According to YES (13 page)

Inside an expensive midtown divorce lawyer's office, on opposite sides of a modernist concrete-topped table sitting on sleek Phillipe Starck chairs, there are six sombre people. Glenn, Kemble and their lawyer, Natalie and her lawyer whose thrusting young firm this is, and a secretary taking notes. Other than the people, the table and the chairs, the room is devoid of anything except a startlingly good view of Lower Manhattan from the wall of twentieth-floor windows. The room contains nothing. Including mercy or heart.

Natalie is staring over at Kemble. His promises to do the right thing hang heavily in the air. She worries that he is not returning her gaze. Glenn, however, has no such reticence, and locks her eyes on Natalie, utterly unflinching.

She nods for their lawyer to kick off. ‘My client feels that since your client has hardly seen the children in the last couple of months, she has little right to request full custody, care and control,' he says, peering over his thick-rimmed black spectacles.

Natalie's jaw drops open, she is astonished. She darts a fierce look at Kemble, who still averts his gaze. ‘Kemble?'

Kemble raises his eyes to Natalie, trying to be strong. This is his moment, but he seems unable to speak.

She prompts him, ‘What do
you
want, Kemble?'

Kemble is staring at her, paralysed. For a tiny second it looks as if he might keep his promise to her … then he makes the fatal mistake of glancing at his mother.

Glenn takes up the gauntlet, ‘In the end, Natalie, you must surely agree that you have not been the wife Kemble was led to believe he was marrying …'

Natalie is horrified, ‘ “Led to believe?!” What do you mean? I have never once misled Kemble into believing I am anything other than the person I've always been. Unlike him … Kemble, please …
speak
!'

‘For instance,' Glenn ploughs on, ‘Kemble was under the impression that you would wind down your work commitments once you became a mother so that you could be at home with your sons. This hasn't happened, and is a clear breach of the understanding between you. One of many. All of which are detailed in these documents …'

‘
Kemble
!?' Natalie persists.

‘You have misrepresented yourself, Natalie, and sadly it has come to this. The boys cannot be expected to remain living with a mother whose relationship with the truth is tenuous at best, and whose relationship with her own mental health and
even her relationship with alcohol on occasion, might be brought into question should she choose to refute the claims. Don't let this get ugly, Natalie. Trust me. Don't.'

Everyone in the modernly sparse room is simultaneously aghast at the level of Glenn's caustic smackdown, even her own lawyer, and especially her son, who has overtly slumped his head down on his folded arms on the table, so hideous is all this. He is hyperventilating.

Natalie, however, can hardly breathe at all. There is so much she could, and wants to say, but unlike Kemble she is a person of her word, and she promised him way back when that she would keep his counsel. Even now, when her happiness is at stake, Natalie remains true to that word, hoping against hope that this pathetically diminished and damaged man she once loved can finally find an iota of courage in his back pocket. She pleads with him one last time, ‘Kemble. Please say What. You. Want.'

Kemble slowly lifts up his head, and looks at Natalie. What he sees there hurts his eyes, his head, his heart. He turns to his mother. Will he, can he, stand up to her?

Glenn quickly answers that thought. ‘Kemble. Tell Natalie What. You. Want.'

All eyes are on Kemble. He carries on staring.

He will not, for some godforsaken reason, speak. It's as though he will stare forever. They all wait.

Then Natalie gives up on him, and she turns to face Glenn full on. ‘I want my children.'

Glenn answers, ‘Kemble wants his children too.'

Kemble looks down at his papers, defeated, small and insignificant. There is very little left of him.

