“Probably not,” he says.
“I know she loves me, of course she does . . . It’s not that . . . It’s just I think she thinks I smother her,” I admit.
“And do you?” he asks carefully.
“I think I must do, Tony. I really don’t mean to, though. Her dad, David, he’s a fantastic dad but not a great disciplinarian, so that’s all down to me.”
Tony listens intently and I go on.
“Sometimes I feel like it’s good cop, bad cop all the time. Me being the bad one, obviously. Occasionally I just want to be me and not have to be a constant protector, you know? I feel guilty saying the words to you, but they are true. I have lost total sight of who I am. Who is Courtney Downey? What does she do? Well, she is Susan Downey’s mother. She nags and nags and nags. She works hard, yes, to provide for them both, but does she ever get any thanks? No, she does not . . . not that I want thanks, I just want some respect.” I blurt all this out, but finally I’ve admitted it to myself: I really have no sense of who I am outside being Susan’s mother any more.
“When you love someone that intensely it’s hard to pull back, so don’t beat yourself up about it. If she’s anything like her mother I’m sure she’s a very smart girl, and she will soon realise all that you do for her.”
“It’s complicated this parenting lark,” I say softly.
“That it is. But if I were you, I would just be there for her. That’s your role as her mum. Always be there. I wouldn’t get too involved in every area of her life. I wouldn’t push her for information or make demands on her time; I’d just listen to her and be there when she needs me. I’d tell her she’s my number-one priority and always will be. That’s my philosophy on parenting, for what it’s worth.” Tony looks straight into my eyes and I hold his focus. I wonder how hard that stubble would be against the softness of my skin. I don’t know why, but it’s like he’s lifted a ten-tonne truck off my shoulders.
“I think that’s possibly the best advice anyone has ever given me,” I gasp in wonder.
“As a rule, I don’t give out advice, but if it’s helped you, good.” He leans in closer to me. I can smell his aftershave, musky and heavy. The dark speckles of hair on his chest dare my eyes to look. He reaches across now and fixes a strand of my hair that has fallen across my eye. I’m like a rabbit in headlights. Struck dumb. It’s such an intimate gesture. Smiling at me, he leans back a bit, lifts his pint and nods to my glass. I obey.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to bang on about myself.”
He grins a lopsided grin and waves the still-raised pint glass at me. “To parenting!” he says now and we clack glasses.
“To parenting.” I agree to the one-sided toast and take a big gulp of my wine.
“Where’s your ex then? Darren, was it?” he asks.
“David,” I correct him. “Shacked up with a younger model,” I confess as I regain my senses.
“Sorry.” He runs his hand down his stubble all the way to the nape of his neck.
“Oh, don’t be. I’m not,” I say, and I mean it.
“Well, that’s good to hear. But you are happy now?” He rotates his shoulders and sits up straighter.
“I am.” I nod my head and curl my hair behind my ears. Then we have these very strange few moments when we say nothing, only look at each other. It’s not one bit uncomfortable. In fact, it’s totally the opposite. It’s incredibly exciting. Our eyes are communicating, but our mouths are silent. It’s inexplicable. Almost like we have been here before. But it’s more that he’s looking at me so intently that I feel completely alive and . . . interesting. I haven’t felt this way in, well . . . ever.
I’m the first to break the intense eye contact as I pick up my fork again and stab at my fish, my appetite more or less curbed. We finish the food and eventually Sandra comes to clear the table and asks if we want dessert. Tony tells her to give us a minute please.
“Herein lies the Ploughboy’s downfall: the puddings are all bought in, all frozen desserts. I can’t really recommend any, I’m afraid. The frozen orange sorbet is about the best. I’m a proper currant-cake man myself, or flaky pastry apple pie and ice cream, or a sweet banoffee pie! People who eat regularly in here tend to go home for pudding,” he whispers to me.
“My friend Claire makes the best desserts in the world,” I say.
He laughs. “She should ask for a job here, so!”
“I’d love her to come see this place . . . She’s got a lot going on right now.” I sigh heavily for my friend.
