by Anna Mansell
‘It’d be cold by the time I got there.’
‘Drive quicker.’
‘You want me to come down?’ he asks and I want to scream Yes!
‘It’s fine, honestly. I’m okay,’ I lie.
‘I can. If you need me.’
‘I know you could, and I appreciate it but no, I’m okay. I’m fine.’ I get up, pulling thick blackout curtains closed. ‘I will be fine. I just need to get my head down and sleep.’ I glance over at the three bags of Doritos and medium-sized vodka bottle I picked up from the shop on my way back, smuggling it in because there was someone in the communal kitchen and I didn’t want to speak to them, or let them see that I was one of the few people in the world who loves a lime-flavoured Dorito… or let on that I planned on getting smashed tonight.
‘When do you get back?’
‘Tomorrow, late on, I think. If things go to plan.’
‘Okay. So… erm…’ He stumbles over words and I can hear him moving around again. ‘Maybe we could go out for a drink? I mean… not tomorrow,’ he adds, quickly. ‘In a few days. When you’re ready.’
‘That’d be good. I’d like that.’
Has he noticed we’ve gone a bit weird? Is it my fault? Is it drinks as mates, after I pushed things too far, or are we going on a date? Does it even need a label? Probably not now, at the moment, I’ve enough on my plate. But a drink would be nice.
‘Call me tomorrow. When you can. Or tonight, if you need me.’
‘I will. Thanks.’
‘Bye, Jem.’
He hangs up and I feel empty. Alone. Like I want to call him back and talk to him throughout the night until the sun comes up just so that I don’t have to face the night in this room, worrying. I reach for the vodka, the sound of the cap when I unscrew it is satisfying. I take a swig from the bottle, biting at the taste, before pouring it into a teacup from beside the tiny kettle and complimentary biscuits. Such glamour on the NHS.
I don’t know what time I pass out.
41
The following twenty-four hours flies. My feet, heart and soul barely touch ground after we get back home. So when I open the front door to Mitch, I’m stunned.
‘I know you said not to come over but I just… I needed to see you.’ Mitch stands on the porch doorstep, concern etched over his face, a bottle of wine in hand. ‘Thought you might want this.’
I look at the wine first, then up the stairs in the direction of Mum’s room, where she’s been sleeping since we got back home this afternoon. ‘Come in,’ I say, kind of relieved he ignored me being brave. And bizarrely not weirded out about seeing him for the first time since I threw myself at him in a fit of drunken, wanton lust. ‘Just be quiet though, she needs to rest.’
‘Of course.’
He tiptoes into the hallway, hovering until I direct him through to the lounge. He feels out of place in our house, to me at least. It’s as if he doesn’t quite fit in and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s ’cos it’s rarely ever more than me and Mum and when it’s not it’s just other women in the house. I can’t remember the last time a man stood here; Ben occasionally but Mum usually came to mine if we were all getting together. Before that? Maybe Mr Shaller, my junior schoolteacher, when he came to see Mum about me. I loved Mr Shaller. He was tall, broad, safe. The kids at school would tease me about not having a dad after he left because kids are dicks and Mr Shaller always leapt to my defence. Metaphorically and physically. I remember one kid, Edward something, he shouted it across the classroom and Mr Shaller jumped up, took two strides to the opposite side of the room, such was the length of his legs. He picked up the workbook Edward was supposed to be working on, bellowed his disapproval whilst ripping the book in half and throwing it across the room.
‘Were you at Dronfield Juniors? Do you remember Mr Shaller?’ I ask, grabbing two glasses out of the cupboard in the kitchen, Mitch having followed me through.
‘I was, yeah, and God, do I. He was a tank of a man and he terrified me! Why?’
‘I dunno. No reason. He just… he came to mind.’
Red wine sloshes into the glass. I take a sniff, then shake my head. It’s not right. What if she needs me? What if I have to drive somewhere, do something? It took me ’til nearly lunchtime before I could see properly today.
‘You know what? I don’t think I can do this.’ I hand him the glass, flicking the kettle on.
‘Do what?’ he asks, uncertainly.
