by Anna Maxted
“Then…then what should I do?”
I’m paralyzed. Using food to block stuff has been a flop of the highest order. The anger is still there underneath. It’s just curdled.
Andy lifts his hands. “What do I know? I’ve said what I think.”
I light a cigarette, although my hands are trembling so violently it takes me about a minute. I know what he thinks I should do. Although it’s nothing to do with him, and anyway, I know what I should do. It’s doing it that’s the great hulking problem with a glacé cherry (ten calories) on top.
36
TONY HAS ALWAYS ENJOYED THE PRACTICE OF, as he calls it, “a council house row.” (A heartfelt disagreement that requires you to storm into the road and address a loved one at the decibel and pitch of a screech owl.) I, however, favor the middle-class custom of feigned acquiescence while your opponent is present and ardent dispute under your breath the second they leave the room. So while I have unfinished business to discuss with my brother, my mother, and possibly my father, I ache for a less challenging task. Like, say, leaping from a plane without a parachute.
The trouble is, Tony has a black belt in intimidation. Taking issue with my father would be like smacking a puppy for chewing shoes. And criticizing my mother would wound her irreparably, snipping the thread of our fragile bond forever, and I don’t think I could bear it. She takes even the mildest comment to heart. She once told me and Babs that ideally, men should be caught before they turned thirty as, “Beyond that, they get set in their ways.”
Babs replied cheerfully, “But, Sheila, all the men I’ve ever met have been set in their ways since the age of six.”
My mother went silent, and I knew she thought she was being dissed (although her actual phrasing might have differed).
I imagine saying, “Oh Mum, about the last twenty-six years of mothering, can I have a word?” and feel ill. When I pick fault in any way I devastate her. She gets a My Angel Is a Centerfold look on her face. I remember the mash incident and shudder. Never! Never again!
“Have you gone into a trance?” inquires Andy politely.
I jump.
Andy gets up and shoves his plate into the sink. I eye it with suspicion but don’t say anything. I recall that the morning after he made tomato bread soup I had to practically hose down the kitchen. Andy follows my gaze to the plate, then gives me a look. It is similar to a look I frequently received from Babs when she was my lodger. Such as when I shouted down the hall, “Did you just go to the toilet?” She’d stomped into the lounge, given me the look, and said, “Yeah, why?” Keen to reassure her, I replied, “Good, because I heard a flush and I thought it might be the neighbor’s toilet. I just can’t stand the thought of being in my flat and hearing someone else’s toilet.” Babs gave me the look again, and sang, “Hello! Psycho!”
Andy doesn’t actually sing “Hello! Psycho!” but it’s as good as written across his forehead. He swishes on the cold tap, squirts about half a pint of dishwashing liquid onto the plate, and gives it a cursory rub. Then he sticks it in the draining rack.
“Better?”
I show my teeth.
“You know,” he blurts suddenly, “if you don’t sort out the problem, then you won’t recover.”
I nod while trying simultaneously to convey the message that I want him to shut up. It doesn’t work. He adds, “I only say that because of what happened with Sasha.”
I stop mid-nod, then start again. For some masochistic reason I want to hear this. “Why?” I mouth, afraid that actual sound will derail his train of thought.
“I cut her off. I didn’t want to hear her explanation. I didn’t want to discuss it. To me, there was nothing to discuss. I thought if I acted like she didn’t exist, she wouldn’t exist in my head. It worked. For a while. But”—he looks at me and doesn’t flinch—“it’s stopped working. I think about Sash a lot. Ringing her dad, asking for her number, getting in touch. Only thing stopping me is, she’ll be married to this bloke by now with five kids. I can’t bring myself to do it. But I’ll be honest, I can’t get her out of my head. Shit. I’m sorry to land this one on you, Nat, especially after we—” Why is it that some men aren’t satisfied until they achieve wanker status in a woman’s head?
“Don’t be silly,” I interrupt, cranking what I hope is a faintly amused smile onto my face. “Why should I mind? It’s not as if our relationship”—I imbue this word with all the irony I can force upon it and, for the first time ever, quote Saul—“was anything serious. We had a shag. It was fun, a one-off”—playful pause. “You still have to pay me rent.”
