The A-Z of Us (15 page)

‘She didn't say she doesn't want to be with you!'

‘She doesn't love me. Why would I want to stay with her?'

‘Because you're married.'

‘How quaintly old-fashioned. Two in three marriages end in divorce, you know.'

‘Talk to her.'

‘I will. In my own time. I'm not the one being unreasonable.'

‘Yes, you are. You need to go and see her. She doesn't know why she said what she did. I don't think she really meant it.'

‘Oh. Of course you know her so well, don't you…'

‘Yes. I do…'

‘Why do you care, Ian? I'd have thought you'd be grateful to have her all to yourself again.'

Raj was aware his voice was raised. He was also aware the door to the conference room was not fully closed, and several faces were turned their way.

‘What?'

‘This way you get to spend quality time with your precious Gemma.'

‘We're just friends, you know that…'

‘You can be her confidant, her confessor, spend plenty of time with her in our house, and finally, maybe, you'll get what you've always wanted…'

‘What's that, Raj?'

Ian's knuckles were white, clenched on the dark mahogany table. Raj looked at him, feeling strangely calm, as if he was outside of the room, looking in.

‘You tell me, Ian.'

‘Don't be a prat.'

Raj found himself smiling. There was something about the situation that he found overwhelmingly comic.

‘What's so fucking funny?'

‘You. The way you always try to be the knight in shining armour. It's very… Monty Python.'

‘Piss off, Raj.'

Raj shook his head. He looked across at Ian, attempting to keep a lid on the swirling anxiousness and irritation inside him.

‘Look, I appreciate your concern. I will see Gemma, when my deadline's done.'

With this, he stood and walked to the door, opening it further, hoping that Ian would be less prone to anger with the rest of the office watching. He waited, holding open the door. Yet Ian remained sitting, as if contemplating various courses of action. Raj wondered what he should do – advance or retreat? He sensed people watching, behind his back. Just as he had decided to re-enter the room and close the door, Ian pulled back his chair and pushed himself upright. Raj breathed out quickly. He let Ian pass him, out into the communal work space of desks and bookshelves. He closed the conference room door, and turned to follow Ian out to reception, when Ian stopped and turned to him.

‘Why do you always put work first?'

‘Please Ian. Not here…'

‘I don't care who hears this. Why is work so important to you?'

Raj felt crushed by the gazes accelerating towards him from what seemed like the entire workforce of Price, Chambers and Grosvenor. Why was he so often caught
like this, in the headlights, like a terrified mammal? He heard laughter, sniggers, but it wasn't real, he knew, just memories of past sounds, past voices – the girls outside the canteen, the boys on the football field, the pretty young women at the Oxford parties. He felt his fist clench, and it seemed for once that it was a large fist, a compact, bristling ball of flesh, bone and gristle, that could crush a mouth, a nose, a windpipe. He breathed out again, quickly, and spoke low and directly.

‘I will call Gemma, Ian. Now I have to get back to work.'

‘Why's it so important?'

Raj held up his hand, fingers slightly outstretched, palm towards Ian's face. It was, he realized, a gesture his father employed occasionally when trying to subdue an onslaught from his mother. Suddenly, he felt immensely powerful.

‘Right now, my work is all I've got!'

Ian glared at him. Raj tried to relax his right hand, which remained tightly outstretched.

‘Don't push me, Ian. I'm in a weird place right now.'

He wanted Ian to leave. He wanted to get back to his desk, to open a contract file and immerse himself in the neatness of language, in the precise nature of carefully inserted words.

‘Yeah. Well. Call her.'

‘Bye, Ian.'

Ian nodded, almost to himself, turned and hobbled away. Raj waited for a moment, knowing that faces were watching him. If he looked up, he knew they'd look away. He just needed the strength.

He turned. As predicted, his fellow junior lawyers
glanced swiftly back at their computer screens. Only Peter Saville met his gaze. He was standing by Raj's desk, just six feet away, holding a sheath of papers. Raj approached him.

‘Well, well, Mr Singh,' said Peter Saville, before Raj could mutter an explanation for his absence. ‘Quite a show.'