‘Drink, I can’t drink. I just… I don’t know. I think I need to not. I think I need a night off. I mean, what if she needs me? What if…?’
‘I get it. I do, but it’s medicinal. I don’t suppose it’d be the doctor’s advice but shit, would I get it if you did. I mean, I did. When it was me. Christ, I drank so much. Worrying really, when I look back. But you do whatever you need to, to get you through, you know?’
‘Well, Mum’s consultant did say that I should definitely get totally wrecked every night, and in fact, ideally, he said I should have a few drinks during the day too, you know, hair of the dog and all that…’ I force a smile. I’m failing at funny because I’ve spent all day trying, just to keep Mum going. ‘Nah. I think, maybe I need a night off.’
He puts his glass on the side then steps towards me. ‘Maybe I’ll give it a rest too then.’
‘Steady on. Your blood to alcohol ratio might dip.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll make up for it when I leave. I always find drinking in total isolation is a healthy way to maintain the status quo.’ He does one of those half smiles that people do when they’re trying to keep your spirits up. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asks, gently. ‘I mean, you don’t have to, just… I’m here, if you want to. I get it. I understand. I know what you’re going through.’
‘I know, I know you do.’
‘And you don’t have to be brave, for me.’ Without warning, his words and the way he’s looking at me and the touch of his hand on mine, the whole lot outs me completely and I unravel entirely, and from nowhere I’m consumed by all the feelings I’ve been ignoring since yesterday lunchtime. He wraps his arms around me as I collapse into him. As I cry, he holds me, he holds me up, he holds me close. He says nothing, just lets me weep into his very lovely shirt that I really hope I don’t wipe mascara all over. He strokes my hair and I can hear his heartbeat, maybe even feel it against my cheek. Even when we were dancing the other day, we weren’t as close as this. Even when we kissed the other night and I was grappling with his backside, we weren’t as close. And with my eyes shut, I’m dizzy with emotions and the weight of holding it together from this morning’s final meeting with Mum’s consultant.
From the moment Mr Faux told her – that he was sorry, but there was nothing more to be done. From the moment he explained it had already been too far advanced in the first place and though they’d tried their best with the first op, they couldn’t have anticipated how things might be as it grew. From when he ran through what the likely development of the disease would be and how they would manage that, but that ultimately, it would compromise her organs. How, in particular, he was concerned about a growth around her bile duct; as matter-of-factly as he’d told us everything from the moment we first met him. And that was why in certain lights, from certain angles, her skin was taking on a yellow shade. From the look on Mum’s face as he left the room and I told her she had to cry because she couldn’t pent-up the emotion as that would poison her system even more than the cancer already was; which is stupid when you analyse it, but I believed it when I said it. And from the sound of her voice when she tried to joke that her tears – from the moment we left Basingstoke, to the second we pulled up on the drive – were entirely my fault because I’d told her she had to cry and now the floodgates had opened and she couldn’t bloody well stop. From the sound of her gentle snoring, minutes after climbing into bed, because she was so exhausted from the last twenty-four hours of bad news after bad news. Because this, this here, with her tucked up beneath a heavy quilt on a sweltering
late-summer’s evening, this was it. This was the official beginning of the end and I’m not ready. It’s not time. It’s too early. She’s too young.
‘I’m here,’ Mitch says, as I look up into his eyes and I know that I want distraction. I want to feel close to someone. I want to get out of my head and into somewhere I don’t have to think about the fact that Mum is dying. I want him to take me in his arms. I want him to lay me down. I want him to kiss me until I can’t think of anything except how it feels. How he feels. Inside me.
‘Shall I stay?’ he asks and I nod because I’ve never wanted anything more. ‘If I do, you can’t make me drink alone.’
He holds my gaze. I feel his breath on my face. Our knees touch. I really could do with a drink. I just need to make sure I don’t throw myself at him again, here. Now. On Mum’s old couch from Ponsford. It cost her a bloody fortune.
