by Anna Maxted
I removed my hand. ‘Where’s Mr Coates, anyway?’
Jack rubbed his eyes. ‘He was still sitting there staring at Angela when I came out. I suppose I should go and find him, break up any fist fights.’ He paused. ‘So … will you be OK?’
When people ask this question, usually with one foot out the door, they require only one answer.
‘I’ll be fine.’
Jack hesitated as he got out of the car. ‘So …’ he said, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve … kickstarted something. I didn’t mean it to … explode like this. I didn’t think it through. I swear I had … the best intentions.’
The second he was gone, I clunked my head down hard on the steering wheel. I was sick of my parents, I was sick of Jack’s parents and I was sick of Mr Coates. His name annoyed me. If the only reason Jack had showed was to play Cupid to a fully grown adult male who should be able to organise his own love life—
The passenger door opened and I jumped.
‘Fuck Coates,’ said Jack. ‘Fuck ’em all.’
He plonked down beside me and grinned, and I started laughing.
‘Hi,’ I said, tilting my head to one side.
‘Hi.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too, Special.’ He stopped, studied my face. ‘It’s not the same without you.’
I reached over the gearstick and kissed him. ‘I am,’ I whispered, ‘just so happy … that you’re here.’
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I fucking love you, Hannah.’
‘I love you, Jack. It’s always been you. Although your language has not improved.’
I felt sick with joy. Jack loved me. And, even if my relationship with my father, the man I’d seen as a god, had just crumbled to ash, even though it felt that I could never ever get over the rage and disgust and grief, even though I had to face that I had wasted over twenty-five years rejecting the woman who had once provided the most loving, giving, rewarding bond of my life – this meant that there was some kind of hope.
‘I haven’t felt this happy for ten years,’ said Jack. ‘You don’t realise. You’re so powerful. The smallest thing you do, it has the biggest effect on me. That’s why I … lose it sometimes.’
‘But do you see that I’ve changed? That I’m not like I was aged twenty? I know it was wrong of me to be going on dates with another man when I was seeing you, but our relationship was so vague at the beginning, and I felt so much for you, it scared the life out of me. Guy was a defence, I swear it. I need you to know, Jack, that I never slept with him while I was with you, I need you to believe it, and to get over what could have happened, to forgive me, to accept that while I was stupid, all those years ago, I wasn’t bad.’
‘Hannah,’ said Jack, ‘I was the stupid one. I was stubborn. I punished myself as much as you. It was all or nothing with me, and while that’s fine as a principle, it doesn’t work for real life. I forgave you a long time ago. If I’m still angry at anyone, it’s me.’
‘And you’re sure about that?’
‘I’m sure.’
He frowned. I gazed at him and stroked his hair, and he stopped frowning.
‘Jack,’ I said, ‘I know it’s difficult in a car, but kiss me again.’
‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘but then I’m going.’
‘Oh!’ I tried to keep the shock from my voice. ‘Where?’
‘Back to my car. I’m going to follow you home and then we are going to make love all night long. Well. Once at least, and not rush it.’
In normal circumstances I might have giggled. But now I felt delirious with desire and disbelief.
We ran into my flat and he pulled me to him in a kiss in one fluid move. I felt myself lose control. My happy/sad ratio, usually reined in tight, exploded in a hail of stars, passion and joy seemed to whirl within me, spin me clean off the ground, but maybe that was Jack, scooping me into bed, and my emotions roared and soared and dipped in crazy swoops, until I gasped for air, could no longer see straight, it scared me; was like being conscious during your descent into madness.
But I stayed with it, this time I didn’t fight it, I felt every single flutter of my own heart, every fairy fingertip sensation, I let it flow, I allowed it to engulf me, there was no shut down, no cut off, no running away to find space, to get some distance, here was Jack and everywhere I wanted to be, I understood the meaning of surrender, I gave myself to him like I never had before, and I felt him do the same for me, I had never liked, never uttered, I had loathed and detested the phrase ‘make love’, it was repulsive and creepy, it made me shudder, but now I cried because I understood it, it had me in its grasp, it was worth the risk, worth the terror, because even my fear felt like heaven.
