Lifesaver

by Voss, Louise

  Lobbing the wet cloth into the sink—easy, from where I stood by the living room window—I picked up my notepad and pen. My hands now smelled like stale dishcloth; the scent of lies, I thought, deciding not to wash them. It was a smell I’d have to get used to, since it was going to be with me permanently. Better to think of it as something external.

  What was a good name for a soap opera? I decided it would be less risky to invent one, then at least I’d have full poetic license to make up my own story-lines without fear of discovery. I didn’t recall telling anybody the title of the one I’d been for the real interview with; Merryvale. I ran through a mental list of suggestions, every one of which bore too much resemblance to existing series: I thought Avondale was good, until deciding it was too similar to Emmerdale. Brewster Street I liked, and Walcot Square, but I couldn’t use Street or Square, too reminiscent of Coronation and Albert. Crikey, this wasn’t easy. It had to be something good, though.

  I picked up the salt cellar on the rickety folding dining table at which I sat, and ground some crystals onto the table, wetting my fingertip and licking them off. The salt tasted of dishcloth. The Saltmine, I thought. A riveting drama set around the famous salt mines of - where did salt come from? Or wait, what about The Quarry? It could be set on a housing estate built on an old quarry. I liked that. It was different. But then again, maybe it ought to have been something more forgettable. I didn’t want people to remember what it was called. In the end, I ditched The Quarry, threw the salt crystals over my left shoulder with my right hand, and settled for the real one, Merryvale. It was very unlikely that anyone I knew would see it, and if they did, I’d just say I got sacked early on and had been too embarrassed to admit it.

  My mobile rang, and I was relieved to have the distraction from my burgeoning subterfuge.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi darling, it’s me.’ The line was crackly, and for a confused second I thought it was Adam. ‘Did you get my text?’

  ‘Oh, hi, baby. Yes, I did, thanks.’

  ‘Can you talk? You’re not in rehearsals are you?’

  ‘No, we don’t work on Sundays. I’m just hanging out in my room. There’s a duckpond outside and my landlady’s dog keeps running into it and scaring the ducks.’

  ‘So you must be quite far out of Bristol, then—it sounds villagey.’

  ‘Um. No, not really. I suppose it must have been a village at one time. It’s just a suburb now. So what have you been up to?’

  ‘The usual. Meeting rooms. Dinners. Too many drinks too late in the hotel bar.’

  ‘Who with?’ I checked myself; I had no right to speak with such a tone of suspicion in my voice.

  ‘Marcus Brittan, mostly. Tour manager for The Cherries.’ Ken laughed to himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Marcus has got some brilliant stories, that’s all. He used to work at the Mudd Club, you know, in New York in the early Eighties: they had all these road maps under perspex on the bar, and they used to snort lines of charlie along the freeways - apparently, newcomers used to be given LA to San Diego, which isn’t very far, but the regulars could go all the way from Denver to Chicago! I thought that was hilarious.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, wondering why my phone conversations with Ken were always like this. Why couldn’t we have talked about anything that mattered? Then it occurred to me that if The Cherries’ tour manager was there, it also meant that the band themselves must have been around, plus that scraggy manager woman. I imagined them all in the hotel bar at three in the morning, knocking back tequilas and roaring with laughter at the idea of chopping out lines of coke along major north American highways. Could Ken resist the late-night pull of creamy brown skin, and a choice of three young girls who just wanted to be famous? I wasn’t sure that I could have done, in his shoes. Hell, I couldn’t even resist a portly bearded ceramics teacher with callouses on his hands.

  ‘So have you done your read-throughs yet?’

  ‘Yup. We did them yesterday. It went fine. I’ve got quite a few lines, so I need to get my head down today. Rehearsals start tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s your character like?’

  ‘Bit of a bimbo. I have to wear a red wig and high heels all the time, so I’m bound to trip over and sprain my ankle sooner or later.’

  ‘Nice cast?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so. A few luvvies, couple of old school guys who think they’re better than everyone else. Some precocious kids. The director’s OK though; very talented, I think.’

  ‘Not too fanciable, I hope.’

