by Shari Low
The boys were just in their element. Sure, there’d been a couple of minor spats fuelled by E-number overload and sleep deprivation, but in the main they were somewhere on the ‘over the moon’ side of the happiness scale, something they conveyed in no uncertain terms to their father on the two occasions each day that I dialled his number then gave them the phone. Petty, I know, but I had come to the decision that I wasn’t going to speak to him until I was sure I could converse without swearing or making threats that could possibly land me an ASBO.
Other than chronic immaturity on my part, however, the weekend had been perfect. Bliss. I couldn’t remember when the boys or I had last had such a great time, and since I grew up with my granny reminding me on a daily basis that ‘You’re not long on this earth, so you might as well enjoy it’, it kind of reinforced the fact that I’d been in a rut for the last few years and it was time to take the bull by the horns and embrace life, excitement and a wee bit of thrilling danger again.
Talking of which…
Late Sunday night, Sam and I lay on sun-loungers out by his pool, joy in heart, stars in sky and beer in hand. We’d decided to pass on the karaoke as, much as we enjoyed their company, we did realise that the LAPD had other insignificant matters like gang warfare and serial looting to deal with.
The setting was perfect and we’d slumbered into the kind of comfortable silence that friends who’ve known each other forever find easy. I still had that bubbly, excited feeling in my stomach as I contemplated the fact that Ike Tusker could actually call me at some point during the next week with news that could potentially change our lives forever in a great way–if you didn’t take into account divorce and the fact that our children would come from a broken home. Ah, I was being glib. Despite Mark being up there with serial killers and traffic wardens on my list of favourite people, I was still convinced that we’d get over this and that he’d come around to my way of thinking.
Mark and I were a team. No one had ever got in the middle of us and I was sure that we were solid. Unbreakable.
‘Carly, have you ever wondered?’
‘Wandered where?’ I said, a bit flummoxed at being snapped from my contemplations.
‘Wondered. Wondered about us. Wondered if we’d have made it if you hadn’t left Hong Kong. Or if you’d come back sooner.’
I thought about it for a few moments. Shit, I hated these conversations. Nostalgia should be banned. There was nothing worse than probing the What Ifs of past romantic interactions to bring on a migraine and teenage urges to do irresponsible things involving tongues.
‘Sure. Sometimes.’
‘And?’
I laughed that nervous kind of giggle that I’m prone to do in moments of great sadness (example: funerals), stress (example: long queue in the supermarket) and when I’m trying to avert a potentially embarrassing/dangerous/foolish situation (example: amazing ex-boyfriend, feelings of wanton lust, starry night, husband being a prick, not had sex for a long time).
‘And I think I would have driven you crazy. I was an erratic, hopeless case with the attention span of the average chicken and you were far more mature and grounded. You knew what you were about. Me? I’m still making it up as I go along and cocking up on a regular basis. And anyway, if we’d worked out you’d still be living in Hong Kong earning a pittance, and you’d never have taken the journey that ended with you living here and having this really crap life of riches, opportunity and glory.’
I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t. Where were Cilla and Whitney when I needed them?
Silence again. Only not so much comfortable as toe-curlingly excruciating this time. As usual, after a few minutes I caved.
‘And what about you? Do you ever wonder?’ I whispered. This was what I imagined it felt like to stand on a ledge half a mile up, waiting to do a bungee jump. I was on the edge of a precipice and had no faith whatsoever in how I would react if I was plunged into the unknown. Please say no. Please. Just say, ‘Nope, lucky escape, I reckon. If things had worked out between us I’d never have got to shag 384 of the world’s richest women and I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.’
More silence. Stomach in knots. Body rigid. Staring at sky because I can’t bear to look him in the tanned, long-eyelashed, sculptured-cheeked, bloody gorgeous face.
Aaaargh! Right, either that was a very large insect crawling up my arm or it was his fingertips. There was definitely contact, there was definitely something–very slowly, very gently and so very fucking erotically that my ovaries were singing the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’–moving up my arm.
And I’d lost the ability to breathe. Animals with the smallest brains on the planet could breathe, and yet I’d momentarily completely forgotten the basics of air intake.
