‘I’m not going to take that Viagra tablet and I never will. So you can stop pestering me. I’m not going to do it.’
What a spoilsport. Yes, taking another person’s prescription drug is wrong. I admit there are risks. But I didn’t buy it. I didn’t steal it (exactly). It was waiting for me to pick it up. Some people win on the Premium Bonds, other people find a Viagra.
‘Okay. Okay.’ I stalk back into his bedroom to get dressed.
Back in the kitchen Toga is guarding the pan with his life. ‘Can you get the salad from the fridge?’ he asks. I’m wearing my what-kind-of-lover-are-you-if-you-won’t-even-take -Viagra-frown.
I crouch beside the fridge. My head knocks against his knees. He has rollmops in here. I’ve always wondered what sort of person eats rollmops and now I know: the Toga sort. I drop the salad on the counter, then climb onto a breakfast stool. I place the Viagra on the counter next to the cucumber.
Toga looks at it, then at me.
‘Let’s split it,’ I say.
He runs the tap, fills a glass with water and hands it to me. He takes a knife and slices the tablet into two, then two again.
I knew Toga would. He’s game for anything.
‘What?’
‘What?’
‘You’re staring at me again.’
‘I can’t help it.’ I giggle.
Toga removes the pan from the heat.
‘Are you feeling different?’
‘Yes.’ My face is all tingly and I feel a little flushed.
He kisses me roughly on my lips and swiftly unzips my dress. I slip off the stool so that the dress falls to my feet, then stand before him in nothing but my demure silk underwear.
Toga pushes me against the kitchen sink. I think: Lucky me! That happened quickly. Viagra’s good, I’ll take some more.
While Toga is nuzzling my breasts, I stretch out an arm, pinch the rest of the tablet between my fingers and swallow it dry.
This is the life, really it is: dinner simmering in a pan, a pile of magazines to skim through, no cleaning or washing-up to do, no bills to worry about, and a handsome, intelligent man lapping and purring between my thighs. If only every Tuesday night could be like this. I pick up my glass of Beaujolais, swish the lovely redness around my mouth and gaze out of the window contentedly. Toga has a shed. I think that’s what I can see in the garden, although it’s dark so I can’t be sure. And lots of plants. How lovely. And a little patio. Delightful. I wonder if his knees are aching yet. Toga was blessed with a wonderful tongue. I was blessed with a wonderful life. And isn’t the sky dark? And the kitchen light is on. And look at those flats there. I can see people washing their dishes. How sweet…
Ooooh…
Oh, no.
‘Toga.’
‘Yes, my little milkmaid?’
When he calls me that, I’m sure he’s thinking of Tess of the d’Urbervilles.
‘Toga.’
‘You like that, hm?’
‘Toga.’
‘Mmm… yeah?’ Spurred on by my calling his name, he licks furiously.
‘Stop, stop, stop it.’
Toga stands up, pushes his hands down on my shoulders, forces me to my knees and unzips his trousers. Well, that wasn’t what I had in mind. ‘The blinds,’ I try to say.
I think we may soon have an audience. He places his hand over my eyes. If I can’t see the people out there, does it mean they can’t see me? No, it does not. What is it with this Viagra? It’s made my brain stop. All I have is desire… desire… desire… and no sense at all.
I crawl away from him to grab a shirt from the washing basket. ‘Stop it now,’ I say, slipping my arm into a sleeve. One can’t be too careful: we could end up on the Internet.
He grabs me by the wrist and tugs me out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. He runs the shower. The room fills with steam. I stand there thinking, Where’s the window? No window. Bloody windowless London flats. It’s so hot I might pass out. Toga peels off the shirt, unclips my bra and I begin to sing a song I learned many years ago, because when it comes to foreplay men need lots of encouragement.
First verse
Yes
Yes
Yes
Second verse
Oh
Oh
Oh
Third verse
Just there
Just there
Just there
Fourth verse
Name of the person you are with repeated three times.