  ‘Gay. Naturally. Don’t worry, darling,’ I said with my fingers crossed. All of a sudden I missed him. I wished I’d gone to Ibiza with him after all. All we lacked was the chance to have fun together, I thought ruefully; but he had all his fun in hotel bars and fancy restaurants with other people.

  ‘Have you heard from Vicky?’

  ‘No.’ At least that much was true.

  ‘Going to call her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So when will you be home?’

  ‘Not till Thursday. But then I’m off till the following Tuesday.’ I remembered that Adam had mentioned taking Max away that weekend, to see his grandparents, so there was no point in me staying in Gillingsbury. ‘You’re around at the weekend, aren’t you?’

  Ken hesitated. ‘Most of it. Don’t forget I’ve got that tennis tournament on the Saturday though, and a dinner afterwards.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  Another, far too long, pause. ‘Sure.’

  Well, sod you, I thought. Suddenly I felt totally alone, fallen between two stools, belonging nowhere. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. I said you could come.’

  ‘You don’t exactly sound thrilled at the prospect.’

  ‘Come on, Anna, let’s not argue. I know it’s hard, me being away. Tell you what, we’ll go out for dinner on the Friday night, shall we? And on Sunday let’s go to a film, and maybe lunch at the River Café.’

  ‘OK. I’m sorry. I miss you, that’s all.’

  ‘You too. Look, I’ve got to go - there’s someone at the door of my room.’

  I wondered who. ‘Right then. Bye darling, call me tomorrow.’

  ‘Bye honey.’

  Chapter 27

  It was a shame that it was the first day for weeks when the sun hadn’t shone, but I didn’t care. I felt happy under grey skies, sitting on a threadbare stripy towel of Adam’s, on a grassy bank near the lustreless water of an outdoor baby pool.

  Adam was wading around in it, with long checked shorts swirling around his legs, and his hand supporting Max’s tummy. Max kicked and wobbled tentatively across the pool, buoyed by armbands and a chewed-looking float. He was a pale streak of flesh in the water, so insubstantial-looking that the white spray he churned up with his feet seemed more solid than he was. His swimming trunks were so minuscule that they were barely visible, just a blink of dark blue nylon. Even though Adam was there holding him, my heart jumped into my mouth each time Max’s sleek head dipped underwater, and goosebumps speckled my bare skin.

  ‘Coming in yet, Anna?’ Adam called across to me, waving and smiling.

  I grimaced jokingly and pointed at the thick clouds, bulging with un-fallen rain. But I stood up anyway, adjusting my bikini top, and walked over to join them. It was muggy, not cold, but it still seemed odd not to see the sun.

  ‘It’s quite warm in here, Anna,’ chirped Max. ‘Look what I can do!’ He held his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, and bobbed under the surface of the water, his hair streaming flat out on either side of a perfect, natural parting like a zip across his head. He came up again immediately, panting, water streaming over his closed eyes and down his face.

  I clapped. ‘Very good, Max. Bet I can’t do that!‘ I walked in, feeling the tepid water caress my thighs. The pool was almost empty, save for two three-year old girls pretending to make soup in a bucket at one end of the pool, and a very pregnant woman sitting on the broad steps,
playing pat-a-cake with a toddler in a swim nappy. I averted my eyes from the woman’s bulging stomach and, as I did so, caught Adam in the act of clocking my nipples. They had sprung to life through my purple bikini top; and he quickly looked away when he saw that I’d noticed. But I wasn’t offended. It was more as if he’d been inspecting them out of curiosity than in any sort of lecherous way.

  He had been as friendly as ever when we’d met up at their place before coming to the pool, but hadn’t tried to kiss me, beyond a polite peck on the cheek, or be in any way over-familiar with me, even after the events of the previous night. Perhaps I’d been too stand-offish, I thought; or perhaps he regretted it too. If that was the case, it would have made my life an awful lot easier.

  I held my nose and knelt in the water in front of Max, pretending that I couldn’t bring myself to get my face wet. ‘You’re much braver than me,’ I said, up to my neck and at eye level with him. He gazed at me levelly then put his small wet hand on top of my head, like a benediction.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ he said earnestly, and tried to push me under.

  I allowed him to press my head down, then broke free and swam underwater around behind him, tickling the backs of his knees. Above the water’s surface, I heard a muffled squeal and felt the commotion around me as he tried to run away. I chased him, still underwater, flipping my body over and around like a seal. I didn’t go swimming enough, I thought. There was nothing quite like the sense of freedom that moving through water gave you, even when the water was only two feet deep.

