by Anna Legat
The old couple in the car park had really spooked him. He saw his bleak future mapped out for him, drawn by a template applied to so many sad bastards before him. Trevor had to shake it off. It wasn’t meant to be so for him. He hadn’t been made for great things, not necessarily, but surely he deserved a little bit better than a pat on the head in his old age. And a passenger seat...
No.
It was a beautiful day. The foliage of shrubs and trees was bursting at the seams, just like the woman’s shirt, filled to the brim with her rippling bosom. Yes, this was the detour Trevor was meant to take! She wasn’t a figment of his imagination. She was out there on the road, waiting for him to notice her. Trevor had. She would be his salvation. They would start slowly – it was called foreplay – something that had totally passed him by with Sandra. With Sandra it had been checkmate from the start. Too quick for Trevor to notice he was being snared. This time it would be Trevor doing the snaring. The woman – he had to give her a name... Isolde, from Tristan and Isolde – so Isolde would be his prey. She was all for it – thus the game of catch me if you can. He would, because she wanted to be caught, but there would be a long and lazy foreplay – a partisan war of come and go, ebb and flow... Once he got his hands on her, there would be no holding them back. Fast and furious, they would find the nearest lay-by. He would park in front of her car, would leave the door open and the engine running, would go to her, open her door, grab her by the hair and pull her face up towards his. It would be a hard, urgent kiss. He would pull the lever by the side of her seat and the back of her seat would go down; Trevor would force himself onto her, her breasts squashed under his weight, she gagging for air–
‘Daddy, what do you call this one? Mummy calls it cowslip because some cows, if they’re not careful, can slip on it and hurt themselves. That’s what Mummy says.’
‘She might be right though I never saw a cow slip.’
‘You mean – like a cow having a slip and falling down?’
‘Yes, that.’
‘Hm... Is it also a cowslip in Latin?’
‘No. In Latin it’s called primula veris – the first one of the spring.’
‘This must be the last one because it’s summer already!’
‘Aren’t you a clever little cookie!’ The man picked the little girl up and lifted her to his shoulders. She sat there astride, holding on to this neck for her dear life. Trevor knew that man. He would see him here often. The man worked at the arboretum – he wore their green shirt with the logo. It was the first time however that Trevor found the man in the company of a little girl, a girl who called him Daddy. Picture perfect, Trevor reflected, when they’re young, but then they grow up and you can hardly recognise them. Perhaps it is different with girls... Trevor knew his boys wouldn’t be arsed to come here with him to smell the roses, or cowslips, or whatever. They lived on a different planet where there was no vegetation, only keyboards and screens.
The Arboretum Man (as Trevor called him, not knowing his real name) nodded to him and smiled. Trevor responded in the same way. They usually did just that – nodded to each other like two old friends who didn’t need to exchange unnecessary pleasantries, and then they would be on their separate ways. Today, the Arboretum Man looked particularly pleased with himself. It had to be the little girl. She made him happy. Trevor, on the other hand, would be happy if he were left undisturbed. As it were, those two happy-go-luckies had interrupted his line of thought and now Trevor could not get back into the swing of it. He had to go home, and face the music.
*
Margaret had a plan. It all hinged on a plan, and Margaret had it. She wouldn’t have to advertise her condition around Poulston, no one would need to know. Alison would carry on with her life in blissful oblivion. Juggling a career and two young children, she had enough on her plate, never mind her mother’s old age ailments. That was all that there was to it: old age. Margaret had read up on cancer. In her mind it wasn’t the upper-case Cancer anymore; it wasn’t the unspeakable C. More than half of the population would get it some time or another, and a lot of them would get over it. A lot of us would get over it, Margaret reiterated.
She was in the process of getting over cancer. There was a plan: mind over matter and good organisational skills. Margaret had those in abundance. The surgery was scheduled for Monday fortnight. Margaret had two weeks to get Vic used to the nurse. She had gone through a private agency, checked her references. Nothing could go wrong. The nurse’s name was Samantha Orwin. She was thirty-two, a pretty thing with a short boyish haircut and freckly nose which she didn’t try to camouflage with makeup. She was the sort one could trust, Margaret was a good judge of character. She was a single mother – it happened nowadays and it meant nothing at all as far as her character was concerned. Margaret asked about the child – what would she do with the child for five, possibly seven nights; she couldn’t bring the child here, Vic wouldn’t be able to cope with competition.
