Getting Over It (17 page)

Chapter 23

I
’VE NEVER BELIEVED
that what goes around comes around. So I don’t entrust retribution to a medieval caprice. I implement it myself. This is why I recently tore a helpline number out of
The News of the World
’s problem page and pinned it to Marcus’s bulletin board. As soon as he emerged from his room last Sunday morning, I scampered into the kitchen, drew up a chair, and feigned absorption in
The Spectator.
Marcus took one glance at my reading material and became instantly suspicious. Fifty seconds later, he spotted the “Manhood Too Small?” cutting, ripped it from the wall, and stuffed it in the bin.

I was hoping for histrionics but instead he leaned heavily against the sink, folded his brawny arms, and stared at me in menacing silence. Although I knew this was an intimidatory technique he’d filched from a Robert De Niro film, it worked. I was starting to squirm when Michelle marched in, cake-faced and big-haired, mewling for black coffee. I legged it, puffing with relief. But I puffed too soon. Because Marcus, too, is the live and let die type. And he chose to wreak his grim revenge on Tuesday evening.

Tom and I had stumbled into the flat, squabbling over the relative merits of Cadburys and Lindt chocolate bars, when I clapped eyes on the least welcome sight I’d seen since Fatboy’s last puke (from a shelf, as it happens). Marcus, sitting at his oak veneer table, flicking through the latest issue of
Musclebound
and sipping a banana milkshake. I stopped dead in shock, elation shriveling. Tom veered to a halt behind me.

Marcus smiled like a shark. “Well, well, well,” he said in a portentous tone, “so this is Tom.” I half expected him to cackle and add, “Hello, my pretty!”

I was petrified. “Tom,” I said trying to sound calm, “this is my landlord Marcus.”

Tom, the innocent, grinned and said, “Hi!”

I, the guilty, twisted my hands and said, “Marcus, you’re up late.”

Marcus smiled another hammerhead smile. “Couldn’t sleep. But, hey”—spreading his hands wide helplessly—“everything’s for a purpose! Now I can chinwag with you two.” Chinwag. What is he, an eighty-year-old woman? He continued, “I’ve heard all about you, Tom.”

What?! No he hasn’t! I looked at Marcus in horror. “I don’t think I’ve mentioned Tom to you,” I said. The edge in my voice made Tom glance at me.

Marcus laughed. “Playing coy,” he chortled, nodding at Tom, “She always does this with her men! Every week!”

This was serious. I blurted, “Marcus, stop teasing. Please!”

The “please” hurt and Marcus knew it. He gazed at me blankly for a second before adding, “Only this morning she was in the bathroom, practic—”

Tom and I interrrupted him at the same time. Tom began: “I’m not sure I want to—” but I spoke loudest. “Marcus, much as I’d love to stay and chat over your
Tums and Bums
magazine, I’m feeling exhausted and I’ve got to get up in, oh, five and a half hours’ time, so Tom’s just about to leave, so, ah, say goodbye to Tom.”

I manhandled Tom out of the kitchen. What else could I do? Wrestle him into my bedroom? Although I’ll admit that until Marcus made me sound like a slut, that was the plan. “My men,” indeed! As I steered Tom into the hall, I whispered, “Sorry about him, he must have OD’d on the steroids. He pops them like Smarties.” This was—as far as I know—a lie, but I was desperate.

Tom replied solemnly, “Must have.” He paused, then said, “Hyper, isn’t he?”

I nodded vigorously, “God, yes.” There was another awkward pause during which I cursed Marcus to hell. He must have had tuition from Michelle. Not that he needed it.

I smiled stiffly at Tom and said, “Well, thanks. It was really nice to see you.”

Tom smiled back. “And you. I enjoyed it.” Pause three. “I’d better go. I’ll give you a ring, sometime.”

Sometime? That means never. “Definitely,” I said, drooping. Tom bent and kissed me swiftly on the cheek. Miles away from my mouth—practically on my ear. I kissed him back, feasting miserably on the scent of his aftershave, and waved him out the door. Then I went straight to bed, pulling the duvet over my head to block out the sound of Marcus whistling the
Pretty Woman
theme tune.

Lizzy refuses to believe that anything is amiss. “I’m sure Tom realized Marcus was joking,” she says, making me want to strangle her.

“He said I bring home a different man each week!” I shriek. “That’s not a joke! That’s libel.”