Afterwards, Jack rolled over, so his face was above mine. He kissed my neck, his lips touching the skin where the carotid artery pulsed below, and he said, ‘It’s so good to have you back, Hannah.’
I smiled. ‘I can’t believe I let you get away. You’re so precious to me.’
He stroked my hair. ‘I think when we first met we were too similar. You look around you, and you sense what you’ve lost. You lost your mother. And so you cut yourself off from the grief and it feels better, bearable. That becomes what you can manage, you can’t tolerate any emotion warmer than cool, because real passionate love, gentle and fierce and nurturing, is too painful a reminder of what you lost. It feels easier and safer to banish it, to choose a life hidden in shadow.’
I held him to me.
Chapter 38
I was awoken the next morning at an ungodly hour. Good heavens, it must have been ten o’clock. Jack was gone. Some sadist had their finger jammed on the buzzer. If it was the postman, I was going to report him.
Actually, I wasn’t. I’d reported the postman before, on suspicion of sadism. Every time he posted mail through my letterbox – usually at dawn, especially on Saturdays – he purposely rattled the flap in an ear-splitting cacophony that lasted ten minutes. One morning Gab had bought Jude over, and he’d fallen asleep. Alas, that same morning, I had post (addressed ‘Dear Pizza Lover’). The racket awoke Jude, who was inconsolable. I ripped open my door, shouted at the culprit’s back, ‘Excuse me!’ He’d ignored me. Furious, I rang the Post Office. To my utter surprise, they took the complaint seriously (not a factor I’d taken into consideration, as I’d only wanted to hear the sound of my own whiny voice, and have the satisfaction of someone else hearing it). A bureaucrat spoke to the postman and rang me back. The postman hadn’t heard me shouting. He also hadn’t meant to rattle the letterbox. Maybe it needed oiling? Oh, really. Plainly, we were dealing with a master criminal! The following morning, I lay in wait for the postman. And I noticed … he was wearing headphones.
I stumbled thick-headed out of bed, mumbling, ‘All right, I can hear you!’ staggered about searching for a dressing gown – in vain as I didn’t own one – tripped to the door in boxer shorts and my Snoopy T-shirt.
‘Sugar pumpkin! I was so worried!’ cried Roger.
I stared at him. Who was he, really?
‘Were you?’ I said.
He stepped in, and flung his arms around me.
‘Pumpsky! Relax! That was like an embrace with a large frozen fish finger!’ He let go, felt my forehead. I twisted away. ‘Excuse me while I get dressed,’ I said. I thought if I took long enough, he might get the message and leave. But when I emerged from my bedroom forty-five minutes later, head to foot in black, he was sprawled on my sofa, asleep.
‘Er, hell-o,’ I said.
He opened his eyes, smiled. The smile became a frown, and he leapt up. ‘Sweetheart, how are you? It must have been such a ghastly, ghastly shock.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘it was.’
‘When you fled the hall, I was desperate to follow, but alas, the show must go on!’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Apparently, it must.’
When was he going to stop acting concerned, and apologise? Not that a ‘sorry’ would cover it. Nothing would cover i
t short of cutting out his own innards with a knife.
‘That bastard certainly had a fuck of a nerve turning up like that – shocked the hell out of me. And your mother. He broke up my family once, I’m surprised he dared show his ugly face. Thank the Lord our professionalism took over and we managed to get ourselves back on track. The audience didn’t have a clue what was going on. But they were most forgiving. I’m not saying it wasn’t humiliating – the bastard had vanished by the end of the show, or I’d have kicked his head in. What I want to know is what the hell he was doing all cosied up to your ex-husband? What’s Forrester got to do with any of this? There’s no way now that I could—’
I realised with a start that Roger didn’t know I knew. He thought I’d run out because, after a disappearing act that lasted twenty-six years, Angela’s lover had forced his insolent presence upon us.
My whole body trembled.
Roger stopped in the middle of his sentence. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ I said, testing him.
‘That git turning up like that must have brought it all back for you.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It did. It brought it all back.’