It’s important to get the name right.
Just as I’m reaching the last verse, Toga pushes me against the sink, until my back is so arched it hurts. With his hand he presses my mouth against his ear so that he can hear every groan and – oh, my – I think I might implode or wee in the sink or accidentally defecate if he doesn’t – soon.
What is he doing to me now?
I’m in the shower blinking away warm water raining over my face. I try to check my reflection in the taps. Panda eyes… I hope not. Once he has thoroughly soaped me down, he wraps me in a soft fluffy towel, like a warm present, and leads me to his bedroom. Then he gets on all fours on the bed, his rear beaming at me, and instructs me to slap his arse. Which, quite frankly, is not a request I’ve ever had before.‘Not like that,’ he says.
I wasn’t aware there was a technique to this arse-slapping business. Surely one should just wallop the other person and hope for the best.
‘Use a different part of your hand.’ He takes my hand in his. ‘That part,’ he says.
So I try again but this time hit him really, really hard. Which he likes. I think. Or maybe not –
‘No. Not like that, like this,’ he says, then demonstrates what he wants me to do on his own backside. So I swing my arm back and belt him so hard that the palm of my hand stings.
‘No. Not like that, like this,’ he remonstrates.
So I smack him again.
‘No. Not like that, use the flat of your hand.’
And again. Thwack.
‘Bit harder.’
And again. Thwack.
‘Just a bit harder.’
And again. Thwack.
‘Just a little bit harder.’
Bloody hell, Toga, I wasn’t aware I’d signed up for spanking lessons. I slap his arse with all my might and, finally, he lets out a satisfied moan.
I am snuggled up against Toga who is flicking through some photographs he has taken of us (I think my eyebrows look good so I’ll go back to that beauty salon again) when my mobile rings. It’s Athens. ‘M, what are you doing?’
Tricky question: it’s late and Toga is talking dirty into my ear.
‘Having dinner with a friend.’
‘You were supposed to meet us at the hotel.’
I check the time. Drat, I’ve missed the last Tube. ‘I’ll be there first thing in the morning,’ I say. ‘Promise. Ready to go. Can’t wait. Going to be great. Don’t worry, you can rely on me.’
Athens huffs to let me know that he thinks I’m a complete pest.
‘Good train journey?’ I ask.
‘Yes, but I expected you to be here when we booked in. We’re going out to a pub, then turning in for the night.’
‘I can’t make it. Sorry.’
‘You’d better be here first thing, M.’
‘I will.’
I arrive early. I barely slept and have enough make-up caked on my face to join a dance troupe. Toga accompanied me to the hotel where Athens and the group are staying. After our performance last night, I’m surprised I can walk in a straight line.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ I say, knowing that it will be months before I set eyes on him again. He turns on his heels and walks away from me. I take a deep breath and watch him gradually disappear into the crowds hurrying to work. If I concentrate hard on just one person, if I study that man’s swagger and shiny shoes, it might just take the memories away.
Just then, I see Athens stride towards me. ‘Great, M, you’re here.’
‘I said I would be and I am.’
He taps me lightly on the arm so I walk along with him. Then we go underground to Earls Court.
‘Good evening?’
‘Very good evening, thanks.’
And it was. That Viagra was really something. No wonder the older generation can’t wait until they retire.
Early the next morning I sprint as fast as I can across Euston station. My overnight case bangs against my ankles, and the large bag slung over my shoulder keeps jabbing into my hips. I halt at the departures board. Manchester Piccadilly. Platform 17. Due to depart any minute. I’m about to sprint for it when Rhodri calls. I can’t see how I can reach the train in time and chat. ‘Hello,’ I answer, running towards the platform.
‘What time are you back?’
‘A couple of hours. Jack okay? You okay?… Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
‘What?’
‘I missed the fucking train – it’s just come in.’
Rhodri falls silent for a moment. I didn’t mean to curse – it just slipped out.
The sound of the train pulling out is deafening.