‘Carly…’
I was turning pink through lack of oxygen and my skeletal system was turning to mush. I was blancmange. Mary, Mother of God, saint of the blessed virgins and all things non-tampered-with in a sexual manner, help me now.
‘Carly…’
‘Carly…’
I suddenly realised it was a woman’s voice who was saying my name. LA–city of dreams, where nothing is impossible and Mary, Mother of God does house calls.
‘Carly? Are you okay?’ She was in front of me now, but instead of flowing robes and halos, it was Eliza and Motorola.
‘Your mobile phone was ringing so I answered it. It’s someone called Kate.’
‘Thanks, Eliza,’ I gasped, as I jumped up and took the phone. ‘I’ll, er, just go check on the boys while I’m talking to Kate,’ I whispered to Sam, while backing off in the manner of an armed robber in front of a SWAT team.
I turned and walked briskly into the house.
‘Kate, I love you. I so love you I can’t even begin to tell you how much I love you,’ I whispered into the phone.
She groaned. ‘Eew, I think I preferred it when I thought you’d dumped me for someone who earns ten mil a movie. Less than a week in LA and you’re already all huggy-kissy, let’s share our emotions and hug. If you’ve already joined the local Kabbalah centre I’m coming over there to get you.’
‘Nope, worse than that. But I’ll tell you when I see you–it’s one for gin and accompanying hand actions. Anyway, how’s you?’
‘Everything’s great, we miss you, but listen, I’m going to be quick because my brood will descend for breakfast any minute and it’s costing me a limb a minute to call. I’m worried about Mark.’
‘Can I just remind you that you’re supposed to be my friend and that involves unswaying loyalty in times of marital strife?’
‘Come on, Carly, he’s miserable. I took him round some dinner last night…’
That’s Kate. She thinks about everyone else, genuinely cares about people and would never turn her back on a friend in need. Which is absolutely no use at all when you want her to call your husband a tosser and assault him with a kitchen implement.
‘…and he’s really pissed off, Carly.’
‘He should be pissed off. He’s the one who is being completely non-supportive and downright bloody stubborn.’
‘And are you being the pot or the kettle today?’ she replied.
‘Oh, come on, Kate, even you, paragon of stability and intelligent choices, thought I’d be crazy not to come here.’
‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But, you know, I can see Mark’s point as well. Carly, he’s not trying to hold you back; he’s just trying to hold things together. If he lost income or, God forbid, his job just because he went charging over to LA on a whim then that would have a huge impact on you as a family. In his roundabout way he’s just trying to do the right thing for you and the boys.’
‘How much did he pay you, Judas?’
‘Can’t say, but rumours that I left your house with three bottles of wine and a George Foreman Lean Machine may well be true. Look, make the peace with him. He’s missing the boys, he’s missing you and he’s run out of Pot Noodles–the poor man’s destitute.’
‘
He’s also being a complete arse. And Kate, I understand what you’re saying, but he’s furious with me for coming here. As far as Mark’s concerned we could quite happily spend the rest of our lives in that rut of an existence that we’d fallen into. I’m not ready to give up on dreams yet. Although granted the Liam Neeson one might be slightly out of reach now. Talking of which, he tried to cop a feel in a flash hotel the other day.’
‘You’re kidding!!!’
‘Of course I am, but the difference is that here it could happen and that’s what makes this trip so fantastic. Thanks for trying to help, Kate, but honestly, I’m not sure Mark and I are ever going to agree on how we should live our lives. But we’ll work it out. Eventually. Hopefully when I’m a multi-millionaire movie screenwriter with more diamonds than Elizabeth Taylor’s poodle.’
She sighed, obviously deciding to go away and formulate another form of attack in her new capacity as my private marriage-guidance counsellor. She changed the subject.
‘Talking of movie stars, how’s my favourite actor then?’
‘Tom Cruise is fine.’
She laughed. ‘Yeew–that man would need an industrial whisk to get my hormones swirling. How’s Sam?’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘Fine.’
‘Oh no.’
‘What?’
‘Oh no. Carly, you haven’t!’
I gave an indignant snort. ‘Of course I haven’t. He’s an old comfy friend and I’m a responsible mother of two who would never dream of jeopardising her marriage or breaking her vows, and quite frankly I can’t believe that you even considered that I might do something like that.’
