Home Truths (33 page)

After the gloom of the purple interior, the bright evening was dazzling. A small voice told her to suggest a walk along the canal, a snack at an outside table, an ice cream from Marine Ices, but Al's hand around her waist led her away from such thoughts.

I won't stay if there are batik bedspreads as wall hangings.

There aren't.

I won't stay if there are lads lolling about.

There are lads lolling about, watching the football, but they appear not to notice Al come in. Or you.

I'll go if the kitchen is grimy.

It is surprisingly spruce.

I'll say I'm fine if he offers me a drink.

He's handing you a glass of wine whether you've asked for it or not.

Well, I won't drink it.

Al is rolling a joint.

And I won't be smoking that.

‘Come on, let's go upstairs.’

Not if it's to your bedroom.

Well, you never know, Fen, perhaps the house has a delightful roof garden and that's where he's taking you.

But he isn't because it hasn't.

And remember, no batik bedspreads – I'll leave directly if he has one on his bed, let alone on the wall. Same goes for joss sticks. And Jim Morrison posters. Or Che Guevara. Or that Andy Warhol banana.

Where do you stand on mattresses-on-the-floor?

I hate those.

Al has one. But it is covered with a Conran bedspread.

That's different, then.

Be careful Fen.

She tinkers with his things, peers at photos of strangers she'll never meet but who grin alongside this man in whose bedroom she's mooching. Al is sitting on a pine trunk, having problems lighting the joint. She's planning to take a drag without inhaling. She never liked weed, it always made her feel discombobulated and queasy. She's intending to say something funny, like, I only do Class A drugs. But then she worries this might run the risk of him or his friends brandishing wraps of cocaine or handfuls of E.

‘Fen?’

Al was looking at her in a dopey haze, offering the spliff. She saunters over but soon realizes that to puff without inhaling is harder than it seems. Oh well, one drag won't hurt. One drag and that's it. God it is strong.

She smiles and goes away to look at an abstract print. This is the wrong thing to do as the trompe l'oeil of prismatic colour exacerbates her headrush. She's pretending to look at old concert tickets, Blu-tacked to the wall, but actually she's staring at the white paint in between. She feels a little nauseous. Silently, she vows not to touch spliff from this day on if only the nausea would please just abate.

Al is behind her. He has slipped his hands either side of her waist. The surprise of him there, his lips at the back of her neck, have straightened her head and she finds she can close her eyes and concentrate on his touch without feeling dizzy. He's travelling his hands, down her hips, around the front of her thighs, inner thighs, oh God even inner more. He's missed out her stomach and gone straight for her breasts. He's now sucking and kissing at her neck and he's turning her to face him. Fen is suddenly terrified. Does she really want to kiss him? She hasn't time to figure it out because his tongue is in her mouth and she keeps her eyes closed and momentarily envisages Brad Pitt because she's not sure she wants the reality of kissing a bloke called Al whom she hardly knows. Luckily, the weed has fired Fen's naturally vivid imagination and she finds Brad is an excellent kisser. It's thrilling to feel his hands caressing, groping, being led by his excitement for her. With her eyes closed, she sucks Brad's ear lobe and grazes his neck with her mouth while he undoes the zip of her dress. The dress falls away and Fen keeps her eyes shut because she's conjured an airbrushed and idealized image of her figure in her mind's eye and she daren't open her eyes and find her physique causing anything other than awe and delight. But Brad is gorging on her breasts and searching for a way underneath her panties, so she needn't worry. Fen is wet and suddenly she wants to be fingered and sucked and fucked and she's so hot and turned on and slightly woozy that she no longer cares if it's Brad Pitt or Al.

And then a mobile phone rings and she knows that it's hers. She'll let it ring out. It does. They'll leave a message. No, they won't – they're ringing again. Sod off. They ring again.

‘Shit, sorry, I'd better just see,’ says Fen, opening her eyes, locating her bag, catching sight of Al's reflection in the mirror
and feeling immediately shy. She goes over to retrieve her phone, holding her crumpled dress against her body.

‘Hullo?’

‘Fen – hi sorry, it's me.’

It's Pip.

And here's Al, slipping his hand down the front of her knickers and tugging cheekily at her pubic hair. Fen glowers at him in the mirror but he closes his eyes, bites her shoulder and works a finger through the lips of her sex.

‘Can you hear me OK, Fen?’ ‘Yes.’