It's Friday night, and for the first time since she arrived in this household, Rosie is alone in the apartment. The Wilder-Binghams are all away for the weekend, visiting Glenn's last and very elderly aunt in her swanky care facility in Boston. Aunt Jess was her mother's youngest sibling and is still pegging on at age ninety-three, with no teeth and a hairy chin. The boys, old and young, dread these visits, but know that they are mandatory. Glenn goes six times a year and always tries to take as many family members as possible to liven the visits up. Otherwise it's just Glenn and Jess sitting opposite each other, whilst Glenn dredges around in her childhood for any mutual memories that just might stir Jess, and form a mnemonic bridge for her to cross into the now. Jess sits and looks at the person opposite through hazy cataract eyes, wondering who on earth she could be, this woman sharing her raft in the middle of the sea … the sea … the sea …

Iva is staying the weekend with her Polish friends in Green
point so Rosie has complete peace, which is something she has been longing for, some time to properly think. The entire apartment is there for her to mooch about in, but Rosie chooses to retreat to her private lair. She remains in her rooms, turns the TV to CNN to have the wallpaper of the world for company, takes a gulp of lovely red wine and runs a bath.

As she dips into the warm water, she exhales and allows the heat to soothe her muscles and her mind. She lies down with her head back on the cold ceramic lip of the bath, closes her eyes and memories of the bath she had with Thomas come flooding in, and put a broad smile on her face and a tingle in her fanny.

Rosie is extremely skilled at compartmentalizing, she has always done it, and actually, it has served her well. If difficult or sad things are happening to Rosie, she can put them on a mental back burner while she gets on with her life. She's proud of that ability, She won't allow anything to hold her back. She can't.

So why is she crying?

A steady stream of tears drip down sideways, past her ears and plop gently into the water. It's strange to cry whilst horizontal, something akin to drowning happens at the back of the throat. Pretty soon Rosie sits up, but still the tears keep coming. At first her weeping is soundless, and Rosie thinks it will be over shortly, that it's surely controllable. Then, suddenly, her face creases into a grimace and from somewhere visceral
there comes a bellowing, big sob. She tilts her head back to release it, and she cradles herself around her breasts to find some small comfort. Where is this coming from, and why does it hurt so much? She feels as though her heart is physically tearing apart, and her only release is to wail. Never before has she heard such a pitiful sound, least of all coming from herself. She is helpless to resist it, the bawling has her in its sorry grip, and a tsunami of tears engulfs her. They keep coming, and coming, until she is convulsing with it. How has she contained such sadness? Her whole body churns, retching the misery out. What is it? What is it? Get it out. Get it all out.

She wants her mum. It hurts. It hurts.

Just when she can't manage any more misery, mercifully, the howling starts to subside, and she can gasp some deeper breaths. She lets the air flow in, out, in, out of her, until she begins to believe that finally, the roaring storm of sadness has passed.

She is wracked by it. She looks up towards the light in the centre of the bathroom, as if the answers might be there, where more illumination is. Why does light help you to think? But it seems it does, because that's when Rosie knows that all these tears are in fact, grief. Here, at last, is her mourning for the relentlessly unarrived child. Rosie realizes she is crying not only for the child she will never have, but also for the child she was whilst her mother and father were alive. And for the children in her care, whose happiness in this world is fragile.

She is no-one's mother.

She is no-one's daughter.

Rosie is mourning for her whole world.

These low moans are her belated lament. Only now, alone, does Rosie know the size of the ache. It's huge. Overwhelmingly huge. At least now, with some of it cried out, she can feel a tiny bit lighter, and at least she has surrendered to it at last. She has admitted her gnawing infertility and all the subsequent levels of complicated pain she has known because of it. She's started to be honest.

She hauls her abjectly sorry self out of the bath and peers at her reflection in the mirror. ‘What a puffy mess,' she thinks, ‘what poor child would want this wretched potato-faced twot for a mother anyway?!' But, just as she used to witness other crabby Cornish women in her family do in moments of crisis, Rosie summons her courage, has a big sniff and tells herself to ‘get on, maid'. She reaches for her green Chinese silk second-hand shop dressing gown, and she brushes her hair. The pull and pull again of the brush through the tangles is reminiscent of childhood Sunday-night bathtimes, and is soothing. She massages some moisturizing cream into her face and she dips a big puffer into some rose-scented talc and pats it all over her body. Here is the familiar smell of her darlin' mum, and her gran and her aunts to give her solace. Then she ties the dressing gown loosely at the waist, rubs her sore eyes, and pads out into the corridor, heading towards the kitchen and a restorative cuppatea, all one word.

