In the Blood

by Ruth Mancini

  ‘Something funny?’ Alex smiles. He puts down his fork.

  ‘Oh,’ I laugh. ‘No. No, not at all. I was just... just wondering what it would be like to eat out like this all the time.’

  ‘You’d like to?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ I smile. ‘That wasn’t a hint,’ I add, hastily.

  Alex wipes his mouth and folds his napkin, placing it on the table in front of him. ‘If I’m honest,’ he says, ‘it was just as nice eating hard-boiled eggs and olives out of Tupperware pots with you last Saturday, lying on a blanket in the shade of a sycamore tree.’

  I’m secretly touched that he might feel this way, and hope suddenly that he doesn’t think that being wined and dined is what I expect from him. ‘I agree. Who needs fancy meals?’ I ask, and then jokingly grab the edges of my plate. ‘Although, I’ll fight the person who tries to take this sea bass away from me.’

  Alex looks at me seriously for a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet mine and watching my face. I was only making a throwaway comment – a joke – but it appears as though I’ve somehow said something that matters, that’s caused him pain. I think back to my jokes with Will about his earnings and hope that I haven’t touched a nerve this time. Maybe that’s why Alex doesn’t want to talk about his job? Maybe, like Will, he doesn’t earn as much money as people might think. Maybe his work is tough, commission-based, insecure; after all, the economic outlook is pretty uncertain at the moment. Maybe he’s worried about his financial future and is checking me out to see how much all of this matters to me? I hope he doesn’t think that I’m one of those women who is looking for a rich husband, someone who’s ready to dump him as soon as his true prospects are revealed.

  ‘I mean, it doesn’t matter, does it?’ I add, hastily. ‘You’re right. This is very nice, but... I agree. A picnic in the park is just as special. Money can’t buy you happiness, after all.’

  Alex smiles back at me, suddenly, as if he’s only just become aware that he’s frowning. ‘Money can buy happiness,’ he says. ‘At least, to the extent that you have a roof over your head and enough to eat, and that you don’t have to work for someone you dislike or lie awake at night worrying about how to pay the bills. But once you have a certain level of financial security, I don’t think that having any extra after that is... well, it’s not going to make you any happier.’

  ‘So, you don’t long to drive a Ferrari and retire at fifty?’ I smile. My experience is that most men want exactly that: wealth and status in some form or another. Andy was always talking about how much he was going to earn and what he was going to own one day.

  Alex gives me a long hard look. ‘No, not really. Those things don’t matter, at least, not for long. We always want more. It’s human nature. As soon as we get something, it’s no longer enough, or at least that’s how it can be if we don’t pay attention to where happiness really comes from.’

  ‘Within?’ I smile.

  ‘Actually, no. Research has shown that it’s our social connections and the experiences we have together that are most important. Friendship, basically, is what makes us happy.’

  I consider this. ‘OK. So... what about hearing an amazing piece of music, reading an inspiring book, or... or fulfilling your creative aspirations?’

  ‘Well, yes. But again, they’re all free,’ says Alex. ‘More or less. You don’t need to buy a lottery ticket to do any of that.’

  ‘Except that you need the time,’ I say. ‘To study, create something or pursue your dreams. And time is money, after all. Or, at least, money buys you time.’

  ‘Maybe. But then again, the harder time you have achieving what you want, the better it feels when you get it, isn’t that right? You fly to the top of a mountain in a helicopter and the view is amazing, but you won’t get that same feeling that you’ll get when you’ve spent a month of sweat, blood and tears climbing up there from the ground. The greater the well of your misfortune, the deeper your capacity for happiness – I think that’s how it goes. Look at what you’ve been through with Ben. You must have experienced some real lows.’

  I smile. ‘Just a few. Are you going to tell me that my reward will be in heaven?’

  ‘Lord no.’ Alex grins and takes my hand across the table. ‘A little sooner than that, I’d say.’