Laetitia, who is listening, snaps, “Slander! Unless it’s true. Rah ha ha!” I smile sweetly at her and curl my hands into claws under my desk. One day, when I am rich and successful, I will sponsor a tarantula at London Zoo and name it Laetitia Stokes. I confide this ambition to Tina, who is in a rare sunny mood and says brightly, “I bet it only costs a tenner, you could do it tomorrow.”

This cheers me up, so when Laetitia pops out for a cigarette, I ring London Zoo and am put through to lifewatch membership and adoption inquiries. To my dismay, a “whole tarantula” costs £70 although I can have shares in one for £35. I’ll save up. “And could I name it?” I ask slyly.

“I’m afraid not,” is the polite reply, “because you’re adopting the species rather than the individual. So no name would appear on the board. You could name it privately, though.” What’s the point in that! I thank the zoo man for his time and replace the receiver.

The rest of Wednesday comes and goes and Tom doesn’t call. I am tempted to call him on Thursday, but can’t as I am out of the office for most of the day accosting women in the street for an eight-page section Laetitia has commissioned titled “The Worst Way I Dumped Him.” I know exactly why she’s commissioned it. Counts are in short supply and Laetitia has been stepping out with a banker. His family bought their own furniture and—even though Laetitia’s did, too—it grates and she’s looking to punish him. Poor man. I’m stuck with doing her research. I skid back into the office at 5:30. “Did anyone ring?” I inquire hopefully.

“Your mother,” replies Laetitia shortly. “How did it go?”

I nod. “Fine, fine, I got some great quotes.” Laetitia ignores me.

I trundle wearily to my desk and call my mother. “I saw my male nurse from the clinic today” are her first words. Heaven help him, so she did.

“How was it?” I ask warily, then add. “Actually, don’t tell me now, tell me later—I’ve booked the restaurant for twenty past eight, are you and Nana still up for it?”

My mother replies in her best teachery tone, “Good, thank you, and if by ‘up for it,’ you mean are we still planning to join you for dinner, the answer is yes.”

I giggle and say, “Don’t be pompous, Mummy. I’m not one of your children. I’ll see you later.”

I’m about to put the phone down when she squeaks, “Is it smart? What shall I wear?”

I pause and recall that I told her the restaurant was in Islington when to be accurate I should have said Holloway (a mere half a mile away, but as drab and dodgy as Islington is cool and hip).

“It’s smart-casual,” I say evasively. “See ya!” I sigh with relief and dig out my tape recorder.

I am looking for an excuse to postpone transcribing when—hallelujah—the phone rings. “Hello!” I say merrily, praying it isn’t my mother again.

“Helen?” says Tom.

“
Hiiiii
!” I say. When he asks how I am, I can tell from his voice that he’s grinning. Wolf teeth.
Rrrrr!
“Fine,” I say, wondering if calling a woman two days after a date classifies a man as wet. “And you?”

He tells me he’s well, and he wondered if I was free sometime over the weekend. This is annoying. Can’t he be more specific? I mean, if I say I’m free on Saturday night and then he says actually he meant Sunday, what kind of a loser does that make me? But, at the same time, he’s so patently keen. It detracts from his allure. I can’t help but find it off-putting. I am hit by a brilliant idea.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” I say. “A bunch of us are going out for a drink. Tina will be there. You remember Tina, don’t you?”

I can hear the smile again, as Tom replies, “Tequila Night. How could I forget?”

For the second time in five minutes I replace the receiver, relieved. Safety in numbers. But I am also disappointed. Why didn’t he have the decency to wait a few more days and make me sweat? It’s highly unsettling and I brood about it until I realize it’s six-thirty and way past going home time. I lock my tape recorder in my drawer. “I’ll start transcribing first thing tomorrow,” I shout to Laetitia on my way out. She ignores me.

I pull up to my mother’s house bang on eight and see Nana Flo nosing from behind the net curtain. I honk and wave. A good ten minutes later she and my mother bustle out. Nana is wearing a faded purple coat that may well be made from thistles. Her gray hair is high and brittle under her thin headscarf. My mother is powdered and lipsticked and carrying a shiny black handbag. I wonder how long it’s been since my grandmother ate in a restaurant.

“You both look nice!” I say, hoping to set the tone.

Nana grunts. My mother says, “Do I?”

I tell them the place we’re going to is called Nid Ting.

“What kind of name is that?” says Nana Flo.

“A Thai name,” I reply, wondering why I bother. I park round the corner.

“Dingy round here, isn’t it?” says my mother loudly.

