Losing It

by Jane Asher

  I’d been in my hotel for about three weeks, when the wonderful moment came, which I had hardly dared to hope for, when Lena suggested I move in with them. God knows what she thought of me and my obsession with her daughter – she’s no fool and sensed immediately what I was after – but for some unknown and blessed reason she clearly trusted that I was not going to abuse or hurt Stacey, and could see that the potential advantages I could offer outweighed the not-inconsiderable drawbacks of my being a married man a quarter of a century or so older than Stacey.

  It was a Tuesday, and I had, as usual, called in to see them after leaving the office at Lincoln’s Inn. Funnily enough, I think I would have been quite content for my life to go on in just that way for some time: the novelty of every thought and emotion being bound up with the girl I knew I would see at the end of each day was enough to keep me going. But this particular evening, unplanned and unforeseen, I moved things on a stage. We were sitting on the settee (‘World of Leather sale, last year,’ as Lena had proudly informed me) and my arm was draped along the back, hovering above Stacey’s shoulder, bare where her blouse had slipped down on one side. A game show was on the television, and Lena was either engrossed or effectively pretending to be, and, almost without thinking, I let the tips of my fingers drop down onto Stacey’s soft, dimpled flesh. The unexpected feel of it, warm and supremely yielding as marshmallow, made my body spasm in delight. She didn’t move, so I ventured further and hooked my index finger under the deeply imbedded bra strap and eased it gently to and fro, enjoying the tautness of the fine strip of fabric against my finger and sensing the giant breast being lifted and weighed as I did so. She shifted slightly, stirring the sofa and challenging the springs with the change of enormous weight, and I glanced at her, anxious that I had gone too far. The pink of her cheek and little smile of pleasure reassured me, and the quick look of complicity that she threw me over the top of her glasses couldn’t have been clearer had she had YES flashing on her forehead in neon.

  I smiled at her and she looked away and back towards the game-show contestants on the screen, who were applauding themselves in a confusion of over-excited enthusiasm. Stacey was still smiling, and, keeping a careful eye on Lena, who was nibbling on a cereal bar and apparently still engrossed in the game, I very slowly bent my head and kissed the side of her neck, nuzzling into the folds of delicious flesh and breathing in the smell of cheap perfume tinged with that of sweat. She giggled a little and I snapped my head back up again, terrified that Lena would look over. I decided to take no chances and pulled my arm away from her and stood up, stretching my back and sighing at the same time to cover my awkwardness.

  ‘Well,’ I yawned, ‘it’s about time I made my way home. Or what I laughingly call home, that is.’

  That was, in all honesty, meant as a joke, but it patently struck some maternal chord in Stacey’s mother that was to be the catalyst in moving my life yet again into a new and terrifyingly wonderful phase. Or maybe she had been planning her invitation for some time, and simply felt that I had at last given her the obvious cue that would justify it without her appearing to be too forward.

  ‘I was thinking, Charlie,’ she said, not looking at me, and still apparently concentrating on the screen, ‘why don’t you come and stay with Stace and me for a bit? Seems silly, you spending money on that hotel every night, don’t it? We could do with a man about the house, and Stace and I are very fond of you, aren’t we, love?’

  Stacey looked up at me and the wry smile I so adored grew wider. ‘Sure we are, Ma.’ She grinned. ‘Me and Ma are right fond of you, Charlie. Come and stay, if you like.’

  The sheer pleasure of that moment was almost too much to take, and I swayed on my feet as a wave of dizziness overtook me. With a huge effort I managed to control my voice and produce a semblance of normal speech: ‘How very kind of you, Lena. It does seem a bit foolish, doesn’t it? Since I – since I, er – had to move out of my home, I’m like you, Lena – I mean, without a partner, so to speak, and it certainly does get a bit lonely, doesn’t it? As we’re both in the same boat, as it were, it might seem sensible to –’ I glanced across at her, and saw an echo of Stacey’s knowing expression in the eyes that were now turned towards me. ‘I mean, we could sort of pool resources, couldn’t we? I absolutely insist that I pay my way. We must work out a fair rent and then you must let me contribute to the food and so on.’

