As if he’d sensed her escalating ire, Benedict had glanced over. She’d seen him recoil just a little before he quickly looked away. Aishe had kept watching, eyes boring into the pair of them, scanning the body language. Izzy had been standing close to him, but not touching. But then Benedict had said something that made both Gulliver and Izzy laugh. And Aishe had seen Izzy drop her head briefly onto Benedict’s shoulder.
No, Aishe had thought. No. You can’t have him.
She’d become aware of Eddie standing beside her. ‘Young Benny there’s going to take this session.’ Then he’d moved closer. ‘Why don’t you come and sit by me?’
And that had been it. Looking back, Aishe could be grateful that Gulliver’s presence had restrained her from making a complete spectacle of herself. But nonetheless, she and Eddie had flirted shamelessly. In no time, he’d draped his arm around the back of her chair and insinuated his fingers under her own arm to explore the curve of her breast.
Aishe had let him; their chairs were to the rear of the band, and all the students and Izzy, who’d been put in charge of the music sheets, were facing away from them. By contrast, Benedict, out in front, was positioned for an unobstructed view of Eddie’s covert groping. To Aishe’s immense satisfaction, he’d struggled to keep his focus on the music and on the band. When for the third time he’d had to apologise for his inattention, Aishe had seen Izzy give a sharp glance their way, as if wondering whether they were to blame. She’d have seen nothing but two grown-ups appreciating the children’s efforts, Aishe had thought with grim pleasure. Stupid blonde cow.
After forty-five minutes, Benedict had called a halt.
‘Break time,’ Eddie had whispered in her ear. ‘Want to come downstairs to my office? I’ve got a stash of hard liquor.’
Aishe had been under no illusion that liquor would be the only hard thing she’d find in Eddie’s office. And she’d hesitated for around twenty seconds — the exact time it had taken for Izzy to link her arm in Benedict’s and put her lips to his ear.
‘Why the fuck not?’ Aishe had said.
Why not fuck? was a truer statement, Aishe thought as she stared up at her bedroom ceiling. I let him do it, let him take me up against his filing cabinet because I was under the insane delusion that an act like that somehow constituted revenge. It was quick and dirty and, in other circumstances, in other days long gone, I might even have enjoyed it. But as soon as it began, I knew it was a mistake. And then all that self-righteous heat drained out of me, and I felt cold and soiled and foolish.
Another small thing to be grateful for, Aishe thought. Eddie clearly had no intention of asking for anything more. They had straightened themselves up in — in Eddie’s case — cheerful silence. He even started whistling, at which point, Aishe recalled, she’d started to fantasise about killing him. She’d seriously considered putting a knife through his heart when he ushered her through his office door and they had bumped straight into Benedict. Benedict had stopped dead and she’d seen him take in first her then Eddie. He had shown absolutely no scintilla of doubt about what they’d been doing.
‘I have to go,’ he’d said to Eddie. ‘Sorry. Emergency.’
‘Yeah?’ Eddie had shrugged. ‘OK, no biggie. I’ll take over.’
‘Ben?’
Aishe had glanced up to see Izzy jogging down the stairs. She’d stared, uncertain, at the group at the bottom, her frown in no way diminishing the quite astonishing prettiness of her face.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Iz. Yes.’ Benedict had risen up on the balls of his feet, as if itching to make a fast getaway. ‘Got to go, though. Something’s — er, come up.’
‘Oh. OK. I’ll grab my bag.’
And before Benedict had been able to protest, she’d dashed back up to fetch it.
‘Um.’ Without meeting anyone’s eye, Benedict hooked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Can you tell her I’ll meet her outside the front door?’
‘Sure, buddy.’ Eddie had clapped him on the arm. ‘Have a good one. See you next week.’
Aishe had not been able to say a word.
Only a day and a half had gone by since that evening. To Aishe, it felt like years. Benedict had been due for tutoring duty yesterday afternoon, as usual. Aishe had made an excuse to Gulliver and left before he arrived. But he was there when she got back. For about a minute. He’d said his goodbyes civilly enough, but that was all. Aishe had known there was nothing she could say, so she hadn’t tried. She expected that’s what things would be like from now on.
