by Anna Maxted
After this particular call, I huffed loudly through my nose, and looked sour. Jack checked his watch. ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘don’t you pull a strop with me. I’m not about to drop my life because your Thought for Today involves me. You’ll probably be back with Jason tomorrow.’
I was indignant. ‘No I won’t!’
Jack stood up. ‘No, you won’t. That was unfair. Sorry.’
‘Huh,’ I said.
‘Ah, Hannah,’ he said, grabbing his coat. ‘I am sorry. I’m also … jumpy. To have any sort of meaningful relationship with a person, you’ve got to trust.’
Good grief, I thought, here it comes at last, as long-awaited as a royal baby! The admission of fallibility. It finally dawns on Jack that while others may be at fault, Jack doesn’t trust, and thus, Jack is not perfect!
‘You don’t trust me, you don’t trust yourself, you don’t trust anyone. Not much has changed in ten years. And, now that’s out the way and we understand each other, would you care to go out to eat?’
Chapter 33
I couldn’t say ‘What?’ without sounding petty. We were going out to eat, which was pretty damn civilised considering our last encounter. I had to be content with that. I also knew where we should go to eat. Fred’s Books.
Fred’s Books was, surprise, a bookshop owned by a man called Fred. It had a café, boasting sausage and mash, fish pie, and bread-and-butter pudding. There were also purple squashy sofas on which you could snuggle up with your purchases and a mug of hot chocolate.
When we’d first met, Jack and I had gone there quite a bit. It had a happy aura. Fred was fat, camp and loved books. He said that a lot of booksellers might as well sell sprouts for all the interest they took in what they did. Fred treated his bookshop like an extension of his home. He loved to discuss books with anyone. He hosted book readings. He liked what he liked, he wasn’t a snob. He didn’t snort when I said I liked ghost stories. When one author suggested that there ought to be a separate bestsellers list for children’s books, as J. K. Rowling was hogging the chart, Fred said, ‘How about a separate chart for John Grisham? He takes up more than his share.’
It was like hanging out at your bossy uncle’s house. I hadn’t been there for a while. I hoped it would imbue Jack with a rosy glow of nostalgia.
I don’t know. I think I just wanted him to like me.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to Fred’s.’
I expected Jack to say, ‘Fred’s!’ but he said, ‘Who?’
‘Fred’s Books,’ I said. ‘You remember. Near Golders Green.’
If Jack did remember, he wasn’t saying. ‘That’s a bit far out, isn’t it? Will it be open?’
‘It’s open till eleven every night,’ I replied, trying to sound unbothered.
Jack shrugged. ‘Fred’s then.’
I stifled a sigh, and watched him drive. He was a good driver. His car was a bit of a calling card. A red Audi with lavish curves. I felt that my Vauxhall, a dignified grey old lady, would think it vulgar. He hadn’t commented on my appearance, which was, frankly, brilliant (in comparison to what it usually was). The St Tropez had encouraged me to brave real sunlight, and I had a bit of a tint. My hair was glossy, like a horse, I was wearing black wedge shoes with ribbons that did up round my ankles, and my fingernails were neither ragged nor black with filth. Maybe Jack would have noticed if I’d turned up with my head cut off.
I wanted him to admire me. No. More than that, I thought with a blush. I wanted him to want me. I’d have to make the effort to be alluring.
I wasn’t quite sure how or where to begin. I tried to think of Sophia Loren, and how she acted in her films, but couldn’t remember any. The only thing I could think of, an indictment of us all, was to say nothing. I arranged my legs together, rather than let them hang open like a brickie’s, and gazed coolly out of the window. Then I became aware of movement on my shoulder. I looked down, and screamed.
‘Fuck!’ shouted Jack, ‘What is it!’
‘Argh, argh, oh God, it was a fly! On my shoulder!’
‘A fly?’
‘Urgh,’ I said, and shuddered. A horrible lazy fat fruitfly sat on my shoulder like a parrot. Now, thanks to my ninja brushing and stamping technique, it lay squashed and dead on the Audi floor mat. Jack sniggered. I shot him a look.
‘I’m not scared of flies,’ I said.
