by Anna Maxted
‘N—’ I said, but she’d hung up. I sighed, and went via the pub to collect her.
Happily, my mother was out. My father came to the door looking rumpled, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.
‘Hann-ahh!’ he said, and held out his arms. Relieved, I fell into them. We hadn’t spoken for a week. He was working on his screenplay and his mood soared or soured according to the health of the creative process. I’d presumed he was at a delicate point and couldn’t afford any kinks in his stream of consciousness. However, we tended to speak most days, so if he didn’t return my calls, my conscience played tricks on me.
‘How are you?’ I said. ‘How’s work?’
‘Both marrrrrrrrvellous, darling.’
His official career was in corporate PR. He was co-director of the company. If you asked him what his role was, officially, he’d say something like, ‘We promote or defend a company’s interest in the public arena. Anything that is written or said about a company has an impact on its employees, their families, and the people who do business with that company. The media is incredibly powerful. It can ruin careers, shut down businesses. But how does society protect itself against the media? By hiring people like us. We ensure that what is written is fair, the better truth.’
And unofficially? ‘We lie a lot.’
The rest of the time, he wrote, and acted. He was a leading member of Inimitable Theatre, one of North-West London’s most respected amateur dramatics societies. I liked to go and see him in plays, mainly because it was nice to sit still for a few hours. I was grateful that he always kept his clothes on. IT’s most recent production had required Mrs Caroline Epstein to stand on stage and shout at the audience while naked. While I realised it was art, I would have rather she’d worn pants.
‘Hello there, Martine.’
‘All right, Roger?’
Martine was quite blushy around my father. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or appalled. I compromised on saying, ‘Yes, but you fancy Roger,’ if ever she was in danger of winning an argument.
Roger led us into the garden. ‘So what’s up?’ he said. He was wearing shades so it was difficult to see his expression.
I opened my mouth to explain, and gargled with dead air. It’s so much an instinct to screen my words before I speak, I rarely have to think about it. In this instance, I should have. Was I crazy? I couldn’t tell my father that Jason had set me a great long toilet-roll list of Rumplestiltskinesque conditions, only the fulfilment of which would persuade him to reconsider my suitability as a life partner. I couldn’t tell Roger this because it contradicted a previous fabrication, namely, that it was Jason who had ended the relationship, not me.
I rubbed my throat. ‘One second. I need a glass of water.’ An unlikely excuse, but one that would give me time to construct a story. I didn’t bargain on Martine. I tripped back into the sunlight, to hear her loud voice shattering the tense stillness of Hampstead Garden Suburb’s atmosphere.
‘Yeah, but fair dos to Jason. He was dessicated – sorry, what, yeah – devastaked when Hannah turned down his proposal. This Lucy thing was just him showing her he wasn’t. I think it was all a trick and I think it’s worked. It’s a bit much, him setting conditions, but I think it might do Hannah good to do what he wants for a change, don’t you think, Roger?’
I imagined myself as Schwarzenegger in, well, any of his movies, running in slow motion towards the disaster consuming his family, shouting, ‘Noooooooooooooo!’ I decided against it as I didn’t want to trip on the step.
Forcing my face into a bland expression, I sauntered into the garden. I ignored Martine (there was no point in rage; she just doesn’t think – it would be like trying to punish an owl), and glanced at my father. He raised an eyebrow above his shades. I’ve been trained not to incriminate myself, even in the face of intractable evidence. So I smiled.
My father waggled his shades with the tip of one finger. ‘Martine here brings me the intriguing news that young Jason proposed and was rejected. Whereas I seem to recall being told that you were desperate to marry and he was the scoundrel. What do you say to that, madam?’
Martine made as if to lift her enormous butt off the sunchair. As ever, her G-string rode high above her jeans. I leant heavily on her shoulder. Not so fast.
I coughed. Truth, he didn’t sound too bothered, which I simply could not believe. Not only had I lied to him (an insult as I knew he regarded me as one of his best friends), I had lied to him about a matter of monstrous import. Roger was not someone who lost his temper, but even with the sedative of Martine’s presence, I’d expected rage.
