by Adele Parks
‘What are you doing?’
Eliza jerked upright at the sound of Greg’s voice; he stood in the doorway smoking a cigarette. She hated him smoking in the bedroom.
‘Smelling the bed.’
‘I can see that. I mean, what are these bags about? Are you feng shui-ing your wardrobe?’ Greg was trying, and failing, not to sound amused. He was very aware of Eliza’s constant (and doomed) quest for a neater, more efficient, more financially successful self. He really didn’t get it. He didn’t get her compulsion to buy every book on the market that dangled the carrot of an improved self. She didn’t need improving. She was pretty damn fly as far as he was concerned. If he were squeezed to name a fault in her, he might say that she was a bit too hung up on appearances, but that only manifested itself in this quirky habit of buying in to feng shui, self-improvement, self-help crap.
‘No. I’m not feng shui-ing.’
‘Car boot sale?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t tell me, you’re running away with the guy from the corner shop?’ laughed Greg. It was an ongoing joke that the guy in their local shop really fancied Eliza; he was ninety if he was a day. Still, occasionally, the infatuation had been useful when Greg had needed something on tick. In one swift movement, Greg threw himself on to the bed and the bags off it. The clothes spilt out on to the floor. Greg cupped Eliza’s breast and started to kiss her leg through her sweat pants. He hadn’t even bothered to stub out his fag.
‘Look at the mess you’ve made,’ complained Eliza. ‘Everything will be creased now.’ In fact the clothes hadn’t been ironed; they both thought ironing was a tedious waste of time and, besides, Eliza had thrown things into the case in a more than haphazard manner. Greg knew all this and so didn’t bother to defend himself. Instead he increased the intensity of his kisses and tried to edge Eliza’s T-shirt up above her bra.
Eliza broke away. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘How can that be?’ The question was genuine.
‘I can’t just switch it on like that,’ lied Eliza. In all honesty, she found it almost impossible to resist Greg and he could always just switch her on like that, by kissing her leg, stroking her hair, staring at her, eating spaghetti – lots of ways, actually. Right now, that annoyed her intensely.
‘What’s up, chick?’ asked Greg as he gently thumbed Eliza’s left nipple.
‘Where’ve you been?’ This question was asked as a stalling tactic rather than from any genuine curiosity.
‘At Bob’s, jamming. We’ve been doing something new – hang on, I’ll play it for you.’ Greg jumped up and went back through to the sitting room to grab his saxophone. He stood his lit cigarette vertically on the dressing table.
Eliza simmered with irritation.
He started to play.
Fucking treacherous toe, tapping away as though she were enjoying his music. And her finger gently counting out the beat on her thigh. Heresy. So he looked good and sounded even better. Eliza had seen Greg perform on countless occasions. She always felt a thrill of pride that he made people stop and listen, that he had that power to entertain. And although she wished he didn’t smoke, she had to admit that the smoke looked beautiful reflected back from his eyes and the saxophone.
So?
It was so childish to feel his beat and want to follow him as though he were the Pied fucking Piper. Eliza was so angry with herself that all she wanted to do was storm out of the flat that very moment. She wanted to leave behind her the woeful, soulful notes that were trying to climb inside her brain.
‘I’m leaving you, Greg.’
Greg stopped playing. ‘What?’
‘I’m leaving you,’ Eliza repeated. She sounded more together than was actually the case. But then a thousand-piece jigsaw was more together than Eliza was.
‘Why?’ He felt as though she’d punched him. He put down the saxophone and crouched by Eliza.
‘This isn’t what I want,’ she said.
‘What isn’t?’ he asked, genuinely bemused.
‘This lifestyle. I feel’ – Eliza had been practising this speech all afternoon, but was suddenly stuck for words –‘I feel stifled.’