  Max hid behind Adam’s back, squealing ‘Homey! Daddy’s home-y!’ That’s what it was about Adam, I thought; he was ‘homey’. A safe retreat from anything and everything unpleasant or threatening. He was a very special person. He deserved better than to have me trying to worm my way into his life, a two-timing, conniving married woman who lied every time she opened her mouth.

  I felt ashamed of myself. At the same time, something sinuous and wet snaked down against my shoulder blades, and things began to feel loose around my breasts, as if my bikini top was so disgusted at my behaviour that it was trying to escape.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, and, ‘Help. My bikini’s come undone.’ I reached round in a panic to try and do it up, with visions of me being frogmarched by the lifeguards off the premises for indecent exposure in front of children.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Adam, wading around behind me and tying the two straps of my halter top into a bow at the nape of my neck. His hands were so gentle, and they brushed against the highest of my vertebrae as if he were blowing warm air on my spine. I felt that he was examining me, inspecting my neck and back and bottom in a slow, obvious, appraisal, but I didn’t mind. I liked it.

  The long-threatened rain suddenly began to come down, plopping around us, delighting Max and making me shiver even more. I can’t stop now, I thought. I wanted Adam, even more than I had the night before. I couldn’t confess, or back off. Standing thigh-deep in the chlorinated water, I wanted Adam more than I’d ever wanted another human being. Max was nearby, trying to catch raindrops on his tongue, and he was part of it too. I wanted to be like the rain, falling all around them, covering them; and at that moment I decided that I had to make a conscious decision not to feel guilty about lying to both Ken and Adam. Life took people in strange directions, and who knew what the outcome would be, if Adam and I did start a real relationship. We might be fed up with one another within a fortnight. I’d gone too far to back away now. I needed to know.

  Adam must have seen something of my thoughts in my eyes, for he reached out and took one hand of Max’s, and one of mine, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. We made a dash for it then, out of the water, to gather up towels and backpacks and dry clothes and escape to the dry café area. Max was grumbling that he wasn’t ready to get out yet, and even though I was loving holding Adam’s hand, I offered to go back in with Max for a little longer. But a low growl of thunder caused the lifeguard to blow his whistle and clear both the adult and baby pools.

  ‘You can’t get back in, Max, because you might get struck by lightening,’ I told him.

  ‘Would it hurt?’

  ‘Yes, it would. The lightening would go into the water and electrify you to a frazzle. Never mind, maybe we can come again soon?’

  ‘Is lightening worse than injections?’ he said, making a face, as we re-scattered our possessions on chairs around an empty vinyl-topped table in the café.

  I nodded.

  ‘Bet it’s not worse than chemotherapy though,’ he said, flopping down on a free plastic chair. His towel dragged on the floor, the corner of it soaking up someone else’s spilled Coke. I noticed Adam’s shocked face and felt so sorry for them both that I couldn’t think how to reply, so I just leaned forward and picked up the sodden towel.

  ‘Does anyone want a drink?’ I asked.

  ‘Apple juice please!’ Max said enthusiastically, ‘and some crisps? Daddy, can I?’

  ‘It’s OK with me,’ said Adam. ‘Thanks Anna, a coffee would be great.’

  While I was up at the counter ordering drinks and crisps, I heard my mobile ringing in my bag. Dashing back to get it, I reached it just before it switched to voicemail.

  ‘Anna, it’s me, Vicky. Where are you?’

  ‘Oh—Vicky? Is everything all right?’

  I felt the need to sit down hastily, taken aback by having to deal with the two separate compartments of my life simultaneously. The plastic chair stuck to the backs of my chilled bare thighs, and Max sidled up beside me, resting his cold hand casually on my leg in the same way he’d done that time I cooked them supper. I put my own hand over his, and squeezed it, once more feeling that inexplicable soaring of joy amid the tension of deception. So much emotion was exhausting, and now Vicky, on top of it all. I hoped she hadn’t rung up to give me a hard time; the conversation we’d had when I’d been in the garden the other morning had indicated that we were still far from being back in each other’s good books.

