by Anna Maxted
I tutted. ‘Oliver, I don’t think you should be calling your wife “a right cow”. I don’t even know what that means.’
‘I think you know what “a right cow” is, Ner.’
‘OK, I admit, I do. It’s a nasty, sexist term that a man applies to a woman when she dares to behave in a way that isn’t to his liking.’
Ollie sighed down the phone. ‘Ner,’ he said, ‘I am not a difficult bloke. But her temper and her moods have worn me right down. She’s irrational!’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ I said. ‘Like how?’
‘OK. How about, Jude’s still on the tit?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Gab is still breastfeeding Jude. And Jude will only drink from her left breast. So, anyway – I don’t know how much you know about all this.’
‘I know nothing.’
‘Fine. So the left boob is full of milk, and the other’s empty. Because if he won’t drink from it, it stops making milk, because there’s no demand for it.’
‘Gotcha.’
‘The other night I come home and she’s flopped on the bed, topless, sobbing, so distraught she can’t speak. I thought she’d been attacked. I finally get out of her what’s wrong: “I’ve got one massive boob and one tiny one!”’
I tried not to laugh. ‘Oliver, Gabrielle’s appearance is very important to her. And you. And when you’ve had a baby, I suppose your image takes a knock. I think she looks great, but maybe I didn’t look that hard. You’ve got to be more patient, Ol. You’ve got your work problems making you short-tempered too.’
‘You talk like she had the baby.’
‘Oh, a thousand apologies, were you the one who gave birth?’
‘She gave birth, we had the baby. She went through a lot, physically, and I’m in awe of her for that. I know it takes time to recover, and I tried to support her. But you talk like she’s a single parent and I’m just some tosser hanging round the house. I’ve gone through all the baby dramas with her, the joy, the fear, the panic, the lack of sleep, mainly the panic and the lack of sleep. Gab talks out her feelings. Just because I don’t, doesn’t mean I don’t have them. I do want to tell her things. Tell her that I appreciate all she does, that I understand it’s hard. But then she snaps at me and I say the opposite of what I meant to say.’
‘Ol,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I think you were right. A few days apart seems to have been good for you. The important thing is, you and Gab both want to make things better. It’s about agreeing how.’
‘How do you know Gab wants to make things better?’
‘I talked to her. You should try it. She loves you very much. She said.’
Silence.
‘Ol,’ I said, ‘where are you, by the way?’
‘At Mum and Dad’s.’
‘What!’
‘Yeah.’ Ollie sounded embarrassed. ‘Roger said I could stay. Mum was not pleased.’
‘He said you could stay? But I … we went out last night, he never said!’
‘Maybe he knew you wouldn’t approve. Mum didn’t.’
‘How could you tell?’
Ollie made a noise that was not quite a laugh. ‘She was quite vocal about it. For Mum. She wanted to know what she’d say if Gab rang.’
‘Well, absolutely. It would seem like she was taking sides. That was my exact same problem. What did you say?’
‘Roger shushed her. I felt bad about it, but I did need a place to stay.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘OK. Well, what are you going to do now?’
‘Maybe go home, see my child and wife.’
‘Can I suggest something?’
‘Go on.’
‘Take a fat bouquet and a pushalong toy, preferably one that makes loud noises.’
‘Gotcha,’ said Ollie.
The next day, bright and early, I rang Roger.
‘Hellooo!’ he said. ‘All set for tonight?’
‘I’m coming,’ I said. And then, as a test, ‘Jack isn’t.’
‘God!’ he shouted. ‘Why are you such an idiot?’
The dial tone purred in my ear, and I found myself shaking. I didn’t know what to think. How could I be thirty-one and so clueless? Right now, not one area of my life got a tick. I’d always thought, at least I’m not her, of my neighbour, the one with the Siamese cat. She was middle-aged, smelt faintly of boiled fish, and had once revealed that she thought of herself as her cat’s ‘special mummy’. She wasn’t, she explained, the cat’s real mummy, she was his special mummy. Uh. Huh. May I go now?
The cat’s special mummy was a major success story compared to me.
