Growing Up Twice (27 page)

I’d taken his mind off the question with oral sex in the end, which seemed to make him decidedly happy, and after that we drifted off to sleep.

This morning, with every inch of my physical self screaming, ‘Why aren’t you asleep? You were up most of last night, you will get bags!’ all I can think about is, where do we go from here.

After all the revelations and discoveries about each other and after all the sex that each time has been a little bit different, a little more emotional and eventually downright fabulous, I can’t pin down how I feel about him. It’s not Creeping Repulsion. I still want him, I’m still happy to be welded to the warmth of his body and don’t have the compulsion to invent an early five-a-side game of soccer for him to go to in the park. (I’m not joking, it’s worked in the past. You can make boys do almost anything with the promise of a game of footy, even an imaginary one. It’s like a metaphysical blow-job. Probably.)

It’s more a question of what I want from him. When this began I wanted a quickie with a teenager, then I wanted his admiration and reflected glory. Now that I know him properly that’s changed. He’s sweet and inexperienced. He’s not cynical yet or cruel. He’s open and still growing emotionally and probably physically. In some ways I feel like an aged vampire trying to suck back some youth. I am one of the partners he’ll never forget, simply because I’m the first (and really rather good at oral sex). I don’t want to fuck him up for the next one. I love Michael but this is going nowhere, when it comes right down to it. I have always known from the moment I agreed to take him from Ye Olde Parson’s Nose that this would end in tears one day. The only questions are whose tears and when?

Despite everything, I’m not in love with Michael, I’m in love with the idea of him and what he does for me. I’d really love to be in love with him, to confront everyone we know with our relationship and bravely say, ‘So what? This is love!’ I could blame it on the fact that it’s still too soon after Owen to meet the love of my life, but I know that’s not true. I know you can fall in love seconds after a relationship if you want to, if you meet the
right
person. I know that all the months we give ourselves to get over someone are really just an excuse while we wait for the
right
thing and sometimes it takes a year or more and sometimes it takes two days. Michael and I is a lovely thing, a joyous thing but it isn’t the
right
thing. I decide the only question has become whether I should finish something that makes me happy just because it isn’t quite right, when it is very nearly so.

He stirs again and his muscles tighten and stretch before he twists to face me, circling his arm around my waist and pulling me as flush to his chest as is possible. He’s no exception in the early-morning erection stakes then.

‘What’s the time?’ His voice is husky with sleep.

‘Seven-ish,’ I reply, brushing his fringe out of his eyes.

‘Seven! I never wake up this early. It must be the irresistible allure of a naked woman in my bed.’ His hand moves from the small of my back to my bottom and we kiss.

Oh, well. Now doesn’t seem like the right time to think about endings.

Michael is still my boyfriend. The rest of the morning he was so sweet and pleasant that I decided the fact that we are both happy is reason enough to continue. In fact, it took Rosie’s call from the train to chuck a cold bucket full to the brim of reality in my face and to finally get Michael chaperoned out of the front door.

The moment he left I became instantly and happily exhausted. I flopped face first on to the sofa and have spent the last hour or so drifting in and out of the half-dream world of the
EastEnders
omnibus.

‘Hello!’ Rosie calls down the hall as she lets herself in.

‘Mmm,’ I mumble back, unable to muster the energy to take my face fully out of the cushion it’s buried in. She bustles into the room, chucks her overnight bag in a corner and stands in front of the telly, leaning forward to scrutinise me.

‘Bloody hell. Have you been shagging all weekend?’ I stifle a yawn and drag myself up into a sitting position. I know that lying this one away is going to be a bit tricky given that my hair’s a mass of knots, I have shadows under my eyes and my mouth is bruised and swollen with kissing.

‘Yes,’ I say, casually.

‘Fuck me! Who, who was it? Was it Jackson?’ Her voice doesn’t waver but I can tell she wouldn’t like it if it was.

‘No, no. It was this guy, I met him ages ago at a party. We just bumped into each other and, well, one thing led to another. Very satisfying.’

Rosie elbows her way into my sofa personal space. ‘Well? Are you going to see him again?’

‘No, probably not.’ This half-truth thing is more complicated than I feel like dealing with on no hours’ sleep.

