Out on a Limb (6 page)

Trouble is, it is my mother’s philosophy of life perfectly captured in three cheesy syllables of Spanish. The mantra with which she has wafted through, let me see, three careers, four husbands (two dead, two divorced, none beheaded at the last count), and at least two stray fiancés that I know of. But while it may have served
her
well – and it has, up to now – it’s certainly not serving Pru and I well now. And I did fail my Geography O level, as it happens. And what if I’d passed it? Things could have been so different. I could be working as a cartographer in Brisbane or Nairobi. And could send my commiserations on a postcard from there. Still. At least she’s going back to Pru’s again tonight. For that we must be grateful.
Que
hurrah.

‘Gawd, gawd, gawd!’ says Dee, with some feeling. ‘That is some bombshell! But surely they can’t just throw her out. Doesn’t she have any rights?’

Taking your worries out on a shuttlecock doesn’t have quite the anger-quenching properties of a session with a punchbag, but in the absence of one, it will just have to do. ‘Apparently not. Well, she has all the usual ones – if she barricades the door and refuses them entry they’ll have to get a court order to evict her. But she’s not even there, is she? She’s at my sister’s.’

And will soon be back at mine. And then at Pru’s. And then mine again. We’re passing her back and forth as if engaged in an intense bout of correspondence chess. Is this how the next few weeks – God,
months
– are going to be? And if that’s not indigestible enough a thought to be going on with, the next one – the nagging one – the one that can’t seem to help propagating in my head, is the thought that we all know whose house
she’d
rather be billeted at; the one with a vacant room (but it’s not vacant! It
isn’t
! It’s just temporarily unoccupied!), the one without two eight-year-olds, but mainly the one without an irritable husband already installed as head of state.

Dee opens her water bottle and takes a long swig from it. ‘Well, she should hot-foot it back there and stake her claim, if you ask me. It’s disgraceful.’

It’s impossible. She can’t function on her own yet, and even if she could, she doesn’t want to. When did she ever? ‘We were thinking of launching a counter-attack over the matter of the conservatory, as it happens,’ I say. ‘That cost them close on fifteen thousand. And I know for a fact where the money for it came from. Her flat.
God
– sorry, excuse me for a second – but what a low life bastard scoundrel that man has turned out to be! I mean, he knew, Dee! He knew all along! Yet he happily helped her spend
her
money! It’s all gone, you know. All spent on bloody cruises!’

Dee thinks for a moment. She always thinks about things. In her position (which is one of being married to an alcoholic, and thus having undergone months – no,
years
– of sitting in therapists’, mediators’ and counsellors’ offices), I guess looking at angles and weighing up least-worst options and trying to calmly fathom motivations and solutions becomes pretty standard after a while. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t
quite
like that. I mean, they were getting on, weren’t they? And it’s kind of what you do when you’re old, isn’t it? Go on cruises and that. I mean, to be fair, why wouldn’t they? If they could afford it, why not? You can’t take it with you, after all. And what would they want to save up for at their age?’

I pick up my own bottle, rather wishing it contained gin instead of water. ‘Oh, I know, I know. That’s what
she
keeps telling me. But that was based on the fact – no, the fiction – that she was financially secure! That her home was her home
whatever
happened. Jeez. I can’t believe she could have been so dumb. I mean how do people not know things like that? How could she have been so naïve?’

I can see from Dee’s expression that she is considering pointing out that my mother certainly doesn’t have the family monopoly on naïvety. That it’s pretty rich of me even to suggest it. But she is too much the good friend to voice it. Anyway, it’s different. My heart might be a soft touch, but my head has never failed me. Oh, damn. Now I’m fretting about Charlie again.
Damn
.

‘And y ou forget,’ she says instead, ‘she’s from a different generation. Women didn’t concern themselves with that sort of stuff back in her day.’

My mother in particular didn’t concern herself with ‘that sort of stuff’. Any stuff, if she could get away with it, frankly. There was always someone else to do it for her. ‘Anyway,’ Dee continues, ‘I’d hang right in there and get everything you can. If you can prove she paid for the conservatory, then they’ll have to pay her back for it, won’t they? That’s something, at least, isn’t it?’

