According to YES (17 page)

In each of their individual cells, the family are reeling.

Thomas is sitting on his sofa in his office, imagining that this is very possibly where he is going to sleep tonight. He pours himself a whisky. This is a fine mess. Exactly what he most feared has happened. Glenn is terribly hurt. He would do anything to change that right now, but it's all too late. He is in shock about Rosie, he thought he alone was significant to her. This changes all that. His ego is mighty bruised. Christ, the baby might be his …

Kemble sits at the desk in his room, drinking from a half bottle of vermouth he keeps in his briefcase. He was going to dump it after his conversation with Rosie, but he now feels that he might as well drink it to help him unpick the messy news he's just had. Why does he want to laugh? Something in the heart of him really doesn't mind finding out that his perfect father might not be quite so perfect after all. And that his mother might have to face some tricky truths at last. He recalls
her face from a few minutes back. Oh the schadenfreude. It's kind of delicious. He would be able to properly appreciate it, if only he weren't so involved. Christ, the baby might be his …

Teddy is sitting on his bed in a room Glenn has resolutely kept like a twelve-year-old's with all of his childhood stuff from a lifetime visiting this apartment. She has even kept the furry dog-on-wheels Teddy learnt to walk with, and a clown jack-in-the-box they gave him for Christmas one year. He is pegged out two ways, pinned backwards to his childhood by all this stuff and the way Granma thinks of him, and pinned forwards into his future where he could very possibly soon be a father himself. Christ, the baby might be his …

In the den, the twins are playing on their PlayStation while they nurse low-level anxieties about Rosie leaving. Their worries are offset by the fact that absolutely nobody seems to be stopping them playing for hours. Goodies versus baddies, shooting and killing, and points for rewards.

Red asks Three, ‘Why is Granma so angry with Rosie?'

Three answers, ‘Coz she kissed a boy and got a baby.'

Red, ‘She can kiss who she likes.'

Three, ‘Yeah. It's not like she killed anyone.'

Red, ‘Yeah,' as he murders Three's baddie character, ‘Gotcha douchebag! Suck my balls!'

Three, ‘Asswipe!'

Red, suddenly worried, ‘Hey, I kissed Rosie last week, just here, on her face, I didn't give her that baby, did I?'

Three, ‘No, you dickbrain. It has to be lips.'

Behind the tightly shut door of her bedroom, Glenn sits and gazes at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, just as she did on the day the wretched Kitto woman arrived. She looks at her reflection and wonders how a person with an intelligent face like this can so easily miss seeing signs of imminent trouble on a woman like Rosie? Maybe it was her sheer Englishness that duped Glenn into a false sense of propriety. Maybe she mistook her for Mary Poppins. Since when was Mary Poppins such a whore? Glenn lets her overriding fury about Rosie's predicament mask her outrage over who might be responsible. She just can't allow herself to really think about it since she can feel every ounce of her shaking with shock. Any tenuous last vestige of control over this family has just been right royally annihilated by the wrecking ball that is the truth. Glenn isn't ready to entirely confront that yet, and she's not sure she ever will be.

Look at her face. Not a sign of the devastation. Except, perhaps, in the eyes. Yes, she is blinking too much and when she looks right at them, she can see fear. DAMN. Stop that straight away, come on Glenn Wilder-Bingham, get a grip.

Even Rosie's door is unusually shut. She needs privacy for packing. The minute she left the breakfast table she started to frantically throw her stuff into suitcases, but now, deflated, she sits down on the bed, letting it all sink in. Everything has spiralled so quickly, all she can think of to do is to leave. Yet
again, she needs to slam that Absence Switch on and flee. Yet again, it is all her fault. Where will she go this time though? Where do you go when you're already hugely apart from every­thing and everyone you really know. She realizes that although New York was her adventure, her new chance to reinvent herself, she has steadily started to belong here. Both in this city and in this family. Just for a moment there, she began to nest in and shape her life differently. And now … look what she's done. She has never felt such a fool, and she has never felt so untethered. She has stranded herself in a fast river of uncertainty.

