every other way she’d wronged her.

  ‘You don’t! Seriously, if you’re not up to it then-.’ Her kindness was so innocent, so unconditional that Kate had to work hard to keep herself in check.

  ‘Stop! I want to be here, for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Now go and circulate, your public awaits! We’ll chat later.’

  Vee gave her ‘if you’re sure, you’re sure' look before Kate waved her off to start the proceedings. Only for Pierre to pop up by her side holding out a glass of red. Did he know about her and Jack? By the way he grabbed her into a bear hug, it was an obvious ‘yes’. Either Jack or Vee would’ve told him - and while she was touched, she didn't want tonight to be about her woes.

  She managed to squeak ‘I’m fine’ into his chest before she was saved from tears by Vee tapping her glass to begin the welcome and explain the format of the evening. Groups of four would spend ten minutes at each table, where wines and cheeses were paired up for their enjoyment; Pierre and Vee would move amongst them, answering questions. Then a mingle before proceedings ended at nine o’clock. Romance optional. And then they were off.