by A. L. Bird
God knows, maybe it’s a marketing ploy. Or a wrong address or something. It doesn’t mean it’s the end of our world. Or that I can use it as an excuse to cancel the date. Dan texted earlier to check we were still on – ‘Hey, looking forward to tonight. Still good for you? D x.’ I refuse to analyse the one kiss. But I can’t now text and say, ‘Hey, my son received a free spaceship (Lego, hah hah) a while back and now I’m freaking out, so now we can’t go out for dinner.’ Well, I could, but I won’t get a third chance for this date. I know that.
Besides, when we’re home, Louise is on the doorstep.
Her face falls a little when she sees Josh. I bridle. What’s not to love about my son?
But then she gestures to the spaceship he is holding.
‘I see you’ve already got one,’ she says. She fumbles in her bag. Then she pulls out the exact same model. It’s still in its box. ‘I thought you might appreciate a sort of first-date present,’ she tells Josh. Looking at me, she says, ‘What a coincidence, hey, him already having this one? Great minds, and all that!’
Too much of a coincidence. It is against all my better judgement that I open up the door and invite her in.
Chapter 15
Josh sits with his legs flung over the side of the armchair, his head leaning against the cushioned back. In one hand is his book. In the other is his new Lego spaceship. The old spaceship rests beside him.
Louise sits on the sofa drinking a cup of tea. The TV is quietly playing a documentary about canals.
She has been here ten minutes. They could have known each other for years. They could be mother and son.
I’d allowed an hour for the handover. But I’m beginning to feel like a spare part.
‘I’ll go and get ready then, shall I?’ I ask, from the doorway.
No response from Josh.
I look at Louise. She nods through a mouthful of tea.
Fine.
I leave the room, go to the bedroom. Leave the door slightly ajar.
How is Josh so self-assured? He just carries on being himself, despite this new audience.
Maybe because nothing rides on it. The child minder likes him; the child minder doesn’t like him. Big deal. I still come home. Whereas for me, when I was his age, it went to whether I had a home at all. If I didn’t impress the foster family, I could be sent away again. No problem, Mr and Mrs X. Thank you for trying. Yes, she’s a handful; I quite understand. Yes, she talks too much/too little/with the wrong accent for your other kids.
Of course, that only happened once. Most foster carers are wonderful people.
So wonderful that they won’t fucking adopt you. They have to put their own lives, the lives of their real children, first, you understand. Yeah, ’course I understand. Now, years later. Tossers, Chloe would have said. Maybe she’d have been right.
I stand silently in the bedroom for ten, fifteen minutes. I concentrate on every noise. Water sloshing over canal locks on the TV. Is that the rustle of a page turning? The zoom of a spaceship shooting up into the air?
Well, it’s not the sound of anyone being murdered or kidnapped.
I’m becoming ridiculous.
I head into the shower and let the steam fill my brain. I am a woman going on a date, I am a woman going on a date, I am a woman going on a date. I can be sexy if I like. I can relax. Prepare, get in the zone – make this work. Put Josh, put everything, on pause. Just for an evening.
I get out of the bathroom, listen for a few moments (slosh, rustle, zoom – phew), then put on my date costume. Is the cleavage too much? What will Josh think? Maybe if I change my bra, or wear a scarf it will – oh stop. Josh will be glad his mum looks gorgeous. If he even looks up.
Make-up now. Then we start to get somewhere. I still remember the dark kohl eyeliner Chloe used to wear, when she’d managed to nick some. She’d be sitting there, in front of the mirror, in that beautiful jade silk (polyester) kimono that Mick made her wear, afterwards. I close my eyes, witnessing it all again. Such other lives we lead when we’re young.
For me, now, it’s a precision liquid liner. Posh-cheap from Boots. And some silver shiny eye shadow. These little boxes with all their different colours still provide such promise – reinvention before your very eyes. But would anyone apart from me really notice if I slipped from silver to green? Perhaps if I saw my mum again. Though if the first thing she noticed was my eye make-up colouring, there’d be words.
Unless she was just noticing my eyes weren’t rimmed with red, or force-coloured black. Then I’d understand.