Roger shook his head, sympathetic. ‘Your mother was in a dreadful state. Guilt, I expect.’
‘I suppose you have to have a conscience to feel guilt.’
‘Mm. So tell me, what’s your fellow’s involvement in all this? They’re not friends, are they? I call that suspect, teachers being friends with pupils.’
‘Mr Coates is a client of Jack’s.’
I watched my father’s face closely. He nodded, a short sharp jab of the chin. ‘Oh, yes? How can he be a client?’
‘He’s a very successful voice-over artist. And character actor.’
‘Ugly, you mean. Voice-over artist! He was a second-rate drama teacher!’ Roger paused. ‘I do hope Jack – well, he bloody obviously doesn’t – I was going to say, doesn’t he realise the sensitivity of all this? No, I’ll bet that piece of scum never told him what he got up to before he was a voice-over artist. But, Hannah, I mean, you don’t want to come face to face with this fellow.’
‘Don’t you remember, Roger?’ I said. ‘I already have.’
My father didn’t shift position on the sofa. ‘What do you mean?’
I sat on a tall, straight-backed chair, so I looked down on him. ‘I mean,’ I said, ‘“Go and see what your mother is doing.’’’
‘What!’ Roger laughed. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’
I jumped out of the chair and screamed so loud my voice cracked, ‘Oh, come off it. You know what the fuck that means. It means you don’t give a shit about her or me, me, me, your own daughter, it’s disgusting, disgusting, no, not her silly affair, I don’t give a damn about that, it’s disgusting, it’s warped, to purposely send your own five-year-old daughter to see her mother fucking another man, Jesus Christ, no wonder I don’t trust people, I’ve probably got Past Traumatic Stress Sign. Syndrome, I mean, what do you think that kind of sight would do to a five-year-old? Oh, don’t answer that, I think you know exactly. Jesus, I think the worst of everyone, and yet I still can’t believe that anyone would be so sick, you’ve got to be one sick fuck to pull a stunt like that, knowingly wreck the relationship between your own daughter and her mother, just because your ego’s been knocked. And all this time, all my life, for as long as I can remember, I’ve trusted you, you have been the only person that I’ve trusted and respected, the only person I actually dared –’ I couldn’t say the word ‘love’, I just couldn’t say it – ‘like, the one person who I thought was safe, I mean, the numbers of people, the postman, who’ve suffered because … the poor postman! Fuck, I don’t know, if you’ve been conned into believing the worst of your own mother, who aren’t you going to think the worst of—’
Roger stood up and hit me round the face. I gasped, and shoved him. He fell backwards and cracked his head hard on my lounge table.
‘Shit!’ he shouted. ‘Ow! Ow! Ow! Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit! That bloody hurt! What the fuck did you do that for? Hannah, you were hysterical. I don’t know what the hell you were talking about. It’s as if you’re delirious – could it be something you’ve eaten? Undercooked chicken? I mean, really, it’s nonsense, all this, someone has been lying to you—’
‘Yes!’ I screamed. ‘YOU!’
‘HANNAH!’ shouted Roger, equally loud. ‘I don’t know where you’ve got this from! It’s nonsense! Nonsense! You have no evidence! You know this, you’re a detective! All you’re basing this revolting accusation on is some false memory syndrome, and all that’s shit, the Royal Psychiatrists’ Society banned all that years ago – it was in the Daily Mail. My God, I have never been so insulted in all my life. Christ, my head’s killing me, you could have given me brain damage! And I’ve got to do a show tonight. But I’ll overlook it because you, young lady, are hysterical and overtired. You are still suffering from the shock of that wanker turning up at the premiere of my show. The spiteful bastard, he knew if she saw him it’d put her off her stroke. I hadn’t a hope of holding it together, she just lost it, it was a nightmare, and I’m afraid you were upset by being confronted, without warning, with the embodiment of your mother’s sordid past and, I’m sad to say, you took it out on me. Now I suggest you get some sleep, think things through, and maybe –’ he marched to the front door and clicked open the latch – ‘tomorrow morning, after you’ve got some rest, I trust you’ll see fit to apologise. Good day!’
