The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

by Catherine Robertson

  The pink spots flamed on Benedict’s cheeks. ‘Yes, I do, thank you!’

  ‘Izzy take pity on you, did she?’

  ‘You, young man,’ said Benedict after a pointed pause, ‘are sailing very close to the wind. If you want to find out what happened, then cast no more aspersions.’

  Gulliver drew his fingers like a zipper across his mouth.

  ‘Very well,’ said Benedict. ‘What happened next was that I woke up, convinced I was being suffocated by a giant balloon animal. I realised that I was face down in the cushions, and when I rolled over, I found myself staring up into the face of my father.’

  ‘Was he mad?’

  ‘Angry? No.’ Benedict shook his head. ‘He was laughing at me. He reached down to offer me a hand and, as I hadn’t much choice, I took it and let him pull me into a sitting position. As it turned out, that was a bad move on his part. As soon as I sat up, I threw up. All over his expensive trousers and his polished shoes. He cursed and leapt backwards. Then some instinct in me took over, and I managed to clamber to my feet and run like hell.’

  ‘Did he chase you?’

  ‘If he did, he soon lost me. I’d learned to take notice of my surroundings, observe the short cuts. I didn’t bother to go back to the youth hostel. I always kept my passport hidden on me.’

  Something was bothering Gulliver. ‘What did you do for money?’

  ‘Worked casual jobs,’ said Benedict. ‘Lived off the money my father had given me as a reward for being accepted into Oxford. I had taken it out of my account the day after he’d deposited it and put it into an account in Switzerland.’

  ‘You had a Swiss bank account?’ Gulliver looked sceptical.

  ‘Worked for the Nazis,’ said Benedict. ‘Why not me?’

  ‘Got any of it left?’

  ‘Not a bean. It always made me feel cheap, sullied, when I spent it. So I spent it as fast as possible.’

  ‘So,’ said Gulliver, ‘that was the last time you saw him? How long ago was that?’

  ‘Over a year.’

  ‘Heard from him since?’

  Benedict hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ve not heard from him for quite a while.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Gulliver. ‘Maybe he’s given up? Or maybe he got mugged in some back alley and was stabbed to death and shit?’

  ‘You ghoul!’

  ‘That’s what you want though, isn’t it?’ said Gulliver.

  But Benedict didn’t reply, and the two sat in silence.

  ‘I wish I had a father,’ said Gulliver. ‘Not a psycho like yours, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But — well, it’d be good to know who he was, at least.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Benedict was surprised.

  ‘Nope. Mum only knew his first name. She was super young,’ he added.

  He’s worried that I might think badly of his mother, Benedict thought. I don’t. But I am puzzled. Aishe Herne has never struck me as a woman who would fail to discover the name of her child’s father. Even if she hadn’t known it at the time, which I suppose is credible, I believe she would have found it out later. Just in case it might be of use to her, one way or another …

  ‘Speaking of your mother,’ said Benedict, ‘we should get back to your studies. That’s what she pays me for, after all.’

  ‘I’ve been learning,’ said Gulliver, as he swivelled his chair back to face the computer. ‘Geography, psychology, a bit of language — and how not to have sex. Really educational.’

  Then he yelled, ‘Ow, ow, ow!’ and yanked his head away from Benedict. He gazed up at his tutor in offended disbelief. ‘What was that?’

  ‘That,’ said Benedict, ‘was the most exquisitely painful ear tweak known to man. The technique is passed down from schoolmaster to schoolmaster. I can tell you that it’s all in the wrist.’

  ‘That’s child abuse,’ said Gulliver.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Benedict. ‘I’ve had more experience than most.’

  Aishe came back from the animal shelter expecting Benedict to be gone. Instead, he was waiting for her outside, by her gate.

  Her first reaction was one of panic. ‘Is Gulliver OK?’

  Benedict frowned. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Embarrassed, Aishe hid it with belligerence. ‘What do you want? Why are you lurking?’

  Benedict shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and scuffed the ground with his shoe. ‘Look, this is none of my business …’

  ‘Well, sod off then.’