Without any warning whatsoever, and certainly without a knock, the door opens so violently that it bangs in its hinges, and Glenn is suddenly in the room. She slams the door shut behind her.

Rosie immediately, instinctively, puts her hands to her stomach.

This is the real, raw Glenn, resolute, cold and hard. She steps towards Rosie. ‘How much?'

‘How much what?' says Rosie.

‘To be rid of that,' says Glenn, and she points her finger at Rosie's belly. Rosie moves up the bed, keeping her hand protectively over her stomach. She is silenced for a moment as this further bombshell lands on her. Luckily, the explosion jolts her into an indignant reaction.

‘Hear this, Glenn,' she starts, laying out her stall early on by
dropping Mrs W. B.'s full moniker. ‘I'm not getting rid of this. EVER. I am truly sorry for what happened, but no, I'm not going to do that. And you don't have any say in the matter.'

Glenn's eyes gleam with utter contempt, ‘You will have nothing from us. No support. Nothing. No judge in his right mind will fail to see this for exactly, exactly, EXACTLY what it is, gold digging.'

It's as if Glenn is speaking a different language, so foreign is her accusation from the truth.

Rosie is adamant, ‘I don't want anything from you. This is my baby.'

‘I want it gone,' says Glenn.

Rosie nods. ‘That's fine. Look, there's my suitcase. I am going. It
is
gone.'

‘No, no, no. That's not good enough,' Glenn spits.

‘Listen Glenn. I am keeping this baby. I have been trying for this for years. I genuinely believed I could never have a child.'

‘So, I see, you come here and just take what you want? You burgle my family? You thought you couldn't have one, so it's alright to steal someone else's … life, to get it?'

With that, Glenn steps forwards and without a second thought she slaps Rosie hard around the face. One thwackingly accurate smack which instantly turns Rosie's cheek bright red and leaves a hand-shaped welt branded across it. Rosie is winded with the shock of it. The shock and the humiliation. She rubs her cheek and stares at Glenn, who is wide-eyed
and lit up like a raging fire. Rosie can see throbbing taught veins standing out on her neck. This is full-on Glenn the dragon. Terrifying.

Rosie Kitto is not afraid. Not of people. Her parents taught her to be unbullyable when she was little, and she's never forgotten that lesson. She knows not to shrink, she knows to stand tall and inhabit every atom of her flesh, to the tips of her fingernails and to the ends of her curly red hair. She knows to breathe deep, and to remain calm. Look up. Look straight. She pauses. She inhales, and on the exhale, animal instinct interrupts. She strikes Glenn back, on the face.

Short, sharp, slam.

The blow tosses Glenn's head sideways, and Rosie hears the surprised air escape from her, whoof. Glenn regains her balance. How she hates Rosie. Quick as a witch, she reaches for Rosie's hair and grabs it until she pulls her down onto the bed. Glenn is so much older and lighter than Rosie, she ought to be frail, but she is fuelled by fury and spite, and Rosie is caught off guard.

Glenn splutters, ‘Get out of my family, you bitch,' as Rosie struggles to stand back up.

Glenn is swinging at her again, so Rosie pulls her down on top of her. They scuffle on the bed, pushing and shoving, with Rosie blurting out ‘Stop it! Stop it!' whenever she can find the breath. Glenn is a bony ball of spikey limbs, lashing out every which way. Eventually, Rosie has had enough, and in an effort
to overpower her, she grabs at Glenn's thin hair, grasps it hard and jerks her head backwards. Glenn cries out in pain. Rosie is strong. And she is pregnant. She has everything to protect. In that moment, Rosie clambers away from Glenn, and she stands up, out of breath.

There is a pause while both women check each other out, and try to get their breath back.

Glenn sits up on the bed, but it's clear that this physical fight is over. She's tired. Mortally tired. Of everything.

