by Adele Parks
Nat stood in the jostling queue for twenty minutes, finally secured her purchases and was just wiggling and winding her way out of the shop when she bumped into Alan Jones. At first she did not recognise him, she simply apologised for standing on the man’s foot and planned to keep pushing through, head down.
‘Natalie? Natalie Morgan.’
Nat lifted up her head as she heard her old name. ‘Alan?’
Nat was surprised the encounter hadn’t happened before, considering they lived in such close proximity; but the inevitability did little to alleviate the shock of being face to face with Alan Jones, the only naked friend Nat did not want to see again. Once upon a time she had loved him and they had been together longer than she had been with any of her other exes but that was not a problem. Theirs had not been an earth-shattering sort of love that might inconveniently re-ignite and threaten her relationship with Neil. Nor had it been an intensely or especially sexual affair, it had been rather more ordinary than that. But, at a particular moment in history, theirs had been a comfortable, confiding sort of relationship and that was what terrified Natalie.
Alan was the only one who knew. He alone. He was the one she had divulged her big secret to, just weeks before they’d called time on their relationship. Of course the two things were related, Alan had never pretended anything other. They wanted different things, that’s what he’d said. She thought the point was that they had very different things. Very different experiences.
‘Oh my goodness, how are you?’ Alan asked the question with exactly the correct mix of enthusiasm and delighted surprise that is acceptable when old friends bump into one another.
‘I’m fine, thank you, very well. And you?’ It hardly covered it, but what else could they say to one another after twelve years? Nat was plainly more practised than most at catching up with old flames but even she was thrown by the unexpected nature of the meeting; with the others she’d had time to prepare. Alan followed her out on to the pavement, squeezing between the other customers and giving up his place in the queue. Nat wished he hadn’t.
‘How extraordinary bumping into you like this, especially as I don’t normally have a chance to visit the high street on a week day. I just happen to have a day’s holiday today,’ said Alan.
‘Yes, quite a coincidence, because I don’t normally shop in my lunch hour, I just popped out. I work nearby.’
‘Still work in pharmaceuticals?’
‘Yes.’
‘Marvellous.’ Nat could not remember for sure what Alan did for a living; something in the city, a lawyer, or maybe he worked in insurance. She decided not to hazard a guess. ‘It’s a lovely store, isn’t it?’ Alan pointed his thumb towards Mortimer & Bennett. ‘An Aladdin’s cave for an olive lover.’
Nat wondered what sort of person categorised themselves as an olive lover? She was as happy as the next person to eat an olive, she liked them more than anchovies but less than tomatoes; did that make her an olive lover?
‘I’m so sorry, Alan, but I’m in a rush. I have to get back to the office. It would be lovely to chat but—’
‘Yes, it would, wouldn’t it,’ smiled Alan. His beam was wide and rather more enthusiastic than her own. ‘What’s your number? I’ll give you a bell, we’ll fix something up so that we can have a longer chat.’
Alan Jones had not been a particularly prepossessing youth and he was not an especially striking man either. He had very bad teeth, below even the standard 1970s NHS issue, but as Nat was not American she didn’t have particularly high standards where teeth were concerned. Besides, the slight greyness and crookedness of teeth were not something someone ought to be judged by. But then what should a man be judged by? Natalie didn’t know any more. His conversation? His morals? His actions?
His desire for a family?
Alan was average in every way, almost to the point of being nondescript. He wasn’t notably short or tall. He had mid-brown, wavy hair that dared not be dramatic enough to be straight or curly. He preferred grey T-shirts worn with jeans or blue shirts worn with chinos, depending on the formality of the occasion. His personality avoided extremes too. He was not especially passionate about anything but then again (and Natalie often used to remind herself of this when they dated), he was never mean, rude or unreasonable. No, not at all, he was always mild-mannered and polite. Nat thought it was probably his habit of being polite that had led to him asking for her phone number. Alan was the sort of man who was often asked to be an usher at his friends’ weddings but never asked to be the best man. Nat had dated him at university because he kept asking her out and she couldn’t think of a really good reason not to. Alan had not been put off by her shyness or gauche ways, which many other men had not managed to see past. The truth was, Alan actively took comfort from Nat’s insecurities as he believed that were Nat to overcome her shyness and recognise her own worth, she would have been out of his league. About this, at least, he was absolutely correct.
