‘I don’t want either of us to move out. But I’ll respect what you want, Alex.’
The phone rang. I rejected the call.
‘That was Dr Å. You can ring her back. I’m drunk.’ She said nothing, pressed her fingers to her temples.
The coffee arrived. I nodded at the waitress, who looked pained, even as she returned my nod.
‘So, Millicent, why?’
‘Why?’
‘Yeah, why?’
Millicent rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘I don’t know why Bryce killed himself.’
‘That’s not really one of the questions I was asking you.’
‘Shut up and listen, Alex, you self-righteous asshole.’ That was loud. The divorcée with the hair reacted, looked at us, intrigued. Millicent turned to her. ‘Sorry, I meant arsehole,’ she said, in her best Cali-girl accent. ‘He’s an arsehole. Did I get that right? I’m often told I lack nuance.’ She turned back to me. ‘You’re an arsehole, Alex. You’re such a freaking nihilist. You’ve always seen all the possibilities, decided they’re meaningless, and rejected them. Bryce didn’t spend our conversations pre-empting what I was going to say.’
I looked down at her hands, at her delicate wrists and slender fingers.
‘What’s the story with the bracelet my mother gave you?’
‘I don’t know.’
Millicent’s phone began to ring. She ignored it, and stared directly at me.
‘And I don’t know why I lied, Alex. I really don’t know.’
‘Looking me in the face doesn’t prove you’re not lying now. The police think I killed him.’
‘They asked you not to leave the country. That is not the same thing.’
‘What did you tell them about you and Bryce?’
‘The same thing I told you. First time round.’ She glanced at the screen and rejected the call. ‘Dr Å. We should really call her back.’
‘Summoned by the shrink … Go right ahead.’
‘Max is our joint responsibility, Alex.’
Anger like a shard of ice in my spine.
‘Millicent, until four days ago I thought I was a happy nihilist. And my happy innocent state ended when Max and I found the next-door neighbour reclining in the bath with an erection. I’m still fighting to erase the image that’s imprinted on the inside of my skull, and God alone knows what Max is struggling with because he can’t bring himself to talk about it. And now it turns out that it’s thanks to you, and that we all three have that in common – Bryce and his penis. Whatever it is that’s wrong with Max, you did it to him. So the shrink thing? You sort it out.
‘And speaking of practicalities, a scaffolder came round with an invoice for £23,523. Made out to your boyfriend at our address. I forgot to ask for a copy to throw on the table in front of you as I walk out. Did you know he was trading from our house? Police are going to love that one.’
I got up to leave. Millicent got up too. She was close to crying.
‘Alex,’ she said.
‘Feeling bad, Millicent? You in some sort of private hell?’
Her eyes were wet now.
‘Sit down,’ I said, and left, nodding to the manager on the way out.
11
On a bench in a corner of Highbury Fields I watched a mother lift a screaming baby from his pram. With her right hand she raised her top, freed her left breast, and gave suck to the child, who quietened at once.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed at me.
‘Don’t be.’
‘Thanks.’
The police would like Millicent’s affair. I could argue all I wanted that I never knew, that I only became the angry husband after the neighbour was dead. But if I were the police, I would like me as a suspect.
I watched, trying not to, as the baby drank his fill and fell asleep at his mother’s breast. I tried not to think about my son, and my wife. I tried not to think about Millicent feeding Max for the first time, the transcendent pleasure that I had felt in that most everyday of things.
Then I tried not to think about sex.
I failed. I thought about those things, and about what I was about to lose. I thought about them for the longest time.
Millicent was waiting outside Dr Å’s door as I approached. She touched my hand, but I ignored her and pressed the bell.
Five minutes later we were sitting, miserably drinking tea, on Dr Å’s straight-backed chairs. Dr Å had said little since we had arrived, and we had said even less. Her message on my answering machine had been very precise, and had left no possibility of not coming to this meeting. Millicent, I imagined, had received the same message.
Dr Å smiled her efficient Scandinavian smile, first at Millicent, then at me. Just long enough, just warm enough, entirely professional.
‘Here we are,’ she said.
Millicent put her cup on the floor and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
‘Before we begin,’ said Dr Å, ‘is there anything either of you would like to tell me?’
Millicent shook her head. I spilled tea on my leg, managed not to swear, and put down my own cup. Dr Å smiled her efficient smile. I rubbed my hands together, breathed out, and steeled myself.
‘So, your son strikes me as a relatively normal eleven-year-old boy. I’m really not going to tell you very much about what Max has said to me, if you don’t mind. You are of course within your rights to insist that I do, given his age. But I would ask that you do not do that. OK?’
Millicent nodded.
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Max feels, and I don’t think I’m breaking confidence here in saying this, that you are relatively good parents.’
I felt Millicent bristle.
‘I should say that this is a remarkably positive assessment. Most eleven-year-olds are much less flattering about their parents’ abilities. But there is one concern that Max and I share. Your relationship as a couple …’
‘Which Max has assessed as imperfect?’ I said.
‘If you like, yes. Although, with children, they’re often not as analytical about these things as you or I might be. But Max is deeply concerned. He rang me this morning.’