‘Daddy,’ I said, ‘that was then. I made a mistake. Now I am desperate to marry.’ A porker, but I had inched closer to considering the possibility, which I felt justified the exaggeration. ‘Now it’s Jason who’s creating obstacles, which is why I’m here. To ask your advice.’
My view is that very few human beings on this earth can resist the almighty compliment of their instruction being sought. The implication is, you prostrate your lowly self before their greater wisdom. People love that.
My father shoved his shades to the top of his head and glared at me. ‘You were a fucking fool not to accept him in the first place,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘But what’s done is done. Go on. What?’
Deal with it, I told myself. You deserved that. He’s reacted with remarkable calm, considering.
‘Jason does want to get back with me,’ I said, spitting the words to keep my voice steady. ‘But he wants me to change. And, amid his many and various bizarre demands—’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as, I should take a little more care with my’ – I grit my teeth – ‘appearance, try and look a bit more grrrfeminine.’
Martine and Roger burst out laughing. I scowled. ‘Shall I continue or not?’
They nodded.
‘Yes, please,’ said Martine, which set them off again.
‘He wants me to “seek closure” with Jack.’
There was a silence.
‘Never!’ said Martine, who I’ll bet had no idea what this meant. (As it was, I’d had to ask Jason to elaborate.)
My father stretched his arms behind his head and grinned. Then he nodded slowly, seriously, as if considering the proposition.
I couldn’t be bothered to maintain composure. I burst out, ‘Isn’t anyone going to ask why?’
‘Why?’ said Martine.
‘Because he thinks I have problems relating in a healthy adult way, which stem from my failed marriage with Jack!’
‘His words, I presume,’ murmured my father.
‘Daddy, what do you think? Is he totally insane?’
My father stroked his chin. ‘Actually, I think he’s rather sensible.’
I stared at him. He must have wanted me to marry Jason very much. ‘Roger, you know I haven’t seen Jack in ten years.’
Martine’s head swivelled right, left, right, left as we spoke, as if she was watching a game of Ping-Pong. Her mouth hung open and if she wasn’t careful someone was going to shove an apple in it.
‘And what does that say about you?’ said Martine, who had obviously been watching Oprah.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I replied.
‘Me neither,’ said Martine.
We both looked at Roger. He flipped his shades down over his eyes. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you owe it to Jason,’ he paused, ‘and yourself, not to mention your doting father, to do what he asks.’
I swallowed a sigh. My father was right. ‘OK, Daddy, I will.’
He beamed, and ruffled my hair. ‘Good girl.’
Gabrielle squinted over a satin dress that, with its fancy bows and laced bodice, reminded me of Cinderella’s most elaborate ballgown. Its rich cream contours billowed over her slender arms and set off her tan. Her stomach rumbled. I said, ‘Eat something.’
Gabrielle shook her head. I wasn’t surprised. There was a scrawled note stuck on the fridge downstairs which read, ‘GOD, I’M S
O FAT’. I knew Oliver hadn’t written it, even though Gabrielle was about as fat as a rake. She had a love-hate relationship with food. She won’t eat chocolate unless she’s ‘hungry enough to eat a banana’, because ‘that’s the greed test’. She is also author of one of the most bizarre sentences I’ve ever heard. I offered her a date, being out of biscuits, and she said, ‘Ooooh, I’d die for a date!’
Once, before she had Jude, she’d embarked on a regime that permitted her to eat only foods beginning with ‘ch’. She’d got the idea from an article which mentioned that some male film star – whose name I forget except that he was married to another film star, if that helps – had gone through a phase of only eating orange foods. She had a peculiar faith in famous people’s diets. The ‘ch’ adaptation had been made because Gabrielle disliked citrus fruit. However, despite the twin blessings of chicken and cherries, it had failed for a host of reasons, including chocolate, chips, chana masala and cheese.
‘Whose diet is it this time?’ I enquired.
‘The Editor of Vogue.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘A lot of wine, and meat.’ She made a face.
‘Hey, Gab,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if it turned out that you didn’t gain weight from eating, you gained it from sleeping on your back instead of on your front?’