‘Are you still there?’ I shout down the phone, as the loudspeaker announces the imminent departure of a train to Birmingham New Street. ‘Rhodri?’
‘You’ve slept with someone, haven’t you?’
I look around me anxiously, searching for a member of staff to direct me to the next train home. ‘Pardon?’
‘You’ve had sex with someone, haven’t you?’
How long until the next train? I just want to get home now. I want to be at home this very second.
‘How did you know?’
‘You never swear like that. And you said the train had come in rather than that it had gone out.’
‘Oh –’ Rhodri is astute. I’m transparent. I’d make a dreadful perjurer. ‘I’m sorry, Rhodri.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry. I keep telling you that. You don’t have to be sorry.’
But I am sorry – how could I feel no remorse?
20
A few weeks have passed since I met up with Toga, and now I have dropped off his radar. No emails. No calls. Nothing. One bright afternoon Jack and I walk the long road home from school to Sunnyside. I tell Jack to look at the sky, see how blue it is. Listen to the birds, Jack, I tell him. Look at the blossom. All the while cars hum past us, mothers hastening to the shops or driving their children to swimming lessons or football club or dancing. Life feels full. I want to be at ease because years ago, after all that trouble with Damien, I didn’t even notice the seasons change. I must have been walking with my eyes cast to the ground.
‘We can go to the park on the way home, Jack,’ I say cheerfully.
‘What for?’
‘To play football.’
I packed a football in the hope we may find some other children to play a game with. Otherwise it will just be Jack and me. I take his hand in mine, scruff his hair up a little with the other and kiss his forehead. He smells as good as the day he was born.
Jack screws up his nose as if to say, ‘I don’t want to play football with my mum.’ He asks, ‘Can I play on the skateboard bit instead?’ He likes to hurl himself up and down the half-pipe; he has yet to try it with a skateboard and uses the aluminium curves as a slide instead.
‘If you like,’ I reply.
‘Will you play with me?’
‘I’d love to.’
Jack leans into me, pressing his head against my arm. As we walk, we trip over each other’s feet.
‘Everything all right, love?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll have a nice evening, you and me. I’ll run a warm bubble bath after the park. Then I’ll read you a story at bedtime, if you’re very good. And I’m sure you will be very good.’
‘Okay,’ he grumbles.
He isn’t even mimicking my mummy voice and mummy words. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought going to the park would make you happy.’
‘I will never ever be happy.’
He is kicking a discarded Coke can as we walk. The clink irritates me: clink, scuffle, clink, scuffle. I can’t stand it when he kicks litter. But, then, maybe Ronaldo kicked litter when he was a child. I don’t want to scupper Jack’s chances of being a Premiership footballer.
‘Of course you can be happy. I love you. You know that. You’re very much loved by all of your family.’
‘I can never be happy. I can’t ever be happy because I don’t see my dad. Because every day I only see him in my heart and every day it hurts in my heart.’ He drops my hand and makes a little cross over his chest, one set of fingers fenced over the other.
‘I didn’t know you felt like that.’
‘Well. I do. All the time. Every day. Every night.’
‘I thought you were happy. Rhodri isn’t your dad, but he cares a great deal for you. And for me.’ I wrap Jack in my arms, swaddling him in a warm, motherly hug.
He murmurs into my dress, half in agreement, half in disagreement. ‘But he’s not my dad,’ he grumbles. ‘I’m not calling him “Dad”.’
‘You don’t have to call him “Dad”.’
Rhodri is at a meeting this evening; some public debate about the planned expansion of Manchester Airport. He won’t be home until late, when he’ll be all fired up about action against climate change.
‘But I don’t know my dad. I don’t know who I’ll grow up to be because I don’t know what he does. I don’t know who I am because I don’t know who he is. You don’t understand how it feels.’ He stamps on the Coke can so hard it sticks to his shoe.
I bend down to unpeel it from the sole and drop it into a bin. ‘Well, you look very much like your dad,’ I tell Jack.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, you have his eyes.’