I stared hard at Millicent, but she stayed facing forwards, refusing the challenge.
‘Did Max say what exactly it is that concerns him?’
‘He believes you wish to leave the relationship, Alex.’
Still Millicent would not look at me.
‘And why would I wish to do that?’ I said.
‘Alex, I am not here to give ammunition to your battles with your wife,’ said Dr Å. ‘I would ask you not to question Max about this. I doubt if you would be able to frame your questions in an appropriately neutral way. But children tend to know a lot more about the state of their parents’ relationships than adults imagine. Your anger is, by the way, entirely appropriate.’
‘Am I angry? And what does appropriate even mean?’
Dr Å ignored the questions. ‘I cannot provide you with therapy. I can, if the two of you wish it, provide you with the names of people I can recommend, but you will understand that I do not want to find myself in a situation where the wishes of one client come into conflict with the wishes of another. As for example in the case of your perfectly natural desire to know the truth about Millicent’s affair.’
‘Millicent’s affair,’ I said, my voice flat. ‘Do I even know about Millicent’s affair?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. I could see that she regretted her words.
‘I do know, as it happens, Dr Å. The question is, how do you know?’
I looked at Millicent. Did you tell her?
Millicent shook her head. No.
I looked back at Dr Å. ‘Max told you.’
‘Alex,’ said Dr Å, ‘Alex, I would ask you not to press me on this.’ She looked wearily back at me, a woman burdened by the knowledge she bore.
‘Could I insist that you tell me?’
The weary look passed, and she was a professional once again. ‘I cannot recom
mend that you insist. It would not be appropriate for me to discuss what Max has told me in confidence. Your son has experienced a great trauma. Alex, I feel that you too may be experiencing trauma, both from the discovery of the neighbour, and also from the discovery of the secret between Millicent and your neighbour. You will no doubt have heard of post-traumatic stress disorder. It is my job, working with Max, to help him to avoid the symptoms of which you may have heard. Flashbacks, fear of unfamiliar situations, an inability to form or maintain relationships.
‘These things are severely debilitating in an adult, but imagine for a moment the devastating effect on a child. In the next few years, your son will become a sexual being. How he experiences that transition from childhood to adulthood will affect every relationship, every friendship, every professional transaction. For ever.’
‘Especially when it’s your mother’s affair that caused the trauma.’ Millicent shifted position in her chair. It was subtle, but I could read the anger in her.
‘This must be very painful for you, Alex,’ said Dr Å, ‘but I must ask you not to confuse your own feelings with Max’s feelings.’
‘Max feels the same thing I do.’
‘That is unlikely, is it not? After all, Millicent is his mother; she is your wife.’
I made to speak but she smiled and turned to Millicent.
‘Millicent, you too must be suffering greatly. You are likely to be grieving both for the excitement of the affair, and for the life of a man for whom you must have had feelings.’
‘She certainly spends a lot of time out of the house grieving,’ I said. ‘Don’t you, Millicent?’
‘OK,’ said Millicent. ‘Yes, Alex, I guess I do.’
‘It’s like you’re breaking down all over again,’ I said. I stood up. I wanted to leave.
‘It wasn’t a breakdown,’ said Millicent, as if to herself.
‘Alex, would you mind sitting down?’ There was kindness in Dr Å’s voice now, and the smile had lost its Scandinavian precision. ‘I can see that accepting Millicent’s grief must be hard for you.’
I sat down, put my head in my hands, and breathed out. The room was silent, and I could think of nothing to say. Nor, it seemed, could Millicent. We sat, angled away from each other. Five minutes passed on the silent clock.
Dr Å crossed and uncrossed her legs. ‘We’re coming to the end of the time I had set aside. I hope you can understand that my focus has to be on Max, and on Max’s needs. I will, however, say this. There is a mounting body of evidence that states that splitting up is the worst thing you could do. Unhappy parents who stay together are still better than parents who part company. For the children, that is.’
‘That’s your advice?’ I asked. ‘Don’t leave?’
‘That’s my advice. I’m sorry I can’t do more for you. I understand Max is making his own way here.’
That evening my mother rang. She was speaking so quietly that at first I could hardly make out what she was saying.
‘You see, son, your father’s case is what they call an automatic referral.’
‘What, Mum?’
‘Well, they explained that because your father’s death occurred within twenty-four hours of his entering hospital, then they refer his death to the coroner. They always investigate. He’s to be autopsied, and they haven’t the staff.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ I said.
‘Yes, well, it’s a bind. I don’t know when I can bury him.’
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Aye, son,’ she said simply. ‘Aye.’
12
Max had been navigating quietly around us, sensing the fragility of the truce between Millicent and me. He made his own meals, bought fruit from the shop, and made a point of making coffee – badly – and bringing us each a cup, talking softly to me, stroking his mother’s cheek, asking us whether we wanted water, or juice, or a piece of cake. He could go to the shop again, if we wanted. Max behaved, in short, impeccably. Normally, we would have teased him for this, asked him what he was planning, what terrible secret he was hiding. But now we too behaved like textbook parents.
