‘Monica and I have been talking…’
Simon’s voice comes straight into my brain and shakes me out of my daydream.
‘About what?’
‘We would like to have more input in Tom’s life.’
I’m suddenly freezing, and it has nothing to do with the cold weather. Simon and Monica want more input in my son’s life? What the hell does that mean?
‘What do you mean, more input?’
Simon shifts in the bench, and it creaks again. A jogger runs towards us, and my ex-lover puts his finger to his lips, in an effort to stop me asking questions while we’re in earshot of someone else. The runner ignores us and jogs on, but Simon remains quiet.
‘Are you going to tell me what you mean, or do I have to guess?’
‘It’s nothing sinister,’ he says. ‘It’s really connected to what I said to you before. We want to share Tom’s life, and give you the support you need to raise him.’
‘The support I need?!’ I leap out of the bench and point my finger a little too close to Simon’s face. ‘I don’t need any support at all, thank you! The time for support would have been ten years ago, when I found out I was pregnant, but you were incapable of that. Remember?’
Simon cracks his knuckles, and I struggle not to throw my hands over my ears.
‘I’ve done many things I’m not proud of,’ he says, ‘but I want to make up for the lack of help you’ve had in raising our son.’
‘Our son? Please don’t call him that. Tom is my son, okay? If you stick around long enough for him to recognise you as his dad, then you can think about calling him your son. But no matter what, I’ll never need your help to raise him, and that goes twice for Monica.’
‘Charlotte!’
I storm off down the river path, with Simon’s words ringing in my ears. What a joke that man is. What an absolute joke.
My talk with Simon must have sunk in somewhat, because so far there are no more gifts from him, and no mention of him sharing the responsibilities of raising Tom. Thank God for that. Still, it hasn’t stopped my son from wondering if he can tell his dad that he wants a new Man United football strip, and a pair of designer trainers. I’ve told him that under no circumstances must he mention them to Simon, but I have no confidence in him keeping quiet.
It’s 5pm, and Tom and I are at my mum and dad’s for dinner. The thick aroma of beef biryani wafts up from my plate, and I reach for a piece of naan bread before my dad steals the last piece.
‘So, you had a good time on Sunday, Tom?’
Tom stares at my mum, and a thick line of confusion appears between his eyebrows.
‘Sunday?’ He spears a piece of beef with his fork, shovels it into his mouth, and then a light bulb goes off. ‘Oh, you mean the pub with Market-Man Dad? Yeah, it was good, but they should have given me more custard.’
My mum stares at me from across the table, and I shake my head and roll my eyes.
‘He means that he didn’t get enough custard for his pudding.’
‘Oh.’
‘Custard is always important,’ my dad says. He has a piece of rice stuck to his chin, and my mum tuts and flicks it off. ‘But, Tom, don’t you think it’s time to stop calling him Market-Man Dad? Don’t you think maybe Simon would be better?’
Tom wrinkles his nose.
‘Simon? I’m not calling him Simon! Charlie calls his dad, Dad. He doesn’t say, “Hey, Alfonso!” does he?’
‘Charlie’s dad is called Alfonso?’
Tom shrugs.
‘I don’t know. I always call him Charlie’s dad.’
Everyone laughs, but the comment hangs in the air. My son wants to call Simon, ‘Dad’, and after the conversation I had with Simon yesterday, I find this disclosure terrifying. Once this happens, it will be a matter of moments before the subject of helping to raise Tom comes flying back again. I thought I had more time. I thought my son would have no interest in calling anyone Dad, just moments after meeting them, but I was wrong.
I can feel the biryani rising in my throat, and I swallow hard to get it back down. Now is not the time to puke all over my mother’s pink, flowered tablecloth.
I’ve got enough problems.
Friday afternoon. I’ve finished work for the day, and I swing past my parents’ house to return a cake tin I forgot to give them the other day. My mum has promised a cake for the village bake sale, and according to her, her reputation hangs by a string if I don’t return the tin. I wade through the fallen leaves and muddy puddles on their street, and by the time I reach their gate, my feet are covered in autumnal grime. I stoop down to retrieve an oak leaf that is stuck to the top of my boot, and it is when I stand back up that I notice it.
Simon’s BMW is parked right outside my parents’ house.
My first reaction is to think I’m wrong, that it must surely be someone else’s car that just happens to be parked on the same street. However, when I look through the window, there is a folder on the back seat with ‘Simon Travis Market-Me’ written on the front. What the hell is he doing so close to my parents’ house? I gawp up and down the street, but there is no sign of him. It’s only when I hear my dad’s voice, and I look into their garden, that I realise – Simon is not only with my parents, but he is also carrying a large, concrete garden ornament.
My dad looks up, waves and then Simon does the same. I clutch the cake tin to my chest and somehow manage to get up the path without collapsing on the way. My dad smiles broadly, while my ex-lover looks sheepish – as he should.
‘Hi, sweetie,’ my dad says. ‘I was just trying to move this new ornament to the front of the pond, when along came Simon, and offered to help.’
‘He did? That’s not weird at all.’
