The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘I thought he wanted to hurt me.’

  His mother was silent for a moment. ‘I tried to tell him that,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ said Benedict. ‘That he didn’t want to hurt me? Mother, he left notes with pictures of guns on them.’

  ‘He said it was a joke between you.’

  ‘How could it be a joke?’ Benedict knew he should not raise his voice. But the concept was so unutterably bizarre that he couldn’t help it. ‘How could it ever be seen as even faintly amusing?’

  ‘He said he gave you the same kind of joke gun once. The kind with the flag that pops out that says “Bang”. He insisted you would make the connection.’ She clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘I tried to tell him.’ Benedict recalled the gun on his bedroom bookshelf — and what he’d done with it, which was to pick it up gingerly and take it out to the garage, where he’d wrapped it in layers and layers of newspaper, covered the whole parcel in tape and shoved it deep into the rubbish bin.

  That gun looked very real to me, he thought. But, as Aishe pointed out, I was only ten. If it had been a joke gun, what was the point of it? A reminder of my failure with the real gun? I suppose that was in keeping with my father’s character. He could never be described as a nice man …

  ‘But if I knew it was a joke, then why would I run?’ said Benedict. ‘What could he possibly have thought my reasons for running were?’

  His mother paused. ‘He thought you were playing a game with him. Catch me if you can. He thought you’d set him a challenge.’

  Benedict was shaking his head, partly in disbelief, and partly as if the movement could help rearrange his scattered thoughts, like so many Scrabble tiles, into some kind of pattern.

  ‘Mother, that’s absurd. That’s — delusional.’

  ‘He thought you’d finally found your independent streak.’ His mother sounded weary now. Or sad — Benedict couldn’t be sure. ‘He thought that after being such a good, quiet boy all your life, you’d finally decided to be adventurous. He loved the fact that you did so well at school, but he was worried that you would spend your life being a follower — that you’d drift along, always playing by other people’s rules. He was worried you’d never break out and discover who you were, or what you were capable of. He said he’d tried lots of time when you were young to provoke you into showing some kind of spirit. So when you finally did break out and show some gumption, as he put it, he thought it was marvellous.’

  ‘How could he have believed that?’ Benedict voice sounded distant, disconnected. ‘That’s absurd …’

  ‘Your father always saw just what he wanted to see,’ said Benedict’s mother. ‘And the thing is, you’d be amazed at how often whatever he saw became real.’

  34

  Michelle was feeling guilty about Connie; more specifically, about her failure to phone Connie and find out what was happening with her and Phil. It had been almost a week now. Michelle knew she could justify her lack of contact — she’d been slam-dunked with her own marital issues, hadn’t she? — but since her conversation with Patrick, she had been nagged by a new understanding that, when it came to friendship, she was, as she’d put it, a bit shit.

  Perhaps, she thought, it’s because I choose to be friends with a certain type of woman? Women like Darrell and Connie, who tolerate my bulldozer nature because they are kind and generous enough to assume that I mean well. Whereas other women, like those in my mothers’ group, just avoid me as a rude, bossy cow. And it’s true — since I moved here, I have been all that and more, Michelle thought, because I’ve felt threatened and angry and bitter. I was undoubtedly a rude, bossy cow back home in Charlotte, too, but there I was a happy cow, so I didn’t put people off as much. I should give up going to the mothers’ group, she thought. Benedict can go on his own, and those women can be spared having to interact with the steaming, shitty pile of hostility and resentment that goes by the name of Michelle Lawrence.

  Michelle picked up a white square of card from the kitchen table. It was a ticket to Gulliver’s concert, which Aishe had personally delivered yesterday afternoon. Michelle had almost decided not to go — neither Gulliver nor Benedict could babysit, and she’d initially been too annoyed to ask Chad. But Aishe’s handing over of the ticket, while effected in her usual offhand, couldn’t-give-a-damn manner, had contained undertones of need that even Michelle, in her distracted state, had picked up on. She really, really wants me to come, thought Michelle. But she’ll never tell me why; I can only guess. Aishe keeps everything so close to her chest it may as well be fused with her sternum.