“But wouldn’t it be boring if everywhere was like Muswell Hill!” I say cheerily, through gritted teeth. We plod in and—to my relief—are given a cozy table in the corner. Nana Flo looks at the red patterned carpet and the pink tablecloths and the windowsill buddhas and purses her lips. When the waitress offers to take her coat, Nana clutches it to her and snaps, “No, thank you!” She sniffs suspiciously at the complimentary bowl of prawn crackers. “They’re Thai crisps, Nana,” I say, “prawn cocktail flavor.”

My mother munches away happily and says, “Do you know, I think I’ll have a glass of wine!” Nana surveys the other diners and tuts, specifically at a skinny man sporting a pierced chin and baggyjeans.

“Ruffian!” she hisses. “It’s a disgrace! And would you look at his trousers. I wouldn’t mind, but I never saw such a waste of material! Puts me in mind of that ragamuffin who showed up this morning, Cecelia.”

Refreshing though it is to hear Nana Flo’s radical opinions, I seize at the chance to shut her up. “What ragamuffin?” I say, addressing my mother.

“My nurse!” she replies.

“
Ohhhh
!” I say, which is all the encouragement she requires to embark on a monologue as long as the history of the world. My mother’s nurse is not at all what one would expect. In fact, when he rang the doorbell she assumed he was “a thug.” Only after inspecting his ID and ringing the clinic to check his authenticity did she let him in. (Luckily for him, when he arrived Nana Flo was at Asda.) But you could hardly blame her. A goatee and long sideburns! An earring in his ear! A backpack! Army trousers! How was she to know! She’d expected a lady in a white uniform! And his name was Cliff!

Surprisingly, Cliff was “charming.” Extremely chatty, very concerned, sorry to hear about the razor incident and interested to know what happened and how my mother feels now and to see the wound and inspect the special box she bought to keep her pills in. Eager to be shown photographs of Morrie, intrigued at how they met (Cliff knows people who met at a dance, too—at a dance hall called the Ministry) and so understanding about the horrors of car maintenance (Cliff also knows nothing about cars, prefers to cycle, lets his partner deal with all that, how does one manage when that person is gone?).

Cliff can’t imagine how hard it is for my mother to cope on her own—tell him, how did she manage before she met Morrie? Captivated to hear about the tiny room she rented after leaving home and how she painted it herself—quite a thing in those days, although these days, absolutely anything goes. He suspects she’s being modest—she sounds so resourceful! Totally impressed to hear about her newfound financial prowess—what an achievement! But still, must be difficult not to feel resentful toward someone for dying—how does she feel? Asked to be shown around—

When my mother says Cliff asked to be shown around, Nana Flo—who has been quietly scarfing down her steamed fish and plain rice while affecting huffy dislike—snaps, “Casing the joint!”

My mouth drops open. “I’m sorry?” I say.

“Florence watched
Starsky and Hutch
on satellite this afternoon,” explains my mother. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you, Florence?”

Nana Flo shrugs and says grudgingly, “Not bad, compared to some of the modern rubbish.”

All of which keeps you pinned to the sofa,
I say in my head. Aloud, I say, “He does sound a bit nosy, Mum. Are you sure he’s okay?”

My mother is most defensive. Cliff is a lovely boy.

“He smoked drugs in the house!” bawls Nana Flo.

I frown at my mother, who says pityingly, “Florence, they’re called rolos. They’re normal cigarettes, but homemade. And he asked my permission.” My mother looks beseechingly at my grandmother but—to quote my old schoolteacher—no answer is the stern reply.

So we hear more about Cliff. “Keen to hear about you, Helen. He said it would be nice to have a chat with you, so I gave him your number. He’s not suitable as a boyfriend, although if he shaved and removed the earring and ironed his shirt perhaps—”

“What!” I shout, loudly enough for the couple at the next table to start eavesdropping. “Why should this do-gooding trendy wendy want to call me?”

My mother looks uncomfortable. She twiddles her noodles round her fork and says, “To talk about me, probably.”

I sigh and say, “Oh, okay,” although secretly I’m not convinced.

There is silence while my mother clears her plate. Then she says, “He said he imagined that one reason I’d want to stay well was because you depend on me.”

I nearly spit out a prawn. “That’s a laugh—he doesn’t even know me!” I squeak.

My mother replies excitedly, “Exactly! That’s what I said! I said you were very independent.”

I nod, pleased. My mother takes a sip of water and clears her throat. She carefully blots her mouth with her pink napkin. Then she says shyly, “Helen, if you need any money you know you can ask.”