  Holding the phone in one hand, I managed to wrap my sarong around my breasts, which soaked up the majority of the water, but my bottom was uncomfortably damp in the wet bikini.

  ‘This is the third time I’ve rung your mobile, and I’ve left two messages at your house. We talked about having a day out, and I’m just trying to arrange it. That’s all.’

  ‘Sorry. I haven’t heard my phone. I’m…t a swimming pool’.

  You don’t sound much like you’re gagging for a day out with me, I thought; but I supposed that conciliation always had been an effort for her. Her voice wasn’t friendly, exactly, but at least it lacked the barbed edge of our previous few conversations. I glanced across to Adam, who was briskly stripping Max out of his wet trunks and into shorts and a sweatshirt. He looked across at me, raising his eyebrows. It’s a friend of mine, I mouthed at him, and he nodded back.

  ‘Hold on a minute, Vicky,’ I said, putting one hand over the phone’s mouthpiece, extracting my purse from my bag with the other, and beckoning Max over.

  ‘Max, can you be really grown up and pay for the drinks and things? Daddy’ll have to help you carry them, but you can pay.’ I handed him a five pound note and his eyes lit up with joy at the vast responsibility bestowed on him. I felt such pride for him as he marched barefooted up to the counter, that I almost forgot Vicky was still on the phone.

  ‘Sorry, Vicky.’ It was amazing how a little physical distance between us had helped me detach from our argument. I thought she was going to tell me that she’d had an abortion; and, at that moment, watching Max pass the fiver gingerly to a matronly lady in a checked pinny, and hold his hand out for the change, I really didn’t even care. It seemed as if Vicky and her children were a million miles away, not a hundred. This was where I wanted to be.

  I watched Adam carrying the coffees and juice back, and Max rattling his bag of crisps. Adam had the stripy towel around his waist, but his shorts were still dripping all over the floor. I was about to put Vicky on hold again and volunt
eer to keep an eye on Max while Adam went to get dressed, but Vicky was getting fed up with my lack of attentiveness.

  ‘Anna, please listen, I really want to talk to you.’

  ‘Now isn’t a great time,’ I said, still so detached from her that I had to remind myself that this was Vicky, my bridesmaid; Vicky, putative godmother of Holly; Vicky, best friend since age of eighteen. We’d shared everything from perfume and tampons to tragedies that neither of could mention without crying. And yet, people grew out of their friendships. It happened all the time.

  ‘When is, then?’

  The edge was back in her voice, and it sharpened me up a little. The least I could do was to give her my full attention. ‘No. I’m sorry, Vicky, now is fine. I don’t have much charge left in my phone, that’s all, so it might suddenly cut out. Are you all right?’

  I took a slurp of the synthetic, machine-produced cappuccino which Adam had handed to me, and it scalded my tongue, making my eyes water. Max put the change from my five pounds on the table in front of me, with a satisfied beam, and I gave him a thumbs-up sign.

  The rain was coming down harder now, and a cold breeze blew through the covered café area. I thought longingly of my dry clothes.

  ‘I’m keeping the baby,’ Vicky blurted.

  ‘But that’s great,’ I said cautiously. I didn’t want to sound jubilant lest any I told you so charges be levelled at me. ‘And how do you feel about it?’

  A beat. In the old, pre-children days that pause would have meant that Vicky was taking a drag of her cigarette, but not any more. ‘Depressed. But excited, sometimes, too—more so now that I’m getting used to the idea. Dreading the thought that it might be twins. But most of all I’m sorry for having fallen out with you about it. Oh Anna, no wonder you had a go at me for even thinking about an abortion. Forgive me?’

  ‘Of course I do. And I’m sorry, too, for getting on my high horse.’

  Adam was rubbing his shins with the towel, obviously pretending not to listen. Max was singing: ‘Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof woof … as he stuffed crisps into his mouth, his childish voice deliberately gruff. He repeated it in the same way, swallowed his mouthful of crisps, and then, to the tune of “Polly Put the Kettle On”, continued, ‘Who-oo put them back again, who-oo put them back again, who-oo put them back again, we’ll—all—have—tea.’ Adam and I both snorted with laughter, and I tried to turn my snort into a cough before Vicky hung up on me.