Under her breath, but loud enough to hurt, she says, clean and clear,

‘You cunt.'

After Rosie exits the room, Glenn replays the moment in her head a thousand times in ten seconds. How it sounded. How Rosie looked. How she, Glenn, triumphed. Some of the word is still in the room, pinging off the walls, but most of it landed right inside Rosie, where it was aimed. Good.

Then, for a brief, surprising minute Glenn weeps. She is wrenched, embarrassed by the sobs that engulf her. As quick as they come, and under orders of her iron will, they stop.

Rosie races up the darkened hallway to Thomas's office. The sun has gone behind the late afternoon clouds and the room is quite gloomy. Thomas is sitting in his big armchair, looking
like a big empty thing of a man. It's the first time Rosie has thought of him as a sad sight, and it pains her to see, as her eyes adjust to the light.

‘I didn't come here to hurt anyone, y'know', she says.

‘I have to say, it doesn't look like that, kiddo.'

Rosie nods. He's right.

Thomas continues, ‘Why then? Why did you come here?'

‘To run away. Get out. Of a difficult situation.'

‘Right. And now you've landed yourself slap bang in another one. And why me? Why did you pick me?'

Rosie hesitates while she tries to work out ‘why' herself. She's not in the habit of stopping to think about that, she prefers not to, quite frankly, but now, here, she wants to be honest. Yes. Why?

It's suddenly startlingly obvious, so she says, ‘Because you wanted me.'

‘I see,' he ponders this. It doesn't sit well, ‘And you sleep with
anyone
that wants you?'

Rosie slumps onto the sofa opposite him. Is that true? ‘I think … I haven't felt worthy of being wanted in a long time. And somehow, with you, I went back to feeling bold again. The old me, happy in my skin. Lovely. It's my own fault, but I was a bit of a performing monkey, trying to cheer everyone up, including myself. When really I was some giant useless ovaries with a person wrapped around them. That's all I could think about. This bit that wouldn't, couldn't work. The broken bit.'

Thomas looks at her and feels a swell of kindness towards her. He loves her honesty. He doesn't hear it often. If ever.

‘Me too,' he says, ‘not the ovaries part, obviously, but the broken bit. Yep. I have certainly felt that. And pretended not to. That's my job here. Not to break.'

They both sit silently for a minute, thinking about this.

He says, ‘But y'know what, I didn't really know what broken felt like, until today. This is “broken”. And I've done it.'

Rosie leans forwards, she wants so much to go to him, to hold him and to reassure him this will all be OK, but she really can't. They just need to be here, broken together.

Thomas says, ‘Look, I'm a father here … or maybe grandfather … or maybe even a great-grandfather. It's not so bad. And the kid won't ever need to know I'm broken, because I won't be to them. And anyway, I can change …'

Rosie hurriedly interrupts him, ‘I'm going back to England …'

Thomas immediately stands up. This is urgent, ‘No. Stay. Please stay Rosie. I'll teach it to play guitar badly … how about that?' He sits next to her on the sofa, looking her right in the eyes and truly meaning it. He puts his hand on hers.

Suddenly, the light bangs on. Bam. Glenn is stood in the doorway, with her hand on the switch.

‘You appal me,' she says.

Thomas replies, ‘Well, then be appalled.' There is a new hardness in his voice.

‘I want her gone,' says Glenn, clearly.

‘And I want her to stay.'

Rosie lowers her head. How is she in the middle of all this? Because she's a prime idiot, that's how.

Glenn cuts through it all. ‘Then it's me who has to go.'

And she turns around.

And she leaves.

And he doesn't stop her.

In their vast, neat bedroom, Thomas is getting ready for bed. He hasn't ever gone to bed in this apartment without Glenn. Of course he has been away without her, but he has never been home without her. He marvels at how tidy the room is, even though she has rifled through drawers and taken three large suitcases of clothes and shoes and other stuff. She has removed herself without a sign of her leaving. That's Glenn. Stealthy, ordered, almost invisible.