  Michelle wondered if Aishe considered her to be a friend. I’m not sure Aishe knows how to be a friend, Michelle thought. I may put people off by being rude and intolerant, but Aishe puts people off with the kind of defences you’d expect to find surrounding a biological weapons factory. She has the effect of one of those forcefields, Michelle decided, that leave nothing but a glowing imprint of a human shape and a stub of smoking spinal cord.

  It was ten to two. Both Rosie and Harry had gone down for an afternoon nap. Michelle picked up the phone to call Connie. And then she changed her mind.

  ‘Hi, I’m probably writing or daydreaming right now,’ said Darrell’s voice. ‘Leave a message and I’ll return your call when I’m back in the real world.’

  ‘Hi.’ Michelle found she wasn’t sure how to continue. She took a deep breath and plunged in regardless.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been a crap friend. I have no right to tell you how to live your life. I should have listened and kept quiet. I hope you’re OK.’ She hesitated. ‘I miss you. Call me. If you want to. You don’t have to. Sod it. You know what I mean. Just freaking call me, all right!’

  She hung up, then cursed the fact that there was no rewind and erase function on voicemail. Mind you, she thought, voicemail’s not the only place that’d be useful. Just think if you could do that with your life. Michelle suspected glumly that if that were possible, her life would be a non-stop series of back-and-forth jerking movements. It’d be like riding a bumper car, she thought, only without the fun.

  Oh well, Michelle thought, dialling another number. Let’s see if I can do better with Connie.

  But she was thrown the instant her call was picked up and a man’s voice said, ‘Phil Hayward.’

  ‘Phil.’

  With an effort, Michelle brought her voice down from where it had landed, somewhere up near the note of high C.

  ‘Hi. It’s, er, Michelle Lawrence here. Chad’s, er—’ Jeepers, move it along! ‘Is Connie there?’

  ‘Connie? Sure,’ said the cheerful-sounding man Michelle had thus far considered to be a life form several levels below the Ebola virus. ‘I’ll get her for you.’

  ‘Connie,’ said Michelle, when her friend answered. ‘I’m sorry — but what the fuck?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Phil. Why is he at home? I thought the firm sold your desk if you took a sick day?’

  ‘Oh!’

  Connie sounded, to Michelle’s irritation, as if she were smiling. So much for me worrying about her, thought Michelle. Well, not that I did; I was too preoccupied. But if I had — what a waste.

  ‘That may be,’ Connie continued, ‘but Phil no longer works at the firm.’

  The definite amusement in her friend’s voice forced Michelle to discard her first reaction, which was that Brandi had smacked him with a sexual harassment suit and the firm was bundling him out the back door.

  ‘Better job?’ Michelle felt a small stab of envy as she asked. Connie and Phil would never be broke and homeless.

  ‘Eventually. But right now, Phil’s taking a sabbatical,’ said Connie. ‘I’ve applied to study English Literature as an undergraduate at Oxford.’

  ‘Oxford in England?’

  ‘Well, there is an Oxford in Alabama,’ said Connie, ‘but it is a little lacking in dreaming spires. If I’m accepted, we’ll move to England next
summer — Phil will apply for a job in London.’

  ‘What will he do until then?’ Michelle said. ‘There’s only so much Zumba a man can do in a day.’

  Connie’s glee was radiating down the phone line. ‘We’re off to Paris,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll spend Christmas in Berlin. Phil’s always wanted to see Berlin.’

  I’ll bet, thought Michelle. All those naked bath-houses and grubby cabaret shows.

  ‘So it’s just a holiday?’ said Michelle. ‘He’s not — finding himself or anything?’

  If that were the case, Michelle decided, the irony would be unbearable.

  ‘No, we both wanted to go,’ said Connie. ‘We thought a change of scene, some time together …’ In a rush, she added, ‘We want to try again. To have a baby, I mean.’

  The shock of it startled Michelle into a response of genuine and sincere pleasure.

  ‘Connie, that’s brilliant. I’m so happy for you.’ Then she said, ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘Saturday,’ said Connie. ‘Conchita will look after the house for us.’ She paused. ‘Which I’m sure will be fine.’

  ‘So I guess you won’t want to come to a teenage rock concert with me and Aishe tonight?’ said Michelle glumly.