I’d never been renowned for being a ‘people person’ (though secretly I believe that no one is a ‘people person’, it’s just that some people are better than others at disguising their condescension). So it wasn’t a big wow that I’d made enemies of my entire address book. The one thing I was supposed to be good at, however, was my job. As Jack said, there was nothing emotional about my job; it was all about fact. Emotions were trying to grip jelly, emotions were writing an essay on what Shakespeare meant. Well, according to what’s been said, the man meant ten hundred thousand contradictory things per page. But facts. Facts were lovely. Two plus two equals four (although Jack tried to argue with me on this, once). Mr Smith tells Mrs Smith he’s stuck in traffic in Edgware, and yet the tracker we put on his car says he’s doing ninety down the M11. Fact. Facts were my friends. I did not have a problem with facts. And yet it seemed that somehow, suddenly, I did.
I supposed, if I called myself a detective, I’d have to check out this curious anomaly.
I got to the Old School Hall early, around six thirty. I could have arrived earlier, and helped backstage, but I hadn’t. Not that it wasn’t fun. Everyone was so excited, so energetic, so enthusiastic. It embarrassed me, actually. I kept thinking, you’re all doing this voluntarily in your spare time. I’m mean with my time. Don’t ask me why, it’s not like I do anything with it. The am dram lot showed me up. They didn’t work for a charity, but it was humbling to see people giving of themselves so happily. I’d also dug out Mum’s mobile number, intending to ring her, but I hadn’t done that either. I had this sickish feeling of having misjudged her – perhaps because she had finally stopped trying to please me. When a person tries to please you, it puts them under suspicion. Now, she was daring to demonstrate – to me, and others – that she thought she deserved better treatment, she thought she deserved to have a voice. It made me wonder. It was unheard of (excuse pun), Angela speaking up against my father.
I wanted to tell her that it was OK to be selfish (something I’d never had the guts to tell Brown Owl). I was beginning to see that Roger could be a little overbearing. He could shout you down, without saying a word. While I knew my mother would never allow her grief to show, no more than she’d allow her knickers to show, I felt sure that this soft breeze of rebellion had been caused by my grandmother’s death. I didn’t know what a bereaved person required to feel less wretched, but I suspected that being forced to appear on stage alongside your husband in his ego-orgy was not it.
But there she was, carrying plates of what looked like steak and gravy, on a tray, to backstage. It was bound to be something foul – mouldy bread and stale scotch eggs, covered in tinned onion soup. Here was a mystery. When food was required on stage, it was always other food masquerading as the supposed food. (‘Before this, I was with the RSC, the Scottish Play. I was the leg of pork at the feast.’) Why? Fact was, whatever stinky bacteriafest they were served, the actors always ate, rather than pretended to eat. Either they were shockingly hungry, or they were act-ors. I nodded at Angela, and she nodded back, white and tense. The fact that she was acting in this play and that her mother had just died had not exempted her from the gruntwork. Still, I supposed that hauling trays of food about was in character – Angela was playing Miss Cooper, the manageress of the seaside hotel in which the play was set. She was in costume: longish skirt, dull hea
vy blouse, firmly set hair. It was one hell of a frumpy part. I wasn’t sure if my father had put her forward for it. She’d never acted before.
My father, in addition to having directed the thing, was playing John Malcolm, a character who – after many chats with Daddy about his interpretation, his choices – I felt I knew better than myself.
At the risk of killing the suspense, John, a former politician, is having a middle-of-the-road relationship with Miss Cooper. Then his young, glamorous ex-wife shows up at the hotel as a guest, having tracked him down. They’d divorced years before – she was ‘frigid’, he was violent (all in the name of frustrated passion, though, and he was a northerner). He’d gone to prison for it, changed his name, and reinvented himself as a journalist. Anyway, after much ranting and declamation, John ditches Miss Cooper and gets back together with the love of his life (the one he kept hitting).
I was glad not to see Roger. He’d be in the dressing room, applying his make-up. I sat down in the front row, not wanting to. The hall was draughty and smelt of damp sawdust.
‘Hi,’ said Gabrielle, slipping into the seat beside me.
‘Hello!’ I checked for signs of distress.
‘All right, Ner,’ said Ollie, plonking down next to her.
