Messy, Wonderful Us

by Catherine Isaac

  The first lie she’d ever told her mother was surprisingly easy. She casually informed her that her boss had insisted she do overtime on Monday evening, when the party was taking place in the garden of the local theatre impresario, Peter Crewe. She couldn’t have looked at her father and said it; she’d have crumbled under the pressure of his glare. She loved her dad unconditionally, but she couldn’t help wishing he’d been a little less strict and a touch more modern. He didn’t approve of parties. He considered them the domain of foreigners and their rowdy neighbours, the ones he tutted at through the net curtains on New Year’s Eve when they sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in the street.

  The event was held on an Indian Summer evening in early September after daytime temperatures had soared to eighty-three degrees. After a damp, dismal couple of months, this was a shock to the system, as her mother’s wilting hair testified when Peggy left the house after tea, just as Juke Box Jury was starting.

  As she stepped through the wrought-iron gates of the Victorian mansion, she was a bag of nerves, and thoroughly dissatisfied with her appearance. The other women looked like Jackie Kennedy or Bridget Bardot; sophisticated, fashionable, confident. She felt drab and pedestrian. She glanced down at her blouse, which she’d been happy with before she left home, and realised with a crunch of despair that she’d dressed like her mother. She almost turned and ran to the bus stop there and then.

  ‘Hello there!’ Jack was beckoning her in, glass in one hand and a smile as soft and sweet as peaches. ‘Let me get you a drink.’

  The heat and the Babycham went straight to her head. It made her limbs fuzzy and giggles escape from her lips like bubbles in the bath. Everyone else seemed to feel the same, bare arms sizzling with sunburn from earlier in the day. It was as if the whole world was on holiday. She was not the first one to sneak off into the woodland behind the house as the light began to fade.

  But she can’t claim he seduced her. She’d seduced him too, gazing at him with Elizabeth Taylor eyes and deliberately brushing the sleeve of her arm against his. The man with the beautiful, warm accent. A muss of hair around the nape of his neck. The man who would later follow his dreams to Hollywood, to try his luck as an actor there. She’d hoped to find a forwarding address from someone at the theatre but, despite her efforts, none was ever forthcoming, so the letters she subsequently wrote all went unsent. Of course, he’d always told her America was part of his grand plan. She couldn’t claim she hadn’t known. All of which meant that, after that fateful evening, she never saw Jack Newman again.

  *

  Ten and a half months later, the day came that she would try for the rest of her life to erase from her memory and fail entirely.

  The doctor had been along first thing that morning to give her some medicine to calm her nerves and, after that, her sharp waves of anxiety settled into a blurred sense of otherworldliness. She was oddly, unpleasantly calm, sleepwalking almost – a feeling that she tried to fight but simply hadn’t the strength.

  She did as she was told, bathed Christopher, dressed him in one of the little outfits she’d made and carried him with his little star blanket draped over her shoulder in case it turned chilly. He was lovely and alert, his eyes shining with new, innocent life, his little hands furled into fists as if he was ready to take on the world.

  Peggy was surprised to see her father arrive in a taxi with her mother. He didn’t say much, but she registered his eyes darting to Christopher every so often as the car bumped along the road. When Peggy had been a little girl, she’d thought she’d never love anyone like she loved her dad. He might have been stern and impenetrable, but all she wanted – all she’d ever wanted – was his attention and approval. On the rare occasions she got it, when he’d let her sit on his knee or listen to her read, she felt herself light up.

  Only now, as they sat in the taxi and Christopher gurgled on her lap, for the first time in her life she realised that another human being existed whom she loved more. A million times more.

  When they arrived at the agency, Peggy’s mother took the baby while she stood in front of the desk and a stack of papers was presented to her. She was handed a pen and told to sign her name. She thought about asking to read them, but by now her heart was thrashing and nothing came out of her mouth. She felt the heat from her father’s frame against her back as he moved towards her and smelled the tobacco on the fabric of his jacket when he said: ‘Go on.’