  ‘You’ll have to share a room, of course.’

  They were as near to openly laughing at me as you could get, but I was too drunk with excitement to care, or to wonder exactly which room Lena meant – what the hell: nothing was too much to contemplate – I’d fuck the mother, like Lolita’s lover, if that would get me to Stacey.

  ‘Of course.’

  I kept looking at them; both women’s eyes were pinned on me like jurors’ on a defendant, watching and waiting for a sign that would betray my guilt. With an effort I stopped myself adding anything further, letting the game-show host fill the silence with his maniacally positive whoops and cries.

  Finally, after a dramatically timed pause that would have done credit to one of my best summing-ups, Lena spoke.

  ‘With Stacey.’

  That did it: I had to sit down again. There was only so much emotion my poor old frame could take standing, and that had topped it. I wiped a hand over my face in an effort to stop my smile becoming so huge and daft that I looked insane, and cleared my throat unnecessarily.

  ‘Great. That would be lovely, Lena – as long as Stacey doesn’t mind, of course.’

  Judy

  I can’t find Ben, and I’m beginning to worry. He was out the night before last and I didn’t think anything of it when I woke yesterday and found his bed empty because I assumed he’d just stayed with one of his friends. It is still the holidays, after all, so it’s not surprising if he wants to spread his wings a bit before he has to go back – it’s going to be hard for him this coming term with all the work he has to do and the upheaval going on. So I didn’t even bother to ring Holly’s or Tim’s or any of the other places he might have spent the night. But when I realised he hadn’t slept here last night either, I thought I ought to check: it’s so unlike him not to ring in. And now no one seems to know where he is – I’ve tried all the places I can think of and have no idea where to look next. I’ve left messages on his mobile, but he’s often bad at switching that on, so it doesn’t necessarily mean anything that he hasn’t rung me back.

  What’s really worried me is that when I mentioned it to Sally she looked as anxious as I felt – I was so sure she’d brush it off and accuse me of being fussy like she usually does, but she didn’t: she took it very seriously indeed and said what sounded like, ‘I’ve been expecting something like this,’ under her breath. When I questioned her she immediately backed off and pretended to be more casual, because, of course, she could see I was getting panicky, and I can imagine the last thing any of them want at the moment is a panicking mother. I am trying, I really am, but it’s all getting on top of me and I’m not sure I can cope any more.

  So I suppose I’ve got to get in touch with Charlie – that’s the next move, I can see that. Ben may well have gone to him – I know how much he’s missed him since he left – and he wouldn’t want to tell me because he knows it would upset me. I know where Charlie’s staying because he rang and left the number on the answering machine (‘in case of emergency’, he said – huh!) and I found out where it was and drove past it a couple of weeks ago. It’s a horrible little private hotel in Pimlico: the sort of place we would have sneered at in the old days. I really ought to ring him and ask about Ben, but I’m not sure I can face it. So should I get Sally to do it? Or is that not fair on her? I just don’t know what to do. I’m going to look so foolish at having to ask where Ben is, as if I can’t keep track of my own children just because my husband’s gone.

  Thank God I haven’t got any immediate inspections coming up, partly because I don’t like the idea of leaving the children
alone, but also, if I’m honest, because I’m not sure I’m in a fit state to conduct one properly. The idea of judging anything or anyone is hard to contemplate at the moment, and all this has made it utterly unimportant. I can’t honestly care one jot how well or badly this wretched country is educating its young: I just want my life back.

  But then I remember how Charlie looked at me the last time I saw him and I know that life can never come back, ever. I think he hates me. I wish I could hate him. But I don’t. I still love him, absurdly and irrationally. It’s myself I hate.

  Charlie

  Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on? I went to check out of the hotel this morning and my credit card wouldn’t go through. I wasn’t that surprised, as I knew the hotel bill had mounted up over the weeks and I’ve never really been aware which day of the month our card accounts are settled – Judy has always been the one to handle the financial side of things, shifting funds around as necessary to and from our joint current and deposit accounts over the years as our fortunes ebbed and flowed, shoving anonymous bits of paper under my nose for signature when necessary.

