Being Committed

by Anna Maxted

  Jack touched my knee and I gazed at him, in fear.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘you say you’re going to end it tonight. You will. I believe you.’

  Chapter 24

  I left with the promise of nothing, the possibility of everything.

  ‘I’d better go,’ I’d said.

  We’d kissed goodbye at the entrance, and when I turned as I reached the pavement, he’d gone inside.

  I smiled. I was basking in the glow of his trust, and nothing could undo the wonder of what had just happened. I tried to cool it by telling myself that men are always up for a shag, but even I am not that shallow. Not all men are always up for a shag like they’re one person. Not with the way computer games have developed.

  Jack had said … some lovely things. Although great sex does make one prone to exaggeration.

  I allowed myself to dream and then I called a halt. I was a realist. I didn’t assume that one fuck a happy ending made. I was still unsure what a happy ending was for me. If you’re scared of marriage, are you even allowed to be in a fairy tale? But if the next day Jack was awoken by a beautiful princess, at the least, he had woken me up to the fact that Jason and I were as unsuited as a kitten and a bulldog (I was the bulldog). I glanced at my watch. It was 1 a.m. I hesitated, then dug out my mobile and rang Jason’s number at home. I let it ring thirty times. Then I tried again. And again. Nothing. That was the thing about Jason, he slept like a dead man. He also wore ear plugs. You had to persevere. Ah, sod it.

  I winced at the violence of my irritation. Sex with Jack had acted like a foil to the inadequacies of my relationship with Jason, and a thousand cold truths now rained on me like hail.

  A love life with Jason had been impossible because of his prissiness. Sex was performed under controlled conditions, a brisk, slightly shameful routine. I think that Jase would have preferred it if men and women were made like Ken and Barbie, nice to look at but no holes or dangly bits, smooth all the way round, no chance of any funny business.

  If I tell you the man hadn’t eat a Madras curry for fifteen years because, as he said, ‘While it tastes nice, when it comes out the other end, it burns your … bottom, and, Hannah, I don’t like to be aware of which meal I’m excreting.’

  The truth was that he couldn’t eat Madras curries because of his irritable bowel, but was too coy to admit it. Like I could forget. He kept an IBS diary on the floor by the bed. I flicked through it once. It listed his daily symptoms, including the number of times he went to the toilet, and the degree of his abdominal bloating. Every spasm of pain was marked out of ten. It was an interesting take on Bridget Jones. Oh, and he kept a home-made laxative in my fridge. Apple purée, mixed with prune juice and wheat bran. I drank it once, when there was nothing to eat. An unpleasant minute later, I was hungrier than ever.

  I shook my head, breathed out in a tense puff. I was angry with myself for making a mess of things. I was unsettled by what had happened with Jack. I hadn’t expected it. Now that I was coming down off a sensory high, the old fears were creeping up on me. Could I trust myself, could I trust him, would it be as good the next time? It wasn’t fair to take it out on Jason. I felt great, and I felt terrible. My life had all the order of a dropped trifle. It was going to be horrendous, telling Jason that I didn’t want to marry him after all. And, gosh, poor Lucy. They were, from the sound of her, a great match. My shortsightedness, my childish desire for Jason just because he’d had the nerve to bounce back from my rejection with another woman, all this had serious consequences. I had to accept I’d ruined Lucy’s life, possibly Jason’s too, out of brattishness. Lucy, I suppose, already knew her life was ruined. Jason didn’t. I got home, tried his number again. No answer. My pulse was racing, and I fought the urge to go and bang on his front door. I needed him to know this minute. I’d promised Jack. I needed to be free of Jason and for it to be official.

  I tried twice more, then gave up. I’d call him at seven the next morning, before he left for work. I set the alarm. A first. Then I went into the bathroom and stared at my face in the mirror. My lips were puffy from kissing, and my cheeks were pink. I decided I was too tired for a shower. I didn’t want to wash away the memory of Jack just yet. I felt like a squirrel, storing nuts for winter. Sort of.

  The alarm shrilled after what seemed like a minute, but I jumped awake, and stared at the phone. This was going to be one of the worst conversations of my life. I could actually see how some women pulled on their wedding dress like a shroud and walked up the aisle to spend a lifetime with a man they didn’t love because it felt easier than breaking off the engagement. Breaking off an engagement angers a lot of people. A lot of women prefer to suffer than anger other people, particularly relatives.

