Are You My Mother? (46 page)

Stopping myself before I began to picture us having our own babies, I whipped all my clothes off, far too turned on to feel more than a brief shiver of self-consciousness at exposing my body. In about half a minute flat I had climbed back on top of him, rubbing my hard nipples into his oily chest, feeling him between my legs probing to get into position. He pushed into me in one smooth movement, as I swelled around him with pleasure and gratitude; filling me up so tenderly that tears came to my eyes, and the couch began to rock gently, carrying us, as if we were making love on a boat.

Within minutes, I couldn’t bear it any more. ‘Stop, or I’ll come,’ I gasped, gripping the sides of the massage couch. ‘Me too,’ Robert replied, running his hands frantically up and down my body as he thrust into me again and again. The couch began to rock harder.

‘
Steady,’ I squawked, ‘It won’t collapse, but it might - ’

CRASH! The couch’s legs held firm, but the whole thing tipped over sideways and it fell, depositing us both in a very undignified manner onto the floor where we lay, still joined, laughing and coming simultaneously.

‘ –
fall over,’ I panted, before losing myself in the waves of orgasm which temporarily distracted me from the pain in my knee, which I’d banged when we toppled over.

‘
Are you all right?’ Robert said afterwards. He kissed me again and I felt as if I’d known him for ever; there was none of that awful first-time awkwardness or embarrassment – fairly amazingly, under the somewhat unconventional circumstances.

‘
Fine, except for the bruise I’m going to have on my knee,’ I replied, lightheaded and shaky. I stroked his bottom, noticing that it had broken out in oddly endearing post-climax goose-pimples, and snuggled into his arms, as we lay shipwrecked on the carpeted floor, the white towels like torn sails around us. ‘Although I’m never going to be able to look at my massage room in the same light.’

‘
I can imagine. Sorry about that. I’ll buy you a new massage bed if it’s broken.’

‘
No, it just overbalanced. These things are built to be pretty sturdy, if not perhaps to withstand quite such vigorous activity… Come into the bedroom, and we can chill out in bed for a bit.’

As I spoke, the telephone rang in the hall, and after four rings, the answer-machine picked up. It was Gavin, with his usual impeccable sense of timing.

‘
Hiya, babes, sorry I didn’t get back to you before. Something’s come up. Actually, what it is, right: Customs and Excise have raided my flat and impounded all my furniture. Everything. Even my bloody mobile phone. Luckily I wasn’t there at the time - Jim saw them go in and came down the pub to warn me - but apparently they want to interview me about my last little trip to Holland. So it’s best if I lie low for a while; get out of London altogether. I’m really sorry. It might be a few weeks. This is all a real fuckin’ headache, and I promise I’ll be in touch as soon as I can, OK? Take care, darling, lots of love.’

I pulled away from Robert, propping my head up with my elbow so I could look into his face. ‘That,’ I said, ‘in case you hadn’t guessed, was my so
-
called boyfriend.’

‘
He sounds like a lovely boy,’ said Robert, in a mock-jovial camp accent. ‘Very reliable and trustworthy.
What
exactly was he doing in Holland?’

‘
You don’t want to know. Well, I certainly didn’t, anyhow. With Gavin it’s always better not to ask…. Come on.’ I stood up, holding out my hand for him to lead him down the hall into my bedroom; me limping, both of us naked.

On the way past, I pressed the rewind button on the answering machine to erase Gavin’s message.

PART THREE

Chapter 35

‘
Did you know that there’s a message on the machine?’ Stella asked me, coming into the room with a fresh jug of margaritas and a bowl of pistachios.

‘
No – I didn’t even hear the phone ring. Go and see who it was, would you? I’ll sort everyone out with drinks.’

As I poured a new round of frothy margaritas for everyone present, I had a sudden flashback to the last message Gavin left me, almost six months ago. It would have been recorded over so many times now; his voice buried beneath new greetings from new friends, or the endearing little messages Robert recorded for me whenever he couldn’t stay over.

