Aishe winced. ‘Ouch.’
‘Yes, in retrospect not the smartest of decisions. But I couldn’t save that dog, and I couldn’t kill it. What else could I do?’
‘What happened to the dog?’
‘You really do care more about that damn dog than about me, don’t you?’ said Benedict with some heat.
‘Dogs need protecting more than people do.’
‘So if I said my father decided at that moment that he could do without me as a son, you’d still be more concerned about the dog?’
‘Why would he decide something that absurdly extreme?’ said Aishe.
‘Because I was a loser. I’d failed him. I couldn’t be trusted.’
‘You were a kid.’
‘The next day, I found a gun in my room,’ said Benedict. ‘In plain sight. On my bookshelf.’
‘So?’
‘I took it as a clear signal that he intended me to use it.’
‘You were ten,’ Aishe pointed out. ‘Ten-year-olds live in fantasyland. When Gulliver was ten, he believed there really was a platform nine and three quarters at Kings Cross station. He nagged me to take him there for months.’
‘Fine.’ Benedict folded his arms. ‘Think what you want. But you don’t know my father. You don’t know what he was like.’
‘He sounds like a bad bastard,’ said Aishe. ‘But I truly cannot believe he wanted you dead — his only son for Christ’s sake.’
‘Well, he didn’t for long,’ said Benedict grumpily. ‘Because the following month, I scored the highest mark ever in the entrance examination for public school. And from then on, I was the star of the school.’
‘You were a winner again.’
‘Yes.’
‘But it didn’t last?’
‘In my final year, I was accepted into Oxford. My father was ecstatic. That was the pinnacle of every kind of achievement in his eyes. I packed my suitcase and got on the train. I got off at Oxford station and got straight back on another train to London. Then I got on a budget flight to Frankfurt. And I’ve not been back to England once. In ten years.’
‘He’s been chasing you for that long?’ Aishe frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘He’s not all that subtle about it.’
‘And if he did catch you? What then?’
Benedict gave her a look that was half-defiant, half-embarrassed.
‘Oh, come on!’ said Aishe. ‘Seriously? He’d put a gun to your head?’ When Benedict didn’t reply, she snorted, ‘You’re delusional. I’ll say it again: no father wants to kill his only son. It’s absurd!’
‘Not if winning is everything.’
‘He wins by bumping you off? Some victory.’
‘I’ve never claimed any of this was rational,’ said Benedict, ‘but you can believe what you like.’
His tone was cool and distant. Aishe realised that she’d pushed him too far. Fortunately, experience had proved that only a small concession was required to reel him back.
‘Have you heard from him since you’ve been here?’ she said.
Benedict hesitated. ‘Not yet.’
‘Well, then. Maybe he’s finally given up.’
‘Maybe.’
They shared a moment of silence.
‘He shot it,’ said Benedict. ‘The dog. I heard the shot as I was running away.’
‘It was the humane thing to do,’ said Aishe.
‘Perhaps. But I can’t be sure he shot it in the head.’ Benedict shifted onto his side. ‘Now it’s your turn.’ He dropped a kiss on Aishe’s collarbone. ‘Time to tell me about Frank.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ Aishe yanked the sheet right up to her neck. ‘I married him. He died. End of story.’
‘You loved him.’
Aishe found the words sticking in her throat. But she had no choice; she’d promised. ‘Yes. I did.’
‘Why?’ Benedict frowned. ‘What did he have that every other man in your life has lacked?’
That question was one Aishe had asked herself a million times. What did a hugely fat, middle-aged chicken-outlet owner have that — for example — a strapping young Norwegian drummer did not? Why would she have gladly stayed with him forever, when no one else could keep her in one place for more than a few months?
She could tell from Benedict’s face that he was hoping like hell it was something not too far out of his own reach — that it was something he, too, could potentially offer her.
Dream on, thought Aishe. You’re the last person on earth I’d look to for what I need. All you are right now is expedient. As soon as you’re not, it’ll be ‘Hasta la vista, baby’.