Old habits died hard and so Nat found herself muttering her telephone number, all the time wondering if she ought to give a wrong digit. Even as Alan Jones stored it in his mobile, Nat wished she hadn’t popped out to the shops in her lunch hour and she prayed he’d never call her. Suddenly, Nat didn’t think she would bother rousing a party to go to the firework display, all she felt like doing now was hiding. Hiding from everyone and everything.
26
Alan called early the following week and suggested they meet that coming Thursday. Nat accepted Alan’s invitation, certain that she’d cancel on the day. She planned to make up an excuse that was at once believable enough to be irrefutable and weak enough to drop the hint that she did not want to rekindle their association. Alan suggested that they should meet at All Bar One in Leicester Square. It was a bar that was famous for brief and drunken encounters, nothing more than a watering hole for tourists who knew no better. There was a perfectly wonderful All Bar One on Chiswick High Road, just minutes from their homes. That All Bar One had high ceilings and friendly staff, but Alan had suggested the Leicester Square branch to provide anonymity, and Nat felt the slight. She didn’t think the crowded, noisy bar with its paucity of seats was befitting a four-year relationship, however long ago they’d given up on that liaison. Nat’s plan to blow out Alan was foiled when on Thursday morning she was called into an emergency day-long meeting about budget cuts; by the time she got to a phone she knew it was too late to break the arrangement. No doubt Alan would have set off in plenty of time to reach central London. She had no alternative other than to brush her hair, re-apply her lipstick and hop on the tube. She wouldn’t stay long.
Nat was right that Alan, a well-mannered man, had at least made the effort to ensure he arrived first. She glanced around the dim bar and before her eyes even became accustomed to the gloom she spotted Alan who waved enthusiastically to guide Nat to his spot. He’d thoughtfully bought Nat a white wine spritzer; she didn’t say that she preferred red wine nowadays as it might have appeared unnecessarily rude. They efficiently exchanged the bare facts about their lives, most of which they were both already aware of (because their mutual friend, Cathy, had drip-fed titbits to both parties for years) but they pretended not to know much about one another, just for conversation’s sake. Once they’d asked about one another’s spouses, jobs and families, Alan spun off in a completely different direction.
‘I’m pleased to see you haven’t dyed your hair,’ he said suddenly.
Nat was startled. Truthfully, she was not as naturally blonde as she liked to appear. She was fair, yes, but not quite what she seemed. Who was? Nat had her hair highlighted on a regular basis. Neil didn’t care if her blondeness was chemical or not and yet about once every six weeks they entered into a charade whereby Nat went to the hairdressers with an enormous shadow over her head and returned sunny. Neil always asked, ‘Have you done something with your hair?’
Nat would reply, ‘Yes, a trim.’
Then Neil would confirm, ‘Lovely.’ No more was ever said o
n the matter. It wasn’t that Nat felt the need to be deceptive about her hair-dying to Neil, she was certain he knew what really went on at her hairdressers, it was just a rather charming little play act between a tactful and happy couple.
‘All women seem to torture their hair nowadays,’ added Alan. ‘There must have been a time in the world when women had curly hair or mousy hair. Both are now all but extinct. Every woman I meet nowadays is either extremely dark, stunningly blonde or a fiery red, there’s no room for mediocrity in this world.’ He sighed elaborately.