42
The light is golden, sounds are muffled. Mum and I wander up a pathway from the car park to the stately home we are visiting, her with a real spurt on ’cos ‘there’s cake at the top of the hill’. I take a photo of her, one of those live ones. When I play it back, her dress sways as she slowly takes left foot then right in search of Battenberg. She turns a corner, signalling me to hurry up and I drop my phone in my bag and go after her, but when I get to the café, she’s not there. I search around, desperate to find her, calling out her name yet I can’t hear my own voice. Then something jolts me awake.
I’m not in bed. My back and hips are telling me that much. I manage a snatched glimpse at my surroundings to see the lounge, a cocoon of cushions, my duvet and… the dead weight of a leg over mine. Outside, a car engine starts up and pulls away and even that tiny noise makes my head pound. Light streams through a gap in the curtains and my eyes strain to see past dust dancing in the shaft of light, finally focusing on Mitch, fast asleep beside me.
Something like butterflies pitch and dive around my stomach. What happened? Did we…?
Eyes adjusting, I can see we’re surrounded by every pillow and cushion from my room. Did I collect all these? I’ve a vague recollection of stumbling up the stairs, shushing myself as I giggled. My duvet lays widthways across us both, protecting only our modesty, for want of a better name. There are three spent candles on the coffee table beside me, next to a half-finished glass of something that gives rise to a swell of revulsion as I sniff at it. Vodka. The wine bottle Mitch brought over lies on its side, empty, taunting me. It’s not feeling terribly medicinal right now.
I shift to try and sit up but don’t want to wake him until I know what happened, until some memory returns. Which it does. Slowly. Moment by moment unfolding. We were drinking. He held me. We talked and talked. I spoke about Mum. Every tiny detail. Every last bit from the moment we found out something was up, almost two years ago, to coming away from Basingstoke yesterday.
Oh God. He asked to read the letter. I definitely said no again, but we talked about Ben. How much did I say? Why? Why did I talk about him? Except, maybe if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have got upset again. And maybe he wouldn’t have told me that I had a right to believe I was worth something. That I was brilliant. That I was funny and smart and inspiring and then he kissed me. Oh God, he kissed me. Slowly. Unlike before. Like he meant it, like we meant it. And I remember feeling lost in him. Out of control. And I remember him making this pod for us to lie in. Here. Pillows and cushions piled high as if making us a safe space where nobody and nothing could reach us. I remember him pouring more drink as we kissed like teenagers. I remember feeling drunk on him. Drunk on lust. Drunk, probably, on wine and vodka. But we were even. We were both the same. Unlike back at Aunty Vi’s party, this was us, together, drinking and talking and feeling and kissing. I remember him laying me down, one hand in the small of my back as he moved to rest against me, almost on me, and the weight of him was everything I wanted and needed. I remember…
‘Morning.’
His voice is groggy and it sparks the butterflies to leap into my throat. I gaze down at chipped nail polish.
‘How are you?’
‘My head hurts.’
He reaches up, letting his lips rest on my forehead. ‘Me too,’ he mutters. ‘I told you not to open that second bottle.’
‘Was that my idea? Christ,’ I groan. ‘Water. We should have had water?’
‘If only.’ He brushes hair from my eyes, and part of me wants to escape. My head is spinning, not just from the hangover, but his proximity. I feel energy fizzing, spinning, right where our heads touch. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.’
Shit. Oh God, what have we done? What have I done?
‘I promised myself I wouldn’t.’
‘Right.’ I move away from him. Why am I such an idiot? Have I not learned my lesson? Could I not just have stuck to the plan to drink tea instead of getting all needy and lusty. ‘Sorry, sorry, it’s my fault.’
‘No! No, it’s not. And it’s not because I didn’t want to, Jesus, you’ve no idea how much I wanted to.’ He pauses, looking down at me. ‘You’ve no idea how much I want to…’ He kisses me again before sighing and pulling away. ‘It was so hard to walk away from you the other night. In the park. But you came on so heavy and I didn’t want you to think I’d taken advantage. And then I thought I’d blown it because we didn’t talk for days and I missed you, I needed to hear you, but I didn’t want to make you feel bad or frighten you off, then I knew what was going off for you and I just wanted to be by your side. I needed to see you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I needed to know you were okay. I gave myself a talking-to before I knocked on your door. Do not sleep with her I said.’
