One Step Closer to You (7 page)

@GateauAuChocolat
It’s chickpea soup & Indonesian marinated chicken with roasted sweet potatoes & as if that isn’t enough, apple caramel cake.

The first regular to arrive at the café is our local famous author, in her eighties, who hobbled here two years ago, after breaking her wrist and cracking both ribs falling down her stairs. ‘It’s a curse getting old,’ she’d said, before explaining she couldn’t cook for herself. Her elderly friend often accompanies her; they call us ‘Care in the Community’. Without asking I serve them both some soup and a glass of red wine, ‘Medicinal,’ as they call it.

Next comes our local serial flirt, an illustrator who works from home. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. He scans the menu board and orders the chicken, ‘And maybe, pretty Polly, if I have room, a slice of your apple caramel cake.’

‘You always have room.’

He smiles. ‘How are you, Mary-Jane? Been on any hot dates?’

Mary-Jane bristles. ‘You’re lucky I don’t pour this over you,’ she tuts as she places the jug on the table.

Soon there’s a real buzz, everyone talking across the tables and Mary-Jane and I are rushing around serving soup, camomile and mint teas or Jean’s red wine to go with their chicken. I slow down when I see Ben opening the front door, and notice at once that he’s shaved his beard. It makes him look younger. Jean turns to see who I’m waving at. ‘You dark horse, Polly.’

I smile. ‘He’s a friend.’

‘Single?’

I’m sure Aunt Vivienne bribes him to squeeze gossip out of me.

‘Think so.’

Jean shrugs. ‘Cute. Gay?’

‘Straight.’

‘In that case why aren’t you two at it
like rabbits
?’

‘So delicately put, Jean.’

He laughs. ‘I try my best.’

Before I have to time to explain that he’s not my type, Ben kisses me on the cheek.

‘Like the new look,’ I say, touching his chin.

*

When Jean is thankfully upstairs giving a cooking demo on bread-making, and all the regulars have left, Mary-Jane and
I finally have our lunch. I serve myself some chicken and sit down next to Ben, asking what he’s bought, gesturing to the bags under the table.

‘Clothes. Emily was moaning that—’

‘That’s great!’

‘Sorry?’

‘She’s talking.’

He nods. ‘The headmistress spoke to me, says she keeps on asking her teacher if her mum is coming back.’ Guilt is etched on his face. ‘You were right, Polly. I need to stop pretending this hasn’t happened. It’s not helping her, or me for that matter, so at bedtime we’ve begun to tell each other stories about Grace.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Amazing. Independent. Wore her heart on her sleeve. Annoying too, because she always had to be right. I’ve told Emily about the holidays we used to go on as children, how Grace and I could swim for hours in the sea …’ his voice falters, ‘pretending we were fish. Sorry,’ he says, hiding his emotion with a cough.

‘Carry on,’ I encourage, believing it’s good for him to talk about her.

‘She was passionate about Chinese medicine and helping people. I envied that in a way. I told Emily about her school days, at boarding school like me. Our stepfather couldn’t wait to get us out of the way. She once dunked a towel in the bath and wrung it over the headmistress’s head.’ He
smiles. ‘Emily liked that one, but I told her not to be getting any ideas, that I didn’t want to see her name in that red book.’

I laugh at that. ‘Did she tell you any stories?’

‘She told me how her mummy had once left a needle sticking out of her patient’s forehead, between her eyebrows. There have been lots of stories about Patch too.’

‘Patch?’

‘Grace felt guilty that Emily didn’t have a brother or sister so they got a rescue dog, a half this and a half that, who knows what Patch was, but …’

‘When did Patch die?’ An idea is forming in my head.

‘About a year ago. He had a tumour, died very young, poor Patch. I remember Grace asking me how she could explain death to Emily,’ he says with more than a trace of irony. ‘Why?’

‘No reason.’ Just that one of the customers was saying earlier today that her neighbour’s dog, a Scottie, had had four puppies and she was struggling to find a home for the last girl.

‘Let’s see what you bought,’ I ask, still wondering if I’m crazy thinking Ben could handle a puppy on top of everything else? I can’t imagine one in his immaculate flat, but then again, maybe it’s exactly what their home needs?