I’ve lost all my leverage, all my power, she thought. This time, I’ve blown it for good.
She glanced over at the digital readout of her alarm clock, glowing biliously in the darkened bedroom. Five forty-six.
Oh well, she thought as she lay there, wondering if she could be bothered getting up. I can think of one last tiny thing to be grateful for.
No one but me, Benedict and Eddie knows anything about this.
Benedict lay in bed and tried not to move or think. He did not want to move because he might wake Izzy and no doubt she would expect him to make love to her again.
To be fair, it wasn’t exactly terrible making love to Izzy, but it wasn’t what he wanted. It certainly wasn’t what he’d planned.
The events that had led to Izzy being in his bed were one reason he was trying not to think. The other was his confession to Michelle. He wasn’t proud of either of these things, nor was he at ease about the potential ramifications. In both cases, he felt as if he’d rubbed a bottle and released not a helpful wish-granting genie but one that actively craved to do him harm. And it was too late to grab the stopper and shove it back in.
The night before last, he’d wanted to die. Fucking Eddie. Benedict so rarely used the word fuck that it startled him even to think it. But fuck, he’d railed! How could she have fucked fucking Eddie! Eddie would hump one of his own guitars. No doubt he already had.
He’d stood on the pavement outside Eddie’s guitar shop and wanted nothing more than to drive to the nearest clifftop and throw himself off. But as he lacked both a car and adequate knowledge of local geography, he’d had to settle for pacing bet ween lampposts.
I don’t want to wait for Izzy, he’d thought. I don’t want to be around anyone. But even as he’d had the idea of leaving, it was too late.
‘So what’s up?’ Izzy had said.
‘Nothing,’ he’d said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She’d studied his face for a moment. ‘Yeah, righto,’ she’d said. Then she’d looked around. ‘There’s a pub over there. Want to go get a drink?’
Benedict hadn’t been able to help himself. ‘Here it’s called a bar.’
Izzy had shrugged. ‘Pub. Bar. Same diff.’ Then she’d taken him by the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll shout you a piss-weak American beer.’
And if I’d stopped with one or two of those, thought Benedict, I might have emerged unscathed. I might be lying here right now peacefully, mercifully alone.
But the beer had been followed by the drinking of tequila. Izzy had proved a master and he a shameful novice. Benedict dimly recalled a chanting crowd, the patrons at the bar egging them on. Or it might have just been me, he thought. By then, I wasn’t exactly in full control.
He had no recollection of getting back to his flat. He certainly had no recollection of making love to Izzy. But in the morning, there she was, sitting on the edge of the bed in one of his t-shirts, holding out a cup of coffee.
‘I’m pulling a sickie today,’ she’d said. ‘The bitch boss will have a complete spaz but who cares?’
‘Shit!’ Benedict had caught sight of the alarm clock. He’d scrambled out of bed and stood up, a move he’d instantly and fundamentally regretted.
‘Mate.’ Izzy had laughed as he’d collapsed back down on the bed. ‘You cannot go to work today. You’re still pissed as a chook.’
Once he’d worked out that she meant he was still inebriated, Benedict had been forced to admit she was ri
ght. But the choice had been either to drag himself to Michelle’s or spend the day with Izzy. And do — God knows what.
He’d gazed at her with some trepidation. ‘Did we, um? You know?’
Izzy had burst out laughing. ‘You could hardly bloody stand, let alone give me one.’
‘Oh.’
‘I wouldn’t mind though,’ she’d added. ‘If you want to.’
She’d set the mug of coffee down on the bedside table and flopped back down onto the bed. Benedict had tried again to stand up, and for a moment he’d succeeded.
‘I really have to go to work,’ he’d said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No worries,’ she said. ‘I’ll hang around here. Catch the bus into town tomorrow.’
Alcohol and excellent manners conspired to rob Benedict of any ability to come up with an alternative plan. And when he’d arrived home last night, there she’d been. She served him dinner, made him watch Survivor, and then taken his hand and led him to bed.
It wasn’t bad, thought Benedict. I didn’t hate it.
But what I did hate was the fact that it wasn’t Aishe. And that it couldn’t be, because she’s now chosen to sleep with a person who humps guitars.