‘Of course not.’
‘It was the shock. It was just sitting there, like in a horror film,’ I said. ‘It’s disturbing, a fly on your shoulder.’
I shuddered again. I hate flies. I hate the way they get in your house and crawl over food, when they’ve crawled over dog shit. I also knew that screaming because there was a fly on your shoulder was not alluring. No one did this to attract a man. I’d tried to align myself with Sophia Loren. I’d managed dog shit.
Jack giggled.
I glared at him. ‘It was in your car,’ I said.
We stepped inside Fred’s, and I cheered up, glancing at Jack sideways on, to see if it jolted him. He smiled at me, like you might smile at anyone you didn’t hate.
I marched to a corner table, the corner table we always sat at. Jack pulled away a chair for me, and sat down himself. I wondered if a phonebook had landed on his head recently – perhaps he had amnesia.
Then he picked up the menu, peered over it, and said, ‘Hot chocolate with extra chocolate, a freshly squeezed orange juice, and buttered raisin toast with jam for Ratfink?’
My heart went boof in my chest like a boxing glove.
I tweaked the menu from his grasp, gave it a cursory glance, and said, ‘Two soft-boiled eggs with, mm, soldiers of toast for Mutley?’
Jack started laughing, and so did I. ‘Don’t say that,’ he said, ‘like it was a special request made by me because I’m five. That’s what it says on the menu: “soldiers of toast”!’
‘Yes, but you could have said, “Do you mind if I cut up my own toast? I am old enough now.”’
Jack pouted. ‘It’s nice to have your toast cut up for you. People come here for the childhood they never had. You know, food like mother never used to make.’
I smiled. This was more like it. Teasing, chatting, proper conversation, now we were getting—
‘Hannah? Hannah Lovekin?’
I looked up, ready to be tough and saw a powdery-faced old lady smiling down at me.
‘Er, yes.’
‘I knew it was you!’ cried the old lady. ‘I’m Millie Blask, your old Brown Owl!’
I tried to shuffle my shocked features into an expression of joy, and stood up. ‘Brown Owl!’ I said. ‘How are you?’
Guilt was already turning my face pink, I could feel it. When I was a Brownie, at the end of each session we stood in a circle holding hands behind our backs, and Brown Owl would squeeze the hand of one of the girls next to her. ‘The Squeeze’ was thus passed from hand to hand until Brown Owl said ‘Stop!’ Then, whoever had ‘The Squeeze’ would have to take it home and feed it on good deeds, or it would ‘shrivel up and die’. Once or twice, a Brownie forgot she’d had The Squeeze. ‘Er … I hung up my coat,’ she’d stammer the following week. ‘I … er … took my plate to the sink.’ ‘Well!’ Brown Owl would say, tartly. ‘The Squeeze has been fed on bread and water!’ Little did she know, The Squeeze had shrivelled up and died years before, when I’d schlepped it home and done nothing that wasn’t one hundred per cent selfish for seven days. The Brownies had been trying to revive a corpse.
‘I’m very well, thank you,’ said Brown Owl. ‘My son is a member of the Inimitable Theatre Company, so I hear bits and bobs about you now and then.’
‘Oh, from my father.’
‘From your mother, in fact.’
‘Oh! Right, right.’
‘Well, nice to see you again, dear. You were a good Brownie. I’ll let you get back to your young man.’ She smiled at Jack. Jack smiled at her.
‘Nice to see you too, Brown Owl,’ I said, and sat down. My face was beet, I knew it. I’m not s
aying Brown Owl was a fly on my shoulder but nor was she Sophia Loren.
Jack grinned at me, sucked in his cheeks, and ordered our food. I gave up on trying to be alluring.
‘Your dad’s still doing am dram, is he?’
‘Mm,’ I said. ‘He is. They’ve got some good people. Funnily enough, they’ve got an opening night tomorrow. Terence Rattigan’s Separate Tables.’ I paused. ‘I’m going. You could come with me, if you like.’
‘Whew,’ said Jack. ‘And there’s an offer I can refuse.’
‘There’s no need to be snitty. You were always going on about discovering people at theatre schools and youth theatre and am dram.’