When she turns on the light in the cavernous kitchen, Rosie stops in her tracks. Kemble is sitting at the counter, hunched over his laptop, nursing a whisky. His fifth, as it happens.

‘Oh God, sorry, didn't realize anyone was here.' She feels instantly uneasy and heads for the kettle.

‘Yeah, you don't sob that loud if you think anyone can hear …' he says, insensitively.

Clearly, Rosie imagines, he speaks from experience.

There's a quiet pause where perhaps Rosie might have apologized for the racket she made. She doesn't see the need to, so she doesn't. Rosie is brave enough to live inside her truth, even if it means her manners appear questionable sometimes. She just can't be sorry for being human, for feeling something big. And anyway, she didn't know that he was there. She thought she was private. No apology required.

Kemble stares at her through his fug of alcohol. ‘Want a drink with a kick?' He proffers the bottle of Jack Daniels.

Rosie doesn't answer.

He persists. ‘I asked you a question.'

Rosie is forced to reply, against her wishes. ‘No ta, I'm sticking with the cha.'

‘Well, aren't you the ray of sunshine?'

How rude. Rosie doesn't care to speak to him. Especially not in this sozzled state. Kemble gives up and pulls a sarcastic mimicking face behind Rosie's back which she perfectly well sees in the darkened window's reflection. Childish. How very
different he is to his father. So much less sophisticated. So much less … everything. Kemble turns back to his screen.

There is an awkward silence between them, save the tink­ling of the spoon in the cup whilst Rosie makes her tea. She has lots of sugar, she loves it, it's comforting and delicious. It's even a tad medicinal, she seems to remember some obscure advice from her mother, concerning shock and sugar. There was, of course, no sugar whatsoever in this uptown, uptight home, until Rosie turned up. Glenn regards it as utter poison, so Rosie hides the bowl in the cupboard with the cleaning cloths, somewhere Glenn would never go. Here and now, whilst Rosie feels wrung out, she shovels the sugar into the tea in three generous dollops, and proudly leaves the bowl out. So what?

She is about to leave the kitchen, but for some reason she turns at the door and comes back in, ‘Why are you fighting to keep the boys?'

Kemble is startled, ‘What do you mean, why?'

‘You hardly give them the time of day, Kemble.'

He glares at her, willing her to shut the eff up. He has no idea how to handle this moment with the audacious Rosie, he doesn't ordinarily deal with defiance too well. It challenges his already tenuous relationship with his own self-esteem. He is rendered ineloquent.

‘… And?' is all he can summon.

Rosie decides to be really honest, ‘You're doing this to get at Natalie …'

Kemble downs his drink, and returns to his keyboard.

Rosie speaks soft and firm, ‘You want your wife back.'

He attempts to continue ignoring her … but this is a step too far. He turns on her, ‘I want them. I can't have her.' He pours himself a sixth ill-advised whisky, and continues pointedly, ‘Do you have any kids?'

Rosie puts her cup down, ‘No … no.' She finds it hurts too much to say any more. She looks longingly at the door, wishing she was back in her room and moves towards it, knowing that this is a good moment to retreat.

Kemble is beyond reasonable now. ‘You reckon it's easy then, do you?' he spits out.

Rosie looks him directly in the eye, unafraid. ‘I think you're a coward.'

Kemble grins an ugly grin, ‘And you're so perfect, are you?'

‘Well, I could stand up to my mother, thanks.'

This is the tipping point for the tipsy Kemble, who unleashes, ‘Aw, go fuck yerself. I don't see your perfect relationship anywhere. And where's your perfect kid?'

Rosie is speechless, there is no answer to that. Kemble senses victory, it's an uneasy one, but nevertheless he feels like he's in the lead enough to launch, ‘Then back off, bitch,' at her.

Rosie is disgusted at his offensive and desperate attempt to shut her up. ‘Why don't you drop the big man act, you baby.'

‘An act, is it?'

‘Yep, Kemble, a big sad obvious act.'

