“I thought you wanted to suffer,” said Harry. “I thought that’s why we were out here.”
“I just wanted you to see the view.” Syed took one last look at the London skyline. “The City. Cause of jubilation and despair.”
The only thing, thought Harry, over which I have any control at all.
• • •
Most of the time, Kim managed to forget that she and Jake worked for the same organization. He, after all, was based in the head office in Vauxhall—and busy in the Palace of Westminster—while she trailed around the regions, causing distress in Bristol, Leeds, Birmingham, and Cardiff. Even if she was called in for a meeting with the CEO, she was unlikely to bump into him. Jake was always out. He was that kind of person. Too busy to sit at a desk.
Rhodri hadn’t been promoted to head of research, but he seemed remarkably unconcerned. “It wasn’t my time, was it?” he said. “That’s what I always think. Sometimes you’re lucky. Sometimes you’re not.”
“When did you become so wise?”
“I don’t know if it’s wise. It’s just the way it is.”
“So what will you do?”
“Well, I can’t carry on working for nothing. Which is all that’s on offer here—another internship. So I’ll have to look for something else.”
Kim, now part of the management team, was shamed into silence.
Back in her office—having slipped through the fire exit and up the concrete stairs to avoid walking past Zofia’s desk—Kim checked her phone, plowed her way through the outstanding emails, and sorted her desk into some semblance of order. She didn’t like leaving things in a mess when she was away—it looked so unprofessional—and she was due back in Bristol in the morning. Her heart was heavy at the thought. Her restructuring plan had boiled down to slashing the hours of part-time employees who needed the work (paying them less) and increasing the hours of full-time employees who already had too much to do (paying them the same). And tomorrow, she thought, I have to make two people redundant. Tony and Catherine. Who both have families. And mortgages. Bills they can’t pay and credit cards stretched to the limit.
You should never make people redundant on Fridays, in case they’re going back to an empty flat and end up alone and suicidal. But you do it all the time. So you don’t have to witness the fallout. So the workforce doesn’t get upset.
Oh, thought Kim, suddenly desolate. I always used to comfort myself that I was the best person for the job. I followed the rules. I handled the process properly to minimize pain and shock. Now I’m not so sure. Now I hide behind words like consolidation and staff surplus.
She looked up. There in the doorway was Jake.
“So,” he said, as if they’d seen each other a few minutes before and were resuming the conversation, “you’re off home, are you?”
How strange to see him standing there, she thought, the man I lived with for three years. I know the feel of your hair, the smell of your skin, the blotchy rash on your neck after sex. I know the way you sleep, kicking out at imaginary chihuahuas. I know the sound you make drinking tea. I know, if we were in a room full of people, that you would be furtively assessing who’s who, ranking importance, reviewing worth. Constantly checking your phone. Texting when you think no one’s looking. Working on those clever put-downs disguised as compliments. Impatience repackaged as charm.
You stand there clothed, with your thick thighs in your baggy chinos, but I see you naked.
He smiled. “Drink?”
Brutal verbal editing, she thought. He must be spending too much time on Twitter. “No thanks. I need to get back.”
Jake leant against the door frame. It looked like a casual move. But it’s never casual with Jake, thought Kim. He’s blocking my exit.
“Shame. I wanted to catch up.” A look of concern. “Ask about Eva.”
It felt to Kim as if he’d grabbed her round the throat, squeezing hard.
“I was talking to Rhodri. Tragic news. It must be so hard for you and your mother.”
I find illness so draining, of course.
“Particularly hard that she’s so young.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it? Her whole life ahead of her. And a small child, too.”
“It’s all fine. The treatment’s going really well. We’re all looking forward to Christmas.”
“You can’t help thinking, Why? Why has this happened? Why her?” Jake sighed. “On a happier note, I wanted to offer my congratulations.”
Kim stared. “On what?”