  His fingers squeezed her shoulder, hard enough that she couldn’t work out if he was reassuring or threatening her. Either way, she did as she was told. Because, for all her muddled thoughts, she always had.

  *

  Peggy was invited into a waiting room, where she sat on a chair and clutched Christopher close to her body as she stroked the warm skin on his face, the ghost of the tiny milk spots that remained on his cheeks. It was then that the noise began building in her ears; a thudding, a pulsating. She felt, surreally, as if someone was knocking on the door trying to press upon her the most urgent message of her life.

  She wasn’t going to let this happen.

  She couldn’t agree to it, no matter what she’d signed. Her chest rose and fell and she tried to clear the fuzz from her head and come up with a plan. But the medicine was making her confused and woozy, so the only idea she could come up with was to go along with it until the right moment, when she’d do something to stop this. She could wait until when it was time to say goodbye and then spring into action and make it all end.

  Then the lady arrived and took Christopher from her arms, leaving the room temporarily as Peggy waited for her to return and for the pivotal moment to happen. But as she looked between the door and her parents, recognition seeped through her and she felt a warm patch of liquid puddle in her seat. She looked down at the chair next to her and realised that the blanket of stars had been left, crumpled in a heap, and the tiny cries in the next room were his.

  She started shaking. Violently trembling, every bit of her body: her hands, her legs, her jaw.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Her mother lowered her eyes.

  Peggy ran for the door and had it half open, until her father’s hand pushed her out of the way and slammed it shut. ‘NO!’ She grasped at his hair, pulled at his tie, scratching at his face with her fingernails until he slapped her down.

  ‘I need to say goodbye,’ she sobbed, gasping for air, suffocating. ‘I didn’t . . . realise. I need to say goodbye.’

  Her mother knelt down next to her and stroked her hair. ‘It’s for the best, Peggy. You can get on with your life now.’

  Then the social worker came in again and told them they weren’t to move until the baby’s new parents had left the building with him. So she huddled in the corner, clutching the blanket around her knees, until the tiny cries on the other side of the wall faded to silence.

  Chapter 38

  Allie

  I’m roused by gentle birdsong, sunlight slanting through the gap in the curtains and thoughts of little Rowan Archer, with his brutal cough and missing tooth and mum who has to stop herself from crying every time she walks into Alder Hey Hospital.

  I think about him bouncing onto the hospital bed and laughing at my jokes, unaware of what his future might hold. I feel a stab of impatience, wishing I could fast-forward to some sweet future moment when I and the team at Chapel Hill could definitively declare our gene-editing project a success.

  I slip out of bed and head to the balcony, resolving to email Khalid again today to see if there’s an update, as I click open the glass-panelled door and breathe in the intense smell of the morning, pure air and pollen, picked up by the cooling wind when it blows in with each sunrise. The sky is painted a rich blue, blurring to incandescent yellow and orange. I suddenly wish I were only here to enjoy the scenery and that Ed and I could carry on like we did last night, savouring icy mouthfuls of gelato and every easy moment in each other’s company.

  Instead, I contemplate what we’ve got to embark on today and a knot pu
lls in my stomach. My phone beeps and I return to the plug by the bed, assuming it’s Ed telling me that he’s up and ready to meet me downstairs. Instead, it is a text from Julia, which confuses me at first as we are an hour ahead of the UK, so it’s only 6.30 a.m. there.

  Can we talk ASAP?

  As I scroll up, I register that she’d sent another message last night but I’d entirely missed it.

  We are overdue an update! Let’s talk tonight! xxx

  It must have arrived while we were out eating and I hadn’t even noticed. I dial her number and she answers after one ring. ‘Allie.’

  ‘Julia, is everything okay? It’s so early.’

  ‘I was worried because you didn’t phone last night,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised you’d texted. We went out for dinner and I didn’t look at my phone until this morning.’ When she doesn’t reply immediately, I pull the device away from my ear briefly to check we haven’t lost the connection. ‘Julia?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘So, you wanted an update. Actually, he does seem better.’ For the first time this feels like I’m telling the truth, not spouting some vaguely optimistic words designed to reassure her. There was a sparkle in Ed’s eyes last night that I haven’t truly seen since we arrived.