  I left my bits and pieces behind at the hotel desk, together with my driving licence and so on to reassure them I wasn’t going to do a runner, and told them I’d sort it out during the day and come back and collect my things and settle up later.

  At about eleven o’clock I had a good half-hour or so free, so I rang the bank, intending to arrange a transfer to cover the amount owing on the card plus a good bit more to settle the hotel bill and keep me going for the foreseeable future until I could get together with Judy and seriously discuss how we were going to progress our new, separate lives. My instinct is that, since Sally’s going to be away in Leeds for the next three years and hardly seems to stay at home in any case, the most efficient use of our resources would be to sell the house and divide up the profits. That place is far too big for Judy and Ben on their own (and it won’t be long before he’s off too, in any case), and if I could persuade them to find a little flat instead, perhaps a bit further out of town, we could all live quite well without causing any major problems. I know it may not be easy to get Judy to see it that way, but I’m hoping to approach it when she’s in the right mood and make her think it’s her idea.

  So I rang the bank. It had been ages since I’d done so, and it took me some time to negotiate all the irritating automated choices before I finally reached a human being (and I use the term loosely). The flat-voiced, unhelpful young man to whom I eventually spoke appeared determined to block every attempt I made to communicate with him. I’d given him my name and address, which seemed to me a reasonable starting point for identifying myself and checking the amount available in my current account, but I was clearly misguided.

  ‘Account number?’

  A fall at the first fence. How the hell could I find it? In the old days, I would simply have pulled a chequebook out of my pocket and found the number at the bottom, but I hadn’t carried one on my person for years, relying on cash or credit cards whenever I was out of the house, and only using the occasional cheque at home to pay for the bills not dealt with by Judy – usually those for presents for her, ironically.

  ‘Ah,’ I floundered, ‘now that may be a problem. I’m afraid I don’t have a chequebook on me and –’

  ‘I’ll need the account number.’

  ‘Is Mr Benson there?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Benson – the manager.’

  I swear there was a snigger on the other end of the line.

  ‘There’s no Mr Benson here – this is a central communication and information facility. Where is this Mr Benson based?’

  ‘In the bank, of course. Where I’m phoning. The manager.’ I was getting irritable; it had taken me all of fourteen minutes to get through to this chap, and I could see my precious half-hour disappearing fast. ‘Who else is in charge there, then? Let me speak to the new manager.’

  ‘You’re not speaking to a branch, Mr Thornton. This is a central commu—’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right. Well, what is the number of the branch, then? And what is the name of the manager? I’m sure I dialled my bank’s number, so I don’t understand how I –’

  ‘Your call has been transferred. Which branch facility do you access, Mr Thornton?’

  ‘Ludlow Street, Victoria.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  A click and I was back to an electronic Für Elise, drumming my fingers on the desk in an attempt to dissipate my annoyance and stop myself hanging up. Surprisingly quickly, he was back.

  ‘Ludlow Street branch has been closed for some time, Mr Thornton.’

  ‘Really? How extraordinary – I had no idea. So how can I get hold of Mr Benson?’

  ‘And he is?’

  ‘I told you. The manager.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘The manager of my bank. Ludlow Street branch.’ It was taking a supreme effort not to lose my temper.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Ludlow Street branch is closed.’

  ‘Yes, I know. You told me. But I’d like to talk to him, you see, as I need to check some details of my account. Do you have any idea how I can get hold of him?’

  ‘I’ll try to find out, Mr Thornton. If you’ll –’

  ‘No! Don’t bother. Just tell me – is there any way I can find details of my account without having the account number or speaking to my bank manager?’

  ‘Wife’s mother’s maiden name and DOB.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If you can give me your wife’s mother’s maiden name and your wife’s date of birth, Mr Thornton, I may be able to access the information you require. It tells me on my screen that these are the security inputs on your account.’

  Inwardly seething at not having been given this information earlier in the conversation, I took a deep breath and glanced at my watch. Still plenty of time before I needed to get back to work.

