The Road to Zoe

by Alexander, Nick

  But I interrupt him. ‘Would you mind if we took a break?’ I ask. ‘I think I need a moment on my own.’

  Something is rising within me. For the moment I’m not sure if it’s sorrow or rage, but whatever it is, it feels massive and uncontrollable and I need to be alone with it. I need to not be in this tiny overheated room with my son.

  ‘I might go out for a walk,’ I say. ‘Would that be OK?’

  ‘A walk?’ Jude repeats. ‘But it’s freezing out, Mum.’

  But I’m already standing, I’m already in the hallway, grabbing my purse from the windowsill and my puffa coat from the hook. ‘Don’t worry,’ I call back to Jude. ‘I’ll be back in a bit.’

  The second I close the front door behind me, it swings open again. Jude calls after me. ‘Your phone,’ he says. ‘Don’t forget your phone.’

  I spin on one heel and return to take it from his outstretched hand. Telling him, in the most reassuring manner I can manage, ‘Don’t worry, I’m just going for a walk around the block,’ I turn back towards the street and stride rapidly away.

  I walk to the top of our road and then turn instinctively towards Solomon’s Temple. I walk past Zoe’s old school and then, realising that, in muddy darkness, Solomon’s Temple is impossible, I take a right and head back towards town.

  My mind, for the moment, contains nothing but a blur of images – it’s as if someone has thrown my thoughts into a spin dryer. There’s so much to think about, that’s the thing. There’s so much to think about and so much to avoid thinking about that I don’t know where to start or where to make myself stop.

  Eventually, I reach the edges of the town centre and, as I walk past the Old Clubhouse, I glance in through the window and see the flickering log fire and the cosy glow of the bar. Whisky, I think, which is a strange thought for me to have, as I’ve never been a whisky drinker in my life. But I suppose it’s what people do in films, isn’t it, when faced with impossible situations? Perhaps they all drink whisky because it helps?

  I take a seat at the bar and when the barman, who looks too young to be working anywhere let alone in a bar, appears, I ask him for a double whisky.

  ‘Whisky,’ he repeats, then, ‘Any particular whisky?’

  Something about the word sounded wrong coming from my mouth. Whisky, perhaps, isn’t me, I think. ‘Actually, make that a large house white,’ I say. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  Once he’s served me and I’ve paid, I move to a corner seat. The bar is pretty much empty. Just one young couple are present on the sofa, by the log fire, and a businessman in a suit has just entered and is standing at the bar. None of them even glances my way, and I’m glad to be able to imagine that I’m invisible.

  I take a hefty sip of wine and wonder if it was a mistake, not ordering whisky. The wine seems somehow too ordinary for such exceptional circumstances. My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I pull it out and check the screen. On it is a text message from Jude. ‘Are you OK?’ it says, simply.

  I reply that I’m fine and that I just needed a breath of fresh air. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I tell him, and I wonder if that’s true.

  The text sent, I take another swig of wine. It’s surprisingly good for a house white. I suspect that it’s Pinot Gris. Ian always had a thing for Pinot Gris.

  I push the phone around with one finger. Ian, I think. I should call him. We could talk about what happened with our daughter.

  But what did happen? Jude said that nothing had really happened, but of course from Zoe’s point of view everything had happened. Her beloved father had left not only me, but her as well. He’d even told her he didn’t want her to live with him. He’d replaced me, Zoe, Jude – all of us – with a new fully formed family.

  Suddenly, I’m catching my first glimpse of the turmoil that must have been present in my adolescent daughter’s mind. Had I been too selfish, too wrapped up in my own misery, to imagine what my daughter was feeling? Perhaps I had.

  I click on the contacts list and swipe my way down to the letter ‘I’. I look at Ian’s number for a moment, but then continue swiping my way down to S. Scott’s number is absent. Of course it is. I google ‘Scott Theroux, tree surgeon’ just to see if I can, just to see if I actually have that option.

  ‘Call this number now,’ his webpage says.

  I tap my fingers on the table top for a full minute before thinking, What the hell, and click on the inviting green button.