“Oh, don’t sigh like that, Courtney Downey.” He leans in closer again. “You are too beautiful to sigh. I have to say I was pretty disappointed when I overheard—”
“Eh, hello?”
We both do a double take at the woman who has dropped her gold glittery mini handbag in the centre of our table.
“Remember me, Big T?” She half laughs, waving her hand in front of Tony’s nose.
It takes me a moment and then I realise it is Marina, the woman from the town hall earlier. Tony pales in front of me.
“Oh shit! Marina!” He drops his fork and knife and then his head into his hands. I stare at her.
“We had a late-night drink date, I thought?” she says, clicking her tongue.
“Oh God, we did. I’m so sorry. I apologise, Marina,” he gasps.
“No worries, I know business always comes first with you.” She glances at our clean plates. “I guess he’s not hungry any more! In every sense of that word.” She picks up her bag and smiles at me. “Nice to see you again, Courtney. I’m gonna get me a big juicy alcoholic cocktail.” Marina laughs, despite the situation she’s found herself in.
“Marina, sorry, I can explain . . .” He stands up, pushing the stool behind him.
“Too late, too late . . .” She walks away, but only to the bar, raising her hand in the air behind her as she goes.
“Go after her!” I urge him. I’m bright pink with embarrassment for her, and for us. Sandra returns and clears the table.
“All okay here? Can I get you anything else?” she asks.
“Oh, I’m done, thank you,” I tell her, pushing the plate away. “Can we get the bill please?”
“You still working away at that, Tony?” She looks concerned.
“Nah, I’m done too, Sandra, thanks.” We lift our glasses as she clears the dishes and runs her damp cloth across the barrel. She takes away the dirty plates, then immediately returns and drops the bill onto a small grey plate with two tiny mints and then she leaves.
“No, there’s no point going after her. I’m such an idiot, I clean forgot.” He facepalms himself.
“I really think you should, Tony.” I fish in my purse and leave a fifty-pound note on the table. “That will cover the meal, drinks and a nice tip for Sandra, I think,” I say calmly as I gather my bag.
“You don’t have to leave!” He looks wounded.
“Oh, but I do,” I say, my eyes resting on the huge, bright-blue cocktail that Marina is sucking for dear life through a bendy orange straw at the bar.
“And let me pay the bloody bill, after all you have done for me tonight. At least let me walk you back, please?” We both look over to Marina, who has now plonked her bum on a high stool.
“Absolutely not, Tony, I’m perfectly fine. I want to leave, alone. Thank you, though.” I stand firm.
“Ah look, Courtney, this isn’t what you think. But it is what you see, so . . .” He lifts his shoulders high before dropping them slowly.
“Have a lovely night!” I smile so wide it hurts and I turn and leave the Ploughboy. Outside, I exhale a long breath.
“Well, that was so awkward!” I hiss to myself as I walk back from the old fishing village towards my hotel. Poor Marina, that’s just awful on her. I pound the pavement. I’m embarrassed but also hurt, I realise. It was going so well.
“That is so disappointing,” I whisper through gritted teeth. It’s darkening now and the lights from the boats at sea are twinkling in the du
sk. Directions are always something I can just master, so I follow the straight path back from earlier. Disappointing. My chosen word rings some bell in my memory. What was he going to say? He was disappointed in what?
“Seriously, Courtney, cop on!” I talk to myself again and then stop in my tracks. A large queue is snaking around the bend for late-night ice creams, and I join on the end. When I reach the front, I buy myself a sinful 99 ice cream smothered in chocolate sauce. Licking as I walk, I then settle on a beachside bench just outside my hotel, watching the boats bobbing in the night air. As I lick like a child, I ponder this crazy evening and Tony Becker. A woman-every-night-of-the-week type of man. Shame. He is pretty magnificent otherwise, but a womaniser I can do without, thank you very much. I shake Tony Becker from my head.
Licking some more and twisting my neck, I catch the melting ice cream as it falls around the top of the cone. He has shown me something incredibly exciting, though: that maybe, just maybe, there is a new man out there for me. But, more than that, much more than that . . . holy crap, I loved the buzz of that kitchen! My feet do my happy dance.