‘No it wouldn’t. Anyway, stop changing the subject. Tell me all.’
I shifted in my seat. ‘How’s Jude?’
‘Asleep.’
I nodded approval. Jude knows I’m scared of babies and therefore shows me the contempt I deserve. If ever Gabrielle hands him over, he arches himself violently backwards like a large salmon until I hand him back.
‘Go on, Hannah.’
I giggled. ‘Remember that time I came round to see you and a fly flew up your calypso pants?’
‘Palazzo pants.’
It was hilarious. There was a muted buzzing, and Gabrielle started screaming and jumping. Then, still screaming and jumping, she unzipped her white palazzo pants and ripped them off. At which point, Oliver walked in and said, ‘Hel-lo!’ It was one of those big lazy fat flies that can barely shift ass off the ground, it w—
‘Hannah, stop stalling and get on with it.’
Bother. I took a breath. ‘This is Jason’s idea of me doing penance,’ I said.
Gabrielle looked unimpressed.
‘If I want to be with him—’
‘Do you want to be with him?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Why?’
‘Ah, Gabrielle, you know.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘He –’ I smiled – ‘just the thought of him makes me smile.’
‘That’s it?’
‘No!’ I paused. ‘He is easy to live with, he’s a good person, he makes me feel at peace.’
‘None of this is saying “love” to me.’
I sighed. She didn’t like Jason; I couldn’t hope to make her understand. She had an intractable definition of love. She was a love Nazi, a party member of the ‘At First Sight’ brigade. I don’t think she realised quite how offensive and annoying this was to the millions of people who got to know their partners before letting their emotions get the better of them. Jason and I went together nicely. We were comfortable, we complemented each other. Not like Jack and I – our relationship had been like a train’s steel wheels braking too fast along a track: all speed, sparks and shrieking.
I gestured round loosely at her study. ‘I do …’
‘What?’
‘Love Jason.’
‘Jesus, it’s like someone has to prise the words out of your mouth with a wrench.’
‘I think he thinks that’s part of the problem.’
No answer.
‘He thinks it goes back to Jack.’
‘And does it?’
‘Gabrielle, you know it does.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘So, my mission is to find Jack and, I suppose, sort out any unfinished business.’
Gabrielle, who had three pins sticking out of her mouth and looked like a Barbie version of Hellraiser, spat them onto the floor. ‘Excuse me. WHAT?’
‘Yes, I know. Well, it gets worse. I asked Roger’s advice and he agrees with Jason.’
‘Serves you right for asking Roger’s advice.’
‘He only wants the best for me,’ I said.
Gabrielle, with the tenderness of a lover, laid the wedding dress to one side. Then she grasped my hands. ‘Hannah,’ she said. She looked as if she was on the verge of saying something profound. If she was, however, she changed her mind. ‘You know what. I agree with Roger. Marriage is not just a piece of paper. As you know. It requires maturity and responsibility. I think Jason is entitled to ask you to sort out the baggage from Jack.’ She hesitated. ‘After all, Hannah,’ she said, ‘Jack did divorce you because you cheated on him.’
Chapter 8
That makes me sound terrible. It wasn’t as bad as all that. Gabrielle is merciless where fidelity is concerned. And God, so am I. Now. If I said it was a brief indiscretion, committed at the dawn of our acquaintance before I realised it might go somewhere, when Jack and I were little more than cheeky night-time phonecalls and flirtatious rows over drinks, perhaps you’ll see that I’m not a totally cold bitch with no concept of decency or loyalty. And I was only nineteen. Oh well. I won’t beg.
I feel that apologies and explanations only serve to confirm the severity of the offence. If ever you’re confronted by the subject when on surveillance – it’s only happened to me once, and I blame the client, who wouldn’t pay for an ABC (three-man team) – you deny everything.
‘You’re following me – who are you?’
‘Who are you? You mad? What, you famous or something?’