‘Be with you in a minute,’ my dad says. ‘Simon, come this way, and I’ll show you exactly where it needs to go.’
Simon heaves the ornament further onto his chest, smiles at me and then disappears down the side path, and into the back garden. What on earth have I just witnessed? My dad and the older, married father of my son, not only conversing in the garden, but working together? How is this happening? How do they even know each other?
I march down the path and burst into the kitchen, where my mum is busy making tea in the fancy pot that only comes out for visiting royalty… or married ex-lovers.
‘Oh hi! We never expected to see you this afternoon.’
I throw the tin onto the side, and it makes a clanging noise, not dissimilar to the chimes of doom.
‘Mum! Do you mind telling me why Simon is helping Dad in the garden? And furthermore, why he is here in the first place?’
My mum takes out the posh china from the back of the cupboard, and places it all onto the counter.
‘Don’t be angry with us,’ she says, ‘but we decided to get in touch with Simon after we heard that he was seeing Tom. We wanted to make sure he was the right kind of person to hang around our grandson.’
‘What?! Why would you do that?’
My mum waves me away, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to contact your daughter’s ex-boyfriend, when they’ve never officially met before. As she faffs around with the cups, I look out at the garden, and see my dad showing Simon around his tiny shed. To his credit, Simon seems to be asking questions and taking some kind of interest, which is surely not a requirement in this situation.
‘Mum! Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
She stops playing with the cups, and turns to face me.
‘I was hoping your dad would be the one to tell this story, but he seems far too concerned with his shed. Anyway, as I said, we thought it would be best to contact Simon, since he was going to have contact with Tom. We met him yesterday morning at his office, and we didn’t expect to like him, but he was very nice to us.’ She throws her arms in the air. ‘Before you ask, no we didn’t mention anything about the past. We all thought it best to concentrate on the present and the future, and not be bogged down with any hard feelings
we may have had before.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s as if they’ve been brainwashed by Simon’s patter. And what does she mean, they decided not to talk about the past? That’s the very thing they’ve been furious about for the past ten years. Typical they should draw a line and move on. That little development has Simon written all over it. I lean on the counter and hang my head in my hands.
‘Mum, I wish you wouldn’t get involved in my business. How many times do I need to ask?’
‘Oh, honey,’ she says, ‘it’s not about getting involved in your business, it’s Tom’s business. We’ve only got his best interests at heart, and thankfully, it seems that Simon does, too.’
I screw up my face, just in time for my dad and Simon to come into the kitchen. My dad removes his gloves and claps his hands together.
‘Phew! It’s a cold one out there. Did you see the ornament? Doesn’t it look nice?’
My mum and dad gawp out of the window, while Simon smiles at me.
‘Sorry,’ he mouths, but he gets no reaction out of me.
We sit in the living room – my parents, the father of my child and myself – and sip tea out of my mum’s dainty little cups. Polite conversation is the topic of the afternoon, and the room is full of stories of garden centres, local cafés and how lovely the river looks at this time of year.
And then it happens.
‘I was thinking that Tom might want to come to my house for dinner on Sunday,’ Simon says. ‘Monica is keen to spend time with him.’
‘Oh, how lovely,’ my mum gushes. ‘Tom will love that, I’m sure.’
I shoot her a dirty look, but it goes straight over her head.
Simon ignores my mum’s gushing tone, reaches for a Penguin biscuit, and then stares at me. He’s desperate to hear my reaction, but I’m not sure he’ll like it when he hears it.
‘It’s too soon,’ I say. ‘Tom has only been out with you once, and the last time he met Monica, it was when she drove him home, after following him down the river path, demanding that he go with her to meet you.’
Simon gives me a quizzical look. I’m aware that I’m being rather dramatic, but I don’t care. The bones of what I said is true – she did follow him, regardless of what her excuse was. My mum and dad look at each other and then my mum offers Simon another biscuit.
‘No thank you,’ he says. ‘Gotta watch the figure at my age. I’m not getting any younger.’
My mum giggles like a demented schoolgirl. Simon has won her over, and it pisses me off. If it was up to me, I’d tell him to get lost and be done with it, but I won’t, because at the same time, I’m aware that the more I protest, the more insistent he’ll be.
At least that’s what I presume.
‘I know Monica didn’t have the best start with Tom,’ Simon says. ‘But she thought she was helping at the time. Besides, all that stuff is in the past now, and we really would love to show Tom the house and spend more time with him.’
The dog from next door starts barking through the wall, and my dad takes the opportunity to tell Simon all about the problems they’ve had with the yappy pooch.
‘You see,’ my dad says, ‘there is a Pomeranian on one side and he’s fine. We take him out for walks sometimes, don’t we, Anne?’
My mum nods, and sips her tea.
‘But this dog – this one is another thing altogether. Barks all day and all night if he gets the chance, and the owner doesn’t seem to care about it at all. Do you have any noise problems where you live, Simon?’
Simon shakes his head.
‘Thankfully, we live in a detached house,’ he says. ‘But we did used to have plenty of problems in London. Noisy neighbours were nothing compared to the constant sirens and shouts from the street.’
