According to YES (19 page)

Glenn's rented apartment is a surprise. She stayed at The Waldorf for two days and that's as much as she could manage. To be in one's own city and to be in a hotel is all wrong, unless of course, you're having an affair, like Thomas did. All the time she sat in her sterile suite on the eighth floor she was reminded: That's. What. He. Did. She even wondered if he had done it there, in a hotel they knew well? Did he maybe do it in that very room? Glenn knows these terrible imaginings are preposterous, but she can't help it, her mind is invaded and it exhausts her.

So, she has contacted a rental realtor and now here she is, having chosen the least suitable, most crazy stupid option he offered. There were no reasons to opt for this. Then again, there were no reasons not to. That's where Glenn's head is at the moment, in a no man's land of muddle. All sense of anchorage and order are absent. Only chaos and shock occupy her.

So here she is, in a loft apartment on Mercer Street in Soho,
three floors above swanky designer boho shops. There are bare floorboards and giant floor-to-ceiling windows. Thankfully for Glenn, there are also matching shutters, so she needn't suffer too much brutal light. The apartment is furnished with stark modern furniture, clean lines, bright colours, uncomfortable. The art on the walls matches the rugs, the cushions and the open-kitchen cabinet doors, all bright red and Rothko-esque. This is young, hip living. Sadly, Glenn doesn't have the young hips to match it, but … here she is. She astonished herself when she said yes. Nevertheless, she made a bed up, did a shop at the grocery store around the corner, and now she awaits the arrival of Kemble, with a bottle of Pinot Grigio chilling, and olives in a shiny red dish on the shiny red kitsch kitchen counter.

The buzzer goes and she answers it, letting him in herself. There is no porter service here. She waits for him to climb the four floors, there is no elevator here. When she went shopping earlier, she had to take two rest-stops to manage the stairs. No matter, it'll do her good. She finds herself excited to see him. She hasn't seen anyone from her family for a week now. Thomas has left a voicemail asking after her, but she decides to ignore it for now, she's not ready for him. Kemble, however, is a different prospect. He represents a tiny fragment of something she can still possibly control, so she has summoned him. As she waits for him to climb the stairs, she realizes that actually, she really
wants
to see him. Perhaps he will help to
alleviate the awful unbelonging she feels in the pit of her belly. He does, after all, belong to her, and she to him, wherever the hell she might be living.

He knocks on the door and she lets him in. With no kiss, no hug, and eyes averted, he enters her new place, and stands in the centre of the large main room, looking around, ‘Woo. Nice pad, Ma. Different.'

‘Yes. It's … what I need presently,' she says, and pours him a glass of wine. Kemble perches himself, as she does, uneasily on a breakfast bar stool, half on, half off.

‘How could you, Kemble?' Glenn's vitriol takes her by surprise. She has revealed her injuries far too quickly. This wasn't the civilized scenario she'd prepared for. But she can't help herself. It's just so raw.

‘You're the one with the high moral standards, Ma. The rest of us are merely human beings. Who get stuff wrong sometimes … make mistakes.'

A pause. Glenn tries to gauge Kemble's courage. She wants him to catch her hurt, but he seems resilient.

‘I'm stopping it all. The kids have gone back to stay with Natalie,' Kemble finally says.

Thump. This is a direct blow to Glenn's heart.

‘No, you are not! They belong with you.'

Kemble is nodding, but not agreeing one bit, ‘It's not what I want, Ma. Actually, it's not what I've ever wanted, if I'm truthful. I've instructed the lawyers.'

This is too much for Glenn, who feels as if someone has just severed the chain of her anchor into her family. She slams down her wine glass dangerously, close to bursting.

‘Those boys belong with this family!' she blurts out, half spoilt child, half dictator,

Kemble climbs off his uncomfortable stool, and confronts her, ‘There is no “this family”, Mother. Look around. Listen, I want my kids to like me, not resent me, or pity me … like I do
you
.'

Thump.

‘I don't want your pity.' She stares at him, furious.

He stares back. He isn't afraid, and Glenn can clearly see that. ‘Like I said, I've told the lawyers. I just thought you should know.' Kemble puts his wine glass down carefully, as if it's the winning chess piece.

Glenn watches him. She is on the back foot, stumped.

‘Ma?' he says.

No response.

Kemble shrugs his shoulders and moves towards the door. Just when he is almost out of it, he hears her make a small, thin sound.

He turns, ‘What did you say?'

She speaks it again, very very quietly, ‘I'm lonely, Kemble,' she says. It's a tremendously hard thing for her to say. A confession.

‘Can you help me?' she continues, faltering. It appears that
she needs him, for the first time ever. He doesn't know how to feel, it's so unfamiliar.

‘I wouldn't know how, Mother.'

He closes the door behind him with a quiet clunk.

Glenn sags. She stings all over.