But it’s unlikely to come up. It can’t come up. For Josh’s sake.
God, it’s mad this.
Anyway, focus. Eyes, lips, brows, cheeks. Jewellery. Hair. The bob is lacking oomph today. If I don’t visit the hairdresser’s soon, it’ll be back in a ponytail again. I pull out some styling mousse from my dresser.
Is Dan making this much fucking effort? Or will he run straight from court, only just remembering to take his barrister’s wig off?
Not that it’s really about Dan.
I lean into the mirror.
Nice, Jen. Actually. Nice.
I look like someone’s date.
Before I can flit back to those dawn memories of my last ‘date’, I leave the bedroom.
‘Ta-da!’ I say, stupidly, to Louise and Josh, as I enter the living room.
Louise looks me up and down. ‘You look lovely, pet,’ she says.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Josh, do I pass the test from a male point of view?’
What’s this? Am I flirting with my son, now? But he’s only ever seen me in my work uniform, or my weekend slobs. He must see a change.
He looks up from his book. His features go all soft, and he glows a bit. ‘You look lovely, Mum,’ he says. Then after a moment, ‘Dad would have been proud.’
It’s a lovely thought. Bless him for his total ignorance.
‘Thank you, sweetie.’
I cross over to his armchair, and give him a hug and a kiss. His eyes are full of tears, blinked quickly away. I should stop showing him the photo of his dad. You miss something less if you can’t picture it. He fiddles with the friendship bracelet round my wrist.
‘You be OK?’ I whisper, doing what I hope is a subtle half-nod towards the child minder. Behind me I hear Louise leave the sofa and walk to the kitchenette. Maybe not too subtle, then. But call it a child minder test – the woman has tact.
Josh nods. He balances my hand in his and sort of bounces my hand up and down. Sweet child that he is. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum. Have fun.’
‘Any issues, just give me a call, OK? I’ve got my mobile on.’
He lets go of my hand and takes up one of the spaceships again.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he tells me again.
Part of me wants to stay and never leave. The same part of me that worries if I say goodbye, I’ll be saying goodbye for ever.
I’ve done it before. Just not to him. And no one knew I was saying goodbye.
Fffff. Anyway. Date.
I give Josh a final (not final) kiss on the forehead, then go and find Louise in the kitchen.
‘So you’re sure it’s OK, looking after him?’ I ask.
‘You go out and enjoy yourself, love,’ she tells me. ‘We’ll be fine here.’
‘He should have a bath, really, as I said, and …’
She stops me, tapping the side of her head with her finger. ‘You’ve told me, and it’s all up here. Apart from your mobile number, which is on here.’ She pulls out her mobile phone and waves it at me. The phone case has a picture of puppies. Good for luring little boys away.
Urgh. I’m becoming a fruit loop. Out of the flat, now!
‘OK, guys, see you later!’ I trill.
And I’m out.
As I go down the stairs, I realize I forgot perfume. No wonder I don’t feel sexy yet. I turn to go back, then I turn round yet again.
No. I’m not g
iving you that excuse. Keep going. Leave your son, for one evening. Let him have a normal life. And subdue the inclination to hide your natural scent. Tonight, you can be yourself. As much as you ever can.
Chapter 16
‘I’m a bit early,’ I tell the woman at the front desk, when I arrive at the restaurant. ‘I’m not sure if my – the person I’m meeting – will be here yet.’
‘What name was it?’ she asks, looking at her reservation book.
‘Sutton,’ I say. ‘Oh, right – his name. Farley. Dan Farley.’
The woman runs a manicured fingernail down the booking sheet. She shakes her head. ‘What time was it for?’
‘For 7 p.m.,’ I say. Shit, has he not reserved? It’s an Italian in the centre of town on a Friday night. It’s filling up.
‘I’ve got a Farrow at 7 …’
‘Maybe that’s it, then,’ I say.
‘Or a Hardy at 7.30.’
‘Hardy?’ I ask.
My stomach knots.
‘Yes, do you think that’s it?’
That’s not why I’m asking.