Andy’s eyes widen, his mouth shuts, and he smiles. I see this smile and I know that he, like me, is in rapid retreat. He’s bowing and scraping and twirling his hat as he does so, but only a whisker of self-control stops him turning tail and racing off as fast as his legs will carry him. Maybe he is still in love with the legendary Sasha. But it’s not only that. I smell fear. I’ll never forget Matt dismissing a cute contender with the words: “No confidence, too much work.”
Men, gay or straight, there’s little difference. They can’t be bothered to build you up, and if they can there’s probably something wrong with them.
I loll in my chair, body language set to Indifference. But all the while I’m raging, what the hell did he do that for? Why even go to the trouble of getting his kit off? This morning he was talking about waiting for signs like a bloody shepherd on a hillside! Well, pluck out my heart and roast it on a spit, why don’t you? This has all the makings of a pining situation, but to my surprise, a cold wedge of determination lodges in my head and forbids it. If he doesn’t want me, then I don’t want him either. This is the opposite of my usual response to rejection. It puzzles me.
“I’ll have a shower then,” croaks Andy.
He trudges out. I frown. Why am I not upset? Another cigarette—yeah? give me cancer, you stupid little burning stick!—in-spires thought. I click back through the day’s events, and realize that Andy didn’t see how—how unhealthy I was until after we had sex. What a lightweight. And that isn’t a compliment. I smoke some more, and triumph again. I’m not upset because if Andy and I had starting seeing each other he’d have continued to bore me with Far Eastern wisdom until I agreed to confront my family. I had a narrow escape, ha ha. Then I hear Andy’s shower rattling. I flinch involuntarily, but the pain is brief.
At times like this I reach for the running machine or, lately, the biscuit tin. But today, that cold wedge of determination forbids it. I’m reluctant to move in case it dissolves, leaving me to the mercy of my demons. They’ve not gone. That mad despotic impulse, to starve or stuff and vomit, still lurks. It’s like a supersonic computer virus, it warps the hard drive and destroys the software. But its pull is weaker. I feel I can fight it. I’m bored with being ruled. It drains me, leaves me fit for nothing. I want to be rid of it. The most astonishing revelation is that when I think about what I said to Andy, one claim no longer rings true. “I hate myself.” Suddenly I feel like a jaded actress, incapable of putting my all into the part. I’m sorry, darling, but it’s just not me.
I shut myself in my bedroom to avoid the lodger and—after an hour of pretend-reading and not thinking about food—ring my father. Not to have it out with him, god no. I just want to hear his voice. And I want him to hear mine. After this mind-warp day I feel the urge to reconnect. I can only compare it to getting a nice haircut—you want to go out and test it on people. Infuriatingly, there’s no reply. I leave a message, and strain my ears in the effort to eavesdrop on Andy, who is stamping around in the hall. Ouch, you. No, stop it. I hold my breath, but the flat is quiet. How could he? My heart is intact, no thanks to him. Maybe he’s thinking the same about me. No, sorry, he was the one who—
Trrrg trrrg!
I snatch up the phone before Andy has a chance to pick it up and embroil me in an embarrassing three-way hello fest.
“Hello?”
“Poppet,” intones a cut-glass voice, “is that you?
”
“Dad!” I cry, “how are you?”
“Exceedingly well, my dear, exceedingly well.” Then, in a hoarse whisper, he adds, “Almost too well.”
“Oh!” I say, relishing his conspiratorial tone. “Why’s that?”
“Kay Ay is very into soya, at present,” he replies glumly. “Or soy, as they insist on calling it here. You know. ‘The soy alternative to taste.’ I’ve just had spinach and soy quiche for breakfast.”
I bite my lip in sympathy. When Dad lived in Hendon my mother served him Frosties with full cream milk, followed by fried eggs and baked beans on toast. “It does sound terribly good for you,” I say.
“Terribly good is a most accurate description.”
“And how’s Kimberli Ann?”
“Thriving, my dear, thriving!” booms my father. “It would appear that soy suits her far better than it does me.”