Almost.

Of course, there are the remnant signs of her everywhere. The folded handkerchief on her dressing table, the spare lipstick in the tray next to it. He takes the top off the lipstick and rolls it up. Frosted Peach. It looks the same in the case as it does on her lips. She has worn this colour for … … ever. He has kissed her lips with this colour on them. He has had this colour on his own lips afterwards. They have laughed about it. As he looks closely at the lipstick, he notices for the first time
that it seems iridescent, has a sort of opal luster to it. Maybe
that's why it gleams when it's on her lips. He wondered how they always look slightly wet. He likes that. Only now is he remembering how much he likes that.

In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth, and while he does, he looks over to her sink where her soap and her small sponge are. Her toothbrush isn't there. Not in its holder where it always is. He opens the cabinet above her sink, and sees that various items are gone. The cream in the red jar, the other cream in the blue tub, the hairbrush. Gone. He feels no sentimentality about it, he is simply noticing the difference. He doesn't actively miss her at all yet, because he is still stinging from how cruelly she handled everything, how curt she was with Rosie. He doesn't miss how brusque she can be.

He spits out the toothpaste foam, and he wanders back into the bedroom, where he drops his trousers and his underpants and sits as always, with his bare arse on the crisp bedlinen. It's satisfying. He looks out of the window and he can see the moon. Subconsciously, he starts to hum, and then half-sing, ‘Say, it's only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea … hmmm hmmm … if you believed in me … hmmm hmmm.' He finds it soothing to sing, he always does it. No reason not to now, just because it's different without her. All the more reason.

He takes off his shirt and his vest. Now he is naked except for his socks. Of course, no-one has laid out his pyjamas. That's fine. He doesn't really want to wear them anyway, never has, he's certainly not going to now that he has the perfect opportunity to reject them. His clothes are in an untidy pile on the floor. So what? His socks are still on. So what? He's going to sleep in them. He tucks his legs up and pulls the duvet over himself, and he lies back onto the pillow. He reaches out and snaps the light off. As soon as he can't see, all of his other senses are instantly heightened. The apartment is all quiet, so there is no discernable sound save the constant traffic noise and occasional police siren from outside. Normal. He tastes the remnants of the toothpaste sloshing about in the back of his throat. Normal. He takes a deep breath in, and as he does the smell of Glenn from the other pillow permeates his head. Lilac. Normal. He rolls onto his side towards the centre of the bed. He reaches his hand out and smoothes the sheet where she would ordinarily be. As his big hand sweeps upwards, he pushes it up under the fragrant pillow and his fingers touch her nightdress which is folded there. He drags it down, so that it lies bunched up in the place where she would be. Not normal.

Where has she gone to?

After a while, Thomas rolls over onto his back. It occurs to him, in his restlessness, that Rosie is lying somewhere in this apartment, all alone. That his wife has gone. That the truth is out. That he would love to quietly walk down the corridor and slip in beside her. That Rosie's heart is beating under the same
roof as his, close by. How he would love to go and find her, but he knows he mustn't.

It's just as well that he doesn't go looking for her, because he wouldn't find her in her room. She is in Red and Three's room, where they have insisted that she stays while they fall asleep. It's been a tempestuous and confusing day, and she wants to calm and reassure them. Somehow, all three of them have managed to squeeze into one of the beds, and she lies in the middle of them with her arms around both, whilst they squirrel into her armpits and gradually drop off to sleep as she quietly reminds them of their amazing superpowers,

‘Superheros, may I say thank you for your infinite empathy today, Red, and you Three, for your phenomenal mental strength and intuitive aptitude. Once again, your skills come to the fore … and … help to …'

There's no point in talking, they are both sound asleep. How lovely to fall asleep being praised. Rosie feels that's the least she can do, now that she's causing such a storm. As she lies there, her breathing chimes in with first Red and then Three, and within twenty minutes, all three of them are breathing deep together. Only she is awake. She finds this closeness very touching. These two little chaps have come to utterly trust her. Is she about to upturn their lives once again? The whole point of her being here was to stabilize them during this wobbly time with their parents. Has she now made it all worse? Should she stay or should she go? Is the decision hers to make at all?