‘I think it’s simple,’ she said. She felt a surge of satisfaction at the prospect of dashing his hopes. He’d blackmailed her into a personal confession and he’d turned up unannounced and cajoled her, yet again, into bed. It was payback time.
‘The big difference is that the others were boys. Whereas Frank — now he was a man.’
18
At Tuesday morning mothers’ group, Michelle was so wrapped up in her gloom it took her almost the whole hour to work out she wasn’t the only one.
‘Are you OK?’ she said to Benedict. ‘You look even paler than usual.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry.’ Michelle grimaced. ‘Let’s start again. Are you OK?’
Benedict had one eye on Harry who was, as usual, over by the box of train tracks. There was another boy there, whose favourite trick was to silently steal all the trains out of the box so that when Harry came to play with his finished track, he found himself thwarted. There had been tears before — on Harry’s part; the other boy had cackled gleefully — and Benedict was determined to prevent them recurring. Harry was concentrating so intently that he was oblivious to the other boy’s sneaky little fingers. Benedict slipped a hand into his jacket pocket to make sure the red wooden engine, the best engine, was still there.
‘I’m fine,’ Benedict said.
‘Liar.’
Benedict gave her a look. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said firmly. ‘Thank you, anyway.’
Michelle waited a beat. ‘Aishe giving you the run around?’
His expression of bug-eyed horror was straight out of a cartoon. Michelle suppressed a smirk and mentally added the sound effect of a toot from a clown’s horn.
After hastily glancing around to see who was within earshot, Benedict bent his head to her ear. ‘How did you know?’
‘She told me,’ said Michelle. ‘Actually no, she didn’t. But she gave it away nonetheless.’ She grinned at him. ‘By accusing me of having it off with you.’
‘What?’
‘It’s true. She was getting all het up that I might have seduced you, like in that movie where Kate Winslet plays a Nazi.’
‘You mean The Reader?’
‘Whatever. The one where she shags the brainy kid, then gets put on trial for being a murdering cow.’
‘I’m not sure David Hare would feel that captures all the nuances of his adaptation,’ Benedict smiled.
‘David Hare can go shag himself.’
Benedict’s smile became a thoughtful frown. ‘Let me be entirely clear. Aishe accused you of seducing me?’
‘She did.’
‘And she was “het up” about the possibility?’
‘She was.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
Michelle nodded. ‘I absolutely am. No doubt about it. She was jealous.’
The wooden folding chair creaked as Benedict leaned back. ‘That makes no sense,’ he said to no one in particular.
‘So she has been giving you the run around?’ Michelle persisted.
Benedict shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m not sure I can accuse her of that. She’s made it very clear that she’s not interested in more than—’
He stopped short, and Michelle saw two pink spots flare on his cheeks.
‘It’s OK,’ she told him. ‘I’m a grown-up. I know all about—’ She lowered her voice. ‘S.E.X.’
The pink spots flared again. ‘Yes, but not in relation to me.’
‘Do you have anyone else to talk to?’ said Michelle.
Reluctantly, he shook his head.
‘Then suck it up, Opie. Besides, I’m badly in need of a distraction, now that my beloved husband has buggered off.’
Taken aback, Benedict blinked. ‘I, er — I thought he was away on business? That’s what Harry told me.’
‘That’s what we told Harry,’ said Michelle. ‘He’s not gone for good,’ she added. ‘Well, as far as I know …’
‘Um,’ Benedict began. ‘May I ask why he’s decided to—?’
‘Finding himself,’ said Michelle flatly.
‘Really?’
‘See, even you think it’s bullshit!’
A couple of the other mothers turned to stare in their direction. Michelle smiled and waved.
‘It is bullshit, isn’t it?’ she hissed at Benedict.
‘Well—’
‘Have you ever gone off to find yourself?’
Benedict laughed. ‘I’ve spent the last ten years trying to lose myself.’
Michelle stared hard at him. ‘Are you telling me you’re on the run?’
‘Not from the law,’ he assured her.