‘Yeah. More theatre schools and youth theatre than am dram, though, darling.’
‘Oh, don’t darling me, Jack. I’m not one of your actresses!’
‘Darling,’ said Jack, lowering his lids in an approximation of sleazy, ‘they call themselves “actors” these days, even, especially, the women. And I’ve only slept with an actress once. After we split.’
‘Oh?’ I said.
He grinned. ‘Yes. Mid-screw, I noticed she had her head slightly to one side, and I realised that a script was open on the table and she was reading it over my shoulder.’
‘Oh!’ I paused. ‘So … do you sleep with a lot of actresses?’
‘No!’ cried Jack. ‘What did I just say? God, I mean, you could. My boss says there’s not an actress you – or rather he, he’s a lot more powerful than me – couldn’t go to bed with. But, bloody hell, it would be awful. They’d just talk about themselves 24/7. “Do you think I should do this? Or this?” The neurosis level is incredibly high. I made the mistake once. After the divorce was a bad time. Now, I pretend my clients don’t have sex lives. It would be like imagining your parents doing it.’
‘Oh, OK.’ I stopped short of adding, ‘Good.’
Jack pressed his fork into the paper napkin, making steel teeth marks. ‘I don’t mean to be snide about your dad’s am dram. It’s just … I go to so much theatre, all the time. To talent spot, to see clients perform. The other week, I got in real trouble.’ He giggled to himself. I smiled, remembering this habit. He looked at me, from under his eyelashes. In the nicest possible way, receiving his old mischievous look felt like a stab to the chest. ‘You just sneak into the theatre for the second half, if you can get away with it. Anyway, this guy was Duncan, in Macbeth. I thought, I’ll get in after the interval. It was out in Stratford, such a long drive. Anyway, I get there, and I realise Duncan gets killed before the interval. Normally, you can bluff, but this particular client is quite … luvvy. So there’s me going, “Marvellous direction!” and he’s saying, “Yes, but did you think I really got it? … What about the castle scene?”. “Oh! I think all the castle scenes were great!”’
I laughed, shook my head. ‘It sounds a nightmare.’
Jack shook his head too. ‘You’re selling people who dress up for a living. It is ridiculous. But it’s fun. I like all of my clients.’
‘Do you have anyone famous?’
Jack wrinkled his nose. ‘Not really. No “institutions”. I avoid celeb-y clients. You end up discussing what they’re going to wear on Good Morning. It would drive me mad. “Yeth, but Ja-ack, do you think I should have my hair up! Or down?!” And then, nothing’s ever good enough. “Ja-ack, the towels in my hotel room are too rough!” I can’t stand all that. You’re a counsellor and a shrink and a business advisor anyway, but the celeb-y ones treat you like a servant too. I mean, everyone’s paranoid. They’ll be doing panto in Exmouth, and they’ll ring up and say, “I’ve just got my ruler out, and so-and-so’s billing is twelve per cent bigger than mine.”’
‘What?’ I said. ‘They measure the typeface! How do you deal with them?’ I suspected myself of asking bogus questions purely for the pleasure of watching his mouth move.
‘I don’t any more. There was one fat old grande dame of soap, wanted me to get her on some closed list for a première, and I couldn’t. She shouted, ‘Oh, you’re bloody useless!’ I said, “Well, you carry more weight than I do, you call them,” and put the phone down.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘You told a fat woman that she “carried more weight” than you?’
‘I know. Right after, I realised what it sounded like. She never spoke to me like that again. But you have to be direct. One ex-client was complaining about not getting a meeting – an audition – for a part he could have played in his sleep, and I said, “To be honest, they think you’re an absolute arsehole.” You can’t get to the point where you’re frightened of your client, because then you end up giving them bad advice. You need –’ he grinned – ‘strong moral fibre. Some agents get too clingy with their clients. You’ve got to be supportive in the bad times, honest in the good times. It’s in the good times that people tend to go off the rails.’
He paused. ‘It sounds like I’m moaning, but I love it. What about you? Are you still loving being a PI?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘In fact, Hound Dog and I have parted ways. Maybe for good.’