As the boys fall deeper into their peaceful sleep, and start to sweat and dribble on her shoulder, Rosie eases her way out from between them. She lifts Three back into his bed, tucks them both in, and heads off to the kitchen.

By the night light above the cooker, Iva is wiping down the surfaces and preparing to finish up and take to her bed, when Rosie trudges in and flumphs down onto a chair at the table. She holds her head in her hands. Iva sighs deeply and puts two glasses on the table, one large wine glass, and one very small espresso glass tumbler. She then brings an open bottle of red wine from the larder.

Rosie sees the label, ‘That's Thomas's St Emillion. You can't drink that.'

Iva replies, ‘I make the order. For twelve bottles. They send thirteen, is on special offer. No extra money. Mr W. B. don't know. He don't lose nothin'. Way I see it, is my commission! Is OK. I never take anything. Never. Honest Iva. True. Come on, one little glass won't hurt the little
dziecko
. Is good for your blood. Keep you strong.'

She pours the wine into both glasses, and they chink them together.

‘
Nowe zycie
. New life,' says Iva.

‘New life. Yes. For all of us,' says Rosie.

They drink a sip each.

‘Should I just go Iva? Maybe I should just finish packing and go tonight?'

‘You can't go. Leave me all alone as only woman. No thank you,' says Iva.

‘What do you mean?' Rosie says.

‘Mrs W. B. left. Couple hours ago. I help her with three big suitcase. In the elevator, in the taxi, gone.'

‘Oh my God. She's gone already, so quickly! I thought that was just an idle threat to make Thomas worry … or something. God. She's gone.'

‘Yep. Gone. She don't say goodbye to no-one.'

‘Where has she gone?!'

‘She don't say. Just …' Iva clicks her fingers, ‘like that. Into the night. If you go too, will only be me left. No way. What about twins?'

‘I know.' Rosie agrees, ‘I know. But look at me. Really, look at me. I'm a ruddy mess. I'm eight times the size of an average female New Yorker, I upped and left my partner of lots of years just when he probably needed me the most. Now I'm a home-breaker three times over in the same apartment.'

‘And …' Iva chimes in, ‘you are rubbish cook, and you have crazy bad hair and big ugly feet as well …'

‘OK. Steady on.' Rosie holds her hand up to no avail.

‘Face up to it, English, is all your fault. People shouldn't go into something where they can't get out.'

‘I can get out. I can get right out … and I will, soon, just watch me.'

‘Or, or, or, you can stay and try to mend things,' Iva suggests.

‘What? Mend things? I can't make this mess better, I can't.'

‘Can,' says Iva.

‘Can't,' says Rosie.

‘Can.'

‘Can't. Can't. Can't.' Rosie flicks two fingers up to Iva, a rigidly, resoundingly successful British rudeness. Iva responds in kind by returning the Polish version, a fuck-you gesture which takes her both arms to do, as she flexes her left arm and puts her right fist into the elbow to do a massive flip-off. Rosie picks up the gauntlet. She stands up, and wobbling and shaking her whole body she sucks her teeth and points with all ten fingers, making Iva roar with laughter.

‘What in hell is that?!'

‘I am telling you, quite conclusively, Iva, that you can go screw yourself, that I think you are stingy, that you smell rancid, and that I have violated your sister repeatedly. So there.'

‘Thanks,' says Iva, pouring herself another glass of wine.

‘Honestly though, I don't know where to start, I really don't,' Rosie says.

‘How about at the very beginning?'

‘I'm not Julie Andrews, and I am not Mary cocking Poppins.'

‘No, you're not. I think
that
lady keep her legs closed.'

Rosie splutters a laugh. What next, she wonders?