‘Nice to see you both,’ I said. They seemed a little stiff with each other, nothing worse. Gabrielle picked at his collar, which I took as a good sign. Sort of like a dog weeing on a garden post. I know that doesn’t sound great.
‘Where’s Squeaker?’ I said.
They smiled, as I knew they would. Squeaker was one of Jude’s many aliases. (He was like the Red Baron, that one.) If I mentioned Jude, in Jude’s absence, Gab and Ol just melted. That said, if the genuine article had been present, biting people’s fingers to the bone, or banging his own head on the concrete floor (as was this month’s vogue), their smiles would have been no less brilliant. I liked that I could unify them this way – the platonic vision of their first-born, in all his soft chubby glory, turned them purry towards each other. You could interpret their coy glances: we make a good baby.
‘My mum’s monster-sitting,’ said Gab.
I smiled also. I didn’t want them to see how pleased I was that they were here together. It was a start.
I looked around. Just in case. He probably wouldn’t bother turning up. Oh, but there were compensations. I could see Martine, at the kiosk, arguing with the ticket guy – he was rearing back like a cat from a snake. I sighed. Settled back down beside Gab.
She glanced at me. ‘Are you all right, dahl?’
‘Oh … you know.’
‘Please don’t tell me you’re missing Jason.’
‘Goodness, no!’
Gab squeezed my hand. ‘There’s something I should have said a while back, but I didn’t. I’ve been too wrapped up in my own stuff. I wanted to tell you, though. I knew you took Squeaker to the park. Not immediately. After you came round. It struck me that … you’re quite … contrary. I was way too harsh. I apologise.’ She leant close. Her hair held the scent of meadows and flowers and sunshine. ‘You’ve made some good decisions, Hannah. You have. And that means things will get better for you. Oh, look, darling, they already have.’
I followed her smirk. And there stood Jack.
Chapter 35
I scanned his vicinity for willowy blondes. However, the mystery ‘someone’ appeared to be … Mr Coates, my old drama teacher. I felt confused, and embarrassed at my schoolgirl assumptions – although I do maintain that asking if you can bring ‘someone’ is like asking a date in for ‘coffee’. These words have double lives. They are like unexploded bombs; you have to handle them with care, you can’t chuck them about like beach balls.
So why was he here? This had to be good. Wonderful, even. My pulse was doing double time. Maybe Gab was right. Things would get better. I thought of what she’d said at the wedding dress fitting. About a man who has the power to make your heart fly.
Jack had the power to make my heart fly. He also had the power to shoot it out of the sky. Because, let’s not forget, love isn’t just about the flying. I knew that, more than most. And although I was not a person who was forgiving of love, right then I felt I could learn to be. Jack was my man and it wasn’t something rational.
He stood in the aisle, tall and imperious, surveying the hall for a place to sit. Or was he looking for a person? Me. Mr Coates was standing next to him, jerking his head this way and that. He looked uncomfortable. Possibly, it worked both ways and clients were just as repulsed by the idea of their agents having love lives. Jack hadn’t seen me yet. I darted my head this way and that, trying to catch his eye. Then, not wishing to remind him of a pelican, I stopped. But I couldn’t stop smiling. Although I still couldn’t understand why Jack had asked if he might bring ‘someone’, if the someone was merely a client. No offence to Mr Coates, but the term ‘someone’ implied a person of note.
Perhaps he was important in the business sense. Jack had said he had a lucrative career doing voice-overs. He was also, Jack had said, a fine character actor (which I’d presumed was showbiz shorthand for ‘ugly’).
Mr Coates wasn’t ugly. He was a good height – nearly as tall as Jack – he had sandy-grey hair and blue eyes. He was clean-shaven but a little scruffy. Even though he no longer worked in schools, he was wearing what I thought of as teachers’ clothes: khaki green cords, faded at the knees, brown suede shoes, a brown cable-knit jumper, the wool starting to unravel at the wrists. I had a flash of memory, of him not quite meeting my eyes. I must have been all of five years old.
That was quite common, wasn’t it, actors being shy? Wanting to escape from their tortured selves. Only being able to do so through the medium of showing off.
‘Jack Forrester,’ called Gabrielle, making me start. ‘Come and sit with us!’