‘
It was Suzanne, ringing to wish you and Mack luck,’ said Stella, stretching out her hand for her drink. ‘She said she would try to come over after work, although she’s sure we’ll be taping it, and besides, she has serious qualms at attending any party that her parents have also been invited to. It’s just not cool.’

We all laughed, particularly Denise and Greg, the parents in question. Robert and I had had such a good time at the Hiscocks’ dinner party, back in early March, that we’d made every effort to keep in touch. The four of us were even thinking about renting a villa in Portugal together for a week’s holiday.

I caught Mack surreptitiously checking – for the tenth time – that there was a videotape in the machine, and that it was set to record BBC2.

‘
Why are you taping it, Mack? Aren’t you awash with VHS’s of it already?’ asked Greg, who’d obviously noticed him checking too.

Katrina answered on Mack’s behalf – something she often did. ‘Yes, of course we are – but it’s not the same as having it on tape with the programme announcer’s comments and everything, is it?’

She and Mack were holding hands so tightly that Mack’s knuckles were white bumps through his skin, even though the documentary didn’t start for another hour. I wasn’t surprised at how nervous he was – Robert had told me how much would be riding on how well received Mack’s first full-length commissioned film was. It could make or break his career, so I was glad that he had Katrina there for him. He adored her, and I knew that if the reviews weren’t good, she’d get him through it.

With adoration on my mind, I turned to look at Robert, struck by the sexy curve of his throat and quick movements of his hands as he shucked pistachio nuts and tossed them into his mouth, head back, in between chatting with Stella’s boyfriend of four months, Zubin.

Zubin was a lanky, laid back Zoroastrian Indian, who had the sweetest nature imaginable, and even let Stella dress him up like an oversized dolly in her outlandish designs. He was sitting there now, completely complacently, in a ludicrous orange frilly shirt done up to top button on a hot August night, and I felt a pang of affection for him. I half-waited for Stella to berate him for producing the huge moons of sweat which blossomed out from his armpits, but she didn’t comment; just sat on his knee and snuggled up to his neck. She was so much more mellow that she glowed - even her freckles appeared to radiate a kind of milkmaid contentment. I wondered if Zubin would ever be my brother-in-law. It was a nice thought, and not beyond the realms of possibility. Since Stella and he had met at the clothes’ shop he managed in Putney, they’d been as inseparable as Robert and I.

We hadn’t seen hair nor hide of Charlie since Stella agreed to drop the charges on condition that he stayed away. Rumour at Stella’s college had it that he was living in Spain, very disgruntled, teaching English to Spanish students, God help them. I had a horrible image of a roomful of innocent teenage Spaniards learning to say in perfect Sloaney brays, ‘you fucking pricktease.’

As for Gavin, there hadn’t been a peep out of him, either. I suspected he had absconded to somewhere remote enough to escape the long arm of Customs and Excise – or else he was in jail - and while I was concerned for him, I wasn’t losing any sleep over it. Robert was the only one who could make me lose sleep these days. Most nights I begged him to.

The other invited guest was Ruth, who sat on the floor with a cordless baby listener beside her, at which she looked anxiously every ten seconds, checking that the single red light didn’t suddenly multiply into a semi-circular howl. But Evie appeared to be sleeping peacefully in her cot downstairs.

They had moved into Percy’s old flat the previous month after a builder had bought it, done it up, and screwed a FOR RENT board into the wall, directly below my bedroom window. It was fantastic, having them there. Evie had grown into a cherubic baby with huge wide-apart blue eyes, rubber-band wrists, podgy thighs, and a constantly surprised expression. But most notable of all, she had a great soft swathe of thin blonde hair on her head which made her look exactly like Mack.

‘
Are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell me about Evie’s father?’ I teased Ruth, privately, the first time we’d seen Mack and Evie together. ‘Well, it’s not Mack, if that’s what you’re getting at, because Mack’s a good bloke and not an asshole. Oops, don’t listen, Eves.’ She had covered Evie’s tiny ears with her hands, to which Evie responded by releasing a volley of farts into her nappy like ack-ack fire, which made us laugh even more.