  ‘That’s very sweet,’ said Connie. ‘But no. Phil and I have to put the final touches on our itinerary.’

  Michelle’s earlier pleasure at Connie’s baby news was tipped like so many eyes of newt into a small bubbling cauldron of resentment and envy. If she were to be completely honest, she had rung purely to dump all her problems on Connie and hear sympathetic noises in return. She had not expected to be the one doing the listening, nor to feel worse as a result. And Connie hadn’t even asked once about Chad’s return home, even though she knew how wound up Michelle had been about it. Sheesh! Call herself a friend?

  Yes, all right. Michelle gave herself a mental slapping. Friendship went two ways — she really must remember that. This wasn’t about her — it was about Connie. Good friends were able to be generous. If you can be happy about the babymaking, then you can be happy about the marriage, Michelle told herself. Even if, deep down, you feel life is monstrously unfair, and you’d rather rail and moan like a self-centred, bitter curmudgeon.

  ‘I’m glad it’s all OK with you and Phil,’ Michelle said. ‘I knew that cow Becca was lying.’

  ‘Oh no, she wasn’t at all,’ said Connie. ‘No, Phil had been sleeping with Brandi for over a year. The poor girl took the break-up very badly, I must say. I had her on my doorstep only the evening before last, full of threats and recriminations. But I simply sat her down and repeated to her, calmly and firmly, that it was over, and that she couldn’t touch us. In the end, she gave in and just cried on my shoulder. Poor girl,’ Connie added. ‘Rejection is so hard to accept when you’ve been convinced that youth and beauty are all the power you need in the world.’

  ‘Connie …’ Michelle’s brain made at least three false starts before she was able to find suitable words. ‘Connie, how can you not be furious? How can you just — forgive him like that?’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said Connie. ‘To tell you the truth, I have been trapped for so long by such dull emotions that to feel real anger, to feel what it is like to fight rather than flee, was a rare treat. But what’s the point in staying angry? Even if it does make me feel more alive, it’s just another trap. I don’t want to be stuck any more. I want to know what it’s like to live and love without being hampered by duty and convention and worry. I want to enjoy life.’

  Michelle’s cauldron of resentment had stopped boiling. All that was left was a pall of gloom so dense that she feared she might suffocate.

  ‘Will you email me?’ she said, not caring that it sounded pathetic.

  ‘My dear,’ Connie sounded genuinely touched, ‘of course I will!’

  Michelle wasn’t convinced, but she had no choice but to accept the promise. And what will be will be, she thought. No matter what I want to happen.

  35

  ‘I said—’ Gulliver reached out and poked Benedict with a ruler. ‘I’ve finished it.’

  ‘Right.’ Benedict blinked at him. ‘Er, well done.’

  ‘I didn’t say I finished it correctly.’ Gulliver swivelled from side to side on the chair. ‘But, as it happens, I did. A clean one hundred per cent. Like a boss. I think I need to move up a level.’

  ‘Right …’

  Gulliver gave his tutor an appraising look. ‘We could give up studying and play Halo? Or,’ he added when there was no response, ‘we could surf porn sites. There’s one with Latvian schoolgirls that’s supposed to be super hot.’

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Benedict.

  ‘I thought you weren’t listening.’

  Benedict sat forward and propped his forearms on his knees. ‘The words “Latvian schoolgirls” are pretty much guaranteed to gain anyone’s attention.’

  ‘How about playing Halo then?’ Gulliver said. ‘I did get one hundred per cent.’

  ‘How about music practice?’ Benedict said. ‘After all, you are on stage in—’ He checked his watch. ‘Two-and-a-half hours.’

  ‘Nah.’ Gulliver shook his head. ‘I’m practised out. I don’t mind listening to music, though.’

  ‘Well—’

  Gulliver ignored his tutor’s faint protest and opened up the music file on his computer. ‘I got some new stuff from one of the guys in the band.’ He clicked play. ‘What do you think?’ He noted the expression on Benedict’s face. ‘Not your thing, huh?’

  ‘It sounds like a load of engine parts in a tumble dryer,’ said Benedict. ‘Only not as melodious.’