Ben fishes out a selection of items.

‘What?’ he says, catching me looking at an uninspiring mushroom-coloured skirt with matching polo-neck.

‘Was this the only colour it came in?’

Ben stares at me as if I’m talking astrophysics.

‘Grace must have bought her things, you know, in pretty colours?’

‘Yeah, but they’re too small for her now … I just grabbed …’

‘I can tell,’ I say, a little too harshly, as I come across a pair of sludgy khaki dungarees. ‘Has Emily got a party dress for Maisy’s birthday?’ Jim’s Maisy is five this weekend. She’s having a bouncy castle party on Sunday.

‘A dress? No! We should get her something.’

Ben must sense I’m taken aback at the ‘we’ since he says, ‘You will help me, won’t you?’

The look in his eyes is so beseeching that I feel a flood of affection towards him. ‘Of course.’ I fold the clothes back into the bag. ‘Let’s take this stuff back and …’

‘Take what stuff back?’ Aunt Viv says, joining us in the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed her come in. Aunt Viv has worked for Jean for five years, managing the shop area part-time. She heard about Jean’s café by pure chance. After Louis was born Aunt Viv had returned from America for good, but needed to find work. She happened to be sitting on the bus scanning the job section of the newspaper, when she overheard a Frenchman complaining that all his staff were hopeless and leaving the country. They ended up talking, Jean offered her a job, and they fell in love almost overnight. Jean’s perfect for her in that he’s unconventional,
well-travelled and fiery – which keeps Aunt Viv on her toes – but deep down he’s kind at heart.

I introduce Ben to Aunt Vivienne, and when he hears her name I can see his ears prick up. I’d told Ben all about her that night in his flat. He’d listened intently to the story of her first visit, asking what happened after that. Well, Vivienne did visit us regularly, but I always felt it was carefully stage-managed by my parents. Each time Aunt Viv arrived, we were ushered into the sitting room and rarely left alone. I always had this feeling Mum was eavesdropping. I told Ben about one time when Aunt Viv had asked if Hugo and I could show her the sunken boat. Mum sent out a search party, i.e. my father, when we weren’t back after an hour. When we were on the boat, alone, just the three of us, Hugo and I felt much more at ease. Aunt Viv talked little about the past, she never mentioned Mum’s brother, or prison, or losing her child, but what she did say was that after seven years of hell, Granddad Arthur had saved her by buying a ticket to America. He had an old school friend in LA, who was willing to have her to stay. He paid for her flight and enough to pay for a short stint in rehab; the rest was her responsibility. ‘There is something about the ocean. It helped me heal,’ she told us.

‘I can see the family likeness,’ says Ben, jolting me from my thoughts. Aunt Viv’s dark hair, now peppered with grey, is coiled loosely in a clip, and she’s wearing a red woollen dress with suede boots.

‘We are alike,’ Aunt Viv says, ‘except I’ve got a lot more wrinkles, damn it!’

I explain that this is Ben, the one I met at school; his niece is in Louis’s class. ‘And we’re going shopping on Saturday to buy her a dress,’ I tell Aunt Viv, reassuring Ben that I haven’t forgotten.

When Ben leaves, Aunt Viv looks at me quizzically. ‘He’s charming.’

I realise my friendship with Ben is going to be a source of gossip. Already school mum Gabriella is pouting, unable to hide her jealousy when I told her how much I’d enjoyed her lasagne. I couldn’t help myself. Every now and then my naughty side comes out. Gabriella will be at Maisy’s party this weekend. I will try to behave.

I’m at Ben’s flat, helping Emily get ready for Maisy’s birthday party. In return, Ben is playing pirate games with Louis. I notice small changes each time I come round. Ben has bought a couple of rugs to warm up the wooden floors and there are more photographs scattered around the flat, including one of Ben as a young boy dressed in his cricket whites, on the bookshelf. There is also a picture of Grace holding Patch on Emily’s bedside table. She’s fairer-skinned than Ben, with striking auburn hair and hazel eyes, just like Emily’s.

Radio 2 is on; it’s Hugo’s weekend show and he’s talking about funny shopping experiences. It makes me think of yesterday. We found Emily a green sequinned dress in Monsoon, but not without a lot of ‘I’m bored!’ comments from Louis and I could tell Ben was well out of his comfort zone as we shopped for matching accessories.