“Oh please, Susan, love this place as much as I do,” I say to myself as I nibble down the soft cone and cross my legs contentedly.
8
It’s back to reality when I open the door to my office and Yvonne follows me straight in.
“Well, how was it? What’s the apartment like? Is it huge? Lar says it’s big, but you know Lar. What’s the new office like? Is there parking? Did you see the builder guy? When will it be ready to open? Town nice? Many shops?” She swirls the hot water and lemon in her glass cup.
I feel different, like the option of the summer in Cornwall now has so much more meaning. Honestly, it feels like it’s much more personal to me now. I’m mortified to admit this, but in one of the photos of the new office I snapped Tony is in the background, and I stared at the image the whole flight home like some lovesick teenager. Claire will sort me out. She’ll tell me what I already know: that I’m running from reality.
I know Yvonne is talking to me because she is convinced it will be her job there in Cornwall and not mine.
“Looks great,” I say. “I’ve a few pics; I will show you all when Lar gets in. Tony Becker has done a really terrific job, and yes, I think there is parking all right. Why are you asking that?” I know quite well she is asking for herself. Yvonne is obsessed with free parking.
“It’s utterly imperative that people can see a dream and just be able to pull in and go for it. If they are driving by but there is no parking, they will just go on, never stop and never get the chance to relocate.” She fishes a slice of lemon out and sucks on it now.
“Right,” I say, turning on my iMac and flicking through my post and postcards. But I’m not fully here. I wouldn’t call them flashbacks exactly, but I keep seeing Keith wiping his finger along my crab salads, the look of “well, isn’t that good” in his eyes, and me banging on that bell and yelling “Service!” I shiver.
“Don’t you agree? It’s the last day of your incredible holiday and you are driving your rental car back to the Airbnb, then you see our office . . . free parking? Pull in. No-brainer. So, do you think you can take the job or not, Courtney?” No beating around the bush for Yvonne.
“I think I most definitely can, Yvonne!” I plaster a horrible, false, creepy smile across my face as hers turns to one of disgust.
“Oh really?” She sits slowly and puts her cup of healthiness down on my desk beside my extra-large black coffee.
“Yeah . . . Well, I mean, I have to talk to Lar later and there are still some issues to sort out, but yeah, I think it’s on the cards for me.” My smile is still plastered on.
“Is Sue-Sue happy with that?”
“Sue-Sue?” I flick my head up and meet her eyes now.
She falters. “What?” She swallows hard.
“Why would you call her Sue-Sue?” This doesn’t add up.
She struggles to find the words, then pulls a face and says, “I thought that’s what you called her.” A slight red blush moves up her face.
“No, Yvonne, only Mar-nee and David call her Sue-Sue,” I say, deadpan.
She shrugs and stands up. “Don’t know where I heard that then.” She moves away from my desk.
“Are you by any chance friendly with Mar-nee Maguire, Yvonne? A client of hers, perhaps?” Before the words leave my mouth, I just know the answer.
“I wouldn’t say friendly . . . but yeah, she does all my waxing, ya know, at her salon.”
I stand now. “Anything you might overhear me say in this office about . . . about my ex-husband and or my daughter is all totally private. You don’t tell Mar-nee all the things I say, do you? Do you discuss my daughter?” My hands are shaking and I’m horrified.
“Not really . . . no.” She’s lying through her teeth.
“Please don’t!” I spit the words at her.
“Tonne of stuff to do, see you at the meeting.” She takes her leave.
I scratch my head roughly. Of course she does. I bet it wasn’t Susan at all who told Mar-nee and David about the proposed move. It was Yvonne. And right now, I’m sure she’s going to tell Mar-nee that I have agreed to go. I don’t know why I lied to her. I just wanted to rile her. I don’t think I can go. But I want to go, I really do. If I can just convince Susan, I know David won’t stand in our way.