‘Imogen will be staying with my mother on the south coast. It’s a holiday treat. I was going to go with her but I need the money.’
‘And I need your help,’ Margaret had smiled at Samantha, a warm smile brimming with gratitude. ‘How old is Imogen?’
‘Five. Will be five in two months’ time.’
‘My grandsons – two boys, identical twins – are about the same age, a bit older: seven, nearly eight.’
It had been a good start, promising.
Getting Vic to accept her could be a challenge. Or it could be a piece of cake, because one never knew with Vic. On the one hand, he had become very suspicious; on the other, every day he had to relearn his family’s and friend’s faces, so one more face should make little difference.
‘Vic, dear, this is Samantha. She will keep us company from time to time, help around the house, God knows I need help!’ Margaret had practised her lines beforehand. She wanted them to come out naturally. Vic had a sixth sense about her – he would know straight away if she were afraid and tried to deny it. Cunning old fox he was, even with dementia blunting his wits. ‘Why don’t you say hello? Make friends?’
Samantha came out from the shadow in the hallway. She was dressed in non-threatening, everyday clothes, the way Margaret had asked her: a dress, soft pastel colours, knee-long. She stretched her hand out to Vic, ‘You can call me Sam.’
‘You can call me Vic, Sam.’ he replied with all the lucidity in the world. One would think there was nothing wrong with him because he grinned at the nurse, and – lo and behold – he winked at her!
Margaret was flabbergasted. It wasn’t a twitch or a blink – it was a mischievous wink! The sort of come-on, babe wink, accompanied by that wicked grin one could only associate with ... with a dirty old man. Margaret didn’t know which way to look. Mortified, she gazed at the nurse, imploring her silently but vehemently to please, please, not take it personally; Vic wasn’t like that, this was a small misunderstanding – something got into his eye... But Samantha Orwin wasn’t on her way out. She was smiling. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. Heard a lot about you.’
‘Marg must’ve kept you locked up in the closet. She told me nothing about you. I can see why,’ he shot a reprimanding glance at Margaret. He patted a seat on the sofa next to him and said to the nurse, ‘Why don’t you sit with me?’
It wasn’t just a good start – it was beyond Margaret’s wildest dreams! They sat together, the three of them, like old friends, chatting about this and that, relaxed and chummy. Margaret had poured tea and showed Samantha how Vic liked his: milky with three sugars, and it had to sit for a few minutes to cool down before it was okay to hand to him. He would keep it in his lap, as he did now, drink a couple of gulps, as he did now, and put the rest back on the table, as he did now. And now, unlike on many previous occasions, he did not spill any of it. He was positively thriving!
Fifteen minutes later, aware that Vic’s attention span wasn’t what it used to be and conscious of the nurse’s time, Margaret asked her to come with he
r so that she could show her all there was to show in terms of Vic’s medication, sleeping arrangements and dietary requirements. As Samantha got up from the sofa, to her and Margaret’s utter horror, Vic slid to the edge of his seat and pinched the young woman’s bottom. And he winked at her one more time before falling back into the depths of the sofa and nodding off.
*
Emma was home before Ben. This didn’t happen often, if ever. It felt strange walking into the house and being welcomed by a stony silence. It was literally stony, as the tiles on the ground floor were made of the stuff, gorgeously cold on a warm August afternoon and really practical if you had a piddling dog around the house. Emma had the carpets replaced by the tiles two months ago, shortly after Piddles had moved in with them.
Her shoes resonated on the tiles, which must have alerted Piddles in the garden. She could hear him howl outside the kitchen door. Emma kicked off her high heels in the hallway and carried the shopping to the kitchen, Piddles’ wailing intensifying with every minute. Soon he embarked on trying to scratch his way inside the house through the door. Silly boy!