As I plait Emily’s hair in the sitting room I ask her to tell me about Patch. She says he was a cross between a Dalmatian and a Scottie. I let go of the plait. ‘How did
that
happen?’

She twists round and stares at me. ‘How did what happen?’

‘Nothing. Sorry, carry on.’

‘Last Friday, after a particularly heavy night,’ Hugo says live on air, ‘I stumbled into the office and sat down at my desk with my usual bacon and egg McMuffin and cup of coffee, ready to eat my way through my hangover. Being partially sighted, there are various pieces of equipment that make my office existence easier. Actually they are
essential
 – none more so than the anglepoise lamp on my desk.’

‘It’s Uncle Hugo!’ says Louis, when he and Ben charge into the room. ‘My Uncle Hugo is famous, Emily!’

‘So on this particular morning,’ Hugo continues, ‘I switched on my computer, turned on my lamp only to hear this ominous phutting sound followed by a little bang. My extra light source was stuffed, so before tucking into my hangover breakfast I had to go to the closest supermarket and buy a light bulb.’

‘Shh,’ I say to Louis when he asks when we’re leaving.

‘Locating the relevant light bulb successfully, I headed for the till,’ Hugo continues, ‘where the following dialogue took place: “How much is this, please?” I ask in my politest tone. Silence. “How much is this, please?” I ask in a slightly louder tone, but still nothing. Mildly angry and impatient by now, thinking about my McMuffin getting cold, I demand, “Come on, mate, do me a favour, I can’t see very well. I’m blind.” To which the cashier sitting behind the one serving me says, “Yes, and she’s deaf.”’

I burst out laughing.

‘Oops,’ Hugo says. ‘That put me in my place. You’re listening to Hugo Stephens on Radio 2. If any of you have had funny shopping experiences, I’d love to hear from you. Now, let’s take a break with a bit of something to relax us all on a Sunday morning …’

Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’ begins to play.

Ben laughs. ‘He’s quite funny, your brother, for a blind guy.’

‘And you’re quite funny, for an arsehole.’

‘Arsehole,’ Emily repeats, followed by a small laugh.

Ben raises an eyebrow at me.

‘Sorry,’ I mouth, but when Emily jumps up and gives us a twirl in her new dress and French plait it’s clear that we’re making progress.

*

Ben looks as if he has stepped onto foreign soil when he walks inside the local community centre and stares at the bouncy castle at the far end of the room, already filled with five-year-olds jumping up and down to One Direction. I know from hiring out a castle myself that the rules are only eight children allowed on at one time, but it looks as if Louis’s entire class is giving it a go, the castle rocking from side to side like a ship on choppy waters. Heads will bang or teeth will be knocked out at any minute.

We take off our coats and hand presents over to Jim, who is dressed in jeans and a thick woolly jumper, house keys sticking out of his back pocket.

Some of the parents have already left, making the most of the free babysitting, but Emily clings to both of us, making it clear that leaving isn’t an option. Louis charges towards the bouncy castle and leaps on to it. I haul him back, whip off his trainers and make him promise to be careful.

‘Promise,’ he says, diving towards Maisy again and just missing the fist of one of the children who has decided it’s much more fun punching the walls.

Jim asks if I’ll do the music for pass the parcel and musical statues. Camilla, his wife, is in bed with flu. ‘She works too hard,’ he mutters. ‘Not her fault, but she picked a lousy day to be ill.’

Distracted, I watch Ben take Emily’s hand, encouraging her to have a go on the castle with the other children. She won’t budge. I decide to wait, fighting all my instincts to butt in. Gabriella approaches him, wearing a low-cut navy dress and high-heeled boots. I watch as she bends down to Emily, giving Ben a good view of her ample cleavage.

‘She used to flirt with me,’ says Jim nostalgically.

‘But now there’s a new kid on the block,’ I say, still annoyed with myself that it bugs me. She bugs me. She’s married. I watch as Ben and Gabriella help Emily on to the castle. Gabriella whispers something into his ear.

‘Do you think she’s attractive?’ I ask Jim, attempting to sound casual.