‘What’s the first name?’ I ask.
She scrunches her face. ‘We’ve just got an initial. M.’
M. M for Mick. Mick Hardy.
‘No, that’s not possible.’
Then I realize I’ve said it out loud.
‘I mean, no, that’s not right; it can’t be us. You haven’t got any tables. I’m sorry I –’
I turn to leave and I walk straight into a man. I notice his scent before I notice him. It’s the same as Mick’s, it’s Mick, shit, shit!
‘Jen!’
It’s Dan.
It’s Dan.
Breathe.
‘Dan. Hey. There’s been a mess-up over the tables. We’ll have to go somewhere else.’
‘Nonsense.’ He walks to the front desk. I can see him drawing himself up. This must be Court Dan, preparing for a fight.
He runs his finger down the hostess’s bookings sheet. ‘There we are, look. Farley – how could you miss us?’ He turns to me. ‘Come on, Jen, we’re in.’
I want to tell him we should go somewhere else. That I don’t believe in coincidences. Even though I can’t be about to eat in the same place as Mick. For so many reasons.
But I choose the seat facing the door. I’d rather be shot in the front of the head than the back. Or, better still, have a chance to duck under the table if I see him before he sees me.
‘You look lovely,’ Dan tells me as he takes his seat opposite me.
‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ I tell him.
Oh, first-date platitudes. But it’s true. He does look good. He’s obviously changed – the court suit has gone. He’s wearing a red shirt with Liberty-print cuff and pocket detail. It looks expensive, new, like he made an effort. And his hair is slicked back, the glasses mysteriously absent. Evening Daniel. I like it.
He takes charge, ordering wine, recommending his favourite dishes. He doesn’t flirt with the waitress, but they both know he could, and that the waitress would like it. Perfect for first-date smugness.
The Prosecco arrives – because ‘Why not?’ says Dan – and we raise a glass to each other.
‘So,’ Dan says. ‘Let’s get all that first-date horror out on the table. Skeletons, baggage, secrets – I want to disclose it all.’
‘Great. Well, I’ll just put my phone on record, and away you go …’ I jokingly wave my iPhone and take advantage of the opportunity to sneak a glance at its screen. No missed calls from nannies. Good.
‘Hah, serves me right for such a dumb opening gambit. But look at me, I’m nervous, out on a date with Jen Sutton.’
‘Ah, a few nerves are fine – they keep you fresh.’
‘Oh, you’re a hard woman, Ms Sutton. I’ve still got to go first with a secret, then?’
‘What’s this “first” business? I’m just sitting here and you can tell me all yours, while I eat.’ He thinks I’m joking.
‘OK, OK, I get the message. Right. My first secret. Could be a new product for Fisher-Price, that, maybe.’
‘Ha, ha! Now get on with,’ I say. I give him a little wink as I sip the golden fizz.
‘OK, right, first secret. Um, so, I guess first secret is – I didn’t really pay for my first house.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, I kind of squatted. For maybe a year. When I was a law student.’
‘How did you get away with that? Why did you get away with that, even – didn’t you have some university accommodation or something?’
‘It was a bet. I was whingeing about the cost of the whole law route, and I think to shut me up one of my mates bet me we could live for free for a month. So I had to try it – a month became two, then three, and so on.’
‘But how did you get away with it?’
‘I think the owners were away and didn’t want to rent the place out. Not that I opened their post to check or anything. Criminal offence you know!’
‘And squatting isn’t?’
‘Well technically …’ He rolls his eyes at himself. ‘Spot the lawyer. Let’s not talk shop. I used a candle for light and a blanket for warmth. And the occasional girl.’ He shoots me a shy look. Yes, I understand, Dan. You’re a man of experience. I imagine the flickering candlelight, the naked bodies. The overeducated yet naïve young women drawn by the questionable glamour of a bohemian student statement, too posh to understand real homelessness.
But that’s not the sex that interests me most about his story (although, yes, Dan and sex do fit well together in my mind).
‘You make it sound so easy,’ I tell him. ‘Finding a squat, living in it.’