  ‘… but Gulliver told me today that he wished he knew who his father was.’

  Aishe stared at him. ‘Did he?’

  ‘I just thought you ought to know,’ said Benedict.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Boys need fathers,’ he said quietly. ‘Even absent ones.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘I’m not criticising you in any way,’ said Benedict. ‘You’ve done an amazing job. He’s a fantastic kid. And if his father were dead, then this would be a moot point. But he’s not dead. Is he?’

  Aishe hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. ‘Gee, it’s been great to chat,’ she said. ‘But I really must get on.’

  She walked past him and then, as if she’d forgotten something, she slapped her palm lightly to her forehead and turned.

  ‘Oh, and Benedict?’

  Benedict faced her, partly puzzled, partly hopeful.

  ‘If you mention this subject again — to me, to Gulliver, or to any other living being, for that matter — I’ll fire you. Comprende?’

  And she went through her front door and shut it behind her.

  Although Benedict had expected exactly that reaction, he was still surprised by how much it stung. Through his head ran a litany of retorts. Why don’t you fire me? I’m sure there’s at least one other person out there prepared to accept the pittance you pay me. A wino, perhaps? Yes, let me find you a willing wino. Gulliver can learn all about the care and management of weeping sores and how to marinate your brain in meths.

  But it wasn’t just the fact he was staring at a closed door that kept him quiet. Those retorts, he realised, would never be uttered.

  I won’t say a word, he thought, because I’m so desperate for human connection that I’ll accept it in any form. I’ll accept a low-paying tutoring job because being friendly with a fourteen-year-old boy is better than having no friends at all. I’ll accept open hostility from his mother because any contact with her is better than none. And I’ll accept into my bed and my flat a woman who thinks Picasso is a Pokemon, because anything — and I do mean anything — is better than being alone.

  Izzy was spraying cheese from a can onto a dish she’d previously filled with corn chips and refried beans. The cheese was emerging jaundice yellow from the nozzle and landing in a moist, swirling trail that made Benedict think of an unwell dog.

  Cheese in a can was one of the many things Izzy loved about America, along with frozen cookie dough, Old Navy and Joan Rivers on the Shopping Channel. ‘Man,’ she said. ‘That chick’s had so many facelifts, she’s got a beard!’ Benedict had heard that joke before, but he laughed anyway.

  ‘What is in that stuff?’ he asked.

  Izzy paused to read the back of the can. ‘It’s got milk in it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Who cares? It tastes OK.’

  If you’re drunk at two in the morning, then possibly, thought Benedict. But he didn’t say it.

  ‘I’ll switch on the grill,’ said Izzy. ‘Oh, I forgot. I mean — the broiler. The bitch boss acted like I was a retard when I called it a grill. A grill’s a barbecue, apparently. I mean who the fuck wants to broil anything? “I’ll have my nachos broiled.”’ She gave a shudder. ‘Sounds stupid.’

  ‘We English used to use it not that long ago,’ said Benedict. ‘It simply means heating something intensely. It’s quoted in The Jabberwocky, as part of the definition of brillig — the time when you begin broiling things for dinner.’

  Izzy stared at hi
m. ‘The Jabber-what?’

  ‘Nevermind,’ said Benedict. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Izzy put the dish of nachos in the oven, then stopped at his chair to lean against his back and drape her arms around his neck. She kissed him on the side of his jaw.

  ‘You really do have a lot of shit in that head of yours, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Benedict tried not to wince as Izzy curled her leg around and sat facing him on his lap. It wasn’t that she was heavy, but manoeuvres like this were invariably a precursor to sex. Gulliver’s jibe came back to him with a certain force of irony. Oh, I get a lot, Gulliver, he thought. Whether I want it or not.

  Izzy wanted it. She lifted his hand and placed it under her t-shirt. Izzy never wore a bra; she didn’t need to. Her breasts were full but as yet unaffected by age and gravity. They were fantastic breasts, Benedict had to admit. But right now, I’d rather be holding a book.

