Getting Over It (19 page)

Chapter 25

W
HEN
I
WAS AT COLLEGE
and a stranger to grim reality, I briefly suffered from a surfeit of confidence. This had much to do with escaping my parents. Also, the majority of students were present to extend their sex education, so if you wanted action you could usually find it. Jabba the Hutt would have scored. Indeed, I kissed him myself on several occasions.

So it was a shock when I went on the prowl with a girl named Beatrice who was as plain as a blank wall, and the guy I’d set my night on bought us both drinks but asked her to dance. The next morning Luke visited and—planting the seed of my misplaced passion—brought Marcus along. I decided to chew over the riddle in his presence. I was, no doubt, hoping that horniness was contagious. “Do you think,” I said as I spooned peanut butter out of the jar, “that he was playing hard to get? Using Beatrice to make me jealous?”

Marcus followed the spoon’s progression to my mouth with fascinated revulsion, and declared (the first and last words he spoke to me for five years), “Sweetheart, there’s no mystery—he fancied Beatrice! If a bloke fancies you, he’ll do you!”

I am reminded of these poetic words at 3
A.M.
on Saturday as I pay the taxi driver and walk to the front door, alone. Yes, I pulled away from Tom first. I’m not sure about him anyway. But why did he have to follow my lead like a thick puppy? Hasn’t he got a mind of his own? I flounce into the flat and am about to karate kick open my bedroom door when I see a note stuck to it: “Flat Meeting, living room, Sat morning, 10
A.M.
Attendance compulsory.” And I think, living with Marcus is like living under martial law. I scrumple up the note and set my alarm for 2
P.M.

I fall asleep and dream the empty house dream. I am still being pursued by baddies, and still hiding in cupboards, but having been there forty times, I am now used to it. I’m hunched in a wardrobe and someone, something, is thumping up the stairs.
Thump! thump!,
and now they’re banging on the wardrobe door,
bang! bang!,
louder and louder.

I wake up with a start, sweating, and hear
bang! bang!
Marcus is banging on my door and singing, “It’s 9:45! This is your wake-up call!” I hurl a boot at the door and pull the pillow over my head. Marcus keeps banging.
Bang! bang!
“All right!” I scream. “I’m coming to your frigging meeting, leave me alone!”

I drag myself out of bed, muttering. I pull on my dressing gown, plod to the kitchen, and make myself a coffee. There’s no milk in my section of the fridge (there’s nothing in my section of the fridge), so I steal from Marcus’s. There are two milk cartons in his section and propped against them is a note reading, “I have put bleach in one of these cartons and only I know which one.” I am tempted to replace it with a note reading, “Fatboy has peed in both of these cartons… .” but then I realize one of the cartons is unopened. Jerk.

Luke has also been kicked out of bed to attend. He looks rumpled and tired.

“Do you want a coffee?” I say.

“Please!” he says.

“Okay,” I say, “the mug’s on the shelf, the coffee’s in the jar, and the milk’s in the fridge.” He looks crestfallen and says, “Oh,” so I pinch his cheek fondly, sing “Only joking!” and make him a coffee. Fatboy is also up, stretching and yawning and prrrping for breakfast. We’re used to Marcus’s Flat Meetings. He always hauls us in for a talking to when our slobbiness reaches a crescendo and we always say that we’re sorry and we won’t do it again and continue exactly as we were.

So it’s a shock when Marcus tells me he wants me out of the flat by the end of the week.

“But I’ve got nowhere to go!” I bleat.

“Not my problem,” says Marcus coldly.

I stare stonily at a black hair poking out of Marcus’s nose—I refuse to cry or argue, as nothing would please him more. Luke tries to stand up for me, but I don’t want him to be booted out, too, so I shush him. “Marcus,” I lie, “you’re doing me a great favor. And you’ve got a black hair poking out of your nose. It’s like a hamster’s tooth.” And I stalk out of the living room, into my room, and flop on the bed.

I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it, but I should. Of course this was going to happen. How could it not happen? Marcus may be a grasping tightwad, but he’s also as proud as… well, as a man with a ripply back. I know this. And yet, ever since he rebuffed me, I’ve been kicking him where it hurts. Although it does require careful aim with a target that small. See what I mean? Did I expect him not to retaliate? I suppose that I was so caught up in personally effecting his eternal punishment that the consequences didn’t occur to me.

