According to YES (14 page)

Before Rosie even has time to realize it he is thundering up behind her, an angry bull. He grabs her, and they fall to the floor together.

‘Kemble, what the fuck are you doing?' she blurts as he fumbles about, clumsily pulling at her dressing gown. She squirms herself around until she is facing him, with Kemble on top of her.

‘I'll show you, I'll show all of you …'

He pins her arms to the floor either side of her shoulders, his face is close to hers and their laboured breath is mingling, a clash of whisky and tea.

‘What do you want to show me?!' she pants at him.

He falters. ‘I'm a man. I'm … just a man. That's it.'

‘I know that, Kemble.'

He lets go of her wrists and sits up, still straddling her. She sees in his desperate eyes that anger is leaving, and drunken confusion is replacing it. Kemble is an oaf in every way, lumbering around making all the wrong decisions and hating
himself. Her gown has fallen open and her breasts are exposed. Kemble can't take his eyes from them. But he hesitates. Why is he so bewildered? Is it the drink?

Rosie's glad he's so lost, it gives her a chance to escape. She pushes him off her and he falls away easily, and slumps against the wall. A big pathetic sack of potatoes. She clambers up, pulling her gown around her, and walks the few paces to her room, where she gently closes the door behind her.

What the hell has just happened?! Does she need to lock the door? No, she doesn't feel afraid. Does she need to leave the apartment immediately? No, because she doesn't feel compromised. He is the one who will feel a fool, not her. What a sorry, sorry excuse for a man he is. It's as if he's been used up, there's no point to him. Rosie pities him. How awful it must be to be him. To be privileged, empty, failed Kemble, chained to a massive inadequacy package like that, ready to throw himself over the side and let it drag him down to the depths, so far that he believes he will never surface again. All the time Rosie is thinking about him, she is trying to self-soothe by grabbing at the lovely Persian carpet with her toes. Feels a little bit better. Oh dear. What a ruddy weird mess.

Rosie has been sitting, thinking like this, in the gloom, for an hour or more, when there is a soft, uncertain knock on her door. So soft that she's not even sure it is a knock. She listens. It comes again. She takes a deep breath, and goes to the door. She opens it a tiny bit, and through the narrow slit, she sees
Kemble in a big white fluffy dressing gown. His hair is wet, and he smells of soap.

‘I'm so sorry,' he says quietly, ‘so sorry.'

She opens the door a bit more. ‘I'm not loaded anymore,' he continues, ‘this is me, cold shower, not so drunk, being as real as I know how. I'm sorry.'

Rosie can tell that eating this huge portion of humble pie is taking some stamina and no small amount of courage.

‘Can I come in for a minute?' he asks politely. Rosie's instinct tells her that, despite everything this evening, she is safe with this broken, feeble fellow. She prays she's got it right when she opens the door fully, and steps back to allow him in. It flits across her mind that if this were happening to any good friend of hers, she would be strongly advising against it. Yet here she is, letting it happen. ‘Just for the record, Kemble, you don't frighten me.'

He sits down on her sofa, and straight away, she notices that he is fidgety and fighting back tears. He coughs to steady his thoughts and to see the extreme emotion off.

‘Why the hell can't I do the right thing? It's so … clear … what's right.'

‘Think it's a toss up between what you're prepared to risk,' she says.

‘What do you mean?' he says.

‘Well, if you do the right thing, you risk losing the respect of your mother. If you do the wrong thing, you risk losing the respect of your kids.'

‘I've never had the respect of my mother. No-one has that except for Dad. No-one. Never will.'

‘So why are you chasing it then? If it's so impossible to have?'

‘Dunno … always wanted it. Always.'

‘Has it ever occurred to you that she might have decided, somehow, to never give it to you, on purpose? So that she can feel … sort of … important? Maybe that's how she needs to have her power. It's a bit messed up. A lot messed up. But the messed-upness is hers, not yours, frankly. Leave it be. Let her get on with it. You've got a job to do.'

‘Yeah. I have … What?'

‘Being a dad, for God's sake! Those lads, all three of them, are bloody
longing
for you. Just like you're longing for Glenn. But unlike her, you
can
give it to them. Can't you? Give 'em buckets of it, of you. That's all they want, Kemble. They don't need a perfect dad. Just a regular, interested, flawed wanker like you. They're waiting for you to get involved, and make the right decisions. That's all. It's easy. Achievable. Don't be like her, withholding it all. Don't be that, you know how much it hurts. Why would you do that to them? Don't let them feel they aren't worth it, or that you're dangerous for them in some way. They
are
, and you're
not
. Fact.'

In this moment, something shifts in Kemble. Rosie has thrown him a lifeline. He can see there's a way out, and the dawning relief of it, the beginning of acceptance, is overwhelming. He
smiles weakly at her, and she smiles kindly back, and says, ‘You have no idea how privileged you are.'