Emma poured herself a generous glass of white wine, the beautifully cool Chablis she kept in the fridge. It tickled the tip of her tongue and melted into her palate. Such a good feeling to be able to open a bottle of wine and have a glass or two after a long day at work! Emma relished her newly found freedom. It had been far too long that she couldn’t as much as smell alcohol without receiving a condemning glance from Ben. Alcohol affected their chances of conceiving... Well, no longer! She could do as she pleased. She could drink what she pleased. She was the master of her own destiny.
She opened the door to let the dog in. He ran straight into her arms, or rather at her stomach, and made a few futile attempts at mounting her. ‘Silly boy, Piddles!’ Emma laughed. ‘Sit! Sit down!’
She exerted little authority over the dog. He was such an excitable creature! There was no holding him back. He abandoned the idea of muscling her to the ground after tearing her tights along her left leg where the slit of her skirt weakened her defences, and shot across the house to search for his master, the pitter-patter of his padded paws fading and promptly returning to the kitchen. He gazed at Emma, a big question mark in his silly brown eyes: ‘Where is Daddy?’
‘I wish I knew, Piddles,’ she told him. He went off on a second round of home espionage.
Emma took another sip from her glass. Perhaps she should unpack the shopping and put things in the fridge: the mascarpone cheese and the milk, plus the two pieces of lemon sole she had bought on Ben’s explicit instructions. He was planning a lovely Friday feast for two, like every Friday, a routine Emma adored. Just the two of them enjoying a quiet supper in the garden. Except that Ben wasn’t back from work, which was odd, unusual and rather unsettling for Emma. She shoved her shopping, bags and all, into the fridge, and took out the wine. Poured another glass. Drank it slowly, contemplatively.
*
There he was – behind a bouquet of red roses and with Piddles running mad circles around him. He was kissing her on the forehead, smiling, telling her how sorry he was to be late. ‘You won’t believe how busy it was. The place heaving with kids and grandparents... the last day of school! I couldn’t leave, not until closing.’
‘I was wondering... Of course, last day of school – what do you know! Not a date in my diary,’ she laughed and finished off her wine.
His face dropped. ‘No,’ he said, pensive and distant, ‘it wouldn’t be.’
Emma didn’t wish to pick up on that mood. She said, ‘I got everything you asked for. Tell me, what’s the mascarpone for?’
‘Ahh, for me to know, for you to find out!’ and he was gone to busy himself in the kitchen: to cook and whip out a culinary storm as only Ben could; arrange the flowers in the vase; feed Piddles.
Emma pressed the power button on the TV remote. Pointless was on. She wasn’t really watching, just resting and revelling in the comforting sounds of Ben pottering around in the kitchen. It didn’t go unnoticed that he had not given her a scolding look when he saw her with a glass of wine in hand. He had accepted it. They were moving on. She loved him so very, very much!
She would never be able to tell him about the abortion. She was working damn hard to forget about it. But that day had this uncanny ability to come back to her. Like a boomerang – the harder she threw it away, the quicker it came back. It had been a surreal day – a day from somebody else’s life, because it didn’t feel like it had anything to do with her. Having made all the necessary arrangements, Emma had called in sick. In a way, she was sick – morning sickness of apocalyptic proportions. She had to go to the hospital for the procedure. Sick people go to hospital. She had driven herself to the hospital, and had driven herself back home. She didn’t quite recall the bit in the middle, perhaps she didn’t want to remember it. Anyway, what was there to remember? She had been under anaesthetic the whole time and when she woke up it was all over. It had been such a long time ago it should hardly even be a memory. Seven years, almost eight... Those days her focus lay on making a name for herself in the banking world, climbing up the ladder, perfecting her skills and defeating the competition. Banking is a cut-throat industry, no room for breaks in career and the ever-present fear of hidden weaknesses, such as ill health, an elderly parent or... a baby. She hadn’t been ready for tying herself to a pram then, she wasn’t ready now. She would never be ready. It was such a relief to know that Ben had finally come to accept it.