Kemble is unnerved by her, by this, yet something in him is drawn to her insults. ‘Yeah? Is it?' he burbles, incoherently.

Rosie has nothing to lose. ‘A lost little boy, trying to please his mummy. I bet you lie in bed at night, and dream of how free you're going to feel the day she dies. You fantasize about that, don't you? Of who you can finally become then, don't you?'

There is silence, while Kemble wonders how she knows this. He can't explain or understand it, but he actually wants more of her insults, they are accurate, and have somehow woken him up.

Rosie doesn't see this, she is just on a roll, since she seems to be getting away with it and it's immensely liberating.

Kemble asks, ‘D'you want to say any more?'

‘Yep. OK thanks.' Rosie picks up the gauntlet, ‘you are a self-pitying disaster zone. Completely toxic.'

Kemble says nothing. She is getting to him.

She continues, ‘You're incapable of even one small bit of bravery. Either of your eight-year-old sons has more courage in their little finger than you have ever had …'

His eyes moisten. Rosie hesitates, feeling suddenly guilty that she has said too much. He's crumpling in front of her eyes.

‘Sorry, Kemble. I didn't mean … to go that far … it's just … you are bloody maddening.'

‘Well, here's the thing lady. I want more. More of that. Plenty more, if you please.'

Rosie is astonished by this strange reaction, she senses that it is all getting a bit odd and inappropriate.

He isn't giving up. ‘If I asked you nicely? Could you be more nasty?'

‘What?! No!'

‘If I begged?'

‘No, Kemble. Stop it. What's the matter with you?'

He knows what the matter is. ‘We got to the part at the lawyers, where I should've kept my promise. I promised Nat. I couldn't do it. I'm a useless shit.'

‘You're emotionally crippled, for sure …'

‘Yep. That's it. Keep going …'

‘Oh, give over, for Gods' sake! I'm not playing your weird games, Kemble, I'm telling you the truth as I see it.'

Rosie moves closer towards him, squares up to him. He says nothing. So she does. ‘It's difficult, I'm sure, but you've got to step up, pal. Got to. And soon.'

Everything on Kemble's face tells her that he is on the edge. He doesn't know how to be in this situation, he rarely confronts anything, least of all himself.

‘Christ, I know it's hard, but really Kemble, you have no option if you want what's right for those lads. Now is the time to dig deep …'

In the giddy midst of his inebriation, and possibly because of it, Kemble knows that what she says is right. But the one little shred of misplaced ego he has left keeps him trapped
within his lies. He doesn't want her to know it all, he wants to be able to keep his secret because he hasn't even told it to himself yet. Not properly.

Natalie guessed. She told him that their marriage was no longer possible, and that he wouldn't be able to have an authentic happy life until he worked things out for himself, that she thought it was why he drank so much and threw his weight around so randomly. That it was at the centre of all his trouble, at the centre of him. And now Rosie is hovering dangerously close to the real Kemble, and he feels cornered, defensive. It takes him back to being a teenager, and all the macho crap he invented about himself, mostly to impress his parents, mostly his mother. He is their only child. A boy. A man. Who would surely grow to be every bit the man his father is …

Kemble stands up, ‘I know what you want me to do. What everybody wants me to do …'

‘So do it, Kemble,' she says, ‘man up.'

‘Yeah,' he agrees, ‘man up. Grow a pair … of these,' and with that, he grabs her hand, and thrusts it onto his balls. Rosie is startled, but stands her ground and doesn't flinch. She does the opposite, she holds his gaze. Very quietly she says, ‘How dare you? Dream on, mate,' and she gives them a quick hefty squeeze til he winces. Then she releases him and walks off briskly, breathing hard and heading for the sanctuary of her room. Get away, get away.

The teetering Kemble is left standing alone with his embarrassment and shame, the two comrades he is most familiar with. So familiar, in fact, that he actively seeks them out as regular company he can rely on. He always forgets, though, that those two destructive reprobates are part of a mighty alliance, a triumvirate that includes their sinister old crony, anger … and when
he
now joins the gang, Kemble explodes inside, and chases up the corridor after her.