‘I know. Jeez.'

‘No, no. I'm not talking about stuff, material stuff, I mean that you get to be a parent. It's … big … y'know … don't bugger it up …' She nearly loses her composure. She doesn't want to be doing this in front of him, in front of anyone, but her emotional immunity is low, and has been all evening. ‘You're so lucky. Some people really … need you. You matter to them. It'd be a sin to squander that … love. That's all.' She looks at him, she means it, bone deep.

Kemble knows it, maybe for the first time. Unequivocally. He feels huge compassion for her generosity and for her sincerity. He doesn't witness this often. His eyes fill with tears and he starts to softly sob. This is someone crying for the first time in ages. Rosie puts her hand to his face to wipe away his sadness and, simultaneously, he does the same to her. He moves closer to her and pulls her against him to hold her in his arms. Rosie's face is against the downy dressing gown. She closes her eyes and allows herself to be held. Two complicated, hidden people sharing their hurt, both of whom ordinarily do almost anything to avoid it, now both clinging to the wreckage, grateful for the honesty. She can hear his fast heartbeat through the cloth, and she can feel his body shaking as he submits to his sorrow. She holds him tight, like a koala holds a tree. She just wants to be there, and to not
think. Cleaved together like this, the two of them pat and stroke and rock each other gently, until … eventually … they lull into sleep.

Somewhere in the thick of the night, Rosie is roused from her deep sticky slumber, and her lovely sensual dream, to find that sleepy Kemble is nuzzling into her neck. She feels his lips moving slowly over her face til he finds her mouth. It all happens in the treacle of half awake. The two of them wind around each other like ivy, as they kiss and inhale each other. Before they are alert enough to think, their most natural desires draw them together as they melt into sex. It is dozy and tender and easy, until Kemble suddenly ramps up his energy. Her gown comes off as he flips her over. She hears his breathing change, more urgent, and he is muttering low and animal. He kisses her back, and leans in to her ear from behind, she can hear him whispering, ‘I'm not who I am. This isn't who I am,' as he pushes into her. He starts a steady long stroke, and groggy Rosie can't help liking it, he's strong and sure, and she is waking up fast now, as his rhythm increases. She is swept up in his grunts and she begins to realize he is in his own world. She turns her head to see his eyes are closed, and he is biting the air as he thrusts and jolts toward his orgasm. ‘I … don't … want … this,' he gasps, ‘Don't look at me.'

It's dawning on Rosie that this is not right for a thousand reasons when he suddenly ejaculates, panting ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.' He pulls away from her, and they both sit naked and hunched up, at either end of the sofa, separate and reeling from what just happened.

‘Are you OK?' he asks.

‘Yeah, OK. Sort of. Bloody hell, Kemble. I was asleep …'

‘I know. Me too. Sorry. I just … want … oh God …'

‘What, Kemble? What
do
you want?'

He hangs his head and puts his hand to his forehead. With his other hand, he reaches out to her, his lifeboat, and she takes it in hers. He pauses.

‘I want …' he stutters. Will he say it? Will he finally put his secret out of him, and into the fresh air?

‘I want to want women … but I don't … mostly … I … don't.'

And with that, Kemble's face collapses and he hides it from her, in unmitigated shame. Rosie lifts herself off her end of the sofa, and she goes to him. She pulls his hands away from his face so she can look him directly in the eye.

He is repeating, ‘See? See who I am?' in hushed tones.

‘I see you now, Kemble. I properly see you now. I get it. It's OK. Really, it's OK. It all makes sense.'

He speaks fast. ‘Natalie knew, she told me to own it. She loved me, she said, but we couldn't stay married. She promised not to say anything til I get my head round it, til I'm ready.
And she hasn't. Even when she could've. I wish I didn't hurt her so badly. She deserves better.'

‘Better than what?' says Rosie.

‘Better than some ageing closet coward who can't face his own truth, and made her life a misery.'

‘That's not the bit she deserves better than. She deserves better than a dishonest man too afraid to tell his family the truth, who drinks to dull the pain and absents himself from his most important commitments.'

‘Hmm, if I'm honest, Rosie, that hasn't made me feel any better …'

They share a laugh. At last. Thank God.

‘Oh, Kemble. You silly bloke.' She kisses him.

‘I know. I'm a jerk.'

‘Yes. You are. A massive jerk.'

‘More. More. More insults … keep 'em comin,' he half-jokes.

‘Don't start all that again. This is it, babe. The start of your new chapter. It ain't going to be easy, but at least you know exactly what you have to do. You've got to mend all of this, piece by piece. Then you've got to live an honest, real life. You big gay!'

‘Don't. I can't cope with that yet … I'm not 100 per cent gay anyway, I don't think … Oh shit … I don't know … I haven't … y'know … tried. That. Yet …'

‘Well, get a move on pal, life goes on happening while you're hiding away.'