  *

  We walk to a nightclub on Great Queen Street, just off Drury Lane. I feel alive, as though I’m walking on air – as though I’m twenty again – as we stroll along the pavement, hand in hand, past the bars and restaurants and the people who are spilling out onto the streets, chatting and laughing and blowing clouds of cigarette smoke into the summer evening air. When we reach the club, Alex nods to the doorman and guides me in, past the cloakroom and down a flight of steps into a basement where music is blasting from the speakers. While Alex goes to the bar, I stand in the darkness, mesmerised by the silhouettes of the dancers and the coloured lights that are flickering across the ceiling. Alex comes back a moment later with a bottle of beer in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other, which he hands to me before circling my waist with his arm and pulling me to him and pressing his cheek against mine. I can smell his aftershave, and it’s delicious.

  ‘It’s not Strictly Ballroom,’ he says, his mouth pressed up against my ear. ‘But I think you’ll like it.’

  As if on cue, there is a burst of piano and bass-heavy Motown with a rhythm that makes it impossible not to swing my hips to the beat. Alex smiles and takes my hand and leads me onto the dance floor.

  We spend the next two hours dancing; we just can’t stop. The music is amazing and bounces back and forth through the decades from the sixties through to the present day. Every time I think that I’ll sit the next one out and have a rest, another song comes on that makes me want to get right back onto the dance floor again. Alex leaves me only to fetch us bottles of water from the bar, and we fall into each new rock, funk or disco rhythm with a delighted smile, Alex periodically leaning forward to grab my hand, twist me round or mouth something to me over the music.

  ‘I knew you’d be a great dancer,’ he says, pressing his mouth up against my ear.

  Occasionally I pull my phone out of my bag and peer at the latest text message from Anna, but there’s never any cause for concern. Her periodic updates say simply, Ben’s still watching the Teletubbies. Tim’s asleep X; Tim now watching the Teletubbies, Ben’s asleep X; All good, both boys fast asleep; and Hope you’re having a fantastic time, all good here, don’t rush back X.

  We tiptoe in at half past two in the morning. Tim is on his back on the sofa, snoring softly, and Anna’s curled up on my bed, clutching a pillow, Ben’s monitor next to her head and her long legs tucked up neatly underneath her.

  ‘Don’t wake them,’ Alex whispers. ‘It’s fine. Forget the cup of tea. I’ll just head home.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I should have thought this through... now you have to drive all the way back.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Alex puts his finger to his lips as Tim turns over in his sleep, his arm now hanging off the sofa and trailing the floor. He lifts it up and scratches his nose, but he doesn’t wake.

  Alex leads me gently back out into the hallway and puts his arms round me.

  ‘I’ve had such a great time,’ I tell him.

  ‘Me too,’ he says. ‘The best time. I’ll call you tomorrow, OK? We can make a plan for next week?’

  ‘OK.’ I stand on my toes and put my hands behind his neck.

  Alex kisses me, gently at first, but then his whole body weight is pressing up against me and we fall back against the wall.

  ‘I want you to stay,’ I whisper.

  ‘I want to stay,’ he says, and laughs. ‘But there’s someone in your bed.’

  ‘Next time,’ I say.

  ‘Next time,’ he repeats and kisses me again. ‘Definitely next time.’

  When he’s gone, I climb into bed next to Anna, pull the duvet over me and lie in the dark awhile, too wired for sleep. Instead, I close my eyes
and replay the evening, like a movie soundtrack in the darkness. I recall the easy, interesting conversation over dinner, the flashing lights and music in the club. I feel Alex take my hand, our bodies connecting, and then intertwining, the heat of the club making us hot and sticky as we move against each other.

  And then I picture him as he locks his car and walks up the path to my house, his shirt open at the neck and his hair tousled from dancing. I remember the feeling of electric anticipation (would he stay or would he go?) and my heart flutters in my chest as I recall the way he’d held me, and the passion with which he’d kissed me in the hallway and pushed me up against the wall.