Something but not much. ‘I think Doug’s going to look into it. Mind you, that Corinne doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who’d roll over without putting up a fight. I wouldn’t mind, but, you know, she looks pretty well-heeled to me. So why all this haste to get Mum out and sell up? It’s so heartless.’

Dee sighs. ‘I guess she’s just thinking ‘why
not
?’. It’s not as if she’s got any reason not to, is it? And you know what families can be like, especially with later marriages. Sounds like they weren’t terribly thrilled about it in the first place.’

I nod. ‘You’re certainly right there.’

‘Oh, but your poor mum. It’s pretty mean, isn’t it? They could at least have given her a few months to get herself sorted.’ She shakes her head. ‘Life takes such horrible turns sometimes, doesn’t it?’ She looks reflective for a moment, and I think ‘Yup, she’d know’. Then she pats me. ‘Anyway, you just hang in there. I’m sure if you fight it she’ll get what she deserves.’

I don’t like to think to o hard about what, to my mind, constitutes what my mother most ‘deserves’. A good ticking off is the very least of it. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘whatever she gets – assuming she gets anything – it’s not going to amount to very much. Certainly not enough to buy somewhere.’

‘So where will she live, then? A council place?’

I almost choke on my water. My
mother
? Diana G
aaaa
rland? In a council flat? She’d rather squat in a tuareg’s tent. I pick my racquet up again. ‘That’s exactly the problem. That’s the worst of it, frankly. It’s not actually been said in so many words, but you know, she’s unnaturally un-fazed by all this. If you saw her you’d see. She’s really not that bothered at
all
. Even for an inveterate nomad. No tears. No hysterics – either actual or acted. No fuss at all. Almost the opposite in fact. ‘

‘Well, hats off to her for taking it so bravely, I say. That’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s the worst thing imaginable! Dee, don’t you realise? I think the reason she’s taking it all on the chin is that she thinks she can come and live with
me
!’

‘Oh, I
see
.’ But she doesn’t. She thinks she does but she doesn’t. And if I thought I could explain, then I would readily do so. But how
can
I explain to someone like Dee? Her home life is so grim she’d probably consider living with my mother as a veritable stroll in the park.

Yeah. As in Jurassic. We get back to our game.

Is there some sort of game going on in other departments too, I wonder? Because when I get back from badminton, mottled pink, sweaty and looking like I just went ten rounds with a wardrobe, the man himself is waiting outside my house, in his car.

The man I am no longer seeing. The
married
man I am no longer seeing. The man who promised he wouldn’t do this. And he’s parked in my parking space, to boot. Which means I have to slot myself into Mr Davidson’s one, which will inflame an already inflamed situation unless I make sure I unslot myself pretty damned quick. I park across the road hastily and irritably and have already jumped out of my car by the time Charlie’s meandering languidly to meet me.

The first thing I register is that he looks very tired.

And the second is that I’ve no business registering such things. How Charlie looks is no longer my business.

I spread my arms, palms up, as he approaches.

‘Charlie, for God’s sake. What d’you think you’re doing?’

H e holds his own hands aloft. ‘It’s Tuesday,’ he says. And then, noting my expression, ‘It’s
okay
. I already watched him go.’

Which would be absolutely fair comment were we still together, because Tuesdays (7 till 10 pm at any rate) were when Seb went to five-a-side and Jake went to youth club – still does – and thus became one of those pockets of time that bad people with bad things on their mind tend to fix on. I first had sex with Charlie on a Tuesday. I last had sex with Charlie on a Tuesday. Oh, oh, oh. It’s all so
seedy
. Tuesdays leave
such
a bad taste in my mouth. Though it’s no longer relevant and I really mustn’t dwell. Tuesdays, from now on, are Badminton Night. An altogether more wholesome form of exercise. I reach back into the car and get my racquet and towel out.

‘Charlie, this is not about it being Tuesday or otherwise. It’s about the fact that we are
over
.’ I start marching towards the house.