‘Yeah, she’s gorgeous in that curvy Italian way.’ When he sees my face he adds, ‘But not as hot as you, of course.’

I kiss him on the cheek, making him blush. ‘I’ve trained you well. That’s the right answer.’

*

The children sit in a circle for Eugene the magician. There have only been two bouncy castle injuries. Luke, who wears Ben Ten glasses and shorts all year round, even in the snow, is nursing a nosebleed; Maisy has a sore foot. Gabriella’s daughter, whose weight is substantial, stood on it.

Eugene enters the circle with his collection of tired props. ‘It’s the same guy every time,’ I tell Ben quietly.

‘Why call your child Eugene? Just call them “Kick me”,’ he mutters.

Eugene is in his early sixties. He has thinning grey hair and a rather unfortunate gap between his front teeth. After a series of half-hearted tricks with his coloured tissues and then a rabbit appearing in a hat (it doesn’t worry them that they saw it last time), Eugene steps towards the birthday girl, asking if she will pick a card.

‘Is this your card?’ he asks, eyes wide with enthusiasm.

Maisy shakes her head, wipes her red snotty nose with the sleeve of her jumper.

‘Oh dear. Is
this
your card?’ He waves the card, showing it to all the children. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘No.’ Maisy giggles.

‘This
must
be your card!’

‘No!’

And then, like magic, Eugene produces a card from behind his neck.

Everyone claps, even Emily.

*

Later that afternoon Ben, Emily, Louis and I head back to my flat, armed with slabs of chocolate pirate ship cake and party bags. Without much prompting Louis and Emily play sweet shops in his bedroom, giving Ben and me a moment to flop on to the sofa and shut our eyes.

‘Gabriella fancies the pants off you,’ I can’t help saying, breaking the silence.

‘Lovely tits.’

I roll my eyes. ‘So predictable.’ Long pause. ‘She’s such a flirt. I think her husband’s always away. She must get lonely,’ I reflect.

‘Jim has a crush on you.’

‘No he doesn’t.’ But then I do confide to Ben that Jim
did
have a small crush, about a year ago. It was during a bad patch in his marriage, when his wife was always working, even at weekends, and it was driving him mad. There was this one moment, over coffee, when he began to say I was the only one he could talk to. I remember him reaching for my hand, loneliness killing the usual shine in his eyes. I don’t fancy Jim, and besides, I knew he loved his wife and I was dating David the lawyer. I told him to talk to her. So many times people kill their relationships through lack of communication or misunderstanding. ‘I don’t know why I
was giving Jim relationship advice,’ I add. ‘I mean, look at my track record.’

‘I’m not ready for a relationship.’

‘I think Gabriella’s after a hot steamy affair, Ben.’

‘I’ve had my fill of that too, Polly. Can’t do it anymore. I want something real. You know, I’ve rarely had sober sex.’

I turn to him, curious. ‘Is anyone else in your family an addict?’

‘My stepdad.’ He pauses, as if knowing what he’s about to say is going to unsettle me. ‘I don’t believe addiction is genetic.’

I shift in my seat. ‘I do.’

‘Polly, we’re not puppets.’ Ben wobbles his arms and hands in front of me. ‘See that glass.’ He’s gesturing to the tumbler of water on the coffee table. ‘Imagine that’s wine. No one is forcing me to pick it up. No one was forcing me to do an all-night session, from eleven to noon the next day …’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Are you saying you didn’t have a choice? That someone was holding a gun to your head and making you drink?’

There is nothing judgemental in his tone but still I feel my blood coursing through my veins. It doesn’t work like that. I tasted wine and that was it. It was like a virus. I would love to have a civilised glass of wine with dinner or be that person in the pub who jangles her car keys at the bar saying, ‘just the one.’

‘My grandfather was a heavy drinker. Aunt Viv was an alcoholic. I picked up the bad gene,’ I insist. ‘I’m praying Louis doesn’t have it.’