  Scott answers immediately and just the sound of him saying, ‘Hello?’ is enough to make my heart ache.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say, quietly.

  ‘Sorry, who is this?’ Scott asks. I can hear the television set playing in the background. Canned laughter. Applause.

  ‘It’s me. It’s Mandy,’ I say.

  There’s another much longer pause, during which I listen once again to the sound of the TV. It’s a Jimmy Carr thing that he’s watching, I can tell. I’d recognise Carr’s fake laughter anywhere.

  ‘Are you OK?’ is what Scott finally says. Scott, as always, is Scott. And the first words he says after a full eight years of being avoided are words of concern for my well-being.

  ‘No . . .’ I say, starting to cry. ‘No, Scott, I’m not OK at all.’

  ‘OK . . .’ he says. ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘No,’ I say, barely able to speak through my sobs. ‘I’m in a pub, in town.’

  ‘Tell me which one and I’ll come,’ he says. ‘I can be there in about half an hour.’

  It takes Scott just over twenty minutes to arrive – twenty minutes, during which I repeatedly pick up the phone, fully intending to tell him not to bother. It seems absurdly unfair to be asking Scott for help after everything that has happened, plus, the conversation we need to have seems impossible – I just can’t imagine which words I might use. But try as I might, I can’t think of anyone else on planet Earth I want to talk to right now, so each time I put the phone back down on the table and push it away from me with one fingernail.

  He bursts through the door at twenty past nine, scans the room and strides urgently across the bar to join me. He’s aged considerably in the eight years since I last saw him. He’s filled out, gained a few smile lines around his eyes and even started to go grey at the temples. But age suits him, it really does. If anything, he looks even more handsome, even more rugged, than before.

  He crouches beside me and says, ‘Thank God! I was sure you’d be gone by the time I got here.’

  ‘Nope,’ I say, my throat tight. ‘Still here.’ I nod towards the bar. ‘Go get yourself a drink.’ I need a few seconds to adjust to the sight of him, to get used to the fact that he’s really here.

  Scott nods and stands. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Good idea. Refill?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m already squiffy,’ I tell him. I raise my half-empty glass. ‘This is my second.’ Thinking about what I drank at home, I add, ‘Actually, my third. At least.’

  I watch him at the bar, alternating between his usual easy manner with the barman and worried glances sent my way. When he returns, pint in hand, he sits opposite me.

  ‘So what’s happening?’ he asks. ‘I could hardly believe it when you called. Talk about out of the blue.’

  I open my mouth to speak but I don’t know where to begin. I close my eyes and shake my head and try to hold back a fresh bout of tears, but I can feel them slipping down my cheeks already.

  Scott takes my hand and the sensation – the warmth of his skin, perhaps a full degree warmer than my own, the roughness of his gardener’s hands – feels so familiar, feels magical, really. My tears start to flow freely.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Scott asks, squeezing my hand in his. ‘Tell me. Is it Jude? Is Jude OK?’

  I nod and shake my head confusedly, attempting to answer both questions at once. ‘He’s fine,’ I say. ‘Jude’s fine. It’s me, Scott. I’m such a terrible person. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’re not,’ he says, almost amused. ‘You’re one of the nicest people I know.’


  ‘But I’m not,’ I say, struggling to speak in a normal voice. ‘I’m horrible. The things I let myself think . . .’

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asks again. ‘Tell me what’s happened. Because otherwise . . .’

  I release his hand and push it away from me. Physical contact with him is making me emotional and, if I’m to navigate these waters in any meaningful way, I need to hold it together – I need to avoid falling to pieces.

  I pull a fresh tissue from my pocket and use it to blow my nose. I look at the ceiling for a moment and force myself to take a deep breath. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry for all . . . this . . .’ I gesture towards my eyes. ‘It’s been a tough day, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Scott says, frowning with concern. ‘But Jude’s OK, is he?’

  I nod. ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘And Ian?’ Scott asks.

  ‘He’s fine, too,’ I tell him. ‘Well, as far as I know.’