“And her career?”
“Ah!” He sighs fondly. “Kay Ay has some great ideas. She’s tinkering with her screenplay even as we speak.”
“Gosh,” I breathe, “how glamorous.”
“Indeed,” says my father, in a neutral tone. “And what of your career, young lady?”
I cough, then update him. As ever, he is unperturbed. “Pilates,” he declares, “I know it well!”
“Really?” I say. “Is Kimberli Ann”—I feel too shy to abbreviate her to Kay Ay—“into it?”
“No, no,” replies my father. “Tantric yoga is her penchant”—a flawless French accent caresses his Queen’s English in a brief kiss—“just now. So how will you go about funding this new venture? I’d be only too delighted to loan you the money.”
I squeeze my eyes tight shut. “Thanks, Dad,” I say. “It’s generous of you. But I think I’ll be okay. I’ve got a bit saved up.”
“Exceedingly sensible! That’s my girl!” he booms. “Now, my dear, tell me. Are you still being very strict with your eating?”
My heart constricts. Malibu or no Malibu, there are some things in life my father will forever struggle to understand.
“I’m being less strict, Dad,” I whisper.
“That’s my poppet,” he says. “Glad to hear it. Your mother was most concerned.”
“Have you, er, spoken to Mum recently then?” I squeak.
“I have, as it happens.”
“Did she, did she talk to you about visiting Tara and Kelly?” I ask.
“She did,” he replies. “Heart set on it, by the sound of things.”
As I suspected. “Do you, er, not approve still?”
“How could I not approve of my own granddaughter?” cries my father.
“Oh! No, it’s just that the last time we spoke I thought you—”
“Not at all, not at all! I’m all for it! I think a trip Down Under to see the new rellies is a super idea!”
I bite my lip (again) to stop myself laughing at his ludicrous English. Not to mention his shameless hypocrisy. The new rellies, indeed. Last time we spoke he was on the point of suing them! A thought occurs.
“Will, ah, will you be contacting them, Dad?”
My father coughs. “I don’t think that would be altogether prudent at this juncture,” he murmurs. His tone implies that further inquiries on this topic are unwelcome. In the pause that follows, my heart beats wildly, and I think, Go on, Natalie, go on—say something. But it’s like diving from a great height into a cold dark shark-infested pool.
Despising my weakness I falter, “So how was Mum when you spoke to her?”
“In fine spirits. As I said,” he retorts.
I wonder if I imagine the edge to his voice. I steel myself and blunder on.
“She misses you,” I bleat. I feel wobbly-chinned instantly.
“I find that hard to believe,” says my father briskly, “after all this time!”
I blurt, “So do I.”
There is a faint noise on the line, then silence, as if Dad was about to speak but thought better of it. I hold my breath. When he does reply it’s clear he knew precisely what I meant and chose to misunderstand me.
“A joke,” he says gravely. “Forgive me. Living in L.A., my sense of humor isn’t what it was.”
I give up. I’ve got more chance of getting through to Russell Crowe’s direct line. The frustration is acute and I don’t trust myself to open my mouth. I am waiting dumbly for my father to put me out of my misery and end the call, when he says tersely, “Natalie, thirteen years ago and last December twenty-fifth, I asked your mother to give me a second chance. She refused, both times.”
37
AS WITH CERTAIN “LIVE” TELEVISION SHOWS, MY brain has a built-in time lag between action and transmission. This sixty-second delay system means that when my father reveals he begged Mum to take him back twice and twice she told him to sling his hook, my mind fogs with dead air and the most coherent response I can muster is: Oh. It’s a minute after I replace the receiver that the neurons jerk into motion and I start croaking, “I don’t get it.” I don’t get it, I don’t get it. Malibu, Hendon. Hendon, Malibu. No. I don’t get it.
I need to sit down (I seem to be losing the use of my legs) but feel a moral obligation to remain standing. How can she not want him back? How can he want to come back? He wanted to come back. I could have had what I wanted, but she stopped him. My dad wants to come back! I fall back onto the bed with a plop. She must say yes before he changes his mind. Is she mad? I cannot for the life of me see why Dad would want to leave the gold car, the white house, the green palms, the yellow beach. Why voluntarily quit his privileged status as a “Brit,” the Beverly Hills practice, the celebrity tush, the Hollywood parties, the personal trainer, and the made-to-measure Kimberli Ann?