Fen is turned on by the sight of her body being ravished by this person. It doesn't matter that he's not Brad Pitt any more. What matters is that he's not Matt. He's secret. She spreads her legs, permits him easier access.

‘Is everything OK, Pip?’

‘Well,’ Pip says, ‘I wouldn't have phoned – but I can't seem to settle Cosima.’

Fen tries to still Al's hand, grabs at his wrist. She's doesn't want to be fingered in the same breath as talking about her daughter. She steps aside and is vaguely aware that he's now unbuttoning his trousers.

‘What do you mean?’ she asks Pip.

‘Well she just seems restless, a little fretful.’

‘Is she hot?’

‘A little.’

‘Shit. OK. I'm on my way.’

Fen shrugs apologetically to Al who is standing there with an impressive hard-on which she considers probably looks bigger because his body is so thin and hairless. Nothing like Brad Pitt. Or Matt Holden.

‘My kid,’ Fen shrugs and instantly detests herself for referring to Cosima as such, for all but blaming her baby for coital interruption. Al is absent-mindedly caressing his cock
and Fen wonders, a little pathetically, whether he'll wank in her honour once she's left. ‘I'm sorry,’ she says, ‘I'm really going to have to go.’

She dresses and as she does, she looks at a framed photo of a young woman.

‘That's Kay,’ he tells her. Al is still naked, his cock now at half mast. It seems disrespectful, really.

Fen looks at the photo. She was pretty, his sister. And as she sees herself out, she thinks how death distorts. She knows she was enamoured with the idea of Al because he was this brave boy who'd faced tragedy head-on. She loved the sight of him placing his flowers around the tree-trunk; his story. But she knows now he is rather immature, a bit boring actually, and a little too puny for her taste.

She heads out into the street, flags down a cab mercifully easily and phones Pip to tell her fifteen minutes. Fen gazes out, her head rests lightly against the window, being juddered; as if she needed physical discomfort to bring her to her senses. Yes, she feels guilty for the pleasure she's just had, the illicitness of it, the excitement and attention. She feels badly for Matt and she fears Cosima's unsettled state is directly attributable to her bad behaviour. But Fen's anxiety runs deeper too and it occurs to her that it is rooted in something far more ominous.

Is history repeating itself? Is this what my mother went through? Did her cowboy come riding by just when she was becoming stifled by the drudge of it all?

But did he lure her away or did she seek him out?

Pip tapped the phone against her lip. It was difficult to know what to do.

Should I wake Cosima in ten minutes or so? Or is that too cruel?

Because, in reality, Cosima had actually been sound
asleep since Pip laid her in her cot after her bottle two hours ago.

Matt came in half an hour after Fen. He'd left the bus early and taken a long walk to settle his nerves and ensure he was word perfect. He was dreading being the harbinger and he was dreading seeing Fen distressed, yet he hoped it might engender an opportunity to put his arms around her and hold her close. That she might feel safe. Protected. If she'd let him.

‘You're back early,’ he said.

Fen nodded. ‘Pip couldn't settle Cosima.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘She's fine – she was fine by the time I arrived back. Probably tummy troubles or something.’

‘Did you have fun with your friend?’

Fen looked at Matt and wondered if fun can only be fun if it's still fun in retrospect, in the aftermath. She nodded because she didn't want to say yes out loud. Because if she did she'd be saying to her partner's face, Yes it was fun to have some bloke I've met three times finger my vagina and fondle my boobs.

Matt looked at his watch, as if Fen's answer was a long time coming. ‘Ten to ten,’ he said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Please,’ said Fen, ‘thank you. I'll just pop upstairs and take off all this stupid make-up.’

‘You look nice,’ said Matt. ‘I like your dress.’ Shit – how long does make-up take to remove? More than ten minutes? Matt had no idea. ‘Leave it on!’ he exclaimed. ‘You look nice.’

Fen found this touching. But she was desperate to remove the knickers tacky with the juice of infidelity. ‘I'm just going to the loo,’ she told him.

‘You feeling OK?’ Matt asked. Timing was everything but he really didn't want to ask her outright, Number One or Number Two.

‘Just a bit tired,’ said Fen.

When she came back downstairs, a cup of tea and a biscuit were waiting. And so was Matt.

When Pip arrived home from Fen's, Zac was already there, engrossed in some scintillating spreadsheet or other on his laptop.

‘You're back early,’ he commented, glancing up.

‘Fen came back early,’ Pip said tonelessly.