‘Why not? You look like you got great value for money.’

‘Oh, I just don’t think I will. Anyway, how about you? Come to any earth-shattering conclusions about your horrible ex?’

‘Well, he has got a really nice cottage in the country and lots of money,’ she sighs wistfully.

‘That’s reason enough then, get back together with him.’ I shake my head at her with about as much sarcastic vigour as I can muster while suffering from the jet lag of too much sex.

‘But after the way he hurt me so much, common sense tells me I’d never be happy. I do still have feelings for him, but even so, I’m sure you’re right, it could never work out,’ she says with a total lack of conviction.

I flop a comforting hand on to her shoulder and pat her a couple of times with limp-handed apathy.

‘Well done. Good girl.’ I pat her again.

‘Yes, but it’s not just about my happiness, is it. It’s about the baby too. The baby’s happiness. In the olden days people got married because of babies and they stuck together through thick and thin. And arranged marriages, those people don’t know each other very well, do they? But love grows. Maybe Chris has changed and maybe we might
make
it work.’

I blink at her and take a moment to repeat what she has just said to myself.

‘Are you saying you are going to go back to the slimy chinless weasel?’ Over my dead body.

‘No, Jen, I just haven’t decided yet. You can’t decide things like that in one weekend, you know. I still have to think about it. And please, he’s not a slimy chinless weasel
and
after all these years you should know that the more horrible you are about the men in my life the more I defend them and the more I like them. You’re practically forcing me back into his arms.’ We laugh and smile during this exchange but each one of us is aware of the serious undertones. Eventually I take her hand and say, as kindly as I am able, ‘Rose, if you go back to Chris it will be the worst thing that you ever do and you will surely live to regret it.’

‘Will you still be my friend?’ she asks defensively, expecting the answer we have always given one another. And perhaps it’s because I’m overtired or maybe it’s because I’m angry at myself but I don’t feel like mincing my words.

‘I love you, Rosie, but I don’t know that I could face going through all that pain with you again.’ I don’t really know what I mean by that, and I’m honestly rather shocked to hear myself say it out loud.

‘So you’re asking me to choose between you and the father of my baby?’ Tears well up in her eyes.

I shake my head. ‘No, no. Look, I feel pretty strongly about this. I don’t have the answers, but I do know that at some point, in order to be proper friends, we all have to stop being so accepting of each other’s mistakes. I’m only saying what I think because I love you.’

Rosie nods her head, but looks bewildered and hurt. ‘I see, well, I understand that,’ she says softly. I feel cruel, but for once I’m determined to stand by my convictions. Rosie continues, ‘It’s just that, well, maybe I should have done the same thing the second or third or fourth time you went back to Owen instead of giving you all my support and standing by you no matter what?’ She sighs heavily and eases herself off the sofa. ‘I’m off to bed,’ she says, and as her door shuts the small amount of distance between us opens up just a little wider.

The clock on the wall opposite me ticks audibly. If you stare at it for long enough, your brain tricks your eyes into believing that the second hand travels backwards in time, just for one brief moment. And time should go backwards, it must. Everything that has happened over the last few hours is wrong. It’s a mistake.

Somebody has to correct it.

Everything started as normal this morning, as expected. It had rained during the night but the morning was bright. When I looked out of the window I could see puddles of blue sky reflected in the wet road surfaces. The leaves on the trees that line the nice end of the road had begun to turn and small flame-coloured piles of leaves had collected in the crevices of their roots. Every single one of these tiny details I remember absolutely.

Rosie and I went through our breakfast ritual, silently handing each other mugs of coffee, pieces of toast, pots of jam, warily avoiding dicussing Chris. I spent ten minutes sitting over the steam from my drink trying to think of a way to ease the situation but by the time I’d thought of something to say Rosie was in the shower and the door bell announced Ayla’s arrival. I let her up and she sat silently on the end of my bed while I brushed my hair and put on my morning make-up: foundation, mascara, lip gloss. I had decided to get into work late and blame it on the buses, something that’s easy to do when you live in a tube-free zone like Hackney. Georgie hasn’t been near public transport in the last fifteen years at least so I was pretty sure she wouldn’t rumble me. I hadn’t worked out how I was going to get off early to meet Ayla from school yet but I decided to cross that bridge when I came to it.