  And because I don’t want the evening to end, I then rewind right back to the restaurant, when Alex had taken my hand across the table top and looked into my eyes. The greater the well of your misfortune, the deeper your capacity for happiness – I think that’s how it goes. I think about the very deep ‘well’ of my unhappiness before I met him, the endless nights I’d lain here feeling desperately tired and lonely, as compared with the overflowing elation and overwhelming joy I’m feeling right now. I think about this until I’m ready to fall asleep. I think that it might be the truest thing I’ve ever known.

  10

  As Ben’s first day at the Samuel Watson School approaches, I’m so anxious that I book the day off work. I’m fully expecting a call from the headteacher before lunchtime to say that he’s using up too much in the way of staff resources, that he’ll have to come home, that we’ll have to explore other options for him; I daren’t risk being in court when that happens. I sit in the kitchen with my laptop, drinking coffee and searching on the internet for nursing agencies, glancing intermittently at my phone to check if I’ve lost my signal or missed a call.

  When I’ve heard nothing by mid-morning – and ensuring that I’ve got the ‘call interrupt’ box ticked in my phone settings – I telephone the numbers for the agencies that Tim has given me, followed by a few more that I’ve found for myself. As I expected, no one can tell me if there’s a Mary Ngombe on their books, nor does anyone particularly care why it is that I want to know. One of the agency employees suggests, rather condescendingly, that I need to go through the police and ask them to carry out these enquiries instead. I thank her, but I know from experience that the police won’t take the search for the nurse any further than they already have.

  By twelve o’clock, I’m convinced I’ve written my phone number down wrong on the school registration form. The image in my head of Ben, crying loudly and biting his hand as a small crowd of teaching staff looks on helplessly, is too powerful for me to bear. The school receptionist is kind when I call and immediately puts me through to the classroom, where, to my relief, Ben’s teacher, Jennie, answers.

  I apologise for being a neurotic parent.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Jennie tells me, in a reassuring voice. ‘I’m glad you phoned. Ben’s doing just fine.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief and sit back down at the kitchen table. ‘Really? He is?’

  ‘Really. He loves the whiteboard we use and he’s got a bit of an aptitude for the computer, it seems. He’s on there right now with Tracey, one of the teaching assistants. He’s using ChooseIt! Maker.’

  ‘Really? What’s ChooseIt! Maker?’

  ‘It’s an inclusive technology programme. There’s a lot you can do with it, but right now Ben’s finding the odd one out from three pictures. And he’s getting a lot of the answers right!’

  The relief I feel is immense. As always, this simple act of kindness, the trouble this stranger has taken out of her busy day to try and help me feel better, makes my eyes well with tears. But to hear that the teachers have already discovered my little boy’s strengths and are working on them, that Ben is actually learning something, as opposed to screaming the place down, is like another winning scratch card in my hand.

  ‘I’ve taken the day off work,’ I say, laughing through my tears. ‘I thought you’d have excluded him by lunchtime.’

  ‘Good lord. We wouldn’t do anything of the sort,’ Jennie says. ‘We deal with all sorts of behaviour here and we’re well staffed. Ben is going to be just fine with us. So go and enjoy your day off and, really, there’s no need to worry.’

  *

  Just over an hour later, I’m standing in Ellie’s kitchen while she makes me a cup of tea. She picks up her phone from the worktop as it bleeps. ‘She’ll be here in a minute.’ She hands me a mug and nods towards the living room.

  ‘You can’t stay,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll need to talk to her in private. Can you go out for a bit? Do some shopping?’

  Ellie looks doubtful. ‘I don’t know if she’ll talk to you without me here,’ she says. ‘She doesn’t really trust people in authority.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say. ‘But I’m not allowed to talk to her while you’re present, sorry.’

  ‘Who would know?’ she asks.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘So I’m not allowed to know what she says?’

  ‘Of course you are, after she’s said it. But if you’re both in the same room when she’s talking, you could influence each other. You could be accused of helping each other to get your stories straight. I’ll handle Marie, don’t worry.’