‘Half an hour. A cup of tea. Where’s the harm in that? Look –’ he’s caught up now. ‘You were the one who said we could be friends.’

‘I lied,’ I retort. He ignores this. Utterly. ‘And if we’re friends, where’s the harm in you acting like one and letting me come in for a cup of tea?’

Charlie always drinks tea because coffee gives him heartburn. Ca momile. Blackcurrant. Spiced apple. Green. I have an awful lot of packets of tea bags in my house. And nobody to drink them any more. (Memo to self. Abbie, just throw them
away
.) ‘
Because
, Charlie, okay?
Because
.’ I’ve got my door key out now. He’s showing no signs of going. ‘How many more times am I going to have to say it? Anyway, what about my mother?’

‘Your mother’s not here.’

Rats. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because Dee told me yesterday. She’s gone back to your sister’s.’ I scowl at him. He smiles at me. I scowl some more. He strokes my arm. ‘Come on. How’s it been? You look seriously stressed out –’

‘I
am
seriously stressed out.’

And I’m not sleeping either. I just lie there and fret. He strokes my arm a second time. ‘Then let me in and you can tell me all about it.’

‘I don’t want to tell you all about it.’

‘Yes, you do. You know you do.’

I don’t, but I let him in anyway.

Chapter 6

A
NOTHER EMAIL
. A
M MOST
impressed. Or, oh dear. There’s a thought. Is he bored? Lonely? Missing home? Missing Jake? Missing
me
?

Howdy mum,

Venice. Done; St Mark’s square, St Mark’s basilica, Bridge of Sighs, Rialto, Peggy Guggenheim collection… NOT. Actually, we got train to Padua and had v good time. Venice very smelly. Would have got you some glass but would no doubt smash it. So didn’t. Tell J it’s okay about the X Box. S xx

Aw, aw, aw. It’s not
fair.
I
want to go to Venice.
I
want to be there. And what
about
the X-box, exactly?

Okay, okay, okay. I know I shouldn’t have let him in. But it
was
okay. We didn’t
do
anything. I made him a cup of tea (green tea, with mango), I told him all about it – the gist of things, anyway – and then he insisted on giving me a shoulder massage, because of course, as ever, he was absolutely right. Mine were up to my earlobes – though it didn’t escape my notice that that was thanks in no small part to him. But I let him massage my shoulders anyway. Let him massage my shoulders for a good ten minutes, almost drifting off, because I was tired and he’s good at it. He didn’t speak. He never does. So much of what felt good and right in our relationship didn’t involve any words. Damning, indicative, but nevertheless true. So, ten minutes, give or take. Though it could have been longer. In any event, right up until the moment when he intruded on the comfort of the silence and said ‘D’you remember that scene in
The Fabulous Baker Boys
?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t’. Because I didn’t right off. I’d seen the film years ago. So it hadn’t been with him. I was still semi-drifting. Still floating in a place that said ‘It’s actually okay, this. Perhaps it’s all right. Perhaps we can go back to being, you know, close but not that close. For now. For a short while. Till he’s properly over it…’ Stupid mare.

‘Yes, you do,’ he said, pressing his thumbs into the back of my neck. ‘You know. The one at the end of the New Year’s Eve gig, when Jeff Bridges and Michelle Pfeiffer are sitting at the side of the stage and she comments that her shoulders are stiff.’

And then I did remember, because Jeff Bridges reminded me. We’d discussed, at some point, our favourite film stars, as you do. And I’d mentioned Jeff Bridges and he’d mentioned Michelle Pfeiffer and we’d both of us commented how good they were on screen together, and…uh-oh…uh-
oh
…suddenly I felt myself stiffen too. ‘Charlie –’

‘And Jeff Bridges says ‘come over here’. Something like that. And he starts to massage her neck.’ Charlie starts to massage mine. ‘Remember it now? And she’s got that red dress on, and he undoes the zip –’

And that’s when I bundled him out. Stupid mare.

