by Bloom, Anna
I knew full well what she'd sprayed on the walls of the boy’s toilets. What I wanted to know was why. Why were all boys wankers? I mean, I knew we were a female only house, but I’d never been one of those single mothers who berated all men. Why would I? My husband died in a tragic accident. He didn't leave me for someone else. He didn’t plan to drown in snow.
It didn’t matter though; regardless of whether he’d wanted to, he did it all the same. Right there and then, standing with my arms folded tight over my stomach like I was trying to keep myself together, I hated him. Hated him for leaving us to go skiing. Hated him for taking the black slope despite the weather warning, and I hated him more than anything for promising me he would make me forget my disappointment in love, but then failing to do so when he broke my heart all over again.
Tears scattered along my lashes and I dashed them away with the back of my hand. A giant bubble built in my chest until it could have burst and taken over the room, the house, maybe the universe.
“Han, I’m sorry.” I softened my voice and lowered my hips onto her bed. Not really sure what to do, I placed a hand on her shoulder, waiting for her to shrug me off. She didn’t, but she also didn’t turn around.
I took a deep breath. Let’s be real, I’d never sit on the hot seat of Mastermind and have my specialist subject as boys. I mean boys are boys; immature versions of girls, with dicks instead of vaginas, but I didn’t understand them. Not really.
I cringed. “Is a boy upsetting you?” I asked, my false mummy voice bouncing back off the bedroom walls at me.
The condescending sigh that rolled out of her was almost tangible. “No, Mother.”
Ooh. Mother. Mother territory, one of my absolute favourite places to hang out.
“You can talk to me you know?” I prodded her shoulder, still unable to see her face. I knew she wouldn’t, but I said the words hoping one day she might just collapse in a furore of sobs and tell me what the hell was going on in her head. She wouldn’t. She had my most fundamental flaw flowing through her veins. The complete inability to speak and say something important when needed to.
Of all the genetic flaws to pass on to your child. The inability to speak when needed has got to be the worst. I mean, she could have got my nose and that would have been bad enough in itself—but silence. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
“Listen, I know I’m old and not cool, but I was your age once too.”
Lame, lame, lame, just stop bloody talking, Ronnie. She flinched.
I couldn’t actually remember what life was like at thirteen. For me it was like my life started at eighteen on my first day at university, when. . . I stopped the thought.
I gave up at the point when my hand had been on her shoulder for five minutes and she still hadn’t turned around and I was looking at a paperback on the floor with considerable longing. “Okay, I’ll leave you alone for a while, but door open, okay?”
I was by the door when her voice broke through the wall of deathly quiet. “Did you ever have someone you liked, but didn’t tell?”
My skin paled, a responsive sweat prickling my palms. I folded my hands under my armpits. Come on, Ronnie, this is one of those moments.
Tell her.
Tell her about the day you cocked up.
I opened my mouth, but as the words formed themselves on the tip of my tongue, she turned to look at me, her gaze very similar to that of the eight-year-old who I’d had to tell would never see their father again.
I just couldn’t. Couldn’t say anything of any value, didn’t have the words within me.
I shrugged. “Boys are boys,” I said wanting to bitch slap myself. The glacial gaze she liked to reserve just for me spread across her eyes and her lips twisted into a snarl.
Godzilla was back. “Sure they are.”
I sighed and stared at her. “Hannah, this can’t go on, you know it right?”
When she didn’t answer, I walked to my bedroom and threw myself on my bed hoping that just maybe the duvet would reach up and wrap itself tight around my body suffocating the shit out of me.
If I suffocated myself then I wouldn’t be able to sip into porno dream land.
But then…
Messenger
On the way to Mr Jewson’s office two days later, I cursed myself for thinking my ‘This can’t keep happening’, would have any effect.
A bell inside my head told me that right now I walked the same path my mother had with me twenty years before. I imagined being in her shoes as I walked up the stairs to the school.
Did I want to be in her shoes when Hannah was my age?
This time Mr Jewson wouldn’t let us escape with a warning and an afternoon of sulking in a dark room.
“This can’t carry on,” he told me.
No bloody shit.
Hannah had got it easy and sat on a seat outside the office. I could see her through the glass, her bum slipped down on her chair, her ankles crossed, a serious attitude of ‘couldn’t give a shit’ painted across her face. I glared at her before turning back to Mr Jewson. My age, or maybe a year or two older, he had the ‘Cool Adult’ vibe nailed.
I wished I knew how to get that vibe. The only one I had down was ‘Desperate Parent’.
“I know it can’t carry on,” I said, my fingers fidgeting in my lap. “I don’t know what to do with her.”
Jewson leant against his desk in the superiority pose all teachers perfected. “How long has it been since her father died?” He lowered his voice like he didn’t want her to overhear. Like he didn’t want to break the bad news to her through the thin partition of his office wall.
She already knew, buddy. It was me who’d broken that particular bit of bad news. I didn’t think she’d ever forgiven me.
“Five years,” I muttered.
He paused and steepled his fingers together, one polished brown shoe tapping against another. “I don’t want to pry, but is she finding her home life unsettling? I’m wondering if you have a new boyfriend, perhaps?”