I look back and I don’t think I could have stopped baiting him even if I’d wanted to. I have this stagnating pool of hatred for him that kills rationality, and I don’t know why. If I’m honest—something I’m not very good at—what did he really do wrong apart from trying me for size and deciding I didn’t fit? (And likewise.) Marcus’s brittle ego was bound to snap one day, and it has. I should be steeled for it, but I’m not. I’m scared. Again. A timid little girl-mouse. I should rejoice in my enforced freedom, but I can’t. Living with Marcus may be purgatory, but it’s safer than striking out alone. Living with Marcus is like being stuck in a job you hate. You know you should stop bitching about it and resign and find something better, but the terror of what’s out there constrains you. But now Marcus has made me redundant, so I have no choice.

I call Tom.

I didn’t intend to. After the meeting, I think about last night and decide that the fear I felt was instinctive. A warning. You see, I like Tom. I feel drawn to him like a sailor to a mermaid on a rock. Tom’s all fuck-me eyes and silvery tail, his siren promise drawing me slowly in. He’s so squarely there for me, how could I resist? Thing is, I’m unsure if I’d despise him more if his eagerness was real or an act. At least I know where I am with the likes of Jasper. There’s no pretense. Men who behave willing and artless and forever yours are myth. Maybe I want to be deceived. But I paused and Tom ran away. Slipped into the Soho sea and vanished. What kind of forever is that?

I think all this, and then I think,
Bollocks,
and call him anyway.

And the bastard isn’t in!

I call my mother instead. “Nana Flo wants a word with you!” she says, before I can utter a syllable. I am about to ask why, but am handed over to my grandmother on the “W.”

“Hello?” she shrills.

“Hello, Nana, how are you?” I say.

“Well, thank you. I saw a very interesting program on the television last night.”

Hm. Where’s this leading. “Oh, yes?” I say politely.

“About freezing your eggs,” says Nana. Odd. She doesn’t know what I eat and has never betrayed any sign of caring.

“But can’t I just buy them when I need—” I start, but my grandmother interrupts: “Freezing your eggs! Putting your eggs on ice! You’re not courting! You’ve not settled down! You’re not getting any younger! Your eggs are dying inside you! It looked a very simple operation on the television!”

I thank Nana for her concern, tell her I’ll consider it, and ask to be put back to my mother. My mother’s first words are, “Nothing to do with me!” Aided and abetted, though, I’ll warrant. But I let this pass as I have a more pressing matter to discuss.

My impending homelessness. “You can come and stay with us!” she cries. I can just imagine it. Three witches and an orange cat. It would be like living in a tin drum. I tell her it’s a sweet offer, but no thanks. I spend from noon till five moping and grizzling and grooming Fatboy—who is desperate to escape and claws at the door—and hoping that a passing fairy godmother will save me from being kicked out onto the street or—worse—being forced into cohabitation with Psychomum and the Eggwoman.

At 5:05 there is a loud
toot, toot!
in the driveway. I peek out of the window and see Ivana Trump emerging from a red Volkswagen. Her hair is as big as a barn. She and Marcus must going somewhere swish tonight, like the Hard Rock Cafe. How could he? Choose her over me? Even though I now hate him and wouldn’t shag him for practice, it smarts. Michelle’s betrayal pales in comparison. I squeeze out a tear, and for lack of anything better to do, look side-on at my stomach in the mirror. I stick it out as far as it will go—eight months pregnant, the virgin birth!

I stroke it in fascination and remember once, before I knew better, telling Marcus that I wasn’t sure but I thought I’d gained weight on my feet. I said it as a “wonder of the world” type statement and he snapped, “If you eat shit, you look like shit!” I pull my dressing gown together and slump on my bed. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Luke is shaking me awake and brandishing the phone in my face.

“Phone!” he shouts, unnecessarily.

“Who?” I mouth.

“Tom!” he shouts.

I snatch it from him. “Thanks, Luke!”

Tom is friendly, but says nothing about last night except he had a good time. Well, what’s that supposed to mean? He enjoyed his kabob? He asks how I am. I start off airy and defiant but the confusion and envy and self-pity merge, and to my absolute mortification, my voice cracks. “Basically,” I sniffle—a word I usually veto on principle—“me and Fatboy have got nowhere to go!”

Tom is silent. Then he says, “What are you and Fatboy doing tonight?”

I consider spinning him a glamorous lie. “Nothing!” I bleat.

“Do you want me to come round?” he says.

I know I should say no to, if nothing else, reclaim a sliver of dignity. But as I’ve mentioned before, I hate the word—
should.
“Yes!” I say.

“Don’t move,” he says, “I’ll be with you in a couple of hours.” I stand dazed for a picosecond before leaping into action. My first port of call is the fridge, where a trusty cucumber—labeled ‘this belongs to Marcus’—awaits me. I cut off two generous slices to place over my red puffy eyes, and as a symbolic gesture, stick the rest of it down the waste disposal.