The A and the P of the A and P Physiotherapy Clinic don’t really stand for Aches and Pains. They stand for Ashford and Pierce. Those being the surnames of Ken and Brendan, who own it. I don’t recall now who it was that first coined its pet name. Only that it was considered as an alternative for a time, until they decided that given that at least half their patients suffer from the sort of chronic aches and pains that make their lives enough of a misery to render them somewhat snappy in the matter of making jokes about it, it was axed in favour of the former. But everyone who knows them still calls it Aches and Pains. It’s how I’ve always thought of it, too.

The clinic , which has been open about a decade now, is thriving. It’s based on the first floor of a rather grand building, the downstairs of which is occupied by a similarly posh estate agent’s, staffed by glossy young lovelies and aggressively groomed men.

To get to us, however, you have to eschew the deep pile of the estate agency doormat, go round to the side door and press the entry buzzer on the wall. At which point, Candice, the receptionist, will bellow a rousing ‘
Hi
yah!’ at you, and then, if you’re lucky, also remember to let you in. Inside the door is a small hallway in which an optimistic umbrella plant is making a bid for the canopy, and a decrepit-looking stair lift (and, yes, I’ll admit I’ve had a ride on it) for those patients reluctant and/or unable to negotiate the somewhat precipitous stairs.

I’ve known Ken and Brendan for a very long time. Ken was in the same year as me at college, and Brendan used to work at Highfield Park too. Early on they were an item, and then they weren’t an item, but though their romantic partnership was short-lived, they’ve remained business partners and friends.

And friends of mine too, for which I am very, very grateful. They’ve actually been after me to go and work at A and P for years, which is obviously very flattering, and which also made it easy for me to decide to do so now. Yep, I’m going to like working here.

And on this, only my first full week at the practice, there is a note of celebration in the air. Candice, who has only the two volume settings (one and eleven), falls upon me with delight as I enter.

‘Ah, Abbie!’ she cries, even before I’m fully inside, ‘Have I got exciting news for you!’

As I’m a little light on the exciting news front right now, and feeling a touch over-burdened with the other kind, I am indeed excited to hear this. Even though I’ve no idea what the news could be. Candice seems to find almost everything exciting, so it could be just that someone’s found the teaspoon (am I the only female person left on the planet who takes sugar in their tea?), but that will do fine. I slip my jacket from my shoulders and go to hang it on the coat stand by the door. Yep, I’m really going to like working here. Because everyone’s always so
happy
. Perhaps I will absorb it by osmosis. ‘Great,’ I say, smiling. ‘What is it?’

She removes her pen from between her teeth and beams. ‘You have your very first new patient,’ she tells me.

‘Great!’ I say again. Because it is.

It’s a bit of a novelty to be working somewhere where a new patient is a cause for celebration. Up to now I’ve always been working in a system where volumes of new patients were not so much a cause for celebration as a cause for people shaking their heads and tutting and scowling and moaning on about shortages of staff and New Bloody Labour. But having one’s own patients in this situation is important – one’s own specific referrals are of course something to be pleased about. So I am. They made me up some natty business cards before I started work, which I have been brandishing at almost every available opportunity. They say Abigail McFadden MCSP on them, beneath the little leaping stick man that is A and P’s logo. I’m really rather proud of them. I’ve never had my own business cards before. But it’s still early days, and up to now (and for much of the immediate future I suspect), I have mainly been seeing such patients who have called for appointments, but have not specifically requested that they see anyone else. Or June’s. Who I’ve replaced. And they’re sometimes disappointed. But they get me whether they like it or not.

I hope they
do
like, once they get to know me. ‘Specifically asked for me?’ I ask her, chuffed.

‘Yup.’ She’s still beaming. ‘Coming in Thursday week.’

‘That’s great,’ I say again.

‘Go on,’ she goes on. ‘Say “and” then.’

‘And what?’

‘Don’t you even want to know who it is?’

‘I assumed you were about to tell me.’

She claps her hands together at this. ‘You are so, so lucky. Oh, I’m
so
excited. Come on. Have a guess.’

‘I can’t.’ A lot of cards. A lot of guesses.