I blinked at him while I slotted his words into a formation that made sense.
Wait a minute…
“What?” I exploded out of my chair like a rocket. “What are you implying?” He adjusted the rectangular framed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose and waited for me to breathe. Which I didn’t. Instead I just about snorted flames out of my nostrils.
“I’m just saying that you’re allowed to have a life of your own, you are young, but it may be confusing for her.”
“I’m young? You pompous prick. You’re only a couple of years older than me.”
He looked at me. “I don’t know what my age has got to do with anything, and Mrs Childs, I would appreciate you not using offensive language.”
His age didn’t have anything to do with anything. I didn’t want to admit that though. Plus, I’d just called him a prick. There wasn’t any coming back from that—he was the headteacher for goodness’ sake. I grabbed my bag and Hannah’s backpack off the floor. When I was at the door, yanking it so hard it quivered on its hinges, I turned back to him. “Just so you know, and not because I have to tell you. Hannah lives at home with my mother and I, and that’s all she’s ever known.”
I wanted to punch him.
“We’ve got a parent/teacher socialiser event next week. Why don’t you come? Maybe it would be good to socialise more with other parents. We’d like to see you here.”
A parent what?
My face burned hot as I reached for Hannah’s hand and pulled her after me.
“Have I been excluded again?” she asked as I yanked her down the hallway.
“Nope.” I didn’t bother turning around. “You are having a sick afternoon.”
Parenting fail 101. I knew I should have made her stay and learn her lesson. You can’t punch a guy in the nuts and get away with it. You have to deal with things as a grown up…
But no.
Later I sat on the sofa by myself. I’d forgone a glass of wine for a cup of tea a
nd I was comforting myself with typing Matthew Carling into Facebook’s search bar and then watching it come up with one thousand and five Matthew Carling’s that weren’t him.
I pretended I couldn’t see Hannah when she crept into the lounge and sat on the furthest edge of the sofa away from me. From the corner of my eye I could see her fluffy pyjamas.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a few minutes had passed.
“I’m sorry too.”
* * *
“Morning, Natalie.”
I shot a tight smile at Natalie as she twisted the tube of her lipstick shut and pocketed it before I could mention that make-up should be done at home. I didn’t want to stop to make conversation. I had passed the need for polite conversation as we all waited to find out if I could keep the business running. That Supersaver Foods hadn’t got back to us frayed my nerves shorter with every passing second, on every single bill paying level that you could think of.
I’d been giving them all a one-on-one trying to pep talk them. I’m not sure they understood my ‘next level’ speech. I didn’t want to scare them all by admitting that there was a chance I wouldn’t be able to keep the company running, but I also needed them to understand that this was a business and we needed to do business things.
Fred and Natalie couldn’t spend the day flirting.
Fred couldn’t keep rolling in at ten with a terrible hangover and then tell me at four he had a doctor’s appointment. Well he could, because honestly, the man could get away with anything.
I was explaining to Natalie that lunch breaks should only be for an hour and that make-up should be applied during personal time when I glanced up at my screen.
Every particle of breath inside my body evaporated.
Facebook Messenger flashed at me.
Messenger request from Matthew Carling
Please accept to view message.
My hands slicked with sweat and slid off the keyboard.
“Ronnie?” Natalie called me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
I blinked again and again trying to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.
He wasn’t even on Facebook. Not that I was a stalker or anything. Well I was. It was part of my evening routine and had been since Zuckerberg invented a way for desperate exes to stare at photographs of their previous partners in their new lives while gorging themselves on Ben and Jerry’s. I called it the Let’s Look for Matthew Game. Facebook, Myspace, LinkedIn, Instagram, Twitter.
“Ronnie!” I snapped my eyes up at Natalie.
“Uh?” There was nothing in my brain at all. Nothing. Facebook had swept it all away with one notification.
“You were talking about lunch. Are you saying I have to eat during my actual break, or can I eat at my desk when I come back?”
“You just need to make sure your work is done, that’s all.”
“I always do.”
I shook my head, trying to lift the fuddled fog that had descended. Facebook? “That’s fine, you could fit it in after you’ve finished your granola at eleven. Sorry, Natalie, can you, uh, go?”
Natalie threw me a curious glance as she headed out. It would be around the office in seconds, but I didn’t care. I grabbed my phone and pressed until I saw Ange’s face.
“Are you having a panic attack in the toilets again?”
I groaned, my heart racing in my chest, and placed a clammy hand against my even stickier forehead. “I’m having an emergency.”
All laughter dropped from her voice. “Is she okay?”
She meant Hannah.
“Oh no, she’s fine. Well I’ve got her on house lockdown after punching some boy in the nuts yesterday but other than that she’s fine.”
“What did he do?” Ange’s tone held a note of reverence for my daughter and her flying fists. Sometimes I believed that she could have been Angela’s daughter and not mine.
“Apparently he breathed too loud next to her.”
Ange sighed. “That happens to me all the time.”
“It’s not funny.” I reprimanded but my heart wasn’t in it. My heart had stopped beating because of the extreme heart attack situation arising around me.
I flicked another glance at the screen. Nope, it was still there. “Matthew’s messaged me on Facebook.”