‘Right. I mean… if it helps… I think I’m probably glad you didn’t listen.’
‘Are you?’ I pause, then nod. ‘Because I would totally understand if you feel you don’t need this in your life, right now.’
‘This?’ I ask.
‘Us? A complication? I mean, maybe we should just be friends. You’ve so much going on right now.’
‘Maybe that’s why now is a good time. A distraction.’
He leans in and kisses me and I melt into the floor, consumed. Before I hear a key in the front door and we jump apart as Mum calls out, ‘Good morning!’
She drops her keys in the bowl by the door, appearing at the archway into the lounge. ‘I thought you two might want bacon.’
‘Oh God, Mum. I…’ I pull my legs beneath the duvet wishing it was bigger. Wondering how I missed the fact she’d got up and gone out. Surely after yesterday she’d be in bed, for ages. I was going to take her a cuppa up. I was going to make her a bacon sandwich. ‘Sorry, I… we lost track of—’
‘No, no… please don’t explain,’ she interrupts, eyebrows raised and a fleck of mischief in her eye. ‘Lovely to see you again, Mitch.’
‘Erm, yeah, and you, Mrs Whitfield.’
‘Oh, please. I’ve seen you without a top on now. You might as well call me Val, eh?’
‘Erm, right. Val.’
‘Well, I’ll let you two get up. And maybe get dressed too. You like bacon, Mitch?’
‘Well, yes. But, please, can I make it? You sit down.’
‘What? And see you two try and casually get up and sort this love pit out whilst I recline on the sofa?’ She’s grinning, enjoying the whole moment far too much. ‘As hilarious as that would be, no. I don’t think so. You sort yourselves out. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re dressed. It’s time for pop quiz.’ And with that, she disappears into the kitchen with an ‘Alexa, play BBC Radio Two.’
43
Half an hour later, Mitch and Mum are recounting old school stories at my expense and I am trying to remember that this is a good thing. They’re bonding. I don’t have to be sensitive around him. He isn’t out to get me. It’s fine.
‘And you know I heard she always got out of science by telling them some story.’
Mum is staring at me, eyes wide, hea
d cocked to one side. ‘I did hear that when it came to dissecting animals, she always said she couldn’t do it on ethical grounds,’ she says, smirking.
‘How did you know that?’ I ask.
‘Mums know everything, it’s their job,’ Mitch says. ‘Mine always said I mostly tripped myself up by saying stuff I thought was innocuous, but that always exposed some kind of mischief.’
‘I mean, really, ethical grounds? Oh yes, dead ethical, our Jem.’ She’s belly laughing. Actually laughing from her boots. As Mitch talks, Mum sparkles. She looks better than she has in weeks. Months even. She’s rejuvenated by his presence as she nibbles on the edge of her bacon sandwich, still giggling. ‘I’ve always said how ethical she is. By the way, how is that mass-farmed pig bacon, love?’
‘Mum!’ I look down at my sandwich, its appeal briefly jaded.
‘Did you ever have to dissect the daffodil?’ Mitch asks.
I nod, colour creeping into my cheeks. ‘I told them I had hay fever. I pretend sneezed in between every word. I hated science.’
‘I reckon Miss Drake will have just let you go in the end, anything to stop the disruption,’ says Mitch, amused.
‘And incessant fake sneezing,’ Mum adds.
He smirks at me over his mug of tea and I try to laugh along because it’s not his fault that I am suddenly a bit rubbish at having the piss taken out of me.
‘Where did you go?’ asks Mum as she puts her barely touched sandwich down.
‘I dunno. Drama. The common room. Up to the shops. It’s no wonder I failed my exams, is it?’ I pick at my sandwich, feeling like a failure.
‘Hey, you’re proof you don’t need all those exams to make a success of life, isn’t she, Val?’ Mitch moves to sit beside me. It’s the closest he’s been since we packed away our makeshift bed and I hid in the bathroom trying to take control of my face and hair. ‘No qualifications, yet a booming business. In charge of her own destiny. I think you’re bloody amazing.’