Chapter 26

I
’VE ALWAYS FANCIED
being psychic—forgo the crystal ball and tassely skirt and it’s a darkly glamorous talent. And I could always hide Fatboy in a cupboard and buy a sleek Burmese with golden eyes and warm chocolate coat to complete the mystical allure. But as I’ve failed repeatedly to predict the weather or what shoes Michelle is going to be wearing on a certain day, I’ve had to get over my big-earringed fantasy and resign myself to mental banality. Anyhow, I’d rather be burned at the stake than exchange my orange cat for a pedigree. But hope springs eternal, so when the phone rings as I storm around trying to transform my room from a fleapit to a boudoir, I guess: Tina. It’s Lizzy.

I ask her how the Christmas shopping went. “All done!” she replies.

“You’re amazing,” I tell her, “amazing. What did you get?”

Lizzy reels off an ingenious list of perfect presents. I’m duly admiring. “I can never think of what to buy people! At least”—and here, I say “huh” to indicate this is a joke—“I won’t have to worry about what to get Dad this year. Nightmare! Even when I got him a golf book, he never read it!”

Lizzy tuts. “I’m sure you’re mistaken! Although Christmases and birthdays are the worst! How are you feeling about all that, Helen?” she asks. “You never talk about it.”

I’m touched, but feel obliged to correct her. “Lizzy! You’re so sweet, but stop asking! I’m fine. Mum loves the
Gregorian Moods
tape. And Vivienne’s told everyone the dramatic tale of how she singlehandedly saved my mother from a bloody and violent death, so all her ghoulish friends are paying her masses of attention at the moment. And what with Nana Flo, she can’t move for people fussing. It’s great.”

Lizzy pauses. “Yes, but what about you?” she insists.

I frown. “Have you been talking to your psychologist friend again?” I say.

“No!” she says so fast I know it’s a lie.

“Liz,” I say, “I know this is hard for you to understand, but me and Dad, we were never that close. I know you mean well and please don’t take this the wrong way, but to be honest I don’t feel that much anymore, so it makes me uncomfortable when you keep asking. Do you see?”

There’s silence on the other end, so I assume she’s nodding. “Okay,” she says finally, reluctantly. “But please talk to me if you need to!”

I say, “Okay, okay,” and then, “I wouldn’t chuck Adrian out of bed!”

Lizzy giggles, and says, “Personally, I prefer Tom.”

Delighted, I reply, “Oh, do you, indeed!”

Lizzy says, “Yes, actually, I do. And I can see he’s quite in love with you!”

Bless her. Only Lizzy would dare to use the phrase “in love” without irony. I do adore Lizzy, but it amazes me how she manages to breeze along impervious to harsh reality and furthermore succeed at every turn. She’s a Jane Austen throwback, she really is.

I tell Lizzy what happened. Partly because it’s so soul-cleansing to listen to her pretty, rose-tinted view of the world instead of my ugly, bog-colored one. Her theory is that maybe Tom wanted to wait until he felt sure I was sure. Spare me. “But he’s a man!” I squeal. “If they fancy you, they do you!”

Lizzy says, “What!” in a loud voice. She sounds severely agitated. “Do you truly believe,” she snaps, “that you as a woman have no choice in the matter? That you’re a passive object? That all men are brutes? Or should be?”

Brutes! Hang on a sec, she’s the girly one here. I didn’t cry at
Sleepless in Seattle.
“No,” I say defensively, “you’re twisting my words. You’re being defensive.” (This is an excellent ruse to win arguments, derived from an e-mail I was sent from someone in the advertising department.)

Infuriatingly, Lizzy doesn’t fall for it. She says calmly, “You are allergic to being treated with the respect you deserve.”

To prove her wrong I inform her that Tom is coming round in approximately twenty minutes, so there.

“So you’d better stop talking nonsense and get off the phone, then,” she retorts cutely before saying goodbye. I replace the receiver and then I think,
Wait a minute, she rang me.
I smile to myself. She’s learning.

The doorbell rings and I freeze. He can’t be early. That’s cheating! I bite my lip in the hope it’ll swell into a fetching pout, and in kamikaze mindset, heave open the door.

“Surprise!” exclaims my mother, throwing her hands wide like the young Shirley Temple. Nana Flo lurks po-faced behind her. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” cries my mother, blind to the fact that my face has fallen about ninety feet.

“Of course!” I say, recalling my promise to Dr. Collins and forcing a smile. “Come into the kitchen, Nana, would you like a cup of tea?” (In times of doubt, I resort to clichés. It gives me time to think. Although when I wrack my brain for inspiration it’s napping and won’t be disturbed.)