Rosie sits in the armchair in her room. It's the only place in the apartment now where she truly feels permission to be. Other than the roof garden, this is her sanctuary. It's small and still, hidden away as it is behind the kitchen. Everywhere else feels a little bit like trespassing without the twins around. They were her reason to be here after all. It's not that anyone is making her feel unwelcome. The only person who did that was Glenn, and she is gone. Quite the opposite, the men are constantly requesting that she be anywhere she wants to. Although they are all still reeling, they are supportive. But she needs a small space to be in, right now. Curled up in the chair, she unconsciously mirrors the tinier version curled up inside her. She is listening to Lennon and thinking about family and home. Ordinarily she would avoid this emotional pitfall, but today, on her own in her room, she wants to wallow in nostalgia, she wants the comfort of memory. She listens to old Beatles tunes. ‘Love Me Do' is next. She loves it. It connects
her to her father, and as is so often the case with favourite songs, the lyrics, the ‘someone', suddenly takes on acres of new, relevant meaning,

Yes, someone like you, little surprise bump. You are going to get so loved. How and where, she doesn't quite know yet, but she does know that all she can do is her best and she will certainly do that. Other than this new family, who were strangers to her a few months ago, she hasn't yet told anyone about what's happening. All her contact with home is via text, so she doesn't feel she has actively lied by not mentioning it, she has simply omitted to tell them. It's not exactly fibbing, but it's not great. The minute family and friends find out, they will be lobbying for her to come home immediately, or even clambering on aircraft to get to the US straight away. She wants to let it all cook for the right amount of time, at the right temperature until she and the baby are ready. Instinctively she knows that, in every way, both physically and mentally, this is a process, and she needs to trust it, now more than ever. The overriding impulse she is obeying is procrastination. She will tell them. Just not now.

There is a knock at the door, and she uncurls herself to answer it. It's Thomas. ‘May I come in?'

‘Yes, of course.'

He flumps his big frame down on the sofa. ‘Look, Rosie,' he reaches out, and takes her hand, ‘I really don't like you sitting in here, locking yourself away. This is your home just as much as anyone else's …'

He looks into her eyes so earnestly, and Rosie has an instant profound understanding of something very important. In this room, in this apartment, in this moment, she sees herself reflected in his eyes, and she knows – without doubt – that he is now regarding her as a kind of troubled daughter. He clearly doesn't look at her like a lover anymore.

Is it simply that they are in this apartment where their love for each other could never and should never and will never happen? No, Rosie thinks, it's not the geography that has forged this change, it's everything else.

She and Thomas are two people in a predicament. They love and like each other very much, but the impetuous and reckless element of their sparky affair has evaporated entirely. That was the steam that bubbled and excited and bubbled away, and now they are left with the sediment of it, the real tangible consequence. It's OK, because what remains is nothing short of miraculous, but the fact is that the sexual attraction between them is vapour, and it's … gone.

Just like that. Vanished.

Rosie is relieved to know it, and to see so surely that he knows it too. All of this realization has dawned on her in a matter of seconds and Thomas is still talking to her,

‘… please please come and be around us all. You are in this family, in every way, now.'

‘Thank you, Thomas, that means a lot to me. And … thanks for making it … y'know … alright. Are you OK?'

‘I think so, yes. Got plenty of stuff kicking around in this ol' head. Not quite sure what's going to happen, or how to be, but I'm hanging on to the things I know for sure.'

‘Which are?'

‘Well, I'm going to be here for my family, that's one thing. I'm going to support any decisions you make, and I'll be here for that little bean in there, whatever shape and form you want me in … father, friend … your choice.'

Rosie squeezes his hand.

‘And there's one big thing I know for sure,' he continues, ‘I need my wife. I need to fix it. I love her, always have, always will.'

‘I know,' says Rosie. And she does. They are quiet together for a minute. It's not awkward, because they are both sitting firmly in the centre of the truth and the responsibility, which is what each of them need to do.

‘Hey, come on now, come and see what's going on with Teddy,' says Thomas, puncturing the moment, ‘it's sort of awesome.'

Rosie allows him to pull her out of her cocoon, and they walk through the kitchen and up the corridor towards the sound of loud music coming from the library. The tune is familiar, although difficult to place initially because it's so stop and start. Thomas pushes open the door, and Rosie sees a sight that lifts her heart.

The yellow daffodil sofas are pushed back, and the big room
has been temporarily transformed into a rehearsal space for Teddy's band, ‘The Hell No's', who have set up their microphones and speakers. They are plugged in and already practicing the tune Rosie recognizes to be a cover of ‘You Are My Sunshine'. Rosie and Thomas sit down on one of the displaced sofas to listen.