For Hendon! That dump! That dreary gray nonentity of a north London suburb, laden with lookalike semis and bearded orthodontists, neither here nor there nor anywhere, too far from town to matter, not far enough to be plush or leafy, its one concession to leisure a shabby little park strewn with glass bottles and plastic bags, and the huge Blockbusters its most glamorous feature. Is he mad? Every glimpse of the video shop would be a poignant reminder of what he’d sacrificed! Not just a pretty face—Kay Ay has some great ideas. I imagine her, purring along the Pacific Coast Highway in her high-and-mighty black Lincoln Navigator, its number plate bearer of the legend, YIELD TO THE PRINCESS.
What would the princess think of yielding to my mother? My sausage-shaped mother, in her ever-present uniform of an apron—all that’s left of her status as a housewife (an empty house, no longer a wife). My mother who has no first-look deals with any movie studios or television networks and drives a Metro. My mother who keeps abreast of others’ self-enhancement—“So I said to Susan, what has Melanie Griffith done to her mouth?”—but would no more think of renovating her own tired bosom than she’d think of piercing her tongue. Nothing my mother is or has ever done would inspire the princess to respect her. My nostrils flare and, to my shame, I realize the princess is not the only one.
I squirm for a while, then get in the car and drive to Hendon.
My mother is, as ever, pleased to see me. She sits me down at the kitchen table and speeds to the fridge, shouting out its contents like a bingo caller: “Chocolate! Yogurt! Potato salad! Coronation chicken!” I murmur, through clenched teeth, “I already ate.” I look at her stiff hairdo (only she is last century enough to still get her hair done). The anger throbs.
“I’ve got a beautiful homemade vegetable lasagna in the freezer,” she adds pleadingly. “I’ll pop it in the oven if you like, it won’t take very long to cook.”
I ignore her. Into my head pops a vision from years back: my mother hosting a dinner party alone. Dolloping out portions to all her thin, eating-concerned female guests, trying to get them to break their routine by politely insisting they should have more, you haven’t eaten anything, on the premise that a woman on a diet couldn’t really say she was.
It’s nothing but spite. She doesn’t care about me, she just wants
me to be fatter than her. She wants me to sin so she can feel pure. As I know from Tony, men aren’t like that to other men. As I know—again from Tony—they’d be more likely to say, “Look at you, you fat bastard.” Men have their own ways of being duplicitous, but right this second I envy their brutal candor. I am so used to pleasing others, to twisting myself in knots so as never to offend, that when my survival depends on talking plainly the words stick like toffee in my genteel craw. I don’t know where to begin, but the war cry “custard tart!” loosens my tongue.
“I said no!”
My mother wheels around from the fridge.
“I beg your pardon?” she gasps, in a tone that suggests she doesn’t.
My insides liquefy with fear but I curl my toes and state firmly, “I said no. I don’t want any food”—and in a reckless surge—“why don’t you listen to me?”
My mother blinks. “What are you so emotional about all of a sudden?” she replies. The taunting note in her voice affects me as water does a burning chip pan.
“You never listen to me!” I roar. “You’ve never listened to me!”
“What are you talking about!” she splutters.
“You don’t know what I want, you never have! You just want what you want, you don’t care about me, and I’m sick of it!”
“I, I”—my mother looks like she’s been hit in the face—“Of course I care about what you want, dear, don’t be silly!”
“I am not silly!” I scream. “What’s wrong with being emotional, what’s wrong with it! I’m sick of not saying! You’ve never let me say what I think! I’m sick of being so fucking QUIE-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-T the whole time!”—I screech the word “quiet” so loudly that I give myself a sore throat. I proceed regardless: “You won’t let me be myself! Nothing I do is good enough for you! Tony’s all you care about, you don’t care about me, you never have, all you want to do is shovel food down my throat!”