Millicent and I did not argue in front of Max; nor did we speak much. We kept our voices low, and behaved deferentially towards each other for his sake. We ate at different times, staggered our coffee breaks and went to bed separately. Once, at the dark of night, I woke with an erection and found Millicent’s arms tightly wound around my chest. I wanted to wake her, to have her witness how I recoiled from her nakedness, to have her feel my power as I shook her off; instead I unwound myself from her embrace and turned her gently on her side. I watched the tremors of her eyelids, sensed through them the darting movements of her pupils, wondered what it was she dreamed. I watched her chest rise and fall, saw words half-form on her lips, and hated myself for wanting her so badly, for craving intimacy after everything she had done.
Max spent Friday evening in his room. At eight he borrowed the lamp from Millicent’s desk. At eleven I realised that his bed time had long since come and gone. His door was shut. I knocked and went in. Max was lying on his back on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. Beside his pillow lay his grandfather’s fishing bag, spools of fishing line and cigar boxes around his legs.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he said, with studied nonchalance. I followed his gaze. In the narrow beam of Millicent’s lamp was a shoal of metallic fish. Barbed hooks hung from iridescent bodies.
‘Wow,’ I said.
Max had created a living shoal, the larger fish at the back, chasing down the smaller fish, the very smallest fry turning and spreading as they reached the far wall. Yellow eyes, scales of blue, gold and green; the nylon fishing line almost invisible. There were at least a hundred artificial fish, steel spinners and wooden lures, rubber sand eels with red-painted gills, jointed wobblers, all brought to life by the hands of a child.
‘Can you see the bubbles, Dad?’
‘Those are amazing, Max.’
Max had arranged his grandfather’s transparent bubble floats to enhance the drama of the scene: a cluster at the implied surface, larger bubbles rising slowly up from down below.
‘Your mum needs to see this,’ I said. ‘You should call her.’
‘Don’t you think she’s a fucking bitch, though? For what she did to you?’ He ran the words together: fuckingbitchthough.
‘No, Max. No, I really don’t.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘Don’t call your mum that.’
‘All right. I won’t.’
‘I don’t want you to take my side. Call her in.’
‘In a minute. Can you see the squid hiding from the fish?’
Subject changed. Just like that. Speed of the child mind.
‘The squid are brilliant.’
‘Also, Dad?’
‘What, Max?’
‘What’s this?’
He held up a straight wooden shaft, about eight inches long, wider at the top than at the bottom. The metal core shone dully in the beam of Millicent’s light.
‘That’s called a priest.’
‘Did Grandpa use it for killing fish?’
‘Yes, that’s what it’s for.’
‘It’s a bit sticky, even though it’s clean.’
‘I don’t think that’s fish blood. I guess it’s probably resin from the wood.’
‘Oh,’ said Max. He sounded almost disappointed. ‘What are the pliers for?’
‘For helping you get the hook out of a fish.’
‘Like if it’s a big fish and it swallows the hook or something?’
‘Yes, Max.’
‘Yuck. Cool, though. Dad, can we go fishing together?’
‘If you like.’
‘I don’t have a rod or anything.’
‘I’ll talk to your grandma, Max. I’m sure you could have one of Grandpa’s old ones.’
‘OK,’ he said. He thought for a moment. ‘I want to come to Grandpa’s funeral. I don’t want to see him dead or anything, though.’
/> ‘No, love, it won’t be an open casket.’
‘I mean, it’s not like I’m not scared or anything. I know what a dead man looks like.’
‘I don’t think your grandpa looks anything like the neighbour did, Max.’
‘Tarek said they put makeup on dead people.’
I looked down at my son as he lay on his bed staring up at the beautiful, twisting mass of fish that he had created.
‘Move up, little man,’ I said. ‘Make room.’
We lay looking up at Max’s shoal. I could see Max grinning to himself from the edges of my vision, feel the pride radiating from him.
‘Do you like it, Dad?’
‘Max,’ I said, ‘I think you’ve managed to take something that wasn’t beautiful, and turn it into something that is. Send your grandma a picture.’
He turned and faced me. I stayed where I was, looking up at the ceiling.
‘Do you miss Grandpa, Dad?’
‘Yes. Yes, I really do.’
‘I can tell, because you look quite sad.’
‘I left things unsaid, you know.’
‘Is Grandma really sad?’
‘She is.’
‘More than you?’
‘More than I think I can imagine.’
‘Because I don’t want to send her a picture if it’s going to make her cry a lot.’
‘Send her a picture, love.’
He curled into me and I stretched my arm under his shoulder. We lay looking upwards for a very long time.
On Saturday morning Fab5 rang, suggesting Frisbee at the park.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but I have to bring Max.’
‘You got it.’
‘He’s going to want to play football. And I at least have to ask Millicent.’
‘Whatever you need.’
I expected Millicent to refuse, but she agreed to come, and put on a pair of running shoes that she hadn’t worn in years. At the park she behaved as if she was pleased to see Fab5, let him lift her from the ground.
‘Ready to get your ass kicked, hen?’ he said.
‘Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen, of course.’
‘It will.’
‘Who said this was sarcasm?’
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