I have just poured a cup of PG Tips for Nana, a chamomile tea for my mother, and retrieved half a packet of biscuits from my room, when the doorbell rings again. “I wonder who that is!” chirps my mother, who is very obviously still taking the pills.

“I think it may be a friend of mine, Tom,” I mutter. As I walk into the hall, I can hear my mother squawking, “Tom! Tom? Do I know Tom?” and my grandmother growling, “Tim, Tom, who knows anymore?” I squeeze the bridge of my nose between my fingertips, paste a smile to my face, and open the door.

Tom is brandishing a wilting bunch of garish blue marigolds in what appears to be a doily. “Garage flowers!” he declares. “The finest and the best!”

I gasp and take them, exclaiming, “The rare and priceless turquoise marigold! You shouldn’t have!”

He grins and says, “I pawned my Ferrari.”

I reply sweetly, “Not your Ferrari poster?”

He nods, and says, “Don’t be too sad, my 911’s still on the wall!”

I feel an inexplicable surge of joy and—before I have time to reconsider—step toward him and kiss him on the mouth. I am about to pull away, but he wraps his arms around me and kisses me and so I close my eyes and kiss him back and my heart does a delirious dance and I feel the firm warmth of him pressed against me and…

“
Hellooooo!
Anybody there!” My mother’s brisk schoolmarm tone kills the moment stone dead, and Tom and I spring guiltily apart.

“Surprise visit from my mum and grandma,” I explain hurriedly. Tom swoops and sucks gently, briefly, on my upper lip, causing a lightning strike to the groin. I grasp his shoulder for balance and think,
Good grief! Show me the way!

“What are you waiting for?” he murmurs. “Introduce me!”

Dazed and grinning like the village idiot, I lead Tom into the kitchen and introduce him.

“You took your time,” says Nana, grouchily.

“What lovely blue flowers!” says my mother. I will her not to say anything akin to “Is this your boyfriend?”

“Is this your boyfriend?” she asks, eyes wide.

“Tom and I are just good friends,” I say, trying not to sound panicked.

Tom says helpfully, “I’m Fatboy’s vet.”

My mother ogles him and says, “I see.”

Nana Flo says snappishly, “No need for it! In my day, a dog was a dog and that was that!”

Tom says politely, “I see what you mean.”

I say under my breath, “I’m glad someone does,” then louder, “Tom, would you like a coffee and a biscuit?”

My mother, who keeps staring at Tom, says in a loud, show-offy voice, “Helen, haven’t you got something more substantial to offer him?”

I am tempted to say “My body?” to shut her up, but the question is rhetorical. She adds, “You can’t expect young men to survive on biscuits.” At which point Nana Flo joins the fray with, “A man needs a good solid meal inside him!”

Whereas a woman, I presume, can survive on sweetness and light. A plausible supposition slowly dawns in my head. And although my dearest wish is that the pair of them vanish in a whiff of sulphur (at least until tomorrow), I say casually, “Mum, Nana. If I were to nip down to the corner shop to buy something nice for Tom to eat, would you like to join him, us, for supper?”

Nana Flo speaks up so fast her false teeth nearly fly out of her mouth. “If you insist, but don’t go to any trouble!”

My mother says, “I don’t see why not. But no onions or red peppers. Onions and red peppers give me a migraine.”
More like the incessant yapping of your own voice gives you a migraine,
I think, but don’t say.

I turn to Tom, who, to his credit, hasn’t run away. “Tom,” I say, hardly daring to meet his eyes, “would you like to come to the shop with me?” There’s no way I’m leaving him to the mercy of the Munsters.

Tom—and I can hear the mischief in his voice—says, “No no no, I’ll go to the shop, you stay here and keep your mother and grandmother company. It would be rude to leave them alone.”

Nana Flo nods at this and mutters, “Quite right!”

“I’ll see you to the door,” I say acidly. As soon as we’re in the hall, I try and whack him, but he dodges me, and as he shuts the front door behind him, grins at me tauntingly, all teeth, like an ape.

“Well brought up!” remarks Nana Flo on my return, glancing at me dismissively, as if to say “Unlike you.”

Please,
I reply in my head,
don’t put me off him.

“Where’s that nice boy Luke?” trills my mother. She’s insatiable!

“I think he’s gone to work,” I say.

“What, on a Saturday night!” she replies.

“He works in a pub,” I say. Nana Flo’s mouth shrinks in disapproval. “Luke works very hard,” I say, irritated.