“On the excellent job you’re doing in Bristol. I was chatting to Lulu”—it took Kim a moment to realize he was talking about the CEO, who, as far as she knew, only ever used the name Louisa—“and she told me you’d cut back all the dead wood. In record time. Textbook right-sizing. Managing reduction. Ramping down resources. Of course, I don’t want to take all the credit. That wouldn’t be fair. You’ve worked hard.” He smiled. “But since you learned so much from me, I think I have just a small understanding of how George Osborne’s maths teacher must feel.”
The silence grew just long enough to become awkward.
Jake glanced down at his phone and raised his eyebrows. Kim could see his mind moving off to great and important events involving influential people she didn’t know and would never meet. “Well,” he said, making an effort, but obviously itching to be elsewhere, “I’ll leave you to your evening. Perhaps next time you’re in London, we can try to organize things a bit better. I know Zofia would love to see you.” Staring at his phone, not even looking at her, he raised his hand in a general gesture of farewell. “Ciao.”
The doorway was suddenly empty.
Kim stayed quite still until she was sure it was safe enough to breathe.
2012
It’s like he wants to pretend it’s not happening.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Kim couldn’t think where to start. “It’s not real.”
“I’m not sure,” said Grace, on the other end of the phone from the South of France, “that dinner at Le Caprice is any less real than the inside of a cancer ward.”
Kim was so angry she thought she might explode. Eva had been through months of grueling treatment. She was tired. Her body was battered and bruised. She didn’t need Marilyn Monroe at the National Portrait Gallery, Jane Birkin at the Barbican. She didn’t need ice-cream sundaes at Fortnum & Mason, afternoon tea at the Ritz, an outing to Regent’s Park zoo. Rushing from Harrods to Buckingham Palace to the London Eye. Gallivanting round London like a tourist. It had been going on for weeks. And it was completely unnecessary. Superficial frippery. What was Harry playing at?
What Eva needed was rest. Time to recover. Sleep.
Damaris said, I think he’s just trying to cheer her up.
She doesn’t need cheering up, Kim said. She needs to concentrate on getting better.
Damaris looked as if she was about to say something and then stopped. They’re all on his side, thought Kim. They’ve all been completely taken in. They’re charmed when Harry zooms up in his Porsche, grinning like an idiot, throwing money around, offering yet another stupid surprise. Eva’s not a child. She’s a grown woman who needs to concentrate on her health.
Sometimes, looking at Harry, Kim wondered if he realized quite how ill Eva had been.
And my mother’s no better. Kim imagined Grace drifting round the ancient splendor of the villa in Nice, looking out onto the formal gardens, the swimming pool, the lemon and olive trees. It’s easy to ignore reality, she thought, gripping the phone, if you’re never required to face it. So far, throughout Eva’s months of chemo and radiotherapy, Grace had visited London only once. People like me find illness depressing. We’re so sensitive. Kim said, “And now he wants to take her to Monterey.”
“To where?”
“Monterey. Near San Francisco.”
Grace sounded puzzled. “Why would he want to do that?”
“The music festival in 1967. Otis Redding. The Mamas an
d the Papas.”
“Oh,” said Grace, sounding vague, “her hippie phase.”
The night before, Eva had talked again about going to Black Bear Ranch, north of San Francisco. In the spring of 1968, a group of hippies had set up a community in an abandoned gold mine at the end of nine miles of dirt track. A remote canyon, with eighty acres of forest, orchards, creeks, and meadows, it was an idyllic setting for a whole new way of life. But it was hard going. None of them knew how to chop wood or cook. They were surrounded by black bears, cougars, and lynx. That first winter, there was four feet of snow.
“But the community survived,” said Eva. “And over the years, people have come and gone. Children were born there. Families grew up there. There’s a whole gathering every year to celebrate the summer solstice. They welcome visitors. I’d love to go and see it.”
A brave new world on the surface, thought Kim. But from what I’ve heard, it wasn’t all flowers and butterflies. Free love. Happy drug trips. Communal possessions. But also sexual jealousy, petty arguments, and disillusionment. Most people gave up and went back to the city. But Kim didn’t say any of this. Over Eva’s shoulder, she had admired the website, looked at pictures of the ranch, and read Peter Coyote’s Free-Fall Chronicles. She wanted her sister to be happy.