Ben remains unconvinced. ‘I believe we mirror our childhoods. If we’re fed fizzy drinks and burgers as kids, we’ll probably feed our children that crap too. If …’

‘Hang on …’

‘Let me speak,’ he says, his tone firm. ‘My dad died when I was four, in comes my controlling stepfather who hits my mother, and who drinks like a fish and, in return for his charming behaviour, we get shipped to exotic islands for our holidays. Mum loves the glamour, boasts about how most families go to Cornwall but here we are on a private yacht, drinking champagne. She didn’t want to hear me crying about how my stepdad stamped on my favourite record or hit me with his belt. I loved my mum dearly, and I know she loved me, but she protected my stepdad, made endless excuses for him. “He’s stressed, he’s busy, don’t worry, Benjamin.” My stepdad’s addiction was catching. Mum was beginning to lie too because she didn’t want to admit our family was shattering into tiny little pieces. I don’t think she knew half the time if he’d come home after work. If he didn’t, she’d pretend to herself it was work pressures, but the truth was he was drinking. He had the
choice
, Polly. He chose to be a wanker. Mum also chose to stay with him. Perhaps being brought up by an alcoholic stepfather makes me more predisposed to drink, but I still have that choice.
That’s why I have a problem with relationships now! I can’t commit because I don’t want to turn out like him, but it’s my problem, up here.’ He taps his head. ‘We have to take responsibility for ourselves.’

‘I do take responsibility,’ I stress, raising my voice. ‘I never have blamed anyone but myself. That’s why I go to meetings and make sure I see my counsellor every week. I can’t mess up again. I have to work hard at it. Me, Ben, no one else messed up but me, but I still think I had something in my genetic make-up, something that made me unable to stop. Hugo was lucky he didn’t have the rogue gene.’

Ben turns to me. ‘Shall we not talk about this?’

I lean back into the sofa. ‘Perhaps. Before we kill one another.’

At that moment my mobile rings. Relieved for the interruption I pick it up off the coffee table, glance at the screen, not recognising the number. ‘Hello?’ I wait. Hear nothing. ‘Hello?’ I repeat before ending the call. Oh well. I turn back to Ben.

‘Who was it?’ he asks.

‘No idea. Probably a wrong number. What made you stop?’ I go on, wondering if I’d have ever pulled myself together without Louis or Hugo and Aunt Viv, or my friends in AA.

‘This is going to sound mad. Don’t laugh, but I had this dream about my real dad. He was a pilot. I remember him being a big kind man; he’d sit me on his lap and read me stories,’ he says nostalgically. ‘He told Grace and me always
to have dreams, that we could be anything we wanted to be. Anyway,’ says Ben, trying to blot out the pain of losing him so young, ‘he told me to stop the drink, the partying, the drugs, the women. He wanted me to leave the City before it killed my soul. I woke up drenched in sweat, thinking I was going mad, but as the day went on I was convinced it was real, that it was a message. I’m not in any way religious,’ he mentions.

‘So what happened next?’

‘I knew he was right. I’d often thought I needed help but each time I talked to Mum she’d tell me there was nothing wrong in enjoying a good old drink. Mum never wanted to talk about anything deep. She wanted everyone to be happy, brush all the bad stuff under the carpet. But I knew I couldn’t sustain my lifestyle. Grace did too. I couldn’t hide what was going on inside of me anymore.’

‘What was going on?’

‘Nothing. That was the whole problem. I felt nothing.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Went to see a doctor. Grace came with me. I quit my job and booked myself into rehab in South Africa. Best time of my life. I watched some amazing cricket.’ He smiles, surely underplaying how hard it must have been. Ben turns to me. ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time, Polly.’

‘Go on.’

‘What happened to Louis’s father?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘How come?’

‘I met the wrong man.’

‘In what way?’

‘Every way.’

‘He didn’t stick around?’

‘I left him.’

‘Were you married?’

‘No. We were only together for two years.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know, hopefully miles away.’

‘Let’s put him on the North Pole.’

‘That’s not far enough.’

‘Does Louis ask where he is?’

‘Sometimes. Since school he’s begun to ask more questions.’

‘Does he miss him?’

I think about this. ‘Yes. He doesn’t miss Matthew, he was too little to know him, but he misses having a dad. He’s beginning to compare, see his friends with both parents.’ In a way it’s good for him to spend time with Emily; to understand that families aren’t always like the pictures of a house with four windows and a pretty front door, daisies in the garden, sunshine and figures of a mummy and daddy holding their child’s hand.