The band is five people, four are old classmate chums of Teddy's who have been in various versions of bands together since they were fourteen. Preppy boys, over-groomed in pastel shirts and tight trousers with floppy hair and stubborn acne. Rosie recognizes that these are the friends he often speaks of, but there's a new addition. A girl. A dewey-skinned dark-haired peach of a cheeky girl, with a mini-skirt and leather ankle boots and a chunky bob and black tights and lots of friendship bracelets and startling blue eyes and thick eyeliner and bright red lips and a smile as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge and perfect perfect teeth. A shiny, interesting gorgeous girl, whose very proximity to Teddy is making him blush. The sister of one of the boys, she is the singer they've been looking for. Teddy harmonizes with her, and revels in the little smile presents she gives him throughout the song.

Teddy plays lead guitar, and Rosie is surprised by his confidence and ability. He is properly good. He even has a bit of the necessary swagger like his idol, Jim Morrison, if Jim Morrison had ever been a preppy boy. The sound is loud and full, they are all accomplished, and Rosie sits back to listen to beautiful
live music in the Wilder-Bingham library, the first room she ever entered here.

Oh, please let that girl like Teddy, and please let Teddy have the chops to show her who he really is, Rosie thinks. Thomas is humming along and smiles at Rosie, glad that at least the Teddy part of his family is working. Hell yes, The Hell No's are bloody marvellous, and Rosie is overwhelmed by the notion that there is strongly beating life in the very heart of this home, and that means real hope for the chance to fix it. Yep, they might just cope …

This is further confirmed when she notices the door opens and Kemble peeps in. Is he an unwelcome interloper? He's always wary of what kind of reception Teddy might give him. Deservedly so. But on this occasion, Teddy is so swept up in the music he forgets to frown, and so it seems that Kemble is received in with no problem. He takes his time, as always, to inch his way into the room, but the music itself is the magnet, along with his fathomless pride in his eldest boy. Look at how assured and content Teddy is! What Kemble wouldn't give for a tenth of that kind of happy. How grateful he feels to be part of such a beautiful boy.

Beckoned eagerly by his father, he slides in next to Rosie on the sofa, the three of them strangely connected, sitting in a row, being the audience and loving it all.

It's two p.m., and Thomas Wilder-Bingham is sitting still in his study. He did a morning's work at his downtown office, but he was restless and tired, so has come home. His daily texts to Glenn are going unanswered. It's been months now. He doesn't even know where she is, not really. He knows she is in Soho somewhere. He knows she is basically alright. He knows this via Iva, who is regularly delivering Glenn's mail to her but who has sworn to keep the address to herself, as has Kemble. Thomas has decided to strictly adhere to all of Glenn's requests, however little he likes it. He knows her well enough to know that she will harbour her fury for some time yet, before she will consent to even the beginnings of reconciliation. She is stubborn about the trivial stuff, she is certainly going to be extra stubborn about this most cataclysmic of crimes. He is the perpetrator. He is guilty. He must take whatever she dishes out, if he truly wants to mend with her. It's OK, he reassures himself, he can wait. He has time.

And then … the truth slams home. He doesn't.

He doesn't really have time.

He's old. He doesn't like to think of it, but that's the truth. Unless they can sort this out soon, there will be precious little good healthy time for him to prove his apology to her. And anyway, what IS his honest apology? The last thing he must do is be fake now, so to be begging for forgiveness for something he just can't truthfully be sorry about would be worse than ever. His regret is for her hurt, not for his slice of delight and certainly not for the consequence, Rosie's pregnancy. Yes, he was selfish, yes, he was greedy, yes, he was secretive, but never for a moment did he consider that his actions would uproot his family or hurt his wife. Maybe that is in fact his greatest offence, being dumb. Even so, finding some light in his darkness was, for him, life-saving. It wasn't until Rosie shone a warm beam into his murkiest shadows did Thomas realize just how gloomy he was. On that day, the day of Bill Sharpe's funeral, Thomas confronted his dread of the quickening of time, and realized that he must live the rest of his life with meaning and with joy. He really should have told Glenn this, but how? That in itself would have been hurtful, to tell her just how sad he was, she would have doubtless taken it personally. OR worse, and more likely, she would have rejected it all as utter nonsense. Glenn lives in a world where rejection is the norm. She rejects life. Regularly. Thomas has come to accept her rejection in many ways. While he has
regarded it as part of her own protection, and part of her personality, there's no doubt that the sharp spikes of her constant rebuffs, however dexterous or smart they might be, have punctured him on so many occasions. He has been stung so often, the toxins have overwhelmed his system. Maybe her stings are now actually killing her. Is the Queen Bee alone in the hive, dying? On many
more
occasions he has had to witness the same shards tear into others, as a thousand unkindnesses. Only her grandchildren are spared the pepper of her. Everyone else has been stung at one time or another, and he finds her hard to defend.