‘I have his mouth too, don’t I?’ says Jack, perking up. ‘Nana says I have my dad’s mouth and his is like Granddad Eddie’s. It’s a straight mouth. Even when I’m smiling it’s in a straight line.’
‘You have his mouth. And your dad loved sports. He’s good at football and you are too.’ There are other moments when Jack reminds me of Damien, like when he grins and tilts his head, charming me into one thing or another. Moments when I think he’s delicious.
As we draw closer to the park, Jack holds my hand in silence. He is my own little boy. I don’t want him to be unhappy. I don’t want him to think he can never be happy for the rest of his days. ‘I have some photographs of you and your dad when you were a baby,’ I tell him.
‘Really?’
‘And a card he sent to you when you were five.’ There’s a shoebox in a cupboard in my room containing the little band that had been attached to his wrist, reading ‘Baby of Maria Roberts, 6lb 12oz’, his clamped umbilical cord, which, nearly nine years later, is withered and dried, and some cards, photographs and odd little things belonging to Damien.
‘After we’ve been to the park, while you’re in the bath, I’ll pull some out for you.’
Later that evening we sit on my bed. It is our own raft in a sea of mess where Jack picks up photograph after photograph and laughs. Jack when he was a baby, wearing his dad’s sunglasses, sitting on a racing car: he was dressed as a Manchester City fan then, like Damien. He supports Liverpool now, like his uncle Luke. Jack wearing underpants on his head and bouncing on the sofa with Damien, who is also wearing underpants on his head: Jack used to say that the underpants protected us from an alien invasion. I remember when I took that picture. I was standing behind the camera, underpants on my head with pigtails hanging out of the sides, laughing at Damien and Jack. In the photograph, father and son are tanned. These pictures sing with happiness and magic. No one would suspect anything else.
‘Can I have this one in my room?’ asks Jack. It’s of him and his father on a pine bed in an apartment we rented in Spain. ‘And this one.’ It’s of all three of us bene
ath a blossoming cherry tree at my father’s wedding to Eleanor.
‘You can take those,’ I say, patting his shoulder. ‘I’ll keep the others safe.’
‘Have we got some Blu-Tack, Mum?’
I shuffle off the bed leaving Jack with the photographs. ‘You put the rest back into the box and I’ll find the Blu-Tack.’
At bedtime I lie on Jack’s bed and he snuggles into me as I read him another episode of Dav Pilkey’s Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets.
‘Sometimes,’ Jack begins, as I close the book and set it down by his bed, ‘when I’m playing outside, I think my dad will walk around the corner – and I feel very scared.’
‘I feel that too,’ I say, cuddling him tight. ‘All the time. But I promise you this, Jack, you don’t need to be scared because he’d never hurt you.’
‘I love you, Mum.’ He plants a long kiss on my cheek.
‘And I love you. Bigger than the moon.’
As I’m walking out of the room, he calls, ‘I love you higher than the sky.’
I flick the light off and call back, ‘I love you bigger than the entire universe.’
‘I love you more than that,’ he calls back.
‘I’m a lucky mummy, then, aren’t I?’
As I close the bedroom door, Jack blows me a kiss through the gap. I catch it and throw it straight back.
*
The next day, I collect Jack from after-school club and we go shopping. ‘Scarlet can come over tonight,’ I say. She’s been spending more time with her mum, which is good. That’s why we haven’t seen her.
Struggling to carry grocery bags, I pass Tina easing herself into her car. Jack shouts hello to her son. I pretend to be very busy juggling bags and searching for my keys so that I don’t need to look at her sly smile. If she weren’t bigger than me, I’d – I’d – Stupid woman.
Rhodri is at home. He has been cooking and a savoury aroma fills the house. I peer into the oven and see the Crock-Pot. Turning to Jack, I say, ‘If you do your homework quickly, the longer you’ll have to play with Scarlet.’
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