‘From who, then?’
Benedict gave her a pleading look. ‘Must I?’
Michelle held his gaze until his shoulders sagged in defeat. Then she patted his knee. ‘Look on the bright side,’ she said. ‘It’ll take your mind off your futile aspirations to get closer to Aishe.’
‘So you think they’re futile?’
Benedict was facing the highchair that the café had provided, spooning baby yoghurt into Rosie’s mouth. He was trying very hard, Michelle noted, to sound casual, though it would have been obvious even to Helen Keller that he’d been working up to ask just that question for the last hour.
It had been Michelle’s idea that they go to the café for lunch rather than back home. One minute she’d been in conversation with Benedict, the next he’d muttered ‘Shit’, leapt out of the chair and swooped down to present Harry with the red engine. But it had been too late — the train thief was jeering and Harry was in tears. Benedict had picked up Harry and given the other boy a look that left him in no doubt that, if parents had not been present, he’d have felt the toe of Benedict’s boot inserted deep in his fundament. Unimpressed, the boy poked out his tongue and ran cackling to his mother who, engrossed by her iPhone, had been oblivious to the whole episode.
‘Probably putting a bid on eBay.’ Michelle had reached out to take Harry from Benedict. ‘Because God forbid you should have one too few Anya Hindmarch clutch purses.’
She’d kissed her son’s tear-stained face. ‘How about we blow this joint, buddy? I think I hear waffles calling.’
‘Waffles!’ Harry had beamed and clapped his hands.
Michelle had caught Benedict’s eye. ‘Just like his father,’ she’d said. ‘The Hindenburg could be exploding right in front of them and they’d still come running if you yelled “Pie!”’
Harry even ate waffles like Chad, Michelle observed. Steadily, deliberately — a scrape of butter, a dollop of syrup, one bite at a time. Whereas for Rosie the food could never come fast enough. Even being fed by Benedict, out of whose backside Rosie believed the sun normally shone, she was making impatient ‘ah-ah’ grunts between mouthfuls.
That’s how she’ll approach life, thought Michelle. She’ll gobble it up, devour it rind, pips and all, and still want more. I think that’s how I used to be — wanting, nay demanding more. Now, I’d settle for what I had. That would be more than enough …
‘Michelle, do you think my hopes are futile?’ said Benedict again.
He wants more, too, thought Michelle. If he hopes to get it from Aishe, I suspect he’ll be shit out of luck. But then again, who am I to tread on a young man’s dreams?
‘Perhaps futile is a bit harsh,’ she said. ‘But when was the last time Aishe had a full-time relationship? Not since she was married, right? And that’s, what … eleven years ago?’
She saw Benedict’s whole body droop with dejection. He lowered the yoghurt spoon, which unleashed an unholy shriek of protest from Rosie. Hastily, he resumed feeding her.
‘Do you have any insight into why that’s so?’ he asked Michelle.
‘I don’t know her well enough to say,’ she shrugged. ‘From what I’ve heard from her brother, she’s always been aggressively independent.’
Benedict glanced around, surprised. ‘I’d forgotten that you know her brother. Or, rather, you know her brother’s girlfriend, is that right?’
‘Both.’ Michelle’s shoulders slumped. ‘Although the girlfriend — my friend — isn’t speaking to me at present.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s complicated.’ Michelle gave a warning nod in Rosie’s direction. ‘Watch it. The geyser’s about to blow again.’
‘You,’ Benedict said to Rosie as he swivelled back, ‘are more demanding than Jennifer Lopez on tour. God preserve us all when you start stringing whole sentences together.’
‘I think she’s happy enough barking one-syllable orders,’ said Michelle. ‘I know it’s always worked for me.’
‘Look.’ Benedict was showing Rosie the empty yoghurt container. ‘All gone.’
Rosie’s brow darkened and she made a lunge for the offending plastic pot. With a magician’s flourish, Benedict produced a cookie from behind his back and held it up. Rosie’s eyes grew big.
‘My!’ she said, and snatched the cookie from his hand.