  When Izzy began to unbutton his jeans, Benedict tried frantically to think of an excuse. The options he came up with were angina, brittle bone syndrome and cystitis, and he was on the verge of being desperate enough to pick one when the room was filled with the smell of burning cheese.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Izzy leapt off him, grabbed a dishcloth and yanked open the oven door. When she plonked the smouldering dish down on the table, Benedict saw that the cheese was still bright yellow, but also now hard and shiny, like a piece of bad pottery glazed in a kiln. The corn chips and beans that were visible were blackened.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ Izzy said. ‘You can just pick off the burned bits.’

  And that’s exactly what Benedict did. He even ate some of the burned bits so that Izzy wouldn’t have to.

  I can’t tell, he thought as he tried not to gag, whether I’m a gentleman or a moron. The history of the British aristocracy would suggest that it’s entirely possible to be both. Take Sir Walter Raleigh, he of the cape and the puddle. He was a perfect gentleman yet the queen still imprisoned him for acting without her permission. What was it he did again? Oh yes, thought Benedict. He got married.

  For a moment he was gripped by a dread so intense he felt the strongest urge to glance over his shoulder. It was like the room had been entered by some malevolent presence — one whose inimical attention was focused like a poisoned dart pipe on the back of Benedict’s neck.

  Then he felt a second urge, this time to look at Izzy, which he did, very carefully, as if she might suddenly have transformed into something with scales and very long fangs. She hadn’t. She was smiling at him. Her cheeks, her eyes were glowing with that most potent mix of youth, health and beauty. Her hair was a cloud of spun gold — there was no other way of putting it. She was gorgeous, ravishing, and she was all his. And she was right here, sitting in his kitchen, where she’d be again tomorrow morning after she’d shared his bed. And the following evening, she’d put the shopping on the bench, rub his shoulders and cook him dinner, and …

  Oh God, thought Benedict. Goddamn it all to the darkest depths of hell.

  She’s my milkmaid and I’m her swain. She’s my Greensleeves, my nut brown maiden, my lassie coming through the rye. These two joined hearts let no man put asunder. For ever and ever, amen.

  I’m done for.

  27

  ‘Harry!’

  The boy had startled Benedict by suddenly yanking free his hand and taking off up the track. The path up the mountain was wide and open but it turned a sharp corner up ahead and Benedict, stuck in charge of Rosie’s stroller, feared he’d lose sight of him. The riverbed was dry, waiting for the winter rains, and they were far too low to meet any predatory wildlife, but if Harry headed into the trees, he could easily disappear. The thought of losing Harry was terrible enough to contemplate, but it paled against the prospect of explaining it to Michelle.

  ‘Harry, stop!’

  But he already had, in front of a copse of slim, young trees. Benedict saw him stretch up on tiptoes and pluck something out of a fork in the branches. He turned back, his face gleeful, and held up his hand.

  ‘Teddy!’

  Bumping up with Rosie’s stroller, Benedict saw that Harry did indeed have a teddy in his hand — a small, plush, chocolate brown one.

  ‘He was in the tree.’

  Harry waved the bear in the air and then clutched it to him. ‘I’m going to keep him.’

  ‘Well, it might belong to someone,’ said Benedict. ‘It might belong to a little boy just like you, who might be coming back to look for him. That’s why someone has left him in the tree — so the little boy could find him.’

  From the boy’s mulish expression, Benedict judged this was cutting little ice with Harry. ‘I found him,’ he said, and clutched the bear tighter.

  ‘Yes, you did. But he’s not really yours, is he?’ Benedict squatted on his haunches. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t you leave him here, just in case the little boy comes back soon? But if Teddy is still in the tree when we get back from our walk, then you can have him.’

  Harry’s bottom lip slowly started to recede. He loosened his grip on the bear and stared down at it, brow creased in thought.

  ‘If the boy comes back, he’ll be happy.’

  ‘Yes, he will,’ said Benedict.

  Harry gazed at him with his big golden brown eyes. ‘And if he doesn’t come back, I can have his teddy.’

  Benedict nodded.

  Harry frowned down at the bear again and then held it up to Benedict. ‘You have to put him back in the same place, so the boy can see him.’