‘Have a try.’

‘No, really, I can’t.’

‘Tall, blond and handsome?’

‘Well, that’s an encouraging start, certainly.’ Though none springs to mind. But
Charlie
– of course. He’s been putting the word out for me too, bless him. So now I’m thinking rugby player. Athlete. Footballer, maybe. Sports person, obviously. Hmm. Tall, blond and handsome… or perhaps an unusually well developed afghan hound? ‘Go on, then,’ I say. ‘
Who
?’

‘Ta ra!’ she trills. ‘Wait for it! It’s the BBC weatherman! You
know
. Gabriel Ash!’

‘Gabriel
Ash
? Coming to see
me
?’

‘Yes, to see
you!
Do you know him?’ she asks eagerly.

How utterly perplexing. How very
odd
. I must be frowning, I realise, because she then says ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you pleased?’

I’m mainly quite shocked. ‘Well, I…are you
sure
? I mean, he actually asked for
me
?’

She nods happily. ‘Your reputation has obviously preceded you. I mean, he obviously knows who you are, doesn’t he?
Do
you know him?’

‘Er, well, no. Not really. I mean, I’ve met him, but –’

‘Met him? Wow-ee. What’s he like?’

Hmm. I think. First impression; persona ble enough. Second impression. Heartless, money-grabbing toe-rag.

‘I didn’t say
that
, obviously,’ I tell Dee when I ring her later. ‘I made all the right noises. It’s obviously all to the good to get high-profile patients in. But, good Lord. Why me?
How
me, more to the point? How did he know where I worked?’

‘Well, you did tell him you were a physio, didn’t you? He must have looked you up or something. Anyway, why worry? It’s good publicity for you, isn’t it? And, hey, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.’

I snort. ‘You and Candice both.’

‘Who’s Candice?’

‘Our receptionist. I think she’s already booked her bikini wax and pedicure.’

‘Well, you’ve got to admit, he is rather gorgeous.’

They’re both mad, clearly. He is
so
not that. ‘Gorgeous? Gorgeous nothing. All I know is that he’s responsible for chucking my mother out on the street. Which is hardly going to enamour me of him, is it?’

‘I thought that was his sister.’

‘Oh, come
on
. It’s still half his house. And why else would he just fetch up out of the blue like that? And don’t you think it’s just a little bit rich that he should think it okay to blithely make an appointment for me to look at his knee after all that’s happened? Like he’d even think I’d
want
to. I was pretty off with him at the solicitors, I can tell you. Does he think he’s doing me a favour or something?’

‘Perhaps he does.’

‘Well I certainly don’t want any favours from
that
lot. I’ve a good mind to tell him to take his bloody ligaments elsewhere.’

‘Perhaps that’s what
he
thought. And he’s obviously made the effort to track you down, so perhaps it’s by way of a conciliatory gesture,’ she suggests.

‘Oh, yeah, right. We make your mother homeless but have a thirty pound consultation fee to make up for it. Great.’

‘Or perhaps he wants a chance to talk to you. He probably feels bad about it. Or perhaps he –’

‘Oh, yeah, right. Like you really thinks he gives a monkey’s? Forget Mum. He hasn’t even spoken to his own
father
for twenty years. And then, all of a sudden, up he pops for his inheritance. I think it’s an absolute disgrace.’

‘Actually, I
was
going to say that perhaps he fancies you. Have you thought of that?’

‘Oh, don’t talk such piffle. He’s engaged to Lucy Whittall, don’t forget.’

‘Good Lord!
Is
he?’

‘They’re getting married at Christmas by all accounts. It was all in
Depth
magazine. Candice showed me.’ I hear myself tutting. ‘It’s sickening, it really is. The whole lot of them are obviously loaded – that Corinne drives a Jag, you know – yet they don’t seem to have the slightest compunction about throwing a defenceless little old lady out of her home.’

Pru laughs. ‘You know,’ she says. ‘I can think of lots of words to describe your mother, but those are the last I’d have thought of.’

More’s the pity, I think. More’s the bloody pity.