Unsuitable Men

by Pippa Wright

  Jim stood up, looking annoyed. He gestured towards the kitchen table and the spread of plates in front of Percy and Eleanor.

  ‘You haven’t eaten anything,’ he said, hands on his hips.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I said apologetically. Jim glowered at me as if he were a devoted housewife and I the ungrateful husband spurning the meal she had spent all day preparing.

  ‘You hardly had anything last night. You need to eat,’ Jim insisted. He picked up a banana from the fruit bowl and thrust it at me, almost angrily. ‘Take this.’

  I took it from his hand and muttered my thanks. I could feel Percy and Eleanor watching the exchange with interest. Everything between me and Jim seemed oddly charged with significance this morning; as if the banana was a symbol of great meaning instead of just a fruit. It was a little phallic, I thought. Perhaps they would have been less intrigued if he had offered me a satsuma or an apple instead.

  ‘I’ll call you as soon as there’s news,’ I promised, backing out of the kitchen towards the stairs, waving the banana. Upstairs I tucked it into my coat pocket, where I knew it would become bruised and black and inedible within hours. I’d find somewhere to get rid of it at the hospital.

  Outside I sat on the step where Martin had waited for me only yesterday. Now I waited for him, tucking my chin into my scarf even though the day was already warm. At the bottom of my handbag I found my sunglasses, unworn for months. The spring sunlight was far from bright, but putting my shades on darkened the square pleasantly, as if I was now under a protective shield. I propped my elbows on my knees and allowed my head to sink down into my hands. It was a relief to be alone, even if just for a moment. My face hidden, I didn’t have to pretend. Although I didn’t know how I would have coped without the support of everyone around me, there was a sense of obligation, a need to be visibly grateful and appreciative for everyone’s efforts, that weighed almost as heavily on me as the worry for Auntie Lyd. I was glad of this brief interlude in which I could just feel like crap without inspiring anyone to feel they must cheer me up.

  My rest was interrupted by the beeping of a horn. I looked up to see Martin’s car turning into the square. He’d bought it when he got promoted – a large new Audi estate which I’d taken, at the time, as a sign that he was beginning to think about a future that might involve marriage and children. It was a family car, after all. But then I discovered, thanks to a spreadsheet on his desktop, that he’d made the purchase purely because of the Audi’s excellent fuel economy. He loved this car, washing it and painstakingly waxing it every Sunday morning; I had often thought this weekly display of ritual devotion was almost his version of church. The fact Martin was here at all, instead of attending to his usual routine, was significant. I could see how hard he was trying. He pulled up outside Auntie Lyd’s house and wound down the window, leaning out with his elbow tucked over the door. He kept the engine running.

  ‘What are you doing outside?’ he shouted.

  ‘Waiting for you,’ I said, coming down the steps.

  I got into the passenger seat, dropping my handbag into the footwell.

  ‘How did you sleep?’ he asked. I looked at him: the hopeful expression, so anxious to please, so concerned with my approval. It was such a reversal of our usual dynamic that I almost wanted to laugh in his face. The stress and grief were obviously affecting me more than I knew.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Can we go?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  He clicked on the radio as we left Elgin Square, obviously realizing that I wasn’t up for much talking. I knew I should probably be more amenable; try to acknowledge my gratitude by making conversation. But as we drove, Martin sang along to Magic FM with a cheery enthusiasm that seemed to suggest he wasn’t offended. I glanced over at him and he smiled back; that indulgent grin again. It was odd to think of how many years I had spent modifying my behaviour to ensure I didn’t upset or annoy him – I’d anticipated his every need, believing this was what kept our relationship going – and here I was distracted, monosyllabic, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. It only seemed to make him more eager to please me. Perhaps I should have been like this all along.

  When we got to the cardiology unit Martin hovered solicitously at my elbow, ushering me towards the waiting room.

  ‘I’ll go to find a nurse,’ he said. ‘You wait here.’

  ‘No,’ I said, pulling my arm away. The thick, soupy air of the hospital felt stifling, recycled through the lungs of the unwell. ‘I know where she is. I’m going straight there. I hate that waiting room.’

  He looked surprised at my insistence, and agreed without demur, stroking my arm to pacify me. ‘Okay. Show me the way. Let’s go.’