I worshipped Evie; taught Ruth to massage her, collected her from the childminder’s, babysat her, and read my brand new copy of
Are You My Mother?
to her. And the best thing of all was that she wasn’t even remotely my responsibility. I wished that I could have materialised my baby bird for her entertainment, to see her wave her fists and crow with delight; but he hadn’t been around, not since Robert came on the scene.

We’d decided to make a bit of a party for the occasion of Mack’s full length directorial debut. I’d declined the invitation to go to a preliminary screening of it, for that reason - I wanted to have my friends and family with me when I watched it. Besides, Stella and I had never, in almost eleven years of living together, had a party before. I’d never known enough people that I liked enough to provide hospitality for.

‘
I don’t know why Suzanne’s wishing you luck,’ Stella said to Mack. ‘It’s going ahead regardless, isn’t it? I mean, you’ve got your slot.’

Mack looked a little sick. ‘But what if the critics slate it? Then I’m finished. And you haven’t seen it yet either, Emma. I wish you’d come to that screening...’

‘
What, and spoil the surprise?’ I tried to make my tone flippant, but it was a struggle. Mack’s nerves were rubbing off on me. ‘I told you, I didn’t want to see it in advance. I’d have been too tempted to try and make you edit out any unflattering shots of me, and then you’d have been left with no documentary at all.’

Robert pointed at me. ‘
You
– don’t be so self-deprecating.’ Then he pointed at Mack. ‘And
you
– stop being so pessimistic! They won’t hate it – it’s not a controversial enough subject. And even if they did hate it, of course you wouldn’t be
finished
.’

‘
Oh – maybe they’ll hate it for not being controversial – oh God, maybe I should’ve gone with the idea about rat catchers on heroin in the sewers of San Paulo…..’

‘
Shut up, Mack,’ Robert, Stella, and I chorused.

‘
It’ll be
fine,
’ I added. ‘I’m sure I’ll like it, honestly. Even if I do cringe a bit at the sight of myself on TV… Here, let’s have a toast. To Mack, and his wonderful documentary.’

Katrina nudged Mack. ‘Wasn’t there something you wanted to say too – before you’re swallowed up by your own nervous gloom?’

‘
Oh yeah. I wanted to thank Emma – and Stella, for this little party – but more importantly, Emma, thanks for letting me film you. I know how hard it was for you to talk about yourself, and your feelings, but I’m so glad you stuck with it. Despite my whinging, I do actually think we’ve got a great film, thanks to you. I just hope the critics feel the same. And that you’ve got something out of it too.’

He leaned over and kissed my cheek, and Robert squeezed my arm.

‘
Don’t thank me,’ I said, ‘You should thank that homeless man I met on the tube. He’s the one who really began all this.’

Watching Mack’s documentary for the first time was the strangest experience of my life. I’d thought it would be a straightforward story about the search for Ann Paramor, but Mack had gone much deeper. He had me pinned out like a butterfly; my powdery emotions on display, my history raw. Everything I’d said over the months he interviewed me was somehow in there, condensed, distilled into a need so naked that at times it made me squirm. It wasn’t at all comfortable to watch, but even I could see that it made compulsive television.

We sat perfectly still throughout, apart from Stella giving the odd yelp when she saw herself in the Holistic Festival scene, or me burying my head in Robert’s lap with embarrassment at some of the inane things I came out with on film. It was all there, though; the list, the telephone calls, the inconclusive visit to Harlesden and the little girl with pyjamas on her head, the more conclusive trips to the Holistic Fayre and Nottingham. When I talked about things which Mack hadn’t actually filmed, such as the man on the tube, and the scene in the swimming pool in Nottingham, he used voiceovers; him, asking gentle questions, my replies, hesitant at first and then more confident, over a collage of images: homeless people, shots of such desolate loneliness and abandonment that we were all silent and choked. The isolation of crowded tube trains. Zoos, orang-utans, coach-loads of wriggling schoolchildren. He’d even gone and found another, local, antenatal aqua exercise class and filmed that, which made Ruth bark with laughter into her margarita.