“I dare say,” says Nana.

“I do like Luke,” purrs my mother, “he’s so charming.” In her hormonally charged state, I suspect she’d find Frankenstein’s monster charming. I’m wondering if I could bribe Luke to paint his face gray and stick a bolt in his neck to test this theory when Marcus sweeps into the kitchen.

He is wearing smart cream chinos, a yolk yellow shirt, and his hair is as springy and bouffant as an expertly baked soufflé. (And, let me tell you, I should know.) His haughtiness turns to dismay on seeing my relatives. “Hello,” he says awkwardly.

Nana Flo peers at him. “Is this the one?” she says loudly.

The distress on my face is reflected on Marcus’s. “No, Luke is blonde,” I say desperately.

But Nana is not to be deterred. “No!” she bellows. “Is this the one who’s turning you out!”

I say quickly, “He’s not turning me out! I’m glad to be going!”

At this, my mother appears confused. “Oh,” she says, “but I thought you—”

I interrupt her with the first piece of trivia I can think of: “Marcus is going out with Michelle, Mummy. You know Michelle.”

My mother shrugs and in a flat voice says, “Vaguely.” (As she has known Michelle for the best part of two decades, this is intended as a slight. As I haven’t told my mother about the Michelle/Marcus perfidy, I know it’s nothing personal. It’s just that Cecelia’s enthusiasm for young women is less than her enthusiasm for young men.) She gives Marcus a cursury glance, starts, then stares. She is staring at him like a miser staring at a pot of gold.

Marcus pats his hair nervously and scratches his shin with the toe of his moccasin. “Well, I’d better—” he begins, but my mother stops him.

“Sit down!” she orders. I stare at her in fury, but she doesn’t notice. Marcus sits, stony-faced. She pulls her chair toward his, and says suddenly, “Florence, doesn’t he remind you of Maurice?”

“Nothing like!” bleats Nana. Her eyes bore into Marcus, and then she looks away and back again and says, quietly, “Nonsense.” But she doesn’t take her eyes off him.

“Don’t talk rubbish!” shouts another voice, which turns out to be mine. The doorbell goes and I race to it. Tom lifts a heavy plastic bag and says, “I got some eggs. I was thinking of your Nan’s teeth.”

I smile wanly and say, “Brilliant.” He frowns and mouths, “What’s up?” I clutch my forehead, roll my eyes, and say, “Don’t ask.” We troop into the kitchen where Marcus and his hair are still trapped.

My mother is grasping his wrist and exclaiming, “The mouth and eyes are identical, identical! Helen! It’s uncanny!”

I keep my temper with difficulty. “No, it is not uncanny,” I say. “Please.” My voice sounds shrill, panicked. She’s mad. Everyone reminds her of my father. Next it’ll be Fatboy. (“They’ve got exactly the  same  appetite  although”—girlish tinkle—“your father didn’t have a tail!”)

I am about to command her to free Marcus when Ivana flounces in. “Markee! Wher—? Oh, hello, Mrs. Bradshaw! And Mrs. Bradshaw Senior!” she cries.

“Hello,” replies my mother dourly.

Nana actually recoils. “Who are you?” she says rudely.

“I’m Michelle!” says Michelle. “You remember me!”

Nana scowls and says, “All young women look the same to me.”

Michelle turns the full beam of her automated allure upon Tom. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she husks, lashes lowered.

“Tom,” he says briskly, extending a hand. “I’m with Helen.”

The smile dies on her lips, to be briefly ressurected as she spies the blue marigolds. “How sweet,” she croons. “So the flowers must be from you! I’m always telling Markee that a gas station bouquet will do me fine, but the angel insists on Paula Pryke!” And in the next breath: “Markee darling, a black tea before we go out.”

Tom glances, amused, at me. Marcus leaps up gratefully.

“Right,” I say. “Mum, Nana, I’m making scrambled eggs. It’s that or nothing.”

My mother pouts. “I can’t eat scrambled eggs!” she cries. “You should know that! It’s too painful!”

I say hurriedly, “Sorry, Mum, I’ll do omelettes instead, is that better for you?”

My mother nods regally. Michelle’s eyes bulge at the prospect of intrigue.

“Why?” she says breathlessly.

“Scrambled eggs killed my father,” I say tonelessly.

“Whoa!” says Michelle. Her brain tries to assemble the clues and fails. “How?” she gasps.

My mother’s love of attention overcomes her dislike of Michelle and she embarks on the tragic tale. I start yanking pans out of drawers, and Tom says, “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make the omelettes.”

Marcus says coolly, “Not for us, we’re eating at the new Conran restaurant.”