  ‘So, what?’ Scott asks. ‘You’re not ill or anything, are you?’

  ‘It’s Zoe,’ I tell him. I blow through pursed lips, trying to find the strength to say what needs to be said. ‘Jude tracked her down. She’s in France. And she told him everything.’

  Scott visibly stiffens. He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. ‘She told him what, exactly?’

  ‘She told him that nothing happened. She admitted to doing it all on purpose.’

  ‘OK,’ Scott says, dubiously. ‘She admitted doing what on purpose?’

  ‘To splitting us up,’ I tell him, speaking through tears. ‘To letting me think that . . .’ I look back up at the ceiling as if this will somehow keep the tears inside me. ‘I’m such a terrible person, Scott,’ I say, my voice wobbling all over the place, ‘for even imagining anything like that.’

  Scott puts his beer down. He chews at a fingernail and sighs. When I look him in the eye, I see that his own eyes are glistening. ‘It’s not your fault, Mandy,’ he says. ‘It’s really not your fault.’

  ‘Only it is.’

  ‘Why, though?’ Scott asks, slowly shaking his head. ‘I mean, why did she do that? Why did she hate me so much? Did she explain that?’

  And so I tell him what I know. I tell him how Zoe wanted her father back and how she thought that Scott was the only obstacle to that happening.

  ‘So it wasn’t me at all?’ Scott asks, once I’ve finished. His voice is thin and breathy. ‘It wasn’t anything I did or said?’

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with you at all.’

  ‘I tried so hard with her, too,’ Scott says.

  ‘I know you did,’ I say. ‘I remember.’

  ‘And the little bitch is OK, is she?’ he asks, a hint of laughter in his voice. I must wince at this, because he apologises immediately, saying, ‘I’m sorry. I know she’s your daughter and everything. But . . . Jesus!’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘You’re right to be angry. I’m really bloody angry myself.’

  Scott nods and sips his beer. He sighs repeatedly and then massages his brow and says, ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Can you forgive her, do you think?’ he asks, eventually. ‘Because I suppose you have to find a way to do that, right? I mean, she’s still your daughter and everything.’

  ‘Yes, she’s my daughter,’ I say, vaguely, thoughtfully. ‘And I suppose, one day, I’ll have to. It’s what mothers do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘But I don’t know how, yet. Perhaps if I can work out why, you know? Maybe if I can understand better what went wrong, that might help. But it cost me so much . . .’ Fresh tears are rising again, and just the thought of them leaves me feeling exhausted. But there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to stem the flow. ‘It cost me you, Scott,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ Scott says sadly, resting his head in his hands. ‘It cost me you as well.’

  ‘And you?’ I ask, my voice trembling.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Do you think you can ever forgive me?’

  ‘For what?’ Scott asks with a hint of a shrug.

  ‘For thinking . . .’ I say. ‘For imagining . . . God, I still can’t even say it.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Scott says, softly. ‘You don’t have to. I know exactly what everyone thought.’

  ‘You know I didn’t,’ I tell him, only realising as I say it that it’s true. ‘I used to try to imagine . . . something like that. But I never could. I never believed it.’

  ‘Then why?’ Scott asks.

  ‘I couldn’t quite rule it out either,’ I say. ‘Not one hundred per cent. There was this tiny, minuscule smidgen of doubt that just ruined everything. I promise you that’s true, though. I never believed it was possible that you’d . . . that you could have . . .’

  ‘Our Zoe put on a pretty convincing show,’ Scott says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She did. But all the same.’

  Scott screws his face up now as he tries to master his emotions. ‘It . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘It . . . hurt, you know . . .’ he says quietly. He nods gently, visibly remembering. ‘It really hurt me that people, that you . . . could even think something like that.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Scott.’

  Scott shakes his head violently as if to shake off the tears. He runs his hand across his face like a flannel. ‘It’s the times we live in,’ he says. ‘That’s part of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ he says, sniffing. ‘What with the priests and the TV hosts, what with Savile and Rolf Harris and Jackson . . . It’s like everyone’s been at it. For years everyone kept a lid on it all and no one wanted to see anything. And now no one can work out if they’re being too suspicious or too trusting. So everyone’s terrified of making the wrong call.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s true. It was the shrink who first gave Zoe the idea, you know? The one I took her to in Manchester. She was an abuse counsellor.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ Scott says.