He sits in his chair with all of this tossing around in his head, like loose furniture in an upturned boat. On his bookcase there are various photos, including one in particular of the young Glenn on their Kodachrome honeymoon in 1956, in a lifeguard-red bathing suit, smiling brightly at him as he takes the photo of his Beauty. He knows in his gut, for sure, that smile was real and warm and just for him, because he remembers the love they made together in the dunes just minutes before he took it. She loves him so completely in this photo, she has given herself to him so willingly and he has breathed her in, every last stunning gasp of her.

And she had wanted him. When was the last time this was really true? More years ago than he can bear to remember. They've done a whole life together, and made all these other lives along the way. Has their love trickled away all the while
so imperceptibly slowly that he hasn't noticed the river ran dry while he's still trying to swim in it? Are they just beached? Is that why he has made it alright in his head to gulp Rosie down? Was he parched? Has she helped to keep him alive?

Then, his eye catches the tiny frame which contains the stubs of two tickets for Ella Fitzgerald's concert at Carnegie Hall in 1991. It was his birthday present from Glenn that year, a chance to see his favourite singer perform for the final time. Unforgettable. Even now he could feel sad about that last encore. He wept all the way home that night, and Glenn comforted him and teased him, calling him a ‘soft and silly fellow', and all the while she had her arm through his, and he loved it, crying extra tears purposely to get extra squeezes. This was the Glenn who knew him so well. His Glenn.

Thomas walks over to the easel. He has been painstakingly adding brushstrokes every day to the portrait he's painting. He looks at it up close, to see if the paint is dry, and then he sits further back to better judge if he has captured a true likeness. It's a head and shoulders. Yes, actually, it looks very like her. This is the Glenn of today, but he has softened everything about her face. Especially the eyes. They are more like the young loving happy eyes in the Kodachrome picture. The eyes that explain how very much she loves him. He has painted the strong, caring Glenn he once knew her to be and prays she will be again, if he can reach her.

Downtown, Glenn Wilder-Bingham is doing a very good impression of a functioning, coping adult. Unfortunately there's no-one to witness it. However, she is proud of the fact that, should anyone drop by – which of course they most certainly won't – she appears to be perfectly alright thank you. She is up, washed, dressed, hair done, make up on, neat, tidy, ordered, tidy, neat. She made coffee over an hour ago, and hasn't moved from her seat on the uncomfortable modern sofa since. She isn't reading a book or a magazine or a newspaper. She is sitting as still as a statue, grasping the coffee and staring at the early autumn light pouring in through the crack in the shutters. The shaft that has pierced the dimness of this glum place is mesmerizing. She has watched it creep across the floor as the sun moves, and she sees it glint on every little knot and groove and grain in the dark wood. She notices the dust particles dancing in the beam, but she feels neither fascination at their busy little jig nor annoyance that the dust is there in the first place. She feels nothing. It's as if her emotional batteries have been removed. As if she has taken Valium. She is numb.

When Kemble told her that he pitied her, her lights were finally punched out. Something left her. Asking for anything, especially for help, would be in desperation,
had
been a last resort for this proud woman. She never imagined it would mean nothing if she did have to. Her emergency services have not turned up. Apparently, there
is
no cavalry unless you pay for it. This is a total shock to her. She has always believed that
family are tight, that they would come through for her if needed, fiery hot and ready for action. She has forgotten that if you don't stoke the fire, it goes out.

So Glenn sits here, suspended in time, wondering if she matters.

Thomas has been making efforts to contact her, but even he is trying less and less. He has overlooked her, hasn't he, and by so doing, he has robbed her of her power. She is not on her perch any longer. Initially, she thought that moving into this little apartment might give her a lofty position from which to direct operations at a distance. But it would seem that nobody whatsoever is actually missing her. Has removing herself backfired? No homage is being paid, no grovelling done, no abject apologies made. If only she could have some of that, even a little bit, from anyone, she might use it as a foundation upon which to build her pride back up again. It's impossible to grant forgiveness if no-one will even turn up. You can't get an emotional purchase on a no-show.

Glenn realizes, in a very deep place somewhere near her locked heart, that everything she knows how to do inevitably has to change. It's simply not working. She has ground to a halt. She has no idea how to be anymore.

In the meantime, she will sit here, studying the floor and trying not to scream. She will twirl the expensive rings on her liver-spotted thin old twiglet fingers and watch if the light catches fire in the diamonds. She will wait to see if she can feel
anything about even that, whether beauty itself can still move her. She will sit and be, as precious time ticks by. Only her skin is holding her together. All else inside is jelly and air.

Little does Glenn Wilder-Bingham know, but the cavalry
has
arrived and is standing on the street outside, looking up at her window. Rosie Kitto so wants to ring the doorbell of the fourth floor apartment. She very nearly does, but she finally decides against it, not her business, and she walks away, leaving the jelly woman very wobbly, very alone, and very stuck.