Prone on the bed, Benedict could hear Michelle questioning why he had believed himself in love with Aishe in the first place. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t purely physical?’ Michelle had persisted. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. Many a right-thinking man has mistaken a screaming, nipple-bitten orgasm for true love.’
Benedict had fudged his answer to Michelle. The physical side of his relationship with Aishe had been, as Michelle had blush-inducingly suggested, astonishing. But there’d been so much more to it than that. Put on the spot, though, he’d said something trite, like he felt they were meant to be together. Michelle had snorted into her cappuccino.
Which was fair enough in the circumstances, because that explanation was a lie. Benedict had fallen in love with Aishe because he’d truly believed he could be the one to make it all OK for her. He’d believed that, metaphorically, he could be the next three-hundred-pound black man in her life.
The problem was that Aishe didn’t even see him as a man. And, having had the benefit of a first-class British education, Benedict knew that a metaphor could only be stretched so far.
25
Aishe was staring at Connie, Michelle decided, like a rabid trade unionist might stare at Queen Elizabeth — with a conflicted mix of revulsion and respect. Connie seemed to represent everything Aishe clearly felt should be eradicated like smallpox from women’s lives: an antediluvian courtesy, an air of apologetic submission, and the wearing of flesh-coloured pantyhose. But Michelle saw that Aishe also recognised that Connie was unflinching and scrupulously honest in her assessment of herself. She has more courage than the pair of us, Michelle thought. We’d sooner die than publically admit that anything we’ve done has been unwise or wrong.
Michelle had been surprised to see Aishe. For a while now, Michelle had been pretty certain that Aishe was only turning up because she wanted to be closer to Benedict. Now that Benedict and Izzy seemed to be an item, Michelle had expected Aishe’s visits to stop.
Michelle felt no resentment about this. Aishe didn’t strike her as a calculating user of other people, but as a woman whose instinct drove her to act in the way that was most expedient at the time. Aishe was attracted to Benedict. Benedict was at Michelle’s, so Aishe came to Michelle’s. Simple. No other motive at work.
So when Aishe had knocked on her door, Michelle hadn’t been able to prevent a small double-take. Fortunately, Aishe hadn’t seemed to notice. Her thumbs had been hooked casually in the belt loops of her jeans but the set of her jaw had told Michelle that Aishe was nowhere near relaxed. Michelle wondered if she’d come over to get the lowdown on Benedict and his new girlfriend. If so, she was out of luck. There was nothing Michelle could tell her because Benedict, as if paying penance for his earlier confession, had refused to reveal even the most inconsequential detail of his relationship with Izzy. More grievously, in Michelle’s opinion, he had failed to drop any clue to how Aishe was feeling about his defection. Having heard Benedict’s version of events, Michelle suspected she knew full well why Aishe had “had a liaison” (as Benedict insisted on calling it, despite Michelle fuelling him with a range of more descriptive terms) with the guitar man. ‘She was trying to make him jealous,’ Michelle had told Connie, ‘and it backfired like an old banger. Cheaty-cheaty bang-bang! How she must be kicking herself. Which is exactly what I want to know – how? Why won’t the little Pommy bastard tell me?’ Connie had insisted Benedict was being a gentleman. Michelle had replied that she’d give him one last chance and then she’d have no choice but to kick him in the nuts.
‘I have a friend over,’ Michelle had said to Aishe. ‘The one I told you about.’
Aishe’s head had tilted back in surprise. ‘One of the bitch wives?’
‘Connie’s no bitch, but she certainly could do with lessons.’ Michelle had opened the door wide to let Aishe in. ‘So come and join us.’
Connie had tactfully acted as if she had no prior knowledge at all of Aishe or any aspect of her personal life, when thanks to Michelle, those two subjects had up until that moment been the sole topic of conversation. And while Connie’s naive courtesy may have been a little disingenuous, thought Michelle, it had also been a wonderfully effective way to elicit information from Aishe. I’d probably have got the same result by grilling her, thought Michelle, but it would have been a battle. Whereas in fifteen minutes, through perfectly innocent questions about the tutoring arrangements for Aishe’s son, Connie had managed to find out that a) Aishe had not spoken to Benedict since last week, b) she, too, had no idea if he and Izzy were serious, and c) both those things bothered her intensely.