  ‘Famous last words,’ Ellie mutters, as the doorbell rings and she walks out to answer it. I hear the front door open and then Marie’s voice drifts into the hallway.

  ‘I haven’t got long,’ I hear her say. ‘Darren’s on his way round. He says he’s sorry. He wants to talk. I told him if he’s gonna start chattin’ shit again, he’s gonna be... what?’

  I hear Ellie say something and Marie’s head appears from behind the living-room door and stares at me.

  ‘Oh. You. I remember you.’

  ‘Hi, Marie,’ I say, and give her a little wave.

  Marie steps into the room and Ellie appears behind her. She mouths something at me from behind Marie, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

  ‘I was wondering if I could talk to you,’ I say. ‘About Ellie’s case.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Marie puts her hands up. ‘I’m not getting involved in no court case.’ She turns to Ellie and says, ‘Sorry, babe. I told you, I’ll help you out in any way I can, but I ain’t touching nothing that involves the law. I’ve got enough of my own shit going down.’

  ‘Come and sit down, Marie,’ I say. ‘Let’s just have an off-record chat. I’m not going to write down anything you say or ask you to sign anything.’

  Marie remains standing in the doorway. Her phone bleeps suddenly and, while she wriggles her hips abundantly in an attempt to fish it out of her jeans pocket, I mouth, ‘Go,’ to Ellie, and give her a quick wave of the hand. Ellie looks back and forth at me and then at Marie uncertainly for a moment, but Marie is too busy yelling into her phone to notice, and so after a moment’s hesitation she nods, and backs out down the hallway. I hear the front door close.

  ‘If you ain’t even going to say you’re sorry for what you done, you can forget it,’ Marie is saying, emphatically. ‘I don’t wanna know. In fact, why don’t you do us both a favour and go down Denmark Hill instead and get yourself an STI test? Because if you think you’re the only one that bitch has fucked in the past seven days, you’re more stupid than I thought.’

  With that she ends the call. In spite of her bravado and strong language, I can see that she’s shaking. She looks at me for a moment, and then says, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a fag?’

  I shake my head. ‘Sorry. I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Fuck. I’m gagging for one, and I’ve got no money. Bloody bank machine’s swallowed up my card.’ She looks round. ‘Where’s El gone?’

  ‘She had to pop out. Come on.’ I stand up. ‘I’ve got some money. Where’s the nearest newsagent?’

  Marie looks at me and narrows her eyes. ‘You’ll buy me some fags?’

  I shrug and pick up my bag. ‘I used to smoke, once. When you need a fag, you need a fag. And, believe me, I can still remember how
much I needed one when I found out that my boyfriend of three years had been cheating on me.’

  Marie stares at me for a moment. ‘Come on, then,’ she says.

  She follows me down the hallway and out onto the balcony. I pull Ellie’s front door shut behind us and hope that she has her key. We walk down the steps, which smell of urine, and out into the heat of the afternoon. The sun beats down on us relentlessly as we zigzag through the concrete alleys of the estate and out onto a playing field.

  ‘So, why did your boyfriend cheat on you?’ Marie asks, as we cross the expanse of grass towards a small, wire-fenced play area. ‘I mean, in your case, obviously it’s not because you’re fat and ugly.’

  I glance up at her. ‘That’s not why Darren cheated on you.’

  ‘You don’t think?’ Marie’s voice is loaded with sarcasm, but I don’t let that put me off.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘He did it because of him.’ Marie gives me a look which tells me that she is curious as to what I mean by that, but doesn’t trust me. ‘Do you think you’re the only woman he’s ever cheated on?’ I persist.

  Marie thinks about this for a moment. ‘He cheated on his last girlfriend. He told me. That’s why she kicked him out.’

  ‘So there you go. And, of course, this woman...’

  ‘Tanya.’

  ‘Tanya was there. He liked the idea of sex with someone new, and she was willing to have it with him.’