  ‘Has he said anything about what’s going to happen when you come home?’

  ‘We haven’t really got onto that yet.’

  The hum of silence that follows makes me wonder if she’s crying again and my mind flickers with comforting words that I might offer. But she responds before I get a chance, in a tone quite unlike anything I’ve heard her use before.

  ‘I feel like I’m being kept out of the loop here, Allie.’

  She sounds snippy and irritable, her usually soft inflections cold with annoyance.

  ‘Uh . . . what?’

  ‘I’m here alone, while you two are gallivanting around Italy and my mind is working overtime. Whose wouldn’t be?’

  I feel awash with adrenalin; shocked and, above all, defensive.

  ‘We’re not gallivanting, Julia. You’re surely not suggesting—’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything.’ She elicits a long sigh. ‘I’m just saying . . . look, Allie, you must phone me when I ask you. That is non-negotiable.’

  My mouth falls open. I didn’t know I was negotiating. ‘How many women do you know who would be comfortable with something like this?’ she continues. ‘I’m being more than understanding. Do remember that.’

  I am perplexed and mildly resentful about this contradictory speech, the turnaround in Julia’s attitude. But while my heart races as I work out how to respond, the ghost of a sensation whispers against my skin, as if I can still feel Ed’s arms against my body when we swam together. The warmth on my neck becomes a couple of degrees hotter. Maybe gallivanting is closer to the truth than I’m prepared to admit.

  ‘Julia, I hear exactly what you’re saying,’ I say, with an air of gentle authority. ‘I know you’re upset at the moment. All I can say is, I’ll make sure I stay in touch.’

  ‘Okay.’ She takes a breath to gather her composure. ‘Sorry if I sounded . . .’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Look, you do understand, don’t you, Allie?’ she says softly. ‘You’re my only real point of contact. I realise I need to give Ed space, so I don’t want to be phoning him every five minutes or it’ll just make everything worse.’

  ‘Of course. And yes, I understand.’

  ‘Thanks, Allie. Thanks so much.’

  I end the call with a feeling of unease, as if the equilibrium between Julia and me has been nudged out of place, like the edge of a jigsaw piece that no longer sits flat. Then I remind myself of what she’s going through. And how the curious effects of love can derail any of us when we fear it slipping away.

  Chapter 39

  The idea of leaving for university while Ed stayed at home could have made me miserable, if I’d allowed it. But I reminded myself that I’d had plenty of time to prepare for our separation and the prospect of being in the same city as my best friend for our university years had never amounted to more than a throwaway line, whispered in the smoky glow of a bonfire. The summer before I went to Cardiff, Dad tried to raise the matter with me a couple of times, as if he sensed some suppressed anguish. But there was really nothing to talk about. I had everything to look forward to, not least a hotly contested place at my first-choice university. So I was not going to mope and that was doubly true once I arrived in Wales.

  ‘You’ve signed up for what?’ Dad asked when I telephoned him at the end of my third week.

  ‘The Capoeira society.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ he laughed.

  ‘A Brazilian martial art combining kicks and acrobatic movements to music and song,’ I said, reciting the line I’d heard at Fresher’s fair.

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘I’m very much a beginner. I nearly knocked myself out trying to do a headstand the first time, but Olivier the instructor says I’ve got natural talent.’

  I didn’t mention that I had actually slept with Olivier the instructor. I got talking to him after a class, we adjourned to a bar and ended up at his place, where he popped an E and we had positively gymnastic sex until six in the morning.

  ‘Well, it certainly sounds like you’re getting lots of exercise,’ Dad said.

  ‘What? Oh. Yes.’

  ‘And the course lives up to all your expectations?’