My parents nod in sync, and I can’t believe we are having this meaningless conversation in the middle of Simon’s request to take Tom to his home. Do they think it is all wrapped up now? Is it all okay, because Simon has had a heart to heart with my parents, and then helped them to move a new garden ornament? This is such crap. Just one pub-bought pasta dinner and Simon thinks he’s Dad of the Year. Here I am, struggling to pay the bills, while he lives in a sodding mansion and buys my son an iPad on a whim, and the only one to see the problem is me.
‘So,’ Simon says. ‘Do you think Tom could come and visit us on Sunday? I promise he’ll be perfectly safe, and I’ll make sure he has a terrific time.’
Everyone’s eyes are on me. I want to say no, but it’s impossible. My parents would judge me, Tom would be devastated, and Simon would only keep nagging until I finally say yes. I’m backed into a corner, and I can see no way out.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Tom can come to your house on Sunday.’
Simon breathes out hard, and makes a raspy noise with his lips.
‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘I’ll pick him up at one.’
‘Hold on,’ I snap. ‘I haven’t finished.’
‘Oh?’
‘If Tom is coming to visit you and Monica, then I will be there as well. No need to pick us up. We’ll make our own way there, and see you at 1.30pm.’
Simon shrugs, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to entertain his wife, his ex-lover and his long-lost son, but deep down I hope he’s dreading it.
17
‘Do you think I’m overreacting?’
Zach takes a banana from my fruit bowl and turns it every which way before unpeeling it.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I saw an article online, about spiders living in bananas,’ he says. ‘So now I have to examine each one before I eat it.’
I roll my eyes and silently wish he’d eat his own fruit instead of mine. Single young men don’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘budget’. But then again, neither does Simon, and he’s not young at all…
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m pretty sure that banana spider thing was fake news. Anyway, do you think I’m overreacting?’
‘To Simon wanting to have a part in Tom’s life? Maybe a little.’
He pinches his fingers together to make a point, but it just makes me angry.
‘It’s not about him having a part in Tom’s life,’ I say, as I throw Zach’s abandoned banana peel in the bin. ‘It’s about Simon wanting to help raise him. That’s a different thing entirely. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. But then again, it depends on what he means by helping to raise him. If he means giving you a bit of money every now and then, and taking Tom off your hands for a weekend here and there, then I suppose that could be fine. But if he means going for shared custody, and living with him just as much as you do, well that’s another issue.’
I slam the bin lid, and take a step back.
‘You think he might be going for shared custody? That’s ridiculous! Why would you say that?’
Zach swallows the last bit of banana, and puts his arms around me.
‘That was the wrong thing to say, and likely a complete exaggeration. I’m sure it’s the former. He just wants to give a little help, and we could all do with that occasionally, don’t you think?’
I think back to all the help I’ve had over the past ten years. Gifts, emotional support and occasional money from my parents, friendships from the likes of Zach and the mothers I met during the first years of Tom’s life, and little support packages at Christmas and birthdays from my gran. I’ve had help from almost everyone – even the government – but none whatsoever from Simon. Maybe now it’s his time to step up and give some.
Maybe.
‘I agree that we all need help,’ I say, ‘but it seems to me that since he came to Bromfield, my life hasn’t been my own. First, Monica follows us around, then Simon reconnects, and buys my son an expensive gift, and now he’s even at my parents’ house, helping in the bloody garden! The guy who has never got his hands dirty in his whole life, probably! I just feel that it’s all getting out of control. I’m not used to this, and I can
’t help feeling suspicious.’
Zach nods, and rubs my shoulders.
‘I understand that,’ he says. ‘It’s all new to you and to Tom. I think the best thing to do is just take it one day at a time. See where it goes. Take all the help you want from Simon, because he’s likely to get bored before long anyway, and then you’ll have worried needlessly. Just let it run its course, okay? It might be over before you know it.’
I nod and smile and say all the right things, but inside I can’t believe that this will ever run its course, and that bloody terrifies me.
I drive towards Donovan Grove, and Tom sits in the passenger seat, singing along to the radio at the top of his voice.
‘I thought you hated eighties music,’ I say, and he laughs.
‘This one is good. Grandma was playing it the other day.’
‘Grandma was playing Dexys Midnight Runners?’
He shrugs.
‘I don’t know, but she was playing this song. I recognise the tune. It’s a good tune, isn’t it? It has lots of violins in it. At least I think it’s violins. It could be fiddles.’
I laugh, and reach over to ruffle his hair.
‘It could be both,’ I say, and then Tom gets back to his singing. He looks as though he has no worries in the world, and maybe he hasn’t, but it’s strange that he’s so laid-back about his father being in his life after ten years. Is that normal? Is that what kids do? I have no idea.
‘Does he have a swimming pool?’
‘Who?’
‘The Market Man… I mean, my dad. Charlie’s mum says that all of the houses on Donovan Grove have pools. They’re mansions! Mansions like rich people live in on MTV Cribs!’
I turn into Simon’s street, and the hedges and fancy gates rise up before me. It’s strange to think that this place was what my teenage dreams were made of, and now my son is visiting his father here.
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