  He started to follow me. I turned and put my hand on his chest, moving him to the side of the corridor to let a gurney pass. He looked down at me with such an anxious expression that I felt guilty for wishing him to go away.

  ‘Martin. I need to see her on my own. Please.’

  He held up both hands in mock surrender. ‘Of course you do, Rory. I’ll give you some time alone.’

  He shooed me down the corridor as if I was a naughty child: ‘Go on.’

  The closer I got to the ward, the more nervous I felt. Martin had assured me the doctor had said Auntie Lyd was much improved, and he had actually been satisfied with that answer and not asked any further questions, as I would have done. It wasn’t Martin’s fault. He was trying to spare me any anxiety, but really he had made it worse: I didn’t know what to expect. ‘Much improved’ could mean that she was still unconscious, or it could mean that she was already sitting, dressed, on the end of her bed waiting to be brought home. Hospital staff marched purposefully through the corridors, chatting cheerfully, in contrast to the drawn and anxious relatives and friends who shadowed them in silence. I wondered how Auntie Lyd would react to seeing me. She had been so angry the last time we spoke. Maybe I should have allowed Percy and Eleanor – or even Jim – to see her first. I didn’t want to upset her again.

  I took a deep breath outside Blue Ward. While I tried to compose myself, I could hear laughter coming from inside, and before I could push the door it swung open from the inside and a hospital orderly emerged waving a piece of paper. ‘I got her autograph,’ he beamed as he passed me. I grabbed the opened door and peered in. In the midst of a small group of nurses I could see Auntie Lyd sitting up in bed, leaning on a stack of pillows, dressed in the plaid flannel nightgown that Jim had bought. She was surrounded by flowers, vast ostentatious bunches that had been deposited in an assortment of hospital-related receptacles, the ward’s supply of vases obviously being exhausted by such floral bounty. Auntie Lyd was pale, with two vivid spots of red on her cheeks, as if someone had rubbed on paint with a fingertip. She smiled at everyone politely, with an expression that I recognized as the faintly embarrassed yet dutiful one she wore on the occasions she was stopped in the street by people who recognized her. Unlike Percy and Eleanor she did not invite the attention of fans, but rather tolerated it.

  Her head turned slowly in my direction and her colour heightened. She raised herself up a little and I rushed over to the bed to stop her from exerting herself.

  ‘Rory,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Auntie Lyd.’ I clasped her hand between both of mine, and this time her tight hold was not an involuntary reflex. I blinked away tears.

  The doctor who had been sitting on the end of Auntie Lyd’s bed stood up, and I saw him silently indicate to the others that they should leave. The small crowd dispersed obediently, gossiping and giggling as they left the ward. I felt reassured that they wouldn’t be so flippant if there was anything to worry about.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

  The doctor cleared his throat noisily, still standing at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Doctor Prasad, this is my niece, Rory,’ Auntie Lyd said.

  ‘Ah, Rory.’ He nodded in greeting. ‘Your aunt is perfectly well, apart from a non-ST segment myocardial infarction.
’

  Auntie Lyd smiled dutifully, but I had no idea what he was on about.

  ‘Minor heart attack, very minor,’ the doctor explained, seeing my puzzled expression. ‘She’ll be ready to come home in a few days. But she’s going to need a very calm, tranquil environment when she gets there. Rest. No excitements, no disturbances. You’ll have to make sure of that.’

  He cast me such a forbidding look of warning that I wondered if Auntie Lyd had told him how difficult I’d made things over the last few months. Did he know about Malky’s dog and Mr Bits? About my arguments with Jim? My teenage sulking over Martin? I flushed guiltily.

  ‘Rory is a very great support to me,’ said Auntie Lyd, squeezing my hand again. She was so loyal. I didn’t deserve it.

  The doctor promised to be back on his rounds in the afternoon, adjusted the beeping machine next to Auntie Lyd to no apparent purpose, and left the ward. I drew the curtain around the bed for privacy. When I sat down next to her the red spots had left her cheeks and she looked worryingly grey. She offered me a wan smile, sinking back on her pillows.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Auntie Lyd,’ I whispered, hanging my head in shame. ‘I haven’t been a support to you at all, I’ve been terrible. I’m sorry I argued with Jim. I’m sorry for everything.’