‘It was a family matter. I'll stay late so I can make up the time.'

‘Quite… forceful. It would be nice to see the same degree of passion in the work environment.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘There's plenty of room for fervour in the law, you know.'

‘Fervour?'

‘Perhaps we could see a little of that Singh kick-ass in your future dealings with our adversaries?'

‘I'll see what I can do.'

‘Good.' Peter Saville smiled. Raj had never seen his boss's lips rise above horizontal before. ‘Now, are we still on course for the deadline?'

At his desk, Raj hurriedly clicked through his files one more time, his thoughts racing like mercury. What had just happened? Had it been good or bad to show anger and resolve in the midst of the office? Saville had seemed to indicate that he'd been impressed. But was that just double-bluff, something the middle manager was famous for? Would it come out as a black mark against him in his next interim assessment?

He could not focus on the documents he was opening.

‘Slow down.'

Gemma's voice again. He shook his head, to purge her soft conciliatory tone.

‘Just concentrate. You can do it.'

His thoughts raced on. Was it possible? Was Ian right? Did Gemma really want him back? In that moment, he half expected the phone by his left elbow to ring. That's what would have happened in a film, he thought, in one of those romantic comedies she was so fond of. He waited for a moment. Silence, except for the hum of computer screens and the low murmur of legal voices.

Suddenly he had an idea. He clicked on the wastepaper basket icon on his desktop. He did not know why he hadn't thought of it before. There, nestling comfortably between two draft letters, as if hibernating, was the New York email. He smiled.

He opened the email, printed it and began to re-write clause 7. iii, for the thirteenth, and, he felt certain now, last time.

You big fat bollocks.

Sitting on the bus to Victoria Park I am afraid that I've overreacted. Maybe Molly was telling the truth about her ex-husband. I didn't exactly give her a chance to explain herself more fully.

You've blown it.

At Shoreditch I call her, but it cuts straight to her answering machine. I leave a message, apologizing, asking her if we could talk about things.

At Cambridge Heath Station, I call her again, but leave no message.

At Gemma's road, I call her a third time and leave another message, again asking Molly to call me.

Ringing the doorbell at number 26 Raleigh Street, I prepare to spill out my confession to Gemma. She will know what to do.

Yet Gemma's expression invites no spewing of guts. The priest is not in. She doesn't even look me in the eyes as she opens the door, merely turning and walking back into the shadows. When I get to the lounge area, she's curled up once again, on the sofa in front of the television.

I look around. There's something about the house, its temporary, incomplete, exposed shell, that seems so tired and ancient. The evidences of decay, the rotten floorboards, the wires dangling forlornly from cracked ceilings,
the peeling remnants of woodchip, all speak of a settled hopelessness, a despair even. The evening shadows seem to cast a pall of melancholy across the floor and up the walls. I feel suddenly and irredeemably sad.

Gemma sits silently, knees pulled up to her chin, staring blankly ahead. I have to talk to her, to break the musty, uncharitable silence. I try to be normal. I tell her I'm sorry I revealed everything about Raj to her sister. Gemma watches the television impassively, and replies:

‘It's okay. She was going to find out sometime or other.'

Slowly, with as much care as I can muster, I sit down on the sofa beside her, straightening out my right leg so the insolent plaster cast is as far from me as possible. I have a sudden desire to lean over, put my arms around her, and bury my head in her neck. Instead I breathe in deeply, and turn my attention to the cookery show on the TV screen.

After a minute or two, Gemma speaks again.

‘So, did you get laid?'

I feel my stomach tighten. I do not answer. Gemma remains silent. I feel so ashamed. The anger boils.

‘Come on Ian, you can tell me. How's it going between the two of you?'

It's as if she senses something, knowing my wound, and is twisting a knife deeper. Women can do this, can't they? They have extrasensory instincts, especially when it comes to matters of emotion and sex.

Gemma turns to me, eyes suddenly bright and focused.

‘Are you nuts about her?'

‘What?'

‘Are you nuts about my sister?'

‘Nuts?'