‘I was fricking terrified for most of it!’ he tells me. ‘I thought the police were there every time the floorboards creaked. Of course, I had my law student’s riot act ready to hand, but they wouldn’t have cared; they would have marched me off to the station while I was still clearing my throat!’
‘So why did you do it?’
‘Pride, stupidity, arrogance – all those good qualities I like to put out there on a first date. And some weirdo lefty sense of fighting the establishment. I guess I still have that.’
‘Maybe I should have tried it.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t as fun as it sounds.’
So I tell him my first secret. The only real secret I ever share with anyone. The other three I keep to myself. If you fob them off with one secret, you’re more likely to be able to keep the others hidden.
‘It sounds more fun than being homeless, like I was,’ I tell him.
He chokes on his bubbles. It’s the choking snort that comes with laughing into liquid. Maybe I got the tone wrong. It wasn’t a joke.
‘For real. I was homeless.’
‘What, when you were a student?’
You can see his eyes wanting that to be the response – he’s keeping them crinkled and merry at the side, twinkling within. Why’ve I brought the mood down? you can see him asking. Is there failure in my past? I’ll tell you one thing – I haven’t failed. But if he gets this, we get a connection. If I tell him something real he’ll believe in the person sitting opposite him.
‘No, not when I was a student. Or at least, not a university student. I didn’t go to university. It was when I was meant to be at school.’
There’s a silence. Eyes definitely no longer twinkling.
‘Christ, Jen, I didn’t know that about you.’
There’s no reason he should know it. It’s not something I like to advertise.
Dan recovers himself slightly ‘What happened?’ he asks. ‘Tell me!’
‘There’s too much to tell, Dan. I’ll give you the potted summary. Dad – mean bastard, beat my mum. Mum – wouldn’t tell police, police wouldn’t have cared anyway. Me – into a care home from ten years old. Care homes and fosterers – good enough to keep me safe(ish) but not enough to keep me happy. I don’t know, you have mo
re space on the streets, right?’
‘Jen, that’s awful. You had to sleep rough? A girl, that age, on the streets? I’m amazed you got through it. No, not amazed – you’re tough obviously. I’m pleased. Pleased you got through it.’
He’s reached across and taken my hand. I’m the victim here, you see.
Still, his hand feels nice. I’m not complaining.
I shrug. ‘Yeah, it sucks, right. But it wasn’t all the time, just some of the time. And I didn’t start doing that until I was fourteen, fifteen. When I realized I didn’t always have to have these other people’s walls around me.’
Dan nods like he understands. Yeah, right, I start thinking. But then I look into his eyes. Maybe he does sort of get it. There’s something there in his eyes – a depth that suggests the nods and murmurs are not mere platitudes.
‘The best part was the first couple of hours. You knew they weren’t looking for you yet, you’d had some food, you were clean, you didn’t have to worry about where to sleep, and it wasn’t dark. You were just free.’
More nodding from Dan. The waitress brings over some bread. I start to take my hand away, some sense of social etiquette. Dan keeps hold of me.
‘And the worst?’ he asks, gently.
I nod at the bread. ‘Well, that didn’t turn up by magic. I’ve rummaged my share of restaurant bins in my time. But the worst worst was 2 a.m. At 2 a.m., you were cold, probably hungry, and you certainly weren’t asleep because you probably weren’t alone. And you’re so fucking cold. I tell you, in the night, you’re tempted to snuggle up to anything to get warm but you’re terrified they’ll get closer than you want them to. I’d pull anything over me that I could find. Newspapers make a shit duvet but it’s better than nowt.’
Crap word choice – don’t get worked up; don’t get carried away. Keep speaking. Hope he doesn’t question it.
‘Than nothing. It’s better than nothing. And because you couldn’t sleep you were just hoping you’d keep alive and intact until morning. But then you knew in the morning people would walk past and stare at you. You’d have to try to find some washroom somewhere to have a surreptitious basin wash – you have to do it from day one or you start to smell and then everyone’s suspicious of you. You’d think you have endless time. But you don’t – everything is thinking, concealing, fighting.’