‘Stifled?’ Greg didn’t get it. Their life together was very creative. They often wrote lyrics together for his songs. Only the other evening they’d been bathing together and scribbled one on the bathroom wall. He’d thought that was so cool. They read together, and discussed books, gigs, gags, films and clothes. They had great, adventurous sex, and no one had that after four years. What did she mean, stifled? ‘What do you mean, stifled?’
‘I don’t think I’m all I could be. I want more.’
‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked reasonably. She probably didn’t mean she was leaving. She was probably being over dramatic. It didn’t sound like a dumping speech. But then he’d never been dumped before. His past chicks had always just been there and then not been there. It hadn’t been a big deal. But he hadn’t thought Eliza would ever not be there. Thinking about it now, he couldn’t imagine it. If he could, he knew it would be a really big deal.
‘It’s not you, it’s this lifestyle,’ Eliza tried to explain.
‘You’re not going out with a lifestyle.’
‘You can say that again,’ Eliza sighed. She hadn’t wanted to get into a big debate. She hadn’t imagined being questioned or made to explain herself, she hadn’t thought Greg had that sort of energy. ‘What’s chioca?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘It’s a root vegetable. It’s the type of ingredient that Martha uses when she’s cooking for dinner parties. We don’t even know what it is!’
‘Aren’t we well suited?’ Greg’s flip comment went down like a lead parachute. Eliza’s eyes blazed with anger but he honestly did not know what was making her so furious. ‘You’re dumping me because I don’t know about some spice or other?’ asked Greg, amazed.
‘It’s a vegetable, and yes… well, no, not exactly. We don’t have dinner parties,’ she declared.
‘Fran and Andy ate round here just the other night.’
‘A fish and chip supper without plates is not a dinner party.’ Eliza was surprised to hear she was shouting.
‘OK, OK, we’ll have plates next time.’
Eliza wasn’t placated. She stood up and hauled her case back on to the bed. Frantically, she crammed her clothes back inside. What was wrong with them? They seemed to have metamorphosed into tightly coiled springs. Everything she packed jumped straight out again. With determination she pushed knickers inside of shoes, weighed down slippery, flimsy dresses with heavy jumpers.
‘I want matching crockery, I want shiny cutlery, I want private health care and travel insurance. I want a mortgage, not a rent book. I want dinner parties, I want to visit supermarkets and B&Q.’
‘You can’t be serious. B&Q is always full of angry, resentful couples,’ argued Greg.
‘I want to be an angry, resentful couple,’ yelled Eliza without really thinking what she was asking for.
‘Well, you’ve got that at least, chick.’ Greg tried to smile – he wanted to appear flip and fearless; he was sure he sounded bitter and sad.
‘No. We’re not a couple, Greg, that’s what I’m trying to say. I want a partner, not a boyfriend.’
Greg started to roar. ‘Now I know you’re having a laugh. You’ve always hated the word part-ner.’ He said it in the stupid voice they both always used whenever they said the word and with the ‘carrot-up-the-bum’ expression they usually adopted when introduced to someone who insisted on referring to their lover as their partner. ‘You don’t want a part-ner. I don’t believe you.’
Eliza stopped rolling garments into tight angry balls and froze. It was true she didn’t want a part-ner. She seriously doubted her ability ever to say the word out loud without the aid of fury or a silly expression. But she did want security, stability and respectability. She wanted to own furniture that wasn’t so scanky that it had to be covered by tie-dye throws (whic
h in point of fact were also scanky). She wanted to collect Denby pottery, not DVDs. She wanted stacks of Tupperware, smart pans with matching lids, and a fridge without the magnets arranged to spell rude words. She wanted all the things Martha had. And, most of all, she wanted a husband.
‘I want to get married,’ admitted Eliza. She dragged her eyes from the carpet and stared at Greg. Her look was defiant, this wasn’t a romantic proposal; it was a challenge.
Greg knew this instantly. He could see the gun that was being held to his head as clearly as he could see his own reflection in the mirror.