To be fair, thought Michelle, Aishe did not actually admit the last point out loud. But her staccato answers and tightly folded arms made it obvious. Up till that point, Michelle had been openly gleeful that her plan to separate Benedict from Aishe had worked. OK, so almost no action on her part had contributed to its success, she admitted, but it had been her idea. And it had been necessary, hadn’t it? Aishe was treating Benedict like crap and he deserved to be rescued.
But now, seeing Aishe tense and wary but also somehow resigned, like a stray dog finally locked in a cage, Michelle was starting to have doubts. I still believe she was behaving badly with him, Michelle thought. But maybe it would have been fairer to hear her side of things, give her a chance to explain why?
Oh well, thought Michelle. Too late now.
‘Where’s Gulliver?’ she said. ‘Don’t you two usually go out on Tuesday afternoons?’
Aishe didn’t quite meet her eye. ‘He wanted to stay home and practise for the concert.’
‘You must be very proud of him,’ said Connie.
Aishe frowned, as if suspecting mockery. But Connie’s smile was warm.
‘Do you have kids?’ Aishe said.
Connie’s smile faltered. ‘I’m afraid not. My husband and I — we couldn’t …’
‘Couldn’t what?’ said Aishe. ‘Have sex?’
‘Jesus, Aishe!’ said Michelle. ‘What do you think she means?’
‘There are couples who don’t have sex. It’s documented. How am I supposed to know what she means if she won’t say it?’
Michelle was about to step into her, when Connie said, ‘You’re quite right. I shouldn’t shy away from the subject. My husband and I were Rhesus negative,’ she said to Aishe. ‘I had three miscarriages and then decided not to try again.’
‘I’ve never had a miscarriage,’ said Aishe, after a moment. ‘Must be hell.’
‘The last one was the morning before a big charity auction we’d planned to attend,’ said Connie. ‘I’d been so thrilled to receive the invitation — it was a real society event. I had bought a wonderful dress. Had an appointment to have my hair done. We were being picked up in a limousine …’
‘You were spared,’ s
aid Aishe. ‘People who go to those events are invariably the kind of people you’d aim for on a pedestrian crossing. And then reverse over, just for good luck.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Connie. ‘I went. We both went, Phil and I.’
‘Phil made you go after a miscarriage?’ Michelle was appalled.
Connie offered Aishe a smile. ‘Michelle is convinced my husband treats me badly. Phil did not make me,’ she said to Michelle. ‘He insisted that I should stay home and he should look after me. But I was more insistent.’
‘You’re a mad woman,’ said Michelle. ‘The mad woman of Shalott.’
‘It’s the Lady of Shalott,’ said Connie. ‘And the Madwoman of Chaillot.’
She smiled sadly again. ‘That night I felt like both. Cursed and mad. I mingled with all those people and I talked and laughed as if nothing was wrong. I don’t know how I did it. Or why. Maybe I needed to pretend I was human. Because what I really felt was that there was nothing inside me. No organs, no bones, no blood. Nothing. I thought if someone took a knife and slit me from throat to stomach, I would open up like a tailor’s dummy. Poor Phil,’ she added. ‘He did not enjoy himself one bit that evening.’
‘Poor Phil, my arse!’ said Michelle. ‘Poor you! Sounds worse than hell.’
‘You’ve never had a miscarriage either?’ said Aishe.
‘I wanted to get pregnant and have babies,’ said Michelle, ‘so that’s exactly what I did. The possibility it might not happen never even crossed my mind.’
‘I thought about it,’ said Aishe. ‘Thought about terminating, too. For a millisecond.’
‘My friend’s giving more thought than that to a termination,’ said Michelle. ‘I think she’s insane.’
‘It’s her choice,’ said Connie quietly, ‘no matter how much you may personally disapprove.’
‘I truly believe that is balls!’ said Michelle. ‘There are very few choices we can make in isolation. Losing weight, getting fit, giving up smoking — even that one affects people around us; they can breathe again. But everything else has some knock-on effect for others. Darrell hardly got pregnant through an immaculate conception. So how can you say it’s her choice?’
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 21