  ‘Oh, Dad, it’s fantastic,’ I gushed. The societies and the sex of my first term were merely side shows, what I felt a fresher ought to be doing, rather than what I actually wanted to be doing. I didn’t want to be one of those obsessives who were all work and no play, after all. ‘I love everything about it. It’s just the right balance between data interpretation and time in the lab. And some of the research my tutors are working on is so inspiring.’

  ‘At this rate you’re not going to want to come home at the end of term.’

  ‘Oh, I am. I miss your cooking.’

  He laughed. ‘Is Ed still coming to see you at the weekend?’

  My heart began to thud uneasily. ‘No, he postponed. He’s too busy.’

  On the day Ed eschewed the opportunity to go to Oxford, a hairline crack had appeared in our relationship and I’d felt it widening the slightest bit every day. It wasn’t that he had ignored me since I’d arrived in Cardiff, nor my regular, two thousand-word emails. But it took him days to reply and his responses were short and perfunctory. I suspected there was a new woman on the scene. The fact that he was working towards turning his apprenticeship into full accreditation before taking over his dad’s business didn’t seem a sufficient explanation.

  Either way, he never did come and visit me that term. I didn’t see him at all until I returned home in December, when we arranged to meet early one evening at a posh hotel in Liverpool’s business district, a far cry from the student venues to which I was now accustomed, pubs with sticky floors and political graffiti on the toilet doors. I stepped into the bar in my vintage 501s and CND T-shirt, to find most of the clientele in business attire, sharp suits and chignons. I couldn’t decide if I felt self-conscious or defiant, but then I saw him at a table and all such frivolity emptied from my head. He was writing in his notebook, the swift, light movements of his pen contrasting with the intensity of his concentration.

  When he looked up, my entire body rushed with blood, at nothing more or less than the sight of his smiling face. I tucked my hands in my pockets and casually walked towards him. He stood as I approached and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek, a movement that seemed so natural to him and so alien to me that I pulled away, frowning. I wondered, rather pompously, if this had been what he’d been doing instead of setting Oxford University alight: mastering the conventions of networking – a concept to which I’d never given a moment’s thought, until now, when I took an irrational dislike to it.

  ‘How are you?’ he ask
ed.

  ‘Very good thanks. Can I get you a beer?’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he replied, which was a relief because I remembered that I only had fifty-four pence in my pocket.

  It struck me during that first drink that anyone bored or nosy enough to be watching us might have concluded that we were on a blind date. It felt as though we were strangers weighing each other up, reserving judgement about whether we liked what we found.

  ‘How’s life in the cut and thrust of electricals?’ I asked, blushing at the question, anxious that something in my tone might reveal what I really wanted to know: whether he regretted his decision.

  ‘Good, actually,’ he said brightly. ‘I won’t bore you with the details, but I’ve got a few irons in the fire.’

  ‘Go on.’

  He shook his head dismissively. ‘I’ll fill you in when I’m a millionaire.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Don’t be coy.’

  His idea was simple, as all the best ones are, and had occurred to him as a result of some supply issues he’d had with wholesalers. He was going to create a website to sell parts direct to the electrical trade, quickly, cheaply, easily. He talked animatedly about channels of distribution and discounting, capital expenditure and profit margins. He’d done his research and after completing a business plan, had secured a start-up loan from a quango funded by the European Union.

  ‘But don’t people think the dot-com bubble will burst soon?’

  ‘Oh, it will. Most of the new online firms are unsustainable. But the internet is growing so rapidly that the ones with a sound business plan and well-defined niche will survive. I’ve already spoken to dozens of manufacturers and wholesalers and the appetite for this is huge. It’ll be live within the next two months.’

  As his eyes flickered up to mine, I realised that my concerns about him were unfounded, the idea that he could only fulfil his potential in academia misplaced. That was my dream, not Ed’s. Far from being a consolation prize, the path he’d chosen sparked an unexpected zeal in him, something that had clear potential to make him happy. I wanted to say all this to him, to tell him I’d been wrong, but didn’t know how without admitting all my prejudices in the first place.