‘I know.'

‘And don't worry. I'm not taking it personally, but let's face it, I've just been majorly gayed.' She stands up and holds her arms out, proudly displaying her lovely chubby body to him, and sings, ‘My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard … Honey little did I realize you was chasin' those boys …! C'mere, give us a hug. Then get lost. I need sleep … and no more of this craziness. Christ. I'm knackered.'

He stands up and gathers her into his arms, both of them still naked. Whilst he holds her close, he whispers, ‘Thank you, Rosie' in her ear.

‘S'OK. It's going to be fine.'

As they break away from eachother, they instantly become a bit embarrassed and aware of their nudity, as if the lights are suddenly on. Which, in a way, they are.

When the family return from their Boston visit, the apartment buzzes back into life again. The Queen Bee Glenn resumes her primary purpose, which is to exist, to appear to be in charge, and to be well-groomed. She is well-serviced by all the other bees who pay close attention to her every need, which in Glenn's case means leaving her be for the most part. They all know on some level that it's the joining-in she finds irksome, so they happily, willingly, relieve her of that burden. This means Glenn spends a good part of the day at her writing desk, penning thank-yous and invites and writing donation cheques for the many deserving charities and projects she is involved with. Sometimes she wonders if all this worthy effort will ever make her feel good? So far it has only served to make her feel charitable, which she experiences as a satisfying duty, and nothing more. She is fulfilling her quota of considerate.

She is being perceived as compassionate enough.

She is falling into line.

Correct.

The drones and worker bees go about their business. On the roof, Rosie and the twins are helping Teddy to plant up two beautiful young lime trees. The last of the gardening budget has been spent on them, but Teddy is determined to grow the fruit in abundance, to use in his Mojiteddies. It's hot, heavy work and all four of them are sweaty and dirty.

As they pat in the last of the nitrogen-rich fertilizer to the pots around the base of the sapling trees, Teddy announces, ‘OK guys, nearly done. Good work. And y'know what? I'm gonna name these two little fellas, because that'll help us to remember to water them. So this one is Red and this one is … Deborah.'

‘Eh? What?' exclaims Three, upset.

‘Just checking if you were concentrating … he he, of course this one is Three.'

‘Mine's the tallest,' says Red, boasting.

‘Mine's got more leaves,' says Three, smugly.

‘Now listen, chaps,' says Rosie, encouraging them to concentrate. ‘What are the four most important things to remember about these beautiful trees? What do you need to do to keep them flourishing?'

‘Um,' Three puts his hand up, a school habit. ‘I know, water them regularly, like Teds said. But not too much.'

‘Yep. Enough, but don't saturate. That's right. And …?'

Teddy knows, and can't resist joining in like a fellow junior, ‘Yeah, and fertilizer every three months.'

‘Yep. And …? Red …?'

He screws his face up trying to remember. They've been talking about this all morning. ‘Umm. Can't remember …' he says, bashing his head to jog his memory.

‘S'OK,' reassures Rosie, ‘try to think what we talked about, plants are like people really … we need water, we need food, we need …'

‘Sunshine!' shouts Red, suddenly remembering.

‘Yes,' Rosie agrees, ‘sunshine's great for light and for warmth, isn't it? Plants and humans need both. I reckon. Yes, that's it.'

Teddy jabs her in the ribs, ‘You've forgotten the other thing. All plants and humans need …'

‘What? Have I? What?' she says, smiling.

‘Drainage! Boys, if we might demonstrate to the lady … our very own pipe system …?'

With that, Teddy walks to the other side of the roof, where the wall to the water tower is, and he unzips his flies, followed by the two boys who copy him.

‘No! Boys. Stop! Really, stop!' she shouts at them through her chuckles. She shields her eyes and turns away as she realizes they are all indeed about to pee against the wall. ‘Stop it! It's revolting! Ha ha ha …'

As Rosie turns, she sees Glenn standing in the doorway to
the roof. She has appeared wraith-like, at exactly the wrong moment. Of course.

‘Commendable as these attributes may be, might I suggest …' her voice cuts through the air like a knife, and succeeds in cutting off the pee-flow of Teddy and Three instantly. Like taps. Off. Just like that. Sadly, Red drank a full can of forbidden Dr Pepper earlier, and now has the steady unrelenting stream of a small carthorse, which he is helpless to stop. Glenn continues despite this. ‘Might I suggest … a little less irrigation and a tad more study wouldn't go amiss. This is really fairly base, Miss Kitto. Disappointing.' She turns and leaves. A loaded pause.

Rosie looks back at the boys. Teddy and Three are zipping themselves up, suitably admonished, but Red still can't stop. He is turned away but the noise is unmistakable, he is still gushing. Rosie is relieved and delighted to see that they are all stifling giggles, until Glenn is well out of earshot, when they let go and laugh their heads off, including the alarmingly prolific urinator himself. Thank goodness, she thinks, they no longer seem too scared of the Queen Bee. Perhaps they are learning, with practice, to dodge her sting?