Eliza waited. It was possible, just possible, that he’d say, ‘OK let’s do it.’ She’d even do the Vegas thing and be married by Elvis, if that’s what he wanted (although she secretly longed for a replica of her sister’s fairytale wedding).
‘I see,’ muttered Greg. ‘I think I need a drink.’
That’s not the proper answer, steamed Eliza silently. She angrily tried to force the zip of the case to close. It wouldn’t – she had to sit on it. She jumped on top of the case and bounced up and down, and centimetre by centimetre the teeth of the zip locked together.
Greg came back into the bedroom. He was carrying a half-empty bottle of whisky and two glasses. Eliza noticed that the glasses didn’t even match – typical. Greg handed her one glass, which she mutely took. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle with his mouth and sloshed generous measures into both glasses.
He had beautiful fingers.
‘So tell me again. Why do you want to get married? Because you want matching crockery and cutlery, and private health care and a mortgage?’
‘Yes,’ sighed Eliza. She knew that she wasn’t being very clear, but she couldn’t find the words. ‘I want a grown-up life,’ she offered.
‘And we’re not that?’
‘No. We’re not.’
‘I thought we were, Liza. I thought being helplessly in love was grown up.’
Eliza didn’t know what to say. She normally loved it when he called her ‘Liza’. It was so intimate because no one else ever shortened her name, never had; today she thought he was being impertinent.
Greg stayed silent for a moment and then said, ‘We should drink a toast. What do you think we should drink to?’ Eliza couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘How about, “to the end of our affair”?’ he said and then clinked his glass up against Eliza’s.
‘Er. To the end,’ mumbled Eliza, embarrassed at the unconventional nature of the toast.
Greg took a sip and then a chance. ‘Will you sleep with me one last time? For old times’ sake.’ He smiled a slow, lazy smile, which drew lines around his eyes. Still, he didn’t look his age.
Or act it, Eliza reminded herself. ‘No,’ she said as firmly as possible.
‘No,’ he repeated quietly, and dropped his head to stare intently at the glass of whisky he was holding. He swirled round the rich, amber liquid, which chased and caught the light of the late afternoon sun that was drifting into the room. The mood could have been romantic. ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ he asked, forcing his gaze back upwards.
‘Yes,’ said Eliza. She examined her emotions. She was expecting to feel relieved, even a little bit jubilant. She didn’t. She felt horrible. But, she reminded herself, this was her first step on the road to respectability, and everyone knows that the first step is always the hardest.
That’s why it hurts.
Not because she’d just thrown away the best thing that had ever happened to her.
10
Martha felt wonderful. Absolutely brimming with happiness and, good Lord, excitement even. It had been a while, but now she felt marvellous. Today had been perfect. Today was the type of day when you saw a space in the supermarket car park and you managed to reverse into it, first time, no hesitation. Today was the type of day when you were able to buy absolutely every ingredient on your list for your dinner party. Even chioca. The type of day when the children played happily together (Martha had a convenient memory and had already forgotten the torturous early morning), and your sister called round unexpectedly and you had a really lovely time just doing ordinary things like eating breakfast and buying the weekly groceries.
Today was the day when the estate agent called up to tell you that your offer on your dream home had been accepted. Hurrah!
An absolutely perfect day.
‘Michael, isn’t it wonderful?’ Martha didn’t pause for his response because she knew it was wonderful and she knew that Michael would think so too. ‘It will solve all our problems. A live-in nanny, pure bliss. Somewhere to air the towels and bed linen. A decent-size garden. A Wellington room.’ Martha pronounced the words ‘Wellington room’ with the same enthusiasm other women reserve for thanking sex gods for multiple orgasms, but Martha didn’t know that – she’d never been with a sex god and she’d never benefited from multiple orgasms.