‘How was Cosima?’ Zac asked, squinting as he pulled the cursor around the screen.

‘Cute as a button,’ said Pip.

‘Did it all go smoothly?’ said Zac.

‘Of course,’ Pip said defensively.

‘She is a poppet,’ said Zac, ‘a real little munchkin.’

Pip looked at her feet. ‘I want one,’ she said quietly.

Zac laughed a little. ‘Oh God, one night's babysitting and you're all broody on me again!’ he declared, returning his attention to his work.

‘Oh will you just fuck off,’ Pip stormed.

Zac looked up, startled. He'd been joking – hadn't that been obvious? Because hadn't she been joking too? It was some sort of shared joke, wasn't it? ‘Pip!’ he began to remonstrate.

‘I'm sick of you not taking me seriously! I'm fed up of you demeaning how I
feel
,’ Pip said and she flounced off to the bedroom with a slam to the door.

Zac was dumbstruck. He was amazed. He was worried – hadn't he discussed with Ben and Matt to keep the girls calm and enveloped with love and support? Most of all he was bewildered; Pip's words were in some ways irrelevant to the violence with which she'd expressed them. Pip rarely raised
her voice. She loathed arguing; even mundane bickering upset her. She avoided confrontation and was the person to whom others turned for assistance in deflecting situations. Pip was the least argumentative, least aggressive, most easygoing person he'd ever met. That's why he'd married her. She was also, in his eyes, so beautifully readable. That's why he loved her. But this he hadn't seen coming. And try as he might, it seemed illegible to him. But it was ten to ten and Django mattered most. Further discussion or shouting or whatever would just have to wait.

Cat floated in at quarter to ten. ‘I've had the most brilliant day,’ she beamed.

‘Are you hungry?’ Ben asked her.

‘Nope.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Nope – I'm too excited to eat.’

‘You ought to eat, babe.’

‘Oh be quiet, you fussy old doctor.’

‘Cup of tea, then?’

‘That would be nice.’

‘And then you can tell me all about it,’ said Ben, glancing at the clock and hoping Cat could do so within ten minutes.

At 10 p.m. on 15 June, Ben put his finger over Cat's lip and said, ‘That's wonderful news but you need to sit down. Babe, I need to tell you something.’

At 10 p.m. on 15 June, Matt switched off the TV and turned to Fen and said, ‘Fen, I need to tell you something.’

At 10 p.m. on 15 June, Zac had to deny Pip her post-argument privacy. He went into the bedroom and sat alongside her. With tenderness and scorching regret, he put his arm gently around her. ‘I need to tell you something, Mrs,’ he said.

Where Were You When You Heard that Django McCabe Had Cancer?

In all his purple splendour, with his eternally optimistic smile fixed across his plastic face, Tinky Winky gazed kindly up at Fen. He was lying at her feet, she was sitting on the sofa, her hands clasped together tightly in automatic supplication. Matt was at her side, stroking her arm, her leg. It was ten past ten. Fen bent and picked up Tinky Winky, Cosima's favourite Teletubby, and hugged him tight. She pressed her nose to his head. He smelt of her baby. Just then, she gained more comfort from him than from Matt.

Is this my fault? In some horrible skewed scheme of things, I think it probably is. I feel sick. I shouldn't think of Django and Al in the same context but it all makes horrible sense if I do. Isn't this what they call karma? Or else, divine retribution? Of course I must have my comeuppance for all that stupid, stupid stuff with Al – but why does it have to be via Django?

‘Is prostate cancer terminal? Where is the prostate exactly?’ Fen turned to Matt, her eyes fixed warily at his groin. ‘What does it do – can you live without one? Like an appendix or gall bladder? Is that what they'll do – chop it out? But they will be able to fix him, won't they?’

If I feel I am being punished, how must Django be feeling?

‘He's on his own,’ Fen continued, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘He hates doctors and hospitals.’ She looked at Matt, seeing worry and tenderness written all over his face. ‘He'll be redefining cancer “a spot of the lurgy”,’ she said with a sad laugh. ‘He'll tell us not to worry. What has he ever done to deserve this?’ She stood and paced the room, clutching Tinky Winky to her breast like a prayer book. ‘I think I know that he never meant to hurt anyone,’ she said, ‘so he changed his name from Derek and had a fling with his brother's wife. But he is a brilliant parent – he couldn't have been a better father to us, to Cat. His love was perfectly equal.’