You can rely on people’s remarkable faith in their own paranoia. They mumble an apology, can’t get away from you fast enough, think they’re going crazy. In Britain it is considered rude to confront people, particularly strangers. So even if, when on surveillance, your own paranoia leads you to fear you’ve been pinged (rumbled, for the Famous Five fans among you) it rarely happens. However, in this instance, suspecting that if my reputation sank any further it would drown, I think I will have a go at defending myself.
Jack was possessive, a trait that has been idealised as romantic and very male in pulp fiction but in reality is highly boring. I wouldn’t have minded except he didn’t show himself to be keen in any way, beyond suspecting all the men I was friends with of fancying me when they didn’t. I wanted him to get to know the people I was fond of, but this was impossible as he was so rude and aggressive that they stopped calling. Men are breathtakingly lazy in a way that women just aren’t. If a woman likes a man, she’ll make the effort to keep in touch. If there’s work involved, men won’t bother. It’s the Mars bar attitude to friendship. If you’re at home and it’s in the cupboard, you’ll eat it. If it’s in the shop, you won’t.
Although, there was one guy – his name was Guy – who I’d met through work, before I got together with Jack. Guy was an actor, researching a part as a lowlife detective. The guy who ran the trace agency had palmed him off on his most junior blagger, me. I didn’t mind, being only too pleased to talk about myself. Also, I liked the look of Guy. He was self-deprecating in a way that didn’t quite hide his enormous arrogance. He also had a nominal girlfriend, one of those ghostly apparitions often referred to but never seen. I understood the code and wasn’t offended. If he felt he was so damn attractive he had to haul around an invisible buffer zone, then maybe he was. Being a confidence trickster myself, it was professional courtesy to admire the skill in others.
As soon as he realised I wasn’t about to fling myself at him, I became a contender. I wouldn’t say it was Guy’s mission to get me into bed, because even that would indicate in some small way that it was about me. But you get the gist. I was more than happy to restore his faith in himself. (I’m not sure I agree with the concept of women being used by men. Y
ou have to be a bit of a mutt to get nothing out of it.) One time I was interviewed for a tinpot cable TV programme – they wanted a female detective, I was the best they could do. The sound guy stuck a mike down my top, but it didn’t pick up and he had to ferret around my bra while we were on air. The host said, through gritted teeth, ‘Cheap thrill for him.’
I wasn’t about to let him get away with that. I replied, ‘For me too.’
That pretty much described my relationship with Guy. Our friendship was spiderweb thin, despite the fact we liked each other. The world was full of people you could waste a lot of time liking, you had to pare it down. Our affinity rested on the promise of an occasional fuck. Once, we were getting up to no good in his lounge and he said, ‘What would you do if my girlfriend walked in now?’
I love that! What would I do?!
So when I met Jack at the cinema a few months later, I didn’t feel obliged to explain myself to either man. When a bloke takes you out (in the dinner sense) what do you owe him? Nothing, I believe is the correct answer. I didn’t feel it my duty to give Jack a rundown of my petty misdemeanours. Anyhow, Guy went missing so I presumed he’d found some other part to research.
Jack and I continued to see each other. But nothing, beyond sex, implied it was exclusive. There was no automated Saturday night reservation. If Thursday rolled by and we hadn’t spoken, I’d assume myself free that weekend. Which didn’t preclude me from making my own arrangements on Wednesday morning. So when Guy rang, out of the blue, sleazy with charm, wanting to take me to a comedy night, I thought, yeah.
If you’d asked me then to explain myself, I’d have pointed to my most shallow impulse – that Guy had been on the telly. (Two lines in Coronation Street, presenter of a segment on treasure hunting in Wales for a travel show pilot that never got made – he was almost famous.)
But no. If I was honest with myself (and I wasn’t), Jack was a man who rendered all others invisible. At least, he did to me. I felt weak, I hated it, and maybe I hated him for it. The whole time I was with him, I had a sick, unsettled feeling. I played tough, but I felt that Jack was in charge and knew it. If anyone had asked, I’d have probably said the stars and the moon were his doing. Allowing Guy to chase me was my inarticulate way of regaining power. And then, because my motives were confused and I barely understood them, the situation slid from my control.