Martha had returned home from the supermarket and immediately called the estate agent, as she had four or five times a day since they’d made the offer on the Bridleway. Martha was used to receiving the polite but uninspiring response, ‘They’re still mulling it over.’ She wasn’t aware of the estate agent’s exasperated eye-rolling at his colleagues, or of the fact that they all chorused ‘Mrs West again’ every time the phone rang. Martha would politely and somewhat hopelessly respond, ‘Oh well, let me know as soon as you hear anything.’ Her comment was accompanied by a brave smile and a renewed silent prayer: ‘Please, please let them accept our offer.’
So it was more than a surprise when the estate agent deviated from the established conversation pattern. ‘Ahh, Mrs West. I was just about to call you.’
‘Were you?’ Please, please, please God.
‘They’ve accepted your offer.’
In those four, or technically five, words, all of Martha’s Christmases and birthdays came at once.
Martha had unpacked the shopping, fed the children, played with them all afternoon, taken them to the swings, fed them again, bathed them, read them a story, prepared dinner for six, showered, washed her hair, got dressed and made up, all in an unprecedented state of exhilaration.
It was the perfect day.
Martha allowed her chatter to run on and on as she dashed around the kitchen, completing the final preparations for the dinner party. She asked Michael whether she ought to put champagne in the fridge so that they could celebrate the offer’s acceptance. She commented that another plate was chipped. She rooted in the vegetable rack, remarking on the freshness or otherwise of each vegetable; but she wasn’t really concentrating on her own chatter. All she was thinking about was the Bridleway. The new house. Their dream home. Martha and Michael’s dreams were about to come true. The offer had been accepted. The solicitor had been instructed that it was all systems go, and that they must exchange and complete as fast as humanly possible. Martha had actually rung their solicitor at home, on a Saturday, because she was too excited to wait until Monday – she would never normally have been so bold, even if she and Michael did pay a fortune for her services. Martha was smiling from ear to ear and could not imagine ever stopping smiling.
Michael wasn’t concentrating on Martha’s chatter either. He had no view on whether Martha should put champagne in the fridge. He couldn’t have cared less that another plate was chipped, and the vegetables, for fuck’s sake, were, after all, only vegetables.
‘I wonder where everyone is? Ed and Bel are normally so prompt. Maybe the traffic is bad? Dom and Tara are always late – that doesn’t surprise me in the least. Do you think I should call?’ Martha was desperate to tell someone her news. Tara would have such good ideas for the kitchen; she’d recently had hers completely renovated. Martha coveted Tara’s taps.
‘No.’
‘No, you’re right, it looks a bit rude if I hurry them. I’m sure they’ll get here in their own time.’
‘They’re not coming.’
‘Who aren’t? Ed and Bel, or Dom and Tara? Oh Michael, you could have told me e
arlier, I’ve cooked for six. Did they ring? Is it babysitting problems?’ Martha continued to dash about the kitchen as she fired these questions. She decanted a bottle of red that needed to breathe, she poured olives into a bowl, she polished the champagne glasses for the second time, and she tried to ignore the surge of irritation that she felt slither up her spine. Lovely as Michael was, he simply didn’t understand the logistics of how Martha managed their lives. He should have mentioned that they’d had a cancellation. She hated wasting good food, not to mention precious preparation time. If she hadn’t been in such a good mood she might have said something.
But then, she probably wouldn’t have.
‘So who can’t make it?’ Martha was already wondering if she had any last-minute stand-ins. Would Eliza and Greg behave if she called them and invited them over? Or would they insist on smoking pot and ranting on about the unfair lack of facilities in state schools?
‘None of them are coming.’
‘None?’ Martha didn’t understand. She stopped dashing and stared at Michael.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I called them and cancelled.’
‘You cancelled?’ Martha thought she’d misheard, then all at once she understood. ‘Oh Michael, you sweetie, you want us to celebrate on our own.’ She moved towards him and went to put her arms around his neck. She pushed aside the thought that he should have told her so that she could have saved a fortune and an awful lot of time. It was a very romantic gesture.