  Talking of which, I realised that I hadn’t even considered what my father would say. Ah well.

  I lunged for the receiver, and it rang, confusing me.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  Roger’s voice boomed into my ear: ‘Angela and I see that Jason is an amicable fellow, but the idea of him as your husband fills us with fear. We feel its icy clutch … What, Hannah? Fear’s icy clutch. We feel the icy clutch of fear … Hannah, anything sounds strange if you’re forced to say it ten times. And we remind you, Hannah, that three weeks after you chucked him, the man proposed to his neighbour. Would he have proposed to the postman, had he happened to knock? … How do I know? About the postman? … The engagement! I’ve just read it, madam! Announced in the Daily fucking Telegraph, no less! Social Whatsits! Tell me, how’s Jack?’

  ‘My head’s exploding, Daddy. Would you mind terribly if I called you back in five?’ I said.

  I put the phone down and screamed. Then I raced out into the communal hallway, ran to my neighbour’s door and whipped her pristine copy of the Daily Telegraph from the mat. I snuck back into my lounge, riffled through the paper, ripping pages, until I came to the Social Whatsits.

  Then I screamed again.

  Brian Brocklehurst, Esq. of Highgate is delighted to announce the engagement of his younger son, Jason Arran, to Hannah Bluebell, daughter of Mr and Mrs Roger Lovekin of Hampstead Garden Suburb.

  I scrumpled the page in a fury, and clutched at my head. I felt shaky with rage towards Jason. How dare he? Not respect my wishes. Expressly disobey me. He would never have behaved like this a year ago! Used his initiative! Now he’d complicated matters. He’d turned our private mistake into a public fiasco. Mortifying and awful. And Jack. What if Jack read it? What would he think of me? I had to ring him. But no! He wouldn’t read the Telegraph – he wasn’t the type. Better to leave it rather than alert him to a false alarm. But I’d be ringing Jason. That little shit.

  And my father! I’d promised to ring him back in five, easily six minutes ago. I grabbed the phone to call him, then put it down again. Now I actually thought about what he’d said, I was confused. For the last five years, my father had all but drummed his fingers for Jason to propose to me. Now he had and he wasn’t suitable?

  I wondered if Roger remained so revolted at me for allegedly cheating on my marriage that no heroics I might perform from here to eternity could ever please him. It was plausible. What was implausible was his sudden best-friend act with my mother. Unless Grandma Nellie’s death had squeezed a little pity from him. Also, why was he asking after Jack?

  None of this felt right.

  Perhaps I should ask Angela.

  Too underhand. My father was the only person I trusted. If his behaviour was inconsistent, he had his reasons. It was disloyal to even consider discussing him with my mother. Anyway, I’d prefer to confide my personal matters to a stranger on a train.

  Jesus, let me call Jason quickly.

  No answer. Shit. I didn’t leave a message.

  I called Roger and explained that the announcement was an error but, as Jason didn’t yet know and was probably out now buying a wedding suit, to please keep this information to himself.

  ‘Hannah,’ said my father – he sounded remarkably relaxed – ‘i
t will be a great bore telling all and sundry that yet another of your marriages is off, having joyously accepted their inevitable congratulations and mazel tovs. However, rest assured your secret is safe with me. And your mother.’

  Despite everything, his words made me smile. I decided there was no mystery. Daddy simply wanted what was best for me. And Jason wasn’t the best – which we’d both realised at the same time, roughly yesterday.

  I was relieved to have worked it out.

  Chapter 25

  Then it occurred to me that it was ten twenty-nine on a weekday and I was currently in possession of a job.

  When I arrived at the office, Greg was waving his porridge spoon at the Daily Telegraph.

  ‘I see congratulations are in order,’ he said. ‘So I’m obliged to forgive you for being late.’

  ‘Nah,’ I said, ‘they’re not. You can dock my pay.’

  Then I shut myself in my office.

  I’d called Jason’s mobile ten times. It was turned off. Now I called Jason at work. His PA, Kathleen, answered.

  ‘I see congratulations are in order,’ she said, like a newscaster announcing the apocalypse.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ I replied. ‘Just put me through.’

  ‘He’s in Milton Keynes for a hearing.’

  ‘Where in Milton Keynes – have they got a phone?’