Jack turned around and smiled. It was the most unrelaxing smile I’d ever seen. This made me anxious, but I attempted one of my own. Even though I had an urge to kick Gabrielle in the shin, I was pleased she’d asked him. He took a step toward us – Mr Coates behind him, still twisting his neck about like a periscope – then stopped. I followed his gaze to the stage, not understanding – unless he was surprised at how Angela had aged in ten years. I wanted to tell him that the costume did her no justice. She trod down the steps at the side of the stage, closed the front doors, hurried backstage again. Martine, trundling up the aisle behind them, talking on her mobe, trod on Mr Coates’s heel.
‘Oh,’ she said to Jack, ignoring Mr Coates, who was bright red with pain. ‘Fort you said you weren’t coming.’
Jack gave her a mean look, but said nothing. Instead, he murmured in the ear of Mr Coates, who nodded. Martine stared as they brushed past her and sat next to us. Jack stepped aside for Mr Coates, so he sat beside Ollie. Jack seemed to be shadowing him like a minder. Plainly, you were expected to work hard for your ten per cent. It wasn’t all premieres, bons mots at the aftershow and lapping champagne out of women’s navels (or men’s).
I tried to smile at Jack and glare at Martine – what did she mean, Jack had said he wasn’t coming? When, why had she even talked to him? Martine sat down with a thump behind us, with a cold, ‘All right,’ at me. I turned my back.
Gabrielle leant forward and smacked Jack on the hand, in a friendly way. ‘Look at you!’ she cried. ‘What a nice surprise! Finally!’
Jack got up to kiss her. ‘Don’t speak too soon,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Ollie. ‘Don’t.’
Gab and I stared at him. What were they talking about? Ollie raised an eyebrow at Mr Coates. Mr Coates looked at his suede shoes. He was twiddling the loose thread at his wrist, twisting it very fast, between finger and thumb.
‘Took you long enough,’ added Ollie, after a pause.
Jack said, ‘Gabrielle, this is a client of mine, the actor, Jonathan Coates. Jonathan this is the lovely Gabrielle Goldstein. She is married to … you remember Ollie, and his sister, Hannah Lovekin.’
I was
thinking, well, how come I don’t get a ‘lovely’ in front of my name, but it was obvious. I was also rabid to know why Ollie was behaving so strangely. He seemed to be torn between being rude or obsequious.
‘Has Angela seen this yet?’ said Ollie. I wasn’t sure if the question was directed at Jack or Mr Coates. Was he referring to the play? She was in the play! ‘It was a shame,’ he continued, as Gab and I sat there, still and meek as sugar mice. ‘You wasted years of everyone’s lives. Anyway,’ he stood up, ‘I can’t sit around to watch this. Gab, babe, I’m sorry. It’s too much. You’ll see. I’m going home. I’ll see you later. Good luck.’ He touched his wife tenderly, just above her jawline, and hurried from the hall.
‘Wait!’ I said, but Ollie was gone. ‘Can someone tell me what’s going on?’ I directed the question at Jack – Mr Coates was hunched in a miserable mound of loose-knit brown jumper, and seemingly mute – goodness knows how he made a living. Jack sprang from his chair and crouched at my feet. ‘Hannah, I – look, Jonathan was desperate to – and, I, I think that – it might be none of my business, but, but if I, if we, then it is my business, and – you were never going to see otherwise—’
‘Oh God, oh God,’ wailed Gab suddenly. I made an ‘eek’ face. If Ollie had gone mad, this was proof insanity was catching, like measles. One, two, three, they all had it. I was the only one not crazy. ‘Oh, God –’ Gabrielle covered her face with both hands – ‘I know what this is!’
‘What?’ I hissed.
‘Hannah,’ said Jack, his expression serious, ‘don’t you remember Jonathan?’
He nudged Mr Coates, who smiled at me. ‘Ah, Hannah,’ he said, and leant over Gabrielle to touch my hand. As he did, his voice rippled through me like deep thunder, I got a whiff of his aftershave, and it felt like a coiled spring released, snap, in my brain. I snatched back my hand, gasping, trembling. Good grief, what was this? This man was unlocking some feeling inside me, a bad, bad feeling.
I clutched my hair. ‘Someone tell me now what this is about or I am going to lose it.’