* * *
When Susan comes home from school she goes straight up to her room. My hands are covered in flour, as I’m making some stuffed mushroom vol-au-vents. I was sure I had puff pastry sheets in the bottom drawer of the fridge, but I don’t.
“Hello, love.”
I lean back from my floury worktop, wiping my nose with the front of my hand. No answer.
“Susan, love, I’m in the kitchen. Are you hungry, pet?” I call out again.
Again my voice is not acknowledged.
“Lord, grant me patience,” I mutter, and get on with the job at hand. For some reason I don’t go head-first into a blind panic and dash up the stairs after her, begging her to talk to me, trying to kiss her or hug her and cajole her. Forcing my love on her is something I can’t do any more. So I take my time with my puff pastry. Adding fresh lemon juice and real butter, I dribble the cold water in and begin to bind the ingredients together. The rhythm is soothing. Therapeutic. I pop it into the oven when it’s ready, then stick the kettle on and pop a teabag into my mug. Upstairs, iPad world is alive and kicking and “Hey guys” fills the broken atmosphere. I should go up just to see if she is hungry, so I force myself. I knock three times on her door. No answer.
“Susan?” I call to her.
The iPad drones lower. “What?” she says.
“Aren’t you going to say hello to me, love? I haven’t seen you since Wednesday morning.” My voice is strict and I’m glad it sounds that way. I’ve had enough of being treated like shit. I do not deserve it.
She obliges me. “Hello, Mom.”
“I just wanted to see if you were hungry?”
No answer.
“Aren’t you coming out of your room?” I peel some cracked paint from her door.
“No,” she says.
“Fine,” I say.
Moving away, I stall, and then I come back to the closed door. I have an obligation as her mother to see her fed, if nothing else.
“I was going to have a late supper of mushroom vol-au-vents, unless you’d like me to prepare something for you before Dad and Mar-nee arrive?”
“No . . . That’s grand. Mar-nee made me a huge lunch today. I’m still absolutely stuffed.”
“What did she make you?” I have to ask.
“We had endurance crackers, salt and vinegar chickpeas and this amazing chocolate chia pudding,” she enthuses.
“Okay . . . that’s good.” I don’t give her any backchat about how I don’t really see the nutrients or the health benefits in crackers and chickpeas for a growing girl. But I’m learning. It’s how she eats, and I won’t l
et it become an argument again. At least Mar-nee is feeding her something. I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.
Turning on my heel, I go. I love my child. I love my child. I love my child, I repeat in my head. But right now she has the manners of a wild animal. Billy the fox has better manners. Is this my doing? Have I raised a spoiled brat? Tony Becker’s words swim around my head.
“I wouldn’t push her for information or makes demands on her time; I’d just listen to her. I’d just be there when she needs me. I’d tell her she’s my number-one priority and always will be.” Stopping on the third step down, I turn again and head back up. I knock again on the closed bedroom door. The iPad drones down again.
“Yeah?” An impatient tone and a click of her tongue.
“I just want to say that I am here for you, Susan, always. That’s never up for negotiation. I love you completely. I will always be here for you. That’s all.”
Silence. I lean my head against the door and close my eyes. Slowly the American accent on the iPad becomes louder, filling the silence, and she doesn’t answer me. However, I feel a bit better. I feel like I can’t fight this fight any more. Then suddenly the closed door is opened a fraction and my little girl is standing there in her school uniform.
“Hi, love,” I say, relief flooding through my veins as I follow her in and I perch on the side of her double bed.
“Hi, Mom.” She twists her dark hair around her index finger. It’s hard to fathom how different and innocent she looks in her uniform.
“Dad and Mar-nee will be here at 9.30 tonight. Do you want to talk with us?” I ask her. I look around at her posters of various quotes. She is obsessed with quotes:
The Final Forming of a Person’s Character
Lies in Their Own Hands
All Our Dreams Can Come True,
If We Have the Courage to Pursue Them
Never Underestimate the
Importance of Being Yourself
She looks shook up and I immediately want to hug her. But I don’t. I give her the space she wants. I remain present, that is all.
The Importance of Being Me Page 13