  ‘You can’t call him in court!’ she said.

  I didn’t have the energy. ‘Really,’ I said. ‘Well if he rings, tell him his fiancée would like a word. Got that?’

  ‘You know,’ she hissed, ‘Lucy was so much nicer than you.’

  ‘Ah, don’t, Catherine, you’ll make me cry,’ I said, and put the phone down.

  I put my head in my hands and groaned. I’d get so much further in life if I was a mute.

  Then I saw my answer machine was flashing. I pressed Play, with a sour face.

  ‘Darling, it’s me. Jason. I’m dying to talk to you, but this was my one chance. It’s pretty intense here! How infuriating that I missed you. Anyhow, I hope you liked the surprise in the Telegraph! I have another, for this evening. We’re going to see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang! I’ll see you at seven fifteen outside the theatre. The Palladium! Love you.’

  I stared at the machine in disbelief. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? How old were we? Four? Jason seemed to be finally revealing his core personality (an addiction to silly announcements in newspapers, and second-rate musicals – forgive me, chit lovers, but all musicals are second rate to me). He wouldn’t have dared suggest such a torture – let alone book it – before we were engaged. Some men saw marriage as a dog licence, entitling them to ownership. Jason, I realised, was one of them.

  Oh dear, though. He sounded so excited. And genuinely in love. He’d been hurt that I had dawdled over telling my parents of our engagement, and I had to concede that his was a valid response. Going to the papers was a way of forcing my hand, so to speak – passive aggression, that was it! – but if I had been in love with him, it wouldn’t have been a problem. That it was a problem was entirely my fault, and I would deal fairly with Jason.

  Fine. I’d tell him after the show.

  Well, gosh, I didn’t want to spoil it for him.

  The day passed with insufferable slowness. Martine had read the Telegraph (or someone had read it to her) and she insisted on meeting me for a quick lunch. She ate the same amount, twice as fast. There was collateral damage, mostly over her front, but I didn’t care. It was preferable to the usual: my bottom fossilising in my chair while I waited for Jason to finish eating. (‘Chew slowly and pause between mouthfuls to give your food time to go down,’ his IBS group leader had advised – selfish man. Whenever we dined out, restaurant staff worked late because of him.) When I told her my dilemma, her eyes widened, although she didn’t put down her fork.

  ‘Jason should never of come back to you,’ she said. ‘You do know why he did though, don’t you?’

  ‘To punish me?’

  ‘Yeah, well. I’ve met Lucy. I went round there to see Jason after you’d split.’

  ‘Oh yes. So?’

  ‘She had chronic periodonitis.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Martine lowered her voice. ‘Her breath stank. She couldn’t of been to a dentist for, like, years. I mean, it starts with chronic gingivitis, like, that’s the earliest stage, that’s just when your gums are inflamed. It’s an infection, it’s caused by accumulation of plaque at the gum margin. Every time she don’t bother brushing her teeth, or flossing – I can’t tell you how important it is to floss, Hannah – food debris clings to the plaque, and bacteria feed and multiply on it.’

  ‘It sounds like something out of Alien.’

  ‘Yeah, and it can all happen in your mouth.’

  I shivered.

  ‘She’s let food debris accumulate in the gingival crevice.’

  ‘I may be sick.’

  ‘No, wait. That’s the tiny space between the teeth and the gum. If your teeth’ – ‘teef,’ she said, which I liked – ‘are healthy, they’re tight in there, like they’re being hugged by the gum. But if you’ve got food debris and plaque, the gum gets irritated and swells up, enlarging the gingival crevice.’

  It’s a rule that everything in dentistry sounds disgusting. That’s because it is.

  ‘And that forms a thing called a false pocket round the tooth. It doesn’t hurt. But it’s, like, stuffed with bacteria and pus. And that causes bad breath. I mean, she’s so in trouble. If she leaves it much longer, she’ll get ulcers, bleeding, her alveolar bone will recede, I mean, I don’t get why some people are so scared of dentists, it’s like, they’re only trying to help, I mean, Marvin, like, loves teeth, he loves them—’

  ‘I know. But Marvin owns something called a “Crocodile Matrix Clamp”.’

  Martine looked offended. ‘Well, anyway. Kissing Lucy would be like kissing a four-day-old corpse.’