Natalie thought that Alan’s comments sounded somewhat rehearsed, perhaps something he said at dinner parties to cover the gap between starter and main when the hostess was busy in the kitchen. Nat could have forgiven him for relying on a practised conversational fill-in; after all, their situation was unusual and a little embarrassing, but what was he saying about her hair? Did he think it was mousy? Wasn’t she stunningly blonde? And anyway, what was wrong with improving your looks? Suddenly, Nat remembered that Alan had never encouraged her to wear fashionable clothes, he had been dismissive of her experiments with her hair or make-up and he’d always preferred flat shoes. They had been so young when they dated, it was a time in her life when she should have been crazy and audacious but Alan had preferred her to be conservative and staid. He had always worried that if she changed too dramatically he’d be left behind. Neil never worried about being left behind. He encouraged Nat to try new things and constantly challenge herself and all that was around her. Neil alone believed she would bungee jump three hundred feet off a crane in Windsor; everyone else she knew had insisted that she’d chicken out at the last moment. Neil had taken bets on her daring and he’d made a killing. Neil always thought she looked amazing in the fashionable clothes sold in the high street; he also thought she was exceptionally fanciable when she wore a cagoule and walking boots. He did not believe she had a particular style she ought to be tied to. Neil’s confidence in her allowed her to find a robust self-assurance. What was she doing here?
‘Close up most women’s hair looks like a stretched Brillo pad,’ said Alan, reminding Nat of someone’s grandmother.
‘I do have it highlighted, actually,’ said Nat defiantly.
Alan looked startled, tutted, and then mumbled, ‘Is there a single woman who hasn’t dyed or straightened her hair, ever? Just one?’
Nat thought that she might as well gather up her handbag and head home.
‘Is it a vanity thing? All the hair-dying stuff? No one can stop ageing, that’s a given. It’s a fact that in the end everyone wears slippers,’ added Alan. Suddenly, Nat’s mind was washed with a vision of Neil in slippers and she started to laugh. Alan didn’t know what he’d said to amuse her but grinned back, clearly relieved. Thinking of Neil had doused Nat in a warm feeling of general compassion; it helped her to be kinder to Alan than she might otherwise have been. She knew that if she left Alan abruptly, he’d be offended and confused; after all, she had agreed to meet up. They were ex-lovers trying to be old friends, it wasn’t an easy situation. He was probably edgy and he was wittering on in this slightly miserable and churlish way to cover his nervousness.
‘Would you like another drink?’ offered Nat.
‘Yes, that would be nice. I’ll have what you’re drinking.’
‘A white wine spritzer?’ Nat asked in disbelief. This guy definitely didn’t get out enough.
‘If that’s easiest.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll buy a bottle of red and we’ll drink it straight. Hard-core style,’ she teased gently.
After a glass or two, Alan began to relax and became more like the Alan she’d remembered. Inoffensive, affable, unchallenging. He spoke frequently and proudly of his children and wife and laboriously about his job as a computer programmer. Neither subject bored Nat quite as much as she expected. It might have been the wine numbing the tedium or it might have been the fact that she was genuinely heartened to see Alan so thoroughly content. She was lost and discontented at the moment but she was not so low as to resent his achievement.
‘So, you never did have kids?’ he said inevitably.
‘No,’ confirmed Nat, although she’d already answered the question once that evening.
‘You always said you didn’t want them.’
‘That’s right.’ She took a gulp of wine.
‘Everyone said you’d change your mind.’
‘Yes, they did. They still say that.’ She took another, bigger gulp of wine.
‘But I knew you wouldn’t. What with your mum dying and everything. I knew you’d never get over that fear.’
Nat had never heard those words said aloud before. She knew the truth of them, of course. She’s said them first to Alan, twelve years ago as they were lying spooned together on their lumpy couch in their grotty rented flat. She said the same words, or more or less that arrangement, to herself every single day of her life, but hearing them said aloud was a shock. Annihilating.
‘Each time my wife was pregnant, I thought of your mum,’ said Alan. ‘It’s a husband’s worst fear, his wife dying in childbirth, being left alone to bring up the baby.’ Alan pinched his nose at the point between his eyes. The thought of such anguish had momentarily made him insensitive to the fact that Nat knew this more than most. He caught a glimpse of her face and realised he’d punched her emotionally. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be—’
‘No, no, that’s OK.’ The last thing Nat wanted now was his sympathy. That was the last thing she’d ever wanted from him or anyone.