  ‘Oh, Rory,’ she sighed. ‘This isn’t your fault, you silly girl.’

  ‘It is,’ I sniffed.

  ‘Must I remind you again, Aurora, that not everything is about you? According to the doctor it is all about me, and my tobacco habit.’ Although her voice was still weak there was a touch of asperity to it that reassured me more than anything the doctor had said.

  I decided to change tack and instead admired the flowers that had been sent this morning. Auntie Lyd turned her head to look at them too. Reading the cards, I was surprised to see that several were from newspapers and magazines. There must have been some Press Association briefing about Auntie Lyd for everyone to have reacted so quickly; it was less than twenty-four hours since she’d been admitted to hospital. It was weird to imagine that someone, seeing a woman collapsed on the floor of the butcher’s, must have thought, What I must do in this situation is inform the press. The more blunt of the floral tributes from magazines and newspapers had asked outright for an interview when Auntie Lyd was better, which made me think that even those who had been more subtle probably had the same objective in mind.

  Auntie Lyd shifted uncomfortably on her pillows as I picked up the card on a small pot of primroses, sunny and somehow appealingly innocent next to the blowsy bouquets that dwarfed it.

  ‘Who’s Paul?’ I asked. The card was signed, These still make me think of you. Be well.

  Auntie Lyd turned her face away. ‘Someone I worked with,’ she said. ‘A long time ago.’

  When she turned back I saw the vivid colour had returned to her cheeks and her eyes had become glassy. I tucked the card back into the primroses and decided not to push it. Auntie Lyd enjoyed keeping her mysteries and this was not the time to press her for confessions.

  The curtain surrounding the bed twitched and, with a clatter of curtain rings, opened to reveal Martin framed between the hangings. Auntie Lyd gave a start of surprise, and pushed herself up to sitting, glancing over at me anxiously as if I would be equally shocked by his presence.

  ‘Lydia,’ Martin said, coming inside to stand next to me. He pulled me protectively in to his side and I tried not to resist, although I wished he’d given us longer before interrupting. ‘How are you?’

  Auntie Lyd looked from Martin to me in astonishment, lifting her head from the pillows. The doctor’s warning about the need for calm and tranquillity rang in my ears. I knew she had taken against Martin after I’d split up with him, and his unexpected arrival in the hospital must be a shock to her, but I didn’t want her to start worrying about me.

  ‘Martin took the call about your heart attack, Auntie Lyd,’ I reassured her quickly. ‘He drove Percy and Eleanor home yesterday; he’s given up his time to bring me here today. He’s been really helpful to all of us.’

  Auntie Lyd said nothing, just rested her head back on her pillows, her eyes wide in her pinched face.

  ‘I know, Lydia,’ said Martin. ‘You’re surprised to see me here. But I wanted to let you know you that Rory’s being looked after while you’re here. I wouldn’t let her go through this alone. We’re putting our troubles behind us now. Everything’s going to be okay.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Auntie Lyd, looking at me searchingly.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, although I was far from sure. I felt like a Tory wife posing for the press with her husband hours after his numerous affairs have been revealed. Loyal but wary, and rather forced into a position of solidarity with Martin thanks to his appearance at Auntie Lyd’s bedside.

  ‘I’m tired, Rory,’ said Auntie Lyd, lowering her eyelids slowly. She exhaled, or perhaps it was a sigh. ‘I think I need to sleep now.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, coming to sit down next to her so that my face was level with hers. ‘I’ll come back this afternoon. Do you want me to bring Percy and Eleanor? Jim?’

  ‘Lovely, darling,’ she said. I wasn’t sure if she had really heard me. Her eyes stayed closed; I could see them flickering faintly beneath her papery eyelids.

  ‘We’ll all see you later,’ I whispered, and kissed her forehead. I think she was already asleep.