A spark of a lighter met my words followed by a deep drag. “He’s done what?” she asked, as she exhaled a lungful of air. “He’s not on Facebook.”
I rolled my chair as close to the desk as my stomach would allow. “No, that’s what I thought. But he’s there.” There was a small picture. Fucking years I’d waited to see a picture.
I peered at the small round image.
“You know if you click on it, you’ll see it bigger.” She guessed what I was doing with uncanny accuracy.
I reached for my mouse and clicked. Then I let out a deep sigh that made my bones squishy. Not bald and fat. It wouldn’t have made the slightest difference if he was.
“Why’s he on Facebook?” I asked, my nose pressed against my screen until my eyes stung and I went cross-eyed.
“I don’t know.”
“Why’s he messaging me?”
“I don’t know.”
There was another pause as she dragged on her cigarette. “Well, what does the message say?”
“Well, I don’t bloody know. I haven’t accepted his request.”
“Accept it.”
“No, he’s a dick. He was rude to me the last time I saw him.” Despite it being fifteen years ago, my cheeks still heated with the embarrassment they’d held that night.
“Remind me again what he said,” Ange prompted.
“No.” Jeez, I was licking my screen; I hadn’t lost all faculties. I would never talk about the night I fucked up—not with anyone.
“Is he a dick though? I can’t tell you if he is, or isn’t, if you don’t tell me what happened.”
“He is rude.”
“Mm.” Another puff of smoke. “Well it’s your call, but you’ll never know if you don’t find out what he’s saying.”
“You aren’t helping,” I grouched, rapping my fingers against the desk.
She sniggered. “No, I’m just not saying what you want to hear. Anyway, after what I saw him do at the reunion, I’d give him a wide berth.”
“What? What did he do? You didn’t tell me anything bad happened.”
There was a beep on the line. “Sorry, babes, got to dash.”
“Angela! Don’t you dare leave me hanging like this.”
“What are you going to do?” She shouted as she disconnected.
“Delete it,” I called back just as the line went dead.
I should have deleted it. That would have made sense. But I didn’t. Instead, I left it there; a blue flashing riddle on my screen. The riddle being, what has Matthew-I-haven’t-spoken-to-you-in-fifteen-years, messaged me about?
* * *
“I’ve been checking the emails to see if there’s any news.” Natalie motioned at my Big Boss chair she was making herself comfortable in. Lady Boss, Fred called me. It made me sound like a cross-dresser.
“Is there? Where is Fred? We need to get some advertising on Facebook, but I want his latest designs.”
We still hadn’t heard about the pitch. Every moment that passed I could sense the ending of my company like when you knew you’d reached the last chapter of your favourite book.
“No emails.” I tried to put on a brave little soldier face, but now I teetered more towards sulking toddler.
Her face fell, and I felt a little sorry for her. Natalie probably desperately needed a pay rise; hell, they all did. I didn’t want to lose any of my staff to another firm that could pay more, but there was no chance I held a position to compete.
I’d hate to not look out of my office every day and see her peering into her compact mirror. If someone offered to pay her more that could happen.
Until.
“Oh, you had a Facebook request on your computer. You’d left the page
open, Ronnie, anyone could have looked at your stuff.” She said this like nothing could be more obvious. “So, I accepted it for you.”
The post fell out of my fingers and I launched myself with an impressive rugby tackle at the computer while shouting, “Noooooo,” like I acted in a slow-motion outage for a lame action movie.
Natalie wheeled out of my oncoming approach and I smashed my thigh into the side of the desk. The whole thing gave a precarious wobble. No, nononono, no.
I grabbed the screen and turned it towards me. Sure enough there it was. You and Matthew Carling are now connected on Messenger.
And again. No, no, no, no, no. His little picture, a casual shot which looked like a holiday snap, taunted me.
Out of nowhere the memory of the feel of his hand on the back of my neck flashed into my head. Zap. Boom. Hand, neck.
I grabbed the bin and puked straight into it.
“Ooh.” Natalie’s eyes lit with curiosity.
“No. I’m not,” I told her before she could go running around the office telling everyone I was knocked up in some second coming immaculate conception.
“Get out,” I snapped. Without asking why, she slid from my seat mumbling under her breath about an overreaction.
I stared at the screen and his message blinked at me, blinding my eyes. Hi.
Hi. Fucking, hi.
What the hell was going on?
My hands stuck to the smooth surface of the desk, the sweat greasing out of my pores acting like a natural form of superglue. My legs shook on my wheelie chair.
Hi.
He didn’t even say ‘Hi’ to me at the reunion. If my memory serves me—which it always did with him, because that’s what stalkers do—he’d just stared at me, slightly surprised, his eyes wide. No smile. No real recognition. No flicker on his face.
Hi.
I stared at the word, an enigma.
What was I supposed to write back? Hi? How are you? Remember when we were best friends, and I trailed you around like a lovesick puppy, so much so that people joked I was your stalker. Because I am, just so we are clear on that. Oh, and by the way, what was wrong with Myspace? I thought it was an excellent experiment in social interaction and accidentally made friends with Polish girls with enormous boobs.