Benedict and Michelle exchanged a startled glance.
‘Was that her first word?’ Michelle asked.
‘Has she ever said anything else?’
‘Nope. So far, we’ve been restricted to yells, screams and the odd high note to rival the Queen of the Night’s number in The Magic Flute.’
‘Mozart wrote that part for his sister-in-law,’ said Benedict. ‘She was a coloratura soprano. The top note in that aria is high F.’
‘The F-note?’ Michelle smirked. ‘Appropriate. The F-word is what most people say after one of Rosie’s screams.’
She looked across at her son, who was still steadily ploughing through his waffle.
‘Did you hear that, Harry?’ she said to him. ‘Rosie said her first word.’
Harry swallowed. ‘What was it?’
‘My!’ said his mother.
Harry shrugged. ‘Figures,’ he said, and went back to eating.
And your father missed it, Michelle added silently. He won’t know for a month because I’ve promised not to contact him unless it’s a life-or-death emergency and, likewise, he won’t be phoning home.
Chad told Harry that where he’s going on business they don’t have phones. Thank God Harry’s too young to know that even sub-Antarctic explorers and Gobi Bedouins have mobile coverage these days.
Michelle felt tears prick, which both surprised and annoyed her. She should be angry, she railed, not sad! She had a right to be angry. But it eluded her; the only emotion present was grief.
‘Are you all right?’
Benedict was peering at her, his brow creased in mild concern. He really does have the most beautiful eyes, Michelle thought. So big and smoky green, and surrounded by those long, blond eyelashes. And he’s such a nice boy, too. Not wimpy; naturally decent. What is Aishe thinking? she wondered. If I were her, I’d snap him up.
She rebuked herself. What was she thinking? She did snap up a decent-hearted, handsome blond boy. She snatched him, bedded and wedded him — and that, she thought, was that. But it seems he had plans of his own.
‘I wish my husband hadn’t gone away,’ she said to Benedict.
A quick glance told her Harry was fully focused on his food, but she lowered her voice anyway. ‘And I’m crapping myself a bit that he might not come back.’
‘Is that really a possibility?’
Michelle shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I simply don�
�t. And that’s the trouble. I used to be so freaking sure about everything. But now …’
‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘When you’ve been on one track for so long, it seems you gather so much forward momentum that you get carried along regardless, no matter how badly you may want to jump off.’
For a moment he looked about twelve years old, and it was all Michelle could do not to grab him and clutch him to her bosom. That would be highly dangerous, she warned herself. Both of them lonely and in need of comfort — she could see how easy it would be to take it a step too far.
Still, she thought, it’s nice to have someone to talk to — nice to have someone who wants to talk to her. And the boy was her children’s nanny after all. Nannies have always been reliable goto people for your problems. Mary Poppins. Calpurnia. Mammy in Gone with the Wind. As long as she didn’t get drunk and do anything stupid, Michelle decided, they should be fine.
‘Come on,’ she said to Benedict. ‘Let’s take these two home. Even if Rosie won’t take a nap, Harry will. We can chat in relative peace.’
She saw his look of hesitation. ‘Or have you got plans for this afternoon? I didn’t think you tutored Gulliver on Tuesdays.’
‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘It’s the one day Aishe doesn’t work or go to the animal shelter. She likes to spend it with Gulliver. They study in the morning, and then they usually have some sort of expedition in the afternoon. Gulliver said they planned to go walking around China Camp.’
Michelle silently noted that his information had come from Gulliver, not Aishe. For Pete’s sake, thought Michelle crossly. If her only intent is to use the poor boy for sex, she should pay him by the hour like she does for tutoring. That, at least, would be a more honest arrangement. Right now, the lad was still holding out a fraction of hope that sex might lead to something more meaningful. Michelle thought he should do his mental health a favour and present Aishe with a gift-wrapped vibrator, right before walking out for good.
Looking at Benedict’s uncertain expression, however, Michelle decided to hold that thought for another day. He clearly had enough on his mind as it was.
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 16