‘But then your dad married Nina and she’s been a good mum to you, hasn’t she?’ said Alan in a jovial voice that sounded a little forced. He was trying to cheer her up but Nat couldn’t understand why people might want to convince her that the death of her mother was nothing more than a cloud that came with a silver lining. Yes, it was true Nina had been a fantastic mother but even that was a source of pain for Nat.
She didn’t want to get into this. Not now. Not ever.
‘Absolutely,’ she said wholeheartedly. She hoped her tone would be stout enough to convince him that it was OK to change the subject. It shouldn’t be that hard to do; not many people liked to talk about death.
Christina. Her mother’s name had been Christina. And Christina had died so that Nat could live. Of course no one had ever said this to Natalie. Not explicitly, but Nat had worked it out for herself. Even if there hadn’t been a dramatic situation where the doctors had asked her mother who they should save, the facts were that her mother died giving her life.
Oh, the guilt.
The guilt and the fear. And the loneliness. It sat in her throat like a ball of vomit waiting to explode on to her life at any given moment. A life that she’d carefully, laboriously pulled together. By controlling her grief, all but denying it, Nat had created a life that was damned near normal. Spewing up her guilt, fear and loneliness would ruin everything. It would stain and spoil everything.
Her father had done his best. He’d never blamed her. He had not punished her or shut her out of his life like a cruel Victorian father in a TV costume drama. No, he’d carefully, quietly and tenderly nurtured her. He’d made an effort. He’d made sacrifices. Brian Morgan had trained as an architect but if he’d ever held any ambitions to design influential, prestigious and powerful spaces that would have a lasting influence on how people viewed buildings, thus creating for himself an unrivalled worldwide reputation, he’d put them on the back burner when he accepted a job at the local council. Dealing with building compliance documents within the health sector (which largely boiled down to ensuring there was wheelchair access to public conveniences and sufficient nearby car parking spaces) may not have been especially inspiring work but it was valuable and the nine-to-five hours allowed him to be a better dad and maybe (he hoped) even a partial mum to Natalie. Brian had played tea parties with his daughter and her dolls, he’d built Lego towers and carefully iced pink birthday cakes and he’d managed to perform these tasks with cons
cientious concern. If he’d ever wanted to smash the tiny china cups, throw the Lego towers at the wall or slam the gooey cake mix across the kitchen floor because he felt the injustice of losing his spouse and his child’s mother, then he managed never to betray the fact.
Natalie’s grandparents had helped out as much as they could, until Christina’s mum had had a fatal stroke when Nat was just two. At the wake, over strong cups of tea, neighbours and distant relatives had whispered that the woman had never recovered from losing her daughter, no parent ever quite deals with outliving their child and perhaps the responsibility of looking after such a young grandchild had been a little too much . . . The sentence was rarely expanded upon, knowing looks and nods were shared. It was enough. Everyone agreed it was a tragedy. Another tragedy. Brian wouldn’t allow his parents to do as much as they would have liked to fill the care gap that Christina’s mother had left. They had both been in their seventies; he’d delivered too many eulogies for a man not yet thirty-five years old and while he didn’t believe that caring for Nat had contributed to her grandma’s death, he really couldn’t take a risk. So Nat had been cared for by a series of nannies.
The nannies had all liked Nat. She had been a quiet and obedient little girl. A little needy, perhaps, but no one resents delivering cuddles demanded by a cute infant, however constant and insistent those demands might be. The nannies had prepared homemade food, bathed her, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair. They’d played with her, painted with her and regularly took her on outings to the park or local bird sanctuary. They did all this for her with conscientious concern but they did not mother her, as that was not possible. If asked, each nanny would have sworn they loved her. They did, they loved her in exactly the same way that Natalie now loved her job at the pharmaceutical company and this had been proven when the nannies had handed in their notice to accept a better paid job, or in order to go travelling or (the hardest resignation Brian and Nat ever had to take) in order to have their own children. With each resignation and rehire Nat understood that no matter how kind, or pretty, or wise, or funny these nannies were, they were not her mother. They did not stay.