‘Oh, Ian. I've been thinking that one up for the last two hours. I thought you'd laugh.'

‘Oh. Sorry.'

‘So? Are you… Nuts?'

Gemma is smiling now, as if expecting good news. I try to suppress it, but I can't help feeling irritated by her need for me to provide her with hope that somewhere in the world there are relationships that are still light and fun and happy. I sense my anger rising once more, but I have no desire or ability to stop it.

‘I went to see Raj,' I say, pointedly, and am momentarily rewarded by her look of panic.

‘What? How? When?'

Gemma bites her bottom lip. She looks like Molly. Which makes me want to continue.

‘I went to his office.'

‘Why?'

‘I wanted to talk to him. To make him see reason.'

‘Oh Jesus, Ian. Why did you do that? You'll only make things worse.'

A moment. Then she asks, meekly.

‘How was he?'

‘Angry. I thought he was going to hit me.'

‘What? Raj?'

She snorts with laughter, the sort of embarrassing grunt that would usually cause her to put her hand to her mouth, and blush. But this isn't usually. She carries on, snorting again.

‘Raj has never hit anyone in his life.'

‘I guess I bring out the best in people.'

‘What did you say to him?'

There's desperation and longing in her voice, as her hand grips her forearm.

‘I told him he was being unreasonable and that he'd hurt you and that he should come and talk to you.'

‘Oh Ian.'

My anger subsides. I reach out to touch her arm, but she pushes me away.

‘You've ruined it. You've ruined everything.'

‘Look, I'm sorry. I thought I could help.'

She shouts. I'm shocked by her vehemence.

‘Why do you try to control me? Why do you get involved, and try and fix things when they can't be fixed?'

‘I didn't…'

‘Why can't you just leave everything alone? You're not my father, Ian! Not my brother! Not my fucking boyfriend!'

‘Yeah. I suppose I should be grateful for that!'

Gemma looks at me.

‘At least Raj acts like a grown-up!'

‘What the fuck's that supposed to mean?'

We glare at each other. Gemma turns off the television and goes to sit in the window. I get up without a word, and limp up the stairs and lie down on the bed in the spare room and stare at the ceiling. I feel completely alone.

Two hours later, I come downstairs.

‘I think I broke up with Molly.'

Gemma looks up. ‘What?'

‘She told me not to leave, and I did, because I was angry.' It sounds like someone else, someone who's trying
to sound cool about something they're far from cool about. Gemma stares at me.

‘Why? What happened?'

‘She saw Will. Ex-husband Will.'

I am pleased with the shock on Gemma's face.

‘I don't believe you. She hates his guts.'

Gemma's angry reaction emboldens me. Suddenly, I feel like I've done the right thing again.

‘So she said. But she had dinner with him. While I was in Venezuela.'

Gemma is shaking her head.

‘Wow. Talk about a Damascene conversion…'

‘I think she slept with him.'

‘What?'

Gemma stares at me, eyes wide, mouth open. I nod quickly, trying to convince myself as much as her.

‘I asked her, and she didn't deny it.'

My voice sounds like it did when I was younger, trying to convince my mother with excuses as to why I shouldn't have to go to Sunday School.

Gemma says nothing, but beckons for me to sit in the window seat beside her. I recount what happened (omitting the sexual encounter). When I've finished, Gemma puts her hand on my arm.

‘Oh Ian.'

I look at her. I feel sick.

‘I don't know what to do.'

Gemma puts her arms around me. Her body is warm through the pyjamas. She smells soft, a gentle sweet feminine scent. I can feel her breasts against me. It feels nice.

*

The following morning, there's a note on the sofa.

Gone to work. I can't give up. See you later? Chin up
.

I call Molly several times, leaving increasingly desperate messages demanding a meeting to discuss ‘things'. I feel sick, my stomach hollow and aching. I wonder what's wrong with me, how I managed to lose my job, my flat and my beautiful, funny, successful girlfriend in the space of a week?

I limp back and forth, up and down the stairs, craving movement. On the second floor, I notice the door to Gemma's bedroom is open slightly. I hesitate for a moment, then enter the room.