  I think about this and remember that, of course, I had never told Scott that Dr McDonald was an abuse counsellor. So the original thought crime, if there had been one, was mine. I’d taken Zoe there because of my own doubts.

  ‘It is my fault,’ I say. ‘I’m . . . I know it’s not enough, but I don’t know what else to say to you, Scott, except that I’m sorry.’

  ‘Try to go easy on yourself,’ Scott says. ‘It happens more than you think. You’d be surprised.’ I frown at this remark, so he continues, ‘Jen, that’s my girlfriend, she had a similar thing with her youngest.’

  My heart lurches at this mention of a girlfriend and as he continues to speak, I take note of my shocked state and wonder what it implies. Had I really imagined Scott single? Had I really imagined that, even now, even after everything that had happened, we’d make up? Zoe’s not the only one who needs to see a shrink, I think.

  ‘. . . at the school,’ Scott is saying when I tune back into the conversation. ‘I mean, he’s only six, for Christ’s sake. And kids of that age, well, they all say shit like that, you know?’

  ‘What did he say again?’ I ask.

  ‘That if he didn’t give him his sweets back, he’d pull his willy off.’

  I nod. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Kids do say rubbish like that.’

  ‘But the school made it into this whole thing,’ Scott tells me. ‘They thought that someone in Jen’s entourage might be abusing him or something, yeah? She had to be interviewed by the school shrink, and then the kid had to see a specialist and . . . Anyway, it was a nightmare, apparently.’

  ‘You didn’t have to get involved, did you?’ I ask. ‘You didn’t have to go through all that again, surely?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Scott says, with a tight laugh. ‘No, this was all before we met, thank God. I don’t think it did much for Jen’s previous relationship, though. But it’s like I say. Nowadays it’s complicated. Because no one wants to suspect for no reas
on, but everyone’s scared of being blind to it, too. So we’re all just trying to find a balance. But that really isn’t easy.’

  Scott asks me some questions about Zoe next, so I tell him what I can. He wants to know why Zoe stopped talking to him in Blackpool, and I admit that I still don’t know. He wants to know how Jude found her, too, but when I open my mouth to answer, I realise that I don’t know that yet either.

  I’m just thinking about the fact that I need to get back to Jude when my phone begins to buzz with an incoming call from him.

  ‘Mum!’ he says, when I answer. ‘Where are you? You’re scaring us.’

  Us, I think. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time that I’ve ever heard Jude use ‘us’ in that way. And so it begins, I think. ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘I’m with Scott.’

  ‘Scott . . .’ Jude repeats, the surprise audible in his voice.

  ‘Yes, Scott,’ I say. ‘I’ll be home in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I can drop you off if you want,’ Scott says.

  ‘OK, so, Scott’s going to drive me home,’ I tell Jude, ‘so it’s going to be more like ten minutes.’

  ‘OK,’ Jude says. ‘I’ll wait up.’

  We stand to leave and Scott, chivalrous as ever, helps me on with my coat.

  Outside in the cold, walking to his car, I feel like I should ask him about Jen, but my heart isn’t strong enough for me to fake that conversation right now.

  ‘New car,’ I say instead, hating myself for the banality of the remark.

  ‘Yeah,’ Scott says, as he opens the passenger door for me. ‘Yeah, the old one died just about when . . . Ages ago.’ He coughs, then walks around to the other side and climbs in.

  He drives me to the beginning of my street before thinking to ask me if I still live there.

  ‘I do,’ I say, laughing weakly. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah. I’m moving to Nottingham tomorrow,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Scott says. ‘You mean literally tomorrow, then?’

  ‘I mean literally, 10 a.m. tomorrow morning,’ I say.

  ‘Oh,’ Scott says. ‘OK.’

  I wonder about that hint of disappointment in his voice.