Long pause.
‘So you’re thinking about it then?’ she replied.
I groaned and caved simultaneously. ‘All the time! Oh Kate, at this rate I’ll be right behind Michael Douglas at Sex Addicts Anonymous. If you could parcel up some firm resolve and send it over I’d much appreciate it.’
‘Carly, be careful,’ she warned gently.
‘I will. And don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
And as I hung up and wandered into the bedroom to check on the boys, I knew that I definitely meant it. Definitely. Without a doubt.
I crawled in between my sons and kissed both of them on the nose.
Yes, I definitely meant it, I thought as I snuggled down under the duvet. But probably best if I stayed away from temptation just in case.
I completely ignored Sam’s searching look when I marched into the kitchen the next morning with Benny on my back and Mac on my front, both of them squealing with laughter.
‘Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam, it’s a mummy sandwich!’ Mac shrieked, before Sam grabbed him, turned him upside-down and tickled him until there was a definite risk of flooding.
‘Donut!’ commanded Benny, pointing to the bagels that were heaped on the counter, already toasted.
‘That’s a bagel, honey,’ I corrected him.
‘Nope, donut,’ argued Benny, before picking up one with banana slices on it and wolfing it down. I was astonished. Benny was the boy who refused point-blank to try anything new. Mark and I had tried every form of bribery, coercion and corruption only to be met with a defiant shake of the head and jaws that required a crowbar to open them.
‘Actually, that’s my fault,’ Sam whispered. ‘He didn’t want to try one yesterday but after I assured him that it was just a kind of donut like the ones I’d seen him eat at your place he gave it a try.’
We both glanced over at Benny, face now smeared with banana.
‘And I think he likes it,’ Sam grinned.
As if it couldn’t get any worse, the demigod now has a natural talent with children.
‘Can we go and see Spiderman again today, Uncle Sam, can we, can we, can we?’ Mac asked, his wee face a mask of optimism.
‘Spiderman, Spiderman…’ sang bagel boy.
Sam hesitated, his demeanour making it obvious that the answer was going to be no.
Mac sensed it and waded straight in with another request.
‘Or Batman–Batman would be great,’ he asked eagerly.
‘Da na na na, Da na na na….’ piped up Benny.
‘Erm…’ Sam started, trying to find the words to let them down gently.
‘Superman! We love Superman! Can we go and see Superman, Uncle Sam, can we, can we, please?’
The desperation was creeping into Mac’s voice now and Benny looked totally flummoxed. The superhero jukebox had just realised that it didn’t contain the theme tune to Superman. His shoulders slumped and he was totally crestfallen for about three seconds, before childhood resilience kicked in and he just sang the first verse of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ instead.
‘Erm…sorry, guys, but I have to work today.’
I was glad that the door of the fridge was in between Sam and I so he couldn’t see my face. Work? He hadn’t mentioned anything about work.
I rearranged my expression into a sunny grin and popped it out from behind the door. ‘Work? I thought you were a fully paid-up dosser these days,’ I said in the manner of the glib and irreverent.
‘I am, but the director of my next movie wants to meet up today to go over the schedule and brief me on the locations.’
Oh, that was okay then. I mean, if I had a fiver for every time I had a last-minute meeting with a director to discuss flying first class around the world then I’d be a rich woman.
‘Great,’ I gushed, not paying attention to the plastic maple syrup bottle that I was subconsciously squeezing in my hand.
‘Mum, the syrup’s dripping!’ Mac shouted.
Sam tossed me a cloth. Great. And I was worried about the kids being messy. I ducked back into the fridge to sob in private.
‘Don’t worry about being bored, though…’ Sam continued. Somehow I thought boredom was the least of our worries. The house had a pool. Dinghies. Unconquered alligators. A tennis court. A five-a-side football pitch and a driveway so long we could spend the whole day just skateboarding up and down it. Boredom wouldn’t be an issue. The fact that I feared we’d just chased a Hollywood A-lister out of his own home was slightly more of a problem.
I realised Sam was still speaking.