  ‘I will.’ Benedict took the toy and stood up. ‘Good decision, young man,’ he said. ‘Very unselfish.’

  ‘Well,’ said Harry, beaming happily, ‘even if the boy takes him, Daddy will bring me a toy anyway when he gets back. He’ll bring me lots of toys.’

  Benedict hid a smile. There was something to admire about three-year-old logic.

  Teddy back in his leafy perch and Harry’s hand once again safely in his, Benedict pushed the stroller at ambling pace up the path.

  ‘Are you missing Daddy?’ he said to Harry.

  It was a question Harry had to think about. ‘It’s nicer when he’s here,’ he said. ‘But it’s important that he works.’

  Christ, thought Benedict. How did he come to that conclusion? He’s only three.

  ‘Why is it important?’ he had to ask.

  ‘Daddy has to look after us,’ said Harry.

  So much for breaking down gender stereotypes, thought Benedict. Germaine, Betty, Gloria — I’m afraid the battle’s not yet won.

  ‘Doesn’t your Mommy look after you, too?’

  This question also gave Harry pause for thought. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But Daddy looks after us more.’

  I should not ask this question, thought Benedict. It’s not fair on the boy. But I simply must.

  ‘So what might happen if you didn’t have Daddy to look after you?’

  Harry gazed up at him in surprise. ‘Daddy will always look after us.’

  There was no doubt in him at all, thought Benedict. Not one tiny jot. Benedict didn’t know whether he found this reassuring — or exactly the opposite.

  Harry was pulling on his hand. ‘Can we go back now?’

  The turning point Benedict had in mind was at least another ten minutes’ walk. But Harry had been about as patient as you could expect, given the lure that lay back there on the path. And there were stirrings from the stroller that meant Rosie’s sleep was nearing its end. Rosie always woke in a foul temper, and calming her with attention and food would only mean more delays.

  ‘All right,’ said Benedict. ‘But stay with me. Don’t run on ahead.’

  As they walked back, Harry skipping and hopping with impatience and anticipation, Benedict found himself praying that the anonymous little boy had not come back to look for his lost bear.

  We all have to expect disappointments in our lives, he thought, but that doesn’t mean they need to start today.
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  Aishe came home from the shelter late so she could avoid Benedict. She found Gulliver alone in the kitchen, aiming their digital camera at the table, on which were spread all the photographs of her family.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘I want a record,’ he said. ‘My own record. I’ll keep it on the computer.’

  It’s a reasonable request, thought Aishe. So why do I want to smack that camera from his hand and rip everything on this table to shreds?

  Gulliver bent over and took a photo of his cousin. He peered at the screen on the back of the camera, checking that it had come out.

  ‘I emailed Great Uncle Jenico again,’ he said.

  Aishe was glad that she was opening a cupboard. The door hid her face from Gulliver.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yeah — I had a question for him.’

  Aishe decided it would be wise to put down the glass she was holding. Her grip on it was hazardously tight. She could not bring herself to ask Gulliver what his question had been; she could already think of too many, none of them palatable.

  Gulliver spoke anyway. ‘I asked him about my dad.’

  I’ll kill him, thought Aishe. Benedict Hardy is a dead man. But before that, he’s a maimed and tortured man. Horribly. Lengthily. In fact, death is too good for him.

  Gulliver stopped to take another shot. Aishe stood very, very still.

  ‘He told me he didn’t know anything about him,’ said Gulliver.

  Aishe’s relief was immense. Just because she’d given her uncle the same story she’d given Gulliver didn’t mean Jenico had accepted it. The concept of family had a special potency in her uncle’s world. Even the most tenuous tie was not something to be discarded lightly. Who knew what Jenico may have managed to find out?

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said Aishe. ‘Because there’s nothing to know.’

  Gulliver lowered the camera. ‘You were only five years older than me, right?’

  Where was this going?

  ‘Yes,’ said Aishe. ‘I was young and stupid. But I don’t regret it,’ she added quickly.

  Gulliver stared at her. His expression was hard to read.