  ‘Norwegian death metal,’ said Gulliver. ‘Barstad. It’s the last name of the singer,’ he added. ‘I’m not insulting you.’

  ‘I can just about cope with Rammstein,’ said Benedict. ‘But that, I fear, is a monotonous grinding guitar riff too far.’

  ‘Banging,’ said Gulliver.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Dr Dre. Your musical opinion has been noted.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Gulliver, hitting pause. ‘I can hear banging. On the front door.’ And he slid off the chair, and lolloped down the stairs.

  ‘It’s Patrick!’ Benedict heard Gulliver yell upwards.

  ‘Oh joy,’ said Benedict to the empty room.

  To be fair, he thought, Patrick hadn’t said anything that morning, or alluded to anything, or even looked at Benedict in a particularly pitying manner.

  But it’s the fact that he knows, thought Benedict. That’s what makes my skin crawl with humiliation. He knows that I had no idea my father had died. And, perhaps worse, that I had no one in the world who cared enough to tell me.

  What a sad little boy I must seem to him, thought Benedict. Oh well. I can’t change that. I can only do my best to pretend I’m something more.

  ‘I’m going to take Gulliver,’ Patrick said to him as he entered the kitchen. ‘He has to be there early. Aishe will come later with Michelle.’

  Benedict stopped and frowned. ‘Who’s babysitting Harry and Rosie?’

  ‘Their dad, I gather,’ said Patrick. ‘You ever met him?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Benedict. ‘However, I have seen photographs.’

  Gulliver handed him a soda. ‘Doesn’t mean he’s alive,’ he said. ‘She could have his mummified corpse in the basement.’

  ‘When your mind isn’t in the gutter, it’s straight out of a Charles Addams cartoon,’ said Benedict.

  ‘Someone tried to give me an Addams Family nickname when I was younger,’ said Patrick. ‘Lurch. Like the butler. I persuaded them otherwise.’

  ‘Whereas Gulliver’s hair more resembles Cousin Itt,’ said Benedict.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re on about,’ said Gulliver, glancing between the two men. ‘But you’re kind of weirding me out.’

  Patrick cast an amused look at Benedict. ‘Do you need a ride, too?’

  Benedict’s heart sank. He knew he should be at the concert for Gulliver’s sake. But the
prospect of being in the same room with Izzy and Eddie and Aishe was so appalling that his brain was shutting down before the thought even made it halfway. He’d been searching desperately for a valid excuse to bail, but short of injuring himself in a way that would require urgent medical attention (without actually being life-threatening), he had drawn a blank.

  ‘Benedict’s got a ride,’ said Gulliver, with a leer. ‘Her name’s Izzy.’

  ‘Oi,’ said Patrick. ‘None of that. Show some respect.’

  ‘Respect, again. What is the deal?’

  ‘Deal is simple,’ said Patrick. ‘You show respect, I won’t clip you round the earhole.’

  ‘Are you sure you two have never met before?’ Gulliver muttered.

  ‘Come on,’ said Patrick. ‘Get your stuff organised. We’ll grab a taco on the way. Though if you want to stay friends with your band mates, I strongly recommend you hold the beans.’

  When they were ready and outside the front door, Patrick turned to Benedict. ‘Sure you don’t want a ride?’

  Benedict shook his head and watched as Gulliver and Patrick drove off in Patrick’s rental, a brand-new silver BMW. If he’s renting that standard of car, Benedict decided, I bet he drives something seriously expensive at home.

  If I were a real man, he thought, as he began to trudge down the street, I’d have my own car. I wouldn’t be trekking to the bus stop and sitting with all the other cash-strapped, disappointed losers. I would be able to afford new shoes and pay the power bill. I wouldn’t have a wardrobe of clothes that don’t actually require a wardrobe because they can all fit into a compact rucksack. I wouldn’t be earning the minimum wage, with no prospect of advancement. I wouldn’t feel aimless, directionless and hopeless.

  Most of all, thought Benedict, listlessly kicking at a horse chestnut, I wouldn’t be dreading tonight. If I were a real man like Patrick, the kind with a car, I’d be taking charge of the situation. I’d be telling Izzy that it was over, Eddie that he’s a wanker, and Aishe to get naked and into my bed.