And still, Red wees on … longer than any human should be able to … so Rosie says, ‘Actually, a round of applause, I think for the world's longest pee. Gents, I give you Red Wilder-Bingham, and his remarkable hose!'

They clap and cheer, and Red attempts to tip his invisible
hat, and bow his acknowledgement, but ends up peeing on his shoes in the clumsy process, which propels them all into gales of unbridled, uncontrollable hilarity. Rosie has to hold her sides as she gets a stitch. Now this is the kind of pain she doesn't mind at all …

A few floors down in the beehive, Thomas is busy in his office, attempting the first few brushstrokes onto a small canvas he has bought and propped up on an easel. He has a ‘Paint Your First Portrait' manual leaning on his desk, and his eyes dart between the book and the canvas. He has mixed up the oil paints onto a small wooden board, and he has five various-sized brushes waiting on the lip of the easel. He has selected a thin one to start with, and he tentatively mixes a red and a white to make the fleshy colour he wants to use for the woman's face he is going to paint. He jabs it onto the canvas, stands back, and immediately regrets his vigour. Now he quickly turns to the chapter in the manual, headed ‘How to Correct Your Mistakes …'

Elsewhere in the beehive, worker bee Iva is sneaking into the storage cupboard at the back of the kitchen in order to skype her daughter before she goes to bed. Iva doesn't like to annoy Mrs W. B. by making private calls during work hours, but her home in Poland is six hours ahead of here, so it's very difficult to find a time that doesn't overlap. If she sneaks a little call in in the afternoon, she can sometimes hear how her daughter's day has been, and she can be like a normal mum, just catching up,
lovely and ordinary, chit chat about school and friends, and the shoes her daughter wants, and how well she can dance like Beyoncé. Iva can be an effective, loving, close-at-hand mum, not a stranger who's four and a half thousand miles away. She crouches on the floor, dials the number, and soon, there's the face of her darling daughter two inches from her own. They kiss the phone cameras either end to say hello as they always do, but this time, the young girl seems restless. She babbles away excitedly that she hopes it's OK, but her friend Blanka has come round to see the new kitten, so she can't speak now, sorry Mum, is that OK? Of course it's OK, Iva tells her, go and be with your friend and we will speak tomorrow. Thanks Mum! … and blip, she's gone. Two minutes of her. Normal. Heartbreaking. Iva sighs, turns off her phone and returns to the kitchen, where she will cook supper for somebody else's children, so that her child will have a better future.

A few hours later in the den, Thomas stands by a huge widescreen TV. He switches the remote and it springs to life. The Yankees are playing, and Granpop wants to watch it with his boys. The coffee table is piled high with potato chips, dips, corndogs and hot nachos. The floor is strewn with newspapers and magazines, and in the centre of the circle of mess, are Teddy and the twins on the big leather sofa. Red and Three
are nursing sodas, while Thomas offers Teddy a cold beer to drink from the bottle. The windows are open, and there is the distant sound of the same pre-match TV coverage coming from other open windows, carried on the gentle breeze. The excitement is palpable. New York is watching.

The twins are having their very first experience of watching an important game with Thomas. Little do they realize just how loud and passionate it's about to get. They will witness an explosive Thomas they haven't seen before, as he unleashes his passion for the team he has been so loyal to for so long. And thus, their nascent dedication to the same tribe will be fostered and inherited starting right now. The band of brotherhood expands to include them. The clan gains momentum. Their shared blood unites them, their lineage denotes their mob, and together, they would and could form a barbarian horde against all detractors and rivals. They are the Wilder-Binghams. They will sing, they will grunt, they will shout, they will rage, they will celebrate, and they will cry together in the pursuit of their devotion to nine men in tight leggings wielding a bat and hurling a ball. The testosterone saturates the air.

Thomas settles in next to Teddy with his own beer, all ready for the game to start. As they watch the pre-match shenanigans and endless advertisements, a nervous Kemble appears and lingers in the doorway, wondering if he is welcome or not.

‘Hey Dad,' say the twins.

‘Hey guys', he replies.

Thomas looks up at his son and smiles a welcome. They have shared games together before, but quite a long time ago now. Teddy can't hide his annoyance with his father, so he chooses not to say a word. Kemble appears to have passed the son test, and failed the father test. Better than nothing. He takes a deep breath and steps a bit further into the room. Thomas has seen Teddy's subtle rejection, and he holds out a bottle of beer to Kemble. Kemble takes it, and remains standing by the door to drink it. He's not quite in the room yet, but this will do for now. He's watching the game with his father and with his sons. He is present, and he's part of the gang. Slowly, slowly catchee monkey.