  32

  There was a Turkish cafe opposite the hospital, and Martin insisted on taking me there for something to eat, claiming he could see me growing thinner by the minute. I still wasn’t hungry, but I thought Martin probably could do with the break so I let myself be persuaded to leave the cardiology unit. The banana Jim had pressed on me thumped reproachfully against my side in my coat pocket as Martin led me via the car park so we could renew the parking permit. I’d run out of coins this time, and suggested that I pay for the food once we got to the cafe; that seemed fair. He’d already been so generous, and hadn’t even asked me to contribute towards his petrol from driving over from North Sheen. Martin kissed the top of my head gratefully; I could see he was glad I’d offered. He wouldn’t have asked, but I knew he’d have his petrol costs worked out for the month and all of this extra mileage would eat into his budget. It was funny how you remembered that sort of thing, even after months apart.

  The cafe was already busy, even though lunch was still hours away. Two young nurses in their pink surgical scrubs stood patiently in the takeaway line, pointedly ignoring the comments of a rowdy table full of paint-splattered builders. An elderly Turkish man balanced on the corner of a spindly metal fold-up chair next to the till, occasionally sipping from a tiny cup of thick black coffee. He tapped away at a calculator while the pile of receipts at his elbow fluttered worryingly with the breeze every time the door opened. There was a smell of fried food, and the chefs, visible through the kitchen hatch, looked harried. Most of the tables were full but the waitress, squeezing past us with plates held high above her head, nodded us towards a space at the back. Martin took the cushioned seat that faced out into the cafe and peeled a sticky laminated menu off the table. I pulled out the other chair and sat down. When the waitress reappeared, untucking a pad from her apron and whipping a pen from behind her ear, Martin surprised me by, Teddy-like, ordering for both of us.

  ‘We’ll have two coffees, please,’ he said, handing her the menu. ‘The full Turkish breakfast for me, and my girlfriend will have the fruit plate.’

  I stopped the waitress before she left. ‘No coffee for me,’ I said. ‘Please can I have an English breakfast tea instead?’

  ‘Sure,’ she shrugged, and scrawled it on to her order pad.

  ‘Rory, be adventurous,’ smiled Martin. ‘Turkish coffee is amazing stuff. You should give it a try.’

  ‘I don’t like coffee, Martin,’ I reminded him tartly. My anger at his barging up to Auntie Lyd’s bedside was beginning to build. I had suppressed it for her sake but now, safely away from the ward, it had returned. ‘I’ve
never liked coffee. And I’m not your girlfriend.’

  Martin stuck out his bottom lip petulantly, but his eyes sparkled as if I had said something funny. Under the table his hand found my leg and he smoothed his thumb across my thigh over and over, as if calming an anxious pet. I tried to pull away but he held on tightly, the pressure of his fingers gently but forcefully restraining me.

  ‘It’s okay, Rory,’ he soothed, seeing my annoyance. ‘I know you need to put up a fight, make me suffer a bit before you take me back. I understand. I know you, Rory.’

  ‘Things changed while we were apart, Martin,’ I told him. I finally wrenched free of his grasp and crossed my legs away from him. ‘You might not know me any more.’

  ‘I know I need you, Rory,’ he insisted. ‘And you need me. You can’t do this alone. You don’t need to. I can take whatever you want to throw at me.’

  I considered the ketchup bottle on the table. He saw where I was looking and laughed.

  ‘Even that. But throwing things isn’t your usual style. Unless you really have changed.’

  He did know me. I had never been the type to have tantrums. Perhaps I should have been. I smiled reluctantly.

  ‘When all this is over, when your aunt’s better, I want you to come home,’ said Martin. ‘It hasn’t felt like home since you left, Rory. Not for a minute.’

  ‘Probably because you moved someone else in straight away,’ I said, turning my knife over on the table. He surely wouldn’t think I was going to just come back without even discussing the reason why I’d left.

  ‘Melinda never moved in,’ he answered. ‘She didn’t. No matter what you might have heard.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything, Martin,’ I said quietly. ‘I saw it for myself when I came to collect my stuff.’

  Martin’s eyes narrowed. His hands stopped their relentless movement as he gripped them into stillness on top of the sticky table.

  ‘You saw what she wanted you to see, Rory. She never moved in – she tried, oh yes, she tried. Leaving things at my house to try and stake a claim. But she couldn’t, Rory. She couldn’t because it was always our house. Yours and mine. She didn’t belong there. She could never have replaced what you and I had.’