‘…because you can either stay here or take the other car and go exploring. I could draw you up a list of places worth visiting.’
Mac burst into tears. ‘But I want to go with you, Uncle Sam, can I, can I, can I?’
Me too, me too. Thankfully I’m pretty sure I didn’t say that out loud.
Sam picked Mac up and gave him a hug. ‘Tell you what, when I get back how about I teach you to dive in the swimming pool.’
Mac eyed him suspiciously. ‘Without holding my nose?’
‘Without holding your nose,’ Sam promised.
‘Okay, then,’ Mac agreed, his protruding bottom lip gradually returning to a normal position. Meanwhile, over in the fridge, mine was still hitting the Spanish-marble floor tiles. I didn’t want Sam to go out on his own today. We’d had such a great time since we arrived that I wanted our little escape from reality to continue a bit longer–although preferably without the bit where we got all deep and meaningful about our feelings.
I couldn’t help wondering if this had indeed been planned or if he was so pissed off with me for ducking out on him last night that he’d just decided to avoid me. Or maybe he was embarrassed about dredging up the past. Maybe he’d only done it because he’d had a few beers and was getting melancholy and now he regretted it. Or maybe he was just getting totally pissed off having his house overtaken by an ex-girlfriend and two small creatures who created a disproportional amount of mess, noise and chaos. And we’d only been there for a weekend! Since Mark had spat his dummy and not come, I hadn’t really considered looking for a hotel, but perhaps now I should. Despite break-ups, broken hearts and a very unusual career choice, Sam and I had managed to stay friends for almost fift
een years and I didn’t want something trivial, like chronic irritation with family-style chaos, to spoil that now.
On the other hand, maybe I was being a paranoid, neurotic twat and he really did have a long-standing arrangement to meet his new director. Strange that he hadn’t mentioned it before, though.
An hour later the boys were fed, washed and changed into their outdoor clothes. For the second time. When I got them ready the first time there was some kind of dispute over a glass of fresh orange juice that resulted in Benny wearing a guilty expression and Mac wearing the juice.
Sam took me out, past the Jaguar convertible that we’d been using since we got there, to the garage. He bleeped a button to make it open. The door slid up to reveal a shiny black Porsche and a colossal 4×4. Bloody hell, if I had that on the school run at home I’d scare the shit out of the twin-set and pearl brigade in their Land Rovers.
Sam reversed out the 4×4 (which he informed me was actually called an SUV), then gave me the keys. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said with a grin. ‘Unless, of course, you’d rather have the Porsche.’
‘Of course I’d rather have the Porsche. And I’m sure the LAPD will turn a blind eye to the fact that I’ve strapped the kids onto the roof so they don’t spill their Ribena on the calfskin seats.’
He laughed. And unlike the rest of the male population of Los Angeles, his eyes did crease up at the sides in a very cute fashion. He turned to walk back into the house.
‘Sam,’ I called after him, a little hesitantly. ‘We’re okay, aren’t we?’
He stopped in his tracks, turned, came back over and kissed my head.
‘Of course we’re okay, you nut. We’ll always be okay.’
He spun on his heel again and went back into the house, looking–as far as I could tell–like a man who was definitely not okay.
Mother’s Beach, take two. I had a choice. I could take two children under six on a tour of the cultural high spots of Los Angeles with the view to educating them in the fine arts and widening their intellectual spectrum, or we could doss back down at the beach, eat pretzels and play Frisbee until our arms fell off. No contest. My children’s inherent distaste for anything resembling learning, combined with the fact that driving on the wrong side of the road had already created near misses with four lampposts, three rollerbladers and a party of senior citizens made the beach a no-brainer. As we pulled back into the car park I marvelled at the number of people jogging past–hundreds of them. They were like locusts, although of course, this being LA, they were locusts in designer headbands and lip-gloss. Including the blokes. Joggers had always had a detrimental effect on my mental stability. At home there were a few who regularly trotted up and down our street and every time they passed I had an overwhelming urge to throw things in their general direction. However, there’s one thing that’s even worse than people who jog and that’s couples who jog. Barbie and Ken lookalikes in matching Lycra, all healthy complexions and smug smiles. If I ever build a gun turret on my roof you’ll know why.