  I assumed a snooty expression and sipped my white wine. ‘So. I’m marginally preferable to kiss than a four-day-old corpse,’ I sighed. ‘Ah God. I hope he and Lucy do get back together after all this. I hope I haven’t blown it for Jason.’

  ‘You probably have,’ said Martine. ‘Anyway. What about you? Who you going to pair up with?’

  ‘I may,’ I said, ‘defy the world and live alone. Like you.’ But Martine had reminded me of something. ‘What were you talking to Roger about after the funeral yesterday?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because when I told him about Jason, it was obvious he couldn’t care less. He seemed to be suddenly keen on Jack.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Martine signalled to the waitress for more bread. The waitress gave her a look of death.

  ‘I’m not bothered if it has something to do with you,’ I said. ‘It suits me fine. I wondered, that’s all.’

  Martine twiddled an earring. She’d had her ears pierced when she was five months old. Twiddling an earring was her tell. So my question was pretty much answered. Big deal. I was too preoccupied with Jason and Jack to worry about Martine. I left it.

  Chapter 26

  ‘Any update on the single mother?’ said Greg.

  He hadn’t mentioned the Telegraph announcement again. Intrigue was not a novelty to him.

  ‘Charlie’s mum?’ I said.

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied Greg.

  I shuffled papers around my desk. ‘I’ve been frantic today, trying to get unengaged to people. I apologise, I haven’t had a chance. I’ll sit on the address tonight. And tomorrow morning. Get some victor.’

  Greg looked unmoved. ‘What’s your cover story?’

  ‘Um, I’m thinking of it now.’

  Mostly, I do actually set up a surveillance job with a brain in my head. I’ll be on guard for ‘the third eye’ – nosy neighbours, CCTV – and armed with a plausible excuse. You should go out there thinking you will be challenged. Greg’s rule is ‘there’s always another day’. If you think you’ve been pinged, you walk away. />
  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make it look good,’ I said.

  I was queen of making a little look like a lot. I’d document the street name (times and dates were automatic to the footage), video the house (so the client knew I was there). I’d do everything to ensure that no one could suggest I hadn’t done my job properly. If you give people enough detail – ‘the neighbours returned home at 11.37 p.m. At 12.03 a.m. the upstairs light came on’ – they feel they’re getting value for money. Which, on this occasion, they weren’t. I felt quite bad enough about myself. If all the other kids wore Nike trainers, I couldn’t be responsible for Charlie attending school in Mikes.

  ‘I do worry,’ said Greg.

  I hadn’t seen him this unamused since the Hampstead Heath job (now legend). A woman had suspected her husband was having an affair. And he was, with a man. In fact, any man. Ron trailed him to Hampstead Heath. The guy parked his car, disappeared into the bushes, and reappeared, a short while later, with another man. Ron should have taken a still – it was too dark for video – but Ron was having a wee. The target approached him and said, ‘Do you need a hand with that?’

  ‘No thanks,’ squeaked Ron. ‘I’m just having a slash.’ And he ran away! Greg was furious. Ron should have caught him in the act, or called the police. If they’d arrested him for indecent behaviour, Greg would have got his evidence that way. But because Ron was such a homophobic baby, he’d botched it. Greg didn’t employ him for ages after that.

  Thank God I was staff. (If you’re of a certain character, a staff job is the ruin of you. And of the company you work for.)

  ‘Greg, I’ll sit there till three a.m., and I’ll come back at five. I’m really happy to do it. Consider it done.’

  Greg raised an eyebrow and left the room. I shrugged. I was telling the truth. A job would provide me with an excuse not to loiter, after breaking the news to Jason. I’d decided that it would be the most natural thing to tell him over a post-theatre coffee. See, whenever we ventured into town for the evening – woo-ee! – Jason would insist on finding ‘a place for coffee’. He had an obsession with finding ‘a place for coffee’ that was all about being out for the sake of being out, rather than being in. Plainly, one needs to go out to the theatre, but I felt that Jason’s need to go out for coffee reflected an insecurity with his life at home. Unless you’re drinking coffee in front of the Taj Mahal (or you seize the opportunity to eat a massive cake), the only difference between drinking coffee out or in is other people’s perception. As if your existence is without value unless viewed or approved by a third party. I imagined he always told colleagues the following day, ‘And then we went out for coffee …’