But she was still dead set against a trip to the States. Eva’s oncologist had said it was OK. But Kim knew it was too risky. What if there was a medical emergency?
“It’s too far,” said Kim to her mother. “She’ll be exhausted.”
“But Harry will go with her, won’t he?”
As if that’s going to help, with his insistence on constant activity. “I don’t think it’s sensible. She’s been very ill.”
“I think,” said Grace, “that it’s up to her.”
Kim made one last attempt to yank the conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. “She should be recuperating. Building up her strength.” She took a deep breath. “Convalescing somewhere warm.”
“As should we all,” said Grace. “I’ve never known a spring this cold. It may be the South of France, but I’m sitting here in this drafty old villa in layers of cashmere. Shivering. Wondering if the sun will ever shine again.”
• • •
“I’ve done something bad.”
“No you haven’t.”
“I have. Really bad. Really, really, really bad.”
Kim shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true.” But Damaris didn’t look distressed. She looked, if anything, excited. Unwinding a purple scarf from round her neck, she dropped her coat and bag on the floor in a heap. Kim was astonished. Damaris was normally so careful about neatness and order.
“So what is it?”
“Tea,” said Damaris. “I need a cup of tea.”
It was a Sunday morning in late March. They were in Izzie’s flat in Sydenham. Kim felt guilty that she was still living there. There was only one bedroom, so whenever Izzie was in London, Kim had to sleep on a blow-up mattress in the living room. But it wasn’t just the practical difficulties. Years ago, Kim had abandoned Izzie in New Cross. Because she herself found it hard to forgive anybody for anything, Kim felt Izzie should still be bearing a grudge. She should have said, Sorry, Kim, this is my flat so you can bugger off. But she hadn’t. She’d said, Stay as long as you like. It’s fine. I’m often away anyway. You’re doing me a favor. Keeping the flat occupied so I don’t get burgled. Which was, of course, rubbish. But extremely kind.
Kim liked Sydenham. It was so high up. Sometimes you came across a view over London that made you catch your breath with surprise.
This weekend, Izzie was in Manchester. She said she didn’t mind being away from London. But she had developed a deep-seated hatred of trains.
“Why?” Kim had said, expecting Izzie to talk about rude station staff, dirt, and delays.
“They’re so boring,” said Izzie. “Either going straight there, or coming straight back.”
Damaris—sitting at the kitchen table in Izzie’s flat, watching as Kim filled the kettle—was working at Accident & Emergency in King’s College Hospital in Camberwell. Kim had been surprised at her choice of specialism. Medical emergencies, from what she’d seen on TV, were all about panic and snap decisions. Surely Damaris, with her love of detailed and thorough analysis, should have gone for something more sedate, like research? No, Damaris said, you don’t understand. It’s like being Sherlock Holmes. Not the accidents, obviously, or the heart attacks. You just deal with them quickly as possible and get the patients admitted. But the weird, random symptoms that come on so suddenly that people call an ambulance—you have to stay calm and think. It might be nothing. Or it might be life-threatening. Analysis is crucial.
I wish her hours weren’t so long, though, thought Kim, reaching up for the bright blue teapot. Whenever I get worried about Eva, Damaris explains what’s going on. All through her treatment, Damaris has found the words that help me understand. I don’t get that panic that rises up whenever I take Eva to hospital. Panic makes you deaf. All you can hear is the pressure in your ears.
“So go on, then,” said Kim, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “What have you done that’s so terrible?”
Damaris took a deep breath. “Jake came into A&E.”
Kim’s heart missed a beat. “Did he?” she said, trying to sound casual.
“He didn’t recognize me,” said Damaris. “At all.”
Kim thought back. How many times had they met? There was the disastrous supper in Eva’s flat when Otis was a few months old. And they’d sat side by side in the audience for Izzie’s first big stand-up in Deptford. Kim also had a vague recollection of a group outing to see Shutter Island in the cinema because Damaris loved Leonardo DiCaprio. But she couldn’t remember their ever actually talking to each other. Jake had tended to hold himself aloof from all her friends because, she suspected, he found them young and boring. Which I suppose, thought Kim miserably, we are.