  ‘Milton. Judith Milton. No, sorry, of course that’s her own maiden name, isn’t it? You wanted her mother’s. Hang on – oh, for God’s sake, I’m so sorry – this is ridiculous, let me think a sec. Mrs Milton, she was – well, obviously – and her maiden name was … was –’ Every time I tried to picture Judy’s mother, absurdly, Stacey’s mother Lena would come into my mind. ‘Just give me a moment – let me concentrate. B. It begins with a B, I’m sure.’ I paused briefly, hoping that the young man’s silence could be taken as confirmation. Then, suddenly, it was there. ‘No, I’m mad. Cunningham. That’s it. Cunningham.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘Hers? Mrs – Miss Cunningham’s?’

  ‘No, Mr Thornton. Your wife’s. Mrs Thornton’s.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course – sorry. I’m being foolish. Um – now let me see – this isn’t a very gallant one to ask me. I’m sure Mrs Thornton would be only too happy for me to forget this one, eh?’

  God knows what I was doing putting on this embarrassingly twee all-men-together act. I surely can’t have expected a response from Mr Cardboard, and Judy would have hit me had she heard me indulging in such nonsense. Mind you, I suppose she’d have hit me in any case, given the present circumstances. It did allow me a moment to cover the humiliation of forgetting my wife’s birthday, a failing not that unusual, I’m sure, but in general not caused by obsessions with supermarket checkout girls.

  ‘February the sixteenth. February the sixteenth – um – hang on …’ I did a quick calculation. ‘February the sixteenth nineteen fifty-four.’

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Thornton?’

  At last.

  ‘How much is in my current account, please, how much on deposit, and how much in my money-market reserve account? I need to transfer some funds.’

  ‘Just a moment please, and I’ll access your current balances, Mr Thornton.’

  I could hear some quick tapping of keys, then, after just a second or two, he came back to me.

  ‘Right, Mr Thornton, your balances as at close of business last night stood at
a debit of seventeen pounds fifty on your current account; and a credit of two thousand two hundred and sixty pounds on your deposit account. I can’t find any money-market balance here.’

  ‘What? What do you mean? You must be accessing the wrong accounts. Just have another check, would you, please. There should be about thirty-five thousand on the money market.’

  ‘Just a moment, please.’

  As he clicked himself off the line again, a faint shadow of something unsettlingly chilly began to creep infinitesimally slowly up my back and forced me to face the unthinkable. By the time he returned, what he had to say held little surprise for me. I think in some inexplicable way I had suspected something of the sort for some time.

  ‘No, Mr Thornton, that is correct. I’ve checked it against your address details and that is definitely the right account. The levels are as given, and the history of your money-market deposit is that it was terminated on March the fourth of last year and the remaining balance transferred to your deposit account.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’re quite right. Thank you.’

  I tried to keep the shock out of my voice as I went on to instruct him to transfer enough money to cover the hotel bill, but all I could really think about was whether Stacey would still be interested in me were she to discover just how little I was worth.

  Stacey

  ‘So what’s he do to you, Stace? And how can you do it – you know – with your mum there and all? It must be – well, I dunno, I just think it’s a bit strange, that’s all. What’s he like?’

  I knew Denisha had been dying to ask me. I’d tried to keep it quiet about Charlie and me, ’cos I knew none of the girls would understand, and I didn’t want Warren thinking I was a right slag or anything. But Sheila had come by yesterday on her way in to work – she said it was ’cos she wanted to check which shift I was on, or something, but I knew it was just so’s she could stick her nose in and find out if what they was all gossiping about was true. Fuck knows how they heard about it in the first place, but you can’t keep nothing secret from them for long, not that I’ve never had that many secrets anyhow. I was quite enjoying that, in fact, having something going on in my life that they didn’t know inside out. Having something so’s I didn’t have to just hang about every night with my mum hoping one of the girls might need me to tag along with them. I’ve been feeling right perky at work, in fact, since Charlie’s been around – it’s hard to say what it makes me feel like, just knowing that he thinks I’m so beautiful and all that other crap he tells me all the time, I s’pose.