Ayla sat quietly on my bed and watched me. I was in a mood; my fight with Rosie had put me out of sorts. I wasn’t rude to her, but I was grumpy. I might have made her feel awkward, as if she was putting me out. I didn’t mean to.

Once outside, the brisk bright morning made me feel better. We discussed what we were going to say to the head.

‘Now, the thing is I think you have to be totally honest. It’s no good pretending you’ve been a total angel, is it?’ I’d said sternly. I just wanted her to see how serious these things could be when they got out of hand.

‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she said, apologising to me for the sake of saying sorry.

As we approached the school, herds of kids began to swarm in our direction, shuffling along in noisy twos and threes, skidding past on scooters and skateboards, gradually falling into flight with the rest of the flock. Teen couples strolled hand in hand, pausing every now and then to kiss with dogged open-mouthed passionless enthusiasm. The kids swore as much as they ever did and talked with a strange slang mix of North London and New York. I felt sorry for Ayla, isolated in their midst.

As we crossed the playground to the main entrance a shrill voice hailed us across the tarmac.

‘Oi! Slag! I’m watching you.’ I turned around and saw Tamsin posed against a nearby railing, a thunderous scowl scarring her face, her minions standing sentinel on either side of her. I watched her until she felt self-conscious enough to tug at the hem of her skirt and turn her back on us, muttering, ‘Fat bitch,’ over her shoulder. Despite my suit and thirty years her words stung and I felt as intimidated as I ever have on a playground.

With my hand on Ayla’s shoulder I guided her down the once-familiar corridors until we reached the head’s office.

‘We need to see Mrs Edgerton. It’s urgent,’ I told the same secretary who used to glare at me when I was hauled into the plastic chairs opposite her desk for some minor misdemeanour, usually involving too much make-up and back combing. She looked the same to me; why do people in education never get old? Maybe it was my suit and conservative make-up, but she didn’t recognise me, question me or try to stall me. She took one look at Ayla’s sheet-white face and went into the head’s office. A moment passed and before long we were both seated in low orange-covered easy chairs, each with a cup of instant coffee neither of us wanted in our hands.

‘So, Ayla, what’s all this about?’ Mrs Edgerton asked her.

It was almost ten when I left. Ayla had been sent back to class, pupils had to be interviewed, parents had to be called and procedures followed.

‘You do understand that they have threatened her?’ I said finally, taking in the stricken look on Ayla’s face precipitated by the news that she had to go back to lessons. ‘It could be very difficult for her out there today.’

‘Her teachers will be alerted of the situation, Ms Greenway. This is Stoke Newington, not Bosnia. Nothing will befall Ayla on school property. You have my word.’ I looked at her sensible, calm face and took her at her word. She agreed to contact Ayla’s parents last, to give Ayla a chance to talk to them in person after school.

‘But I will be calling them first thing in the morning, Ayla. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, miss,’ she had mumbled, looking about as wretched at the prospect of a confrontation with her family as was possible. It almost made me smile.

I had been in a hurry, I needed to get on the bus and into work before my public-transport excuse became null and void. I didn’t stop to take an extra moment with her, to check that she was OK.

‘See you later then, kiddo, about 3.30, yeah?’ I ruffled her hair in a way that would really have annoyed her. ‘Cheer up. It’s never as bad as it seems.’

‘Yeah, 3.30.’ She paused and turned in her toes just the way she used to as a child when she’d been up to no good. ‘Cheers and everything,’ she said and she kissed me on both cheeks, turned her back on me and went to class. I remember thinking how tall she was and how young really, for all her plucked eyebrows and gelled-back hair, her adult airs and graces.

Georgie and Jackson were both out of the office when I finally made it in. They had gone to a seminar on e-marketing, which I think I had known about at the back of my mind, and wouldn’t be back in the office for the rest of the day. There were three voice mails from Georgie on my office phone giving me jobs to do, and a further seven that just clicked off after a short pause. I guessed that she’d been phoning me all morning and stopped bothering to leave messages after a while. Georgie isn’t exactly Gordon Gecko but even I got that sinking feeling of being caught out and possibly landing in trouble. I phoned her mobile, which I knew would be switched off, and left another apology for being late.