“So I walked into the cubicle, and there he was, sitting there, looking all tragic. I was smiling, because I thought he was going to say, Oh hello, Damaris. And feeling a bit embarrassed, because it’s awkward bumping into your friend’s ex, especially when he’s been a complete prick and dumped her in the cruelest way possible, so that you hate him and think you might make an effigy out of plaster of Paris and stick pins in it. But you know you’ve got to be grown-up about it all. So you’re all ready to look pleasant and say, in a mature and professional way, Hello, Jake, how can I help? Do you want to talk to me, or would you prefer a doctor you don’t know? But he just looks at me like he’s never seen me before. Like I’m nothing. And I think, You bastard. All those times we met, I was so beneath your radar that you didn’t even see me. And I start feeling really angry. So the smile disappears, and I sit down at the computer and look up the notes they took in triage. And it says he’s come because he’s got a bit of pain in his thumbs. Which is so incredibly irritating, because it’s clearly something he should take to his GP, not clog up emergency appointments on a Saturday night in the middle of inner London. But I don’t say any of this, obviously. I nod and ask all the usual questions, and check the range of movement and ask when it started, and what makes it hurt, and it doesn’t take long to work out what’s happening. He spends all day on his phone. It’s some kind of repetitive strain injury. OK, I understand he’s concerned. He’s someone who thinks the world will come to an end if he’s not texting. Normally I’d be sympathetic and explain that it’s not an acute injury so he needs to go to his normal doctor and let us be. But I’m tired. It’s been a long night. He behaved like a bastard to you. And he’s still looking at me like he’s never seen me before. Not a glimmer of recognition. So something snaps. It’s never happened before. It’s like someone else is doing the talking—some other Damaris from an alternative universe. I say, I’m really sorry, it’s not good news. He looks taken aback. He wasn’t expecting this. Why would he? He’s only come in with
a pain in his thumbs. I say, This is a very rare symptom. I’ve only seen it a few times before. It’s an STI. A what? he says. A symptom, I say, of a sexually transmitted infection. Do you have a lot of sexual partners? A generally promiscuous lifestyle? He just sits there, looking as if I’ve thrown a bucket of cold water over him. And then I laugh. I’m just joking, I say. He carries on staring, his face white. I pretend to be puzzled. You’ve just been texting too much. Put the phone down for a couple of days and it’ll probably get better by itself. He carries on staring. I lean forwards. I’m so sorry, I say. You do recognize me, don’t you, Jake? Damaris. Kim’s friend. It was just a joke. I apologize. And suddenly his face is bright red, and he says, Damaris! Yes, of course. Yes. And he gives a little strangled laugh. Yes, of course I recognize you! And I say, Go and see your GP on Monday. But I don’t think it’s serious. Nothing a bit of a break from instant messaging can’t cure. And I carry on smiling, and he gets up from the chair and turns round and somehow trips and falls through the curtain. Straight into a walking frame that someone’s left outside. So I help him up from the floor, and he’s saying, Oh sorry, sorry, and coming out with that same strangled laugh. And then he says, And how’s Kim? Never see her these days. And I say, She’s having an affair with Leonardo DiCaprio. Spends most of her time in LA. But I’m sure she could fit you in somehow if you got in touch. And then I wag my finger at him and say, But don’t do it by text. Or those thumbs will never get better! And he’s in such a hurry to leave that he walks into an instrument trolley and there’s a huge crash. And then he’s gone.”
Kim, who had been staring at Damaris openmouthed during the whole long tirade, found her voice.
“Can you tell me all that again, please?” she said. “From the very beginning?”
• • •
The club, in Soho, was in the cellar of a pub. It smelt of beer, cold brickwork, and damp. From time to time you could hear the distant rumble of trains on the Northern Line way down below. There weren’t enough chairs, so people were standing against the walls all the way round, like a decorative Greek frieze. It was dark except for the spotlights. Billy Swan’s “I Can Help” was playing.
Don't Get Me Wrong Page 18