The door slammed behind him and I stared after it.
Good day?! It wasn’t natural, and if something isn’t natural, it’s fake.
Thank you, Roger. I would think things through. He was right. I was a detective with no evidence. But that was going to change.
I picked up the phone and rang my mother.
Chapter 39
I was scared. I won’t say, ‘not much scares me’, because a lot scares me. Spontaneously combusting, one (although Jack did say that you have to be fat and old for it to happen, so I have a while yet). Jumping out of bed in the morning, unaware I’m going to die horribly that day, two. But people are what really scare me. The power that other people have to ruin your life. It’s not true that they can only do this if you let them.
That I also had this power had not occurred to me. Now, I felt like a mugger forced to face his victim as part of his community service. If my mother hated me, she had good reason. I had treated her shockingly and, by doing so, crushed all my hopes of her. I had a suspicion, gleaned either from Jason or the Discovery Channel, that what you consciously do is the opposite of what you unconsciously want. For the first time in a long while, this psychological get-out clause, which neatly ensured even the most idiot therapist of having the last word, presented itself as a possibility.
When I’d last seen Jude he’d mastered the word ‘mummy’. This was a new achievement, a progression from the earlier, inferior pronouncement, ‘Ma-ma’ – a vague, generic term that could refer to anything from Gabrielle to Marmite. ‘Mummy’ was a direct and specific request, enunciated with all the precision of a Royal, spoken with triumphant knowledge of the glorious reward it would bring. He said it constantly, ‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’ And every time he said it, Gabrielle would reply, in a voice like honey, ‘Yes, my darling?’ and sweep him into her arms.
I saw them together and the thought leapt in to my head like a stranger stealing your taxi: I want that.
This phone call would tell me if I could have it.
‘Hello?’
My mother sounded sad and dull. I wasn’t sure what I had expected. Some dumb part of me had presumed that she’d be elated. However, I wasn’t good with how women’s minds worked. There was the time, just after Jude was born, that I bought Gabrielle a size 18 jumper, as she was going on and on and on about all her clothes being too small. There’s no way this will be too small! I’d thought, smugly.
‘Mum. It’s me.’
‘Oh, hello.’
> It was hardly ‘Yes, my darling?’
‘I’m sorry about running out on your performance. I didn’t … feel well. I heard that the rest of it went OK.’
As usual, I was talking about something entirely irrelevant.
‘Well,’ Angela replied, ‘as your father says, “Once the spell has been broken …”’
Was she being sarcastic? We could go on for ever like this, wasting time till it ran out.
‘Are you by yourself?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll see you in twenty minutes.’
I did not want to face my mother. So I knew it was the right thing to do. I stopped on the way, bought her two bars of her dark bitter extra-nasty chocolate. I wasn’t sure which it was she ate, 70 per cent cocoa or 85 per cent. I figured she could take one bite of the 85 per cent – like chewing dust – then a hunk of the 70 per cent stuff. In comparison it would taste gorgeous.
She opened the door. There were double bags underneath her eyes. She looked as mournful as a bloodhound. I handed her the chocolate. She looked surprised. ‘What’s this for?’
Until recently my self-righteousness had been armourplated. Now she made me feel guilty, without trying. I remembered all the times I’d come over to be fed (Roger played the bountiful host, Angela cooked). I’d watch, with a superior eye, other guests hand over their flowers and chocolates – I’m family, exempt from gift tax. I felt entitled to take, take, take, with no show of gratitude, because we both knew that she remained in debt from twenty-five years ago – that however many free dinners I ate at her house, she could never give me back what she had taken.
I thought of joking about the chocolate, of saying ‘I thought you might need it,’ buying in to that self-deprecating in-joke that all women are forced to be a part of: chocolate, how we’re slaves to it, the great cure-all, oh ho ho ho, we’re pathetic. Lover left you? Home repossessed? Got breast cancer? Have a slab of Dairy Milk! That’ll put you right!
I said, ‘I didn’t want to come round empty-handed.’