‘Why?’
‘Ah, I wasn’t doing my job properly. It was fair enough. I’ve been told to have a think about whether I’m committed.’
‘I’m surprised. I’d have thought it was the perfect job for you.’
‘Why?’
‘Well … you’re observing, aren’t you? You’re not involved. There’s no risk of getting hurt, there’s nothing emotional about your job, it’s all about fact, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, that’s why my job’s on the line. Apparently, I got too emotionally involved with a case.’
‘Did you?’
‘I think people overuse the word “emotional” where women are concerned.’
Jack grinned. ‘Are you speaking from experience, or in general?’
‘In general.’
‘Yeah. Thought so.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Work it out, Sherlock!’
He winked at me, which in Jack terms was like a big fat kiss, and I smiled. He was fond of me, and really, that was a good start, a good basis for … something. And thank the Lord for Fred’s Books; it was a gift to conversation. I think it was because you were warm, fed well, comfortable – babied, frankly – it made you feel there was nothing to worry about; it relaxed your brain. This was not always a good thing. It meant that I blurted out whatever was in my head. Do chickens have personalities? (Jack had never known a chicken well enough to say.) Why is the biggest chocolate in the box always disgusting? (Some sort of greed check.) I’d really like to go back in time with, say, a torch, and show off to medieval people. (A torch? They’re going to kill you as a witch – take a machine gun and an armoured car.)
‘Well, maybe, Jack,’ I said, picking a raisin out of my raisin bread, ‘I did get a little emotional, in this one instance. Maybe this is the new me, and you’re wrong, I have changed.’
Jack tilted his head to one side, pretended to consider. ‘Well, maybe, Hannah, you’ve changed a small bit. You definitely seem less … uptight.’
I gasped and threw my napkin at him.
He laughed. ‘So where’s this thing tomorrow night? I’m coming, aren’t I?’
I beamed. ‘Great! I’m so pleased. It’s at the Old School Hall, Barley Lane. Everyone will be getting there for six forty-five. And don’t you dare turn up after the interval!’
‘Six forty-five it is.’ Jack got a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Is, er, all your family going to be there?’
I nodded. ‘Well, Angela is.’
‘How is Angela?’
I sighed. ‘Not great. She and Dad are still together. More … spatially than emotionally.’
‘Right. Right. OK. Is it all right if I bring someone?’
A dry scratchy ball of chewed-up raisin toast sat in my mouth and made it hard for me to speak. I gulped it down, like a boa swallowing a rat. Bring someone? Like who? Some girl?
All the hope rushed out of me like a
ghost. He was still seeing other women! And … I’d thought we were connecting. The man had said, ‘How could you think I didn’t love you?’ What was I supposed to think? Although, legally speaking, it wasn’t the same as ‘I love you.’ Jack was like fucking Shakespeare: everything he said had a million possible meanings. I had to face it. I wanted to get back with him. And there was little chance of that. I’d misread every signal. I had as much social nous as a dysfunctional serial killer, one of the fancy American types.
‘Bring anyone you like,’ I smiled. I wanted to cry, suddenly, in that way where you gasp for breath, that dry hacking sort of sob, where all the tears are locked inside you, where all the world’s suffering constricts your chest and the pain is so terrible it physically crushes you, and you welcome it because you need to die.
I settled instead for clearing my throat.
Chapter 34
The saving grace of being angry with someone is, you can always take it out on someone else (which is why my one experience of therapy did not impress. I realised that, were therapy ever to be successful, one’s anger would become non-transferable, like a cheque. It could only be cashed by the person to whom it was owed. How extraordinarily life-sapping). After saying a curt good night to Jack, I tried Ollie’s mobile for the tenth time. He hadn’t been answering, but now he did, and I screamed at him.
‘Where the hell are you, and why the fuck aren’t you back with your family?’
Ollie cut me off.
I held my breath for a bit, then rang again.
Ollie answered, sounding hurt. ‘You’ve got no right speaking to me like that, Ner. You have no idea what it’s been like. I like how you blame me a hundred per cent; you don’t even consider that Gab might have been a right cow.’