*
The mascarpone was for tiramisu, Emma’s favourite. It was well soaked with Marsala, the way she liked it. By then, she was well pickled and loving Ben more and more with every mouthful. Gratuitous sex was on the cards: no strings attached, no babies in the making, just sex to repay Ben for his fantastic efforts. Emma was contemplating slipping into that pink and black lace teddy he had given her for Christmas – she liked watching his face when he looked at her wearing it, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tightening. She wanted to make him happy.
He really shouldn’t have spoilt it – didn’t have to – but he had done it nevertheless. He said, ‘There were so many kids at the arboretum today.’
‘You did say.’
‘I thought... I wonder what Emma would make of this idea,’ he grabbed her hand and kissed it, ‘I wondered, would she like to have one of them, maybe not fully ours, not fully hers, but just a little person to love –’
She pulled her hand away. ‘We’ve had that conversation before, Ben. It’s boring.’
‘No, we didn’t have it. I’m not talking about another IVF. I’m talking of a child to take as ours. People use surrogates, all sorts. People adopt. And if she was mine then she would be ours, she would be our girl – despite everything – if only you could come to –’
Perhaps Emma had had too much to drink. Perhaps she had been taken by surprise and didn’t quite think it through, but she could not hold back the outpour of grief. She shouted, ‘So now it’s a she?! We’re having a girl! Halleluiah! Have you ever asked me what I want? Do I want to bring up somebody else’s brat because somebody else couldn’t give a shit to do it themselves? Why should I? Why should I give a shit? I’m trying to have my own life – with you. The two of us. I’m trying to be happy and you’re doing everything in your power to spoil everything!’
‘I was just asking you –’
She wasn’t listening. She was so damn hurt. He had lied to her. He had never got the bloody idea out of his head! She went on, ‘So now at least I can drink because Ben is letting me off the hook, right? I don’t have to give birth, no worries. Someone else will! We’ll just adopt, take the kid as ours, give her a loving home! No! I say, no! No, no, no!’
He hid his face in his hands, elbows pressed into the table. His fingers curled and pulled at his hair. Only now did Emma realise he was sobbing. Grown man! But he was. The dog was doing its best to cheer him up: forcing its paw into his lap, trying to lick the side of his leg. She had gone too far. Her hea
d was spinning on the reel of her anger and intoxication. It wasn’t like Emma. She wasn’t herself. She collapsed back in her chair, reached out to her husband, her fingers hovering over his shoulder. She had to soothe him, make him stop. She said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. We can try again. Another IVF. How about next year? How about this autumn? Let’s take a nice long holiday and then... I’m sorry. Say you forgive me.’
*
They bumped into each other at the door. Trevor had just pulled up in the driveway, behind a white van. He wondered for a split second if he had the right house, but then the key seemed to fit in the front door.
The man was on his way out. He was wiry and swarthy, carried a metal toolbox. Trevor expelled a friendly hi and let the man out. The man muttered an indistinct 'Goodbye' with a foreign tilt to it. Trevor closed the door behind him and was faced with Sandra standing in the hallway, half-smile fast fading on her lips. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, mild irritation evident in her every move. It was another split second of confusion for Trevor. Had he just witnessed a strange, rather exotic-looking man leaving his home upon his arrival? Was Sandra having a fling on the side, with a handyman? The thought made Trevor shiver with excitement. He would welcome the idea. A fling would give Sandra something to worry about, would draw her attention away from Trevor. He really didn’t need her attention right now.
He was standing behind the door, relishing this moment. It seemed rather perverse to rejoice considering that he would be the one betrayed, yet Sandra’s failing – this tiny failing – would take away her halo of sainthood. They would be equals: Trevor with his unrealised promotion and Sandra with her handyman-lover.
The bell rang behind his back and made him jump. The handyman had returned. He was pushing the door at Trevor, his ruddy face only a breath away from Trevor’s. That breath smelled of tobacco. It struck Trevor as highly unlikely that Sandra would’ve overlooked that in her lover. She was dead opposed to smokers, always made a big show of waving them away and coughing theatrically in their presence. But then again, lust was blind. Or was it love that suffered from blindness? Was Sandra capable of either?