The A-Z of Us (23 page)

Her eyes are narrowed. I get the feeling that she's embarking on a speech which has been formulating in her head, but which is only now finding true voice.

‘You've become detached, Ian.'

‘Detached?'

‘That's why women fall for you, but that's also why they leave you.'

‘What do you mean, detached?'

‘You come and go, you don't really make an effort to connect with people.'

‘Bollocks…'

‘That's why you're a travel writer, so you can make a living from being distant, you never have to connect with any of the places you visit.'

‘I'm a travel writer because I like seeing new places, expanding my horizons. Unlike some I could mention…'

I'm annoyed with her facile explanations, her schoolteacher tone. I wonder if she's channelling her own confusion about her relationship situation into a desire to categorize and condemn everyone else's.

Gemma seems to ignore my jibe.

‘But don't you think there's something deeper going on here?'

‘And what would that be?'

‘Travelling enables you to run away, to not have to deal with your emotions. You can put on your travel clothes, your black combats, your linen shirt, those horrible old Nikes, it's like a suit of armour that protects you against feeling anything.'

I laugh, sarcastically.

‘They're just clothes, Gemma.'

‘There's another thing.'

‘Great.'

‘I think you like to travel because when you're away you know your parents worry about you.'

‘What?'

‘Yup. You know they're worrying about you, and that gives you the feeling, for once, that they love you. You travel because you feel loved by your parents when you're away.'

I look at her. It's the craziest thing I've ever heard.

‘What the fuck are you talking about, Gemma?'

She looks at me.

‘Call her.'

‘What?'

‘Call my sister. Sort it out.'

‘Why?'

‘Don't run away.'

‘I'm not running away!'

We stand there, facing each other, and I feel angry, as if Gemma is an enemy, an adversary. I've never felt
alienated from her like this before. As I'm trying to decide whether to return the jibe, Gemma walks up to me and hugs me tightly. In an instant, my annoyance and rancour vanishes.

‘Sorry. Maybe I overdid the analysis stuff.'

‘No. Maybe you're right. I'll think about it.'

She pulls away, gently.

‘All I'm saying is, life is short. To coin a cliché.'

As she says this, tears appear in Gemma's eyes.

‘Sorry, sorry…' she wipes her eyes. ‘I don't know where that came from.'

I put my arms around her. Her body is warm, hot even. I wonder if she's feeling unwell.

‘I'm sorry, Ian. It's…'

Her cheek is wet against my neck.

‘What is it, Gemma?'

She doesn't answer. Instead, she pulls away, strides into the house and returns with the portable telephone.

‘Call her.'

I climb the stairs to the spare room, attempting to plot out in my head how I'll embark on a conversation with Molly. I will be friendly, not desperate. I will make it clear that I've thought about everything, and that I overreacted about her seeing her ex-husband. I will offer a hand of reconciliation, and hope that she reaches out and takes it.

When I'm satisfied with my strategy and the different routes I am prepared to take, I dial her mobile. It's strange linking the numbers. I've dialled it so many times before, without thinking. But now the combination of digits seems
alien, a dangerous, forbidden code. It feels illicit. It feels exciting.

I almost hang up, but then she answers and I say hello and I think I hear her breathe in sharply.

‘Hello, Ian.'

‘Hi,' I mutter, unable to think of anything more cutting to say. ‘I'm sorry.'

Silence. Then she replies.

‘Me too. I overreacted in Brighton.'

I'm adrift. I've not planned for this outcome. I was prepared to be the one to apologize, to try and win her back. Now she's handing me the power, and I don't know what to do with it.

‘Well… I overreacted to your meeting with Will.'

‘I don't blame you…'

I feel fine. This is fine.

‘Can I see you?'

Molly appears to think for a moment.

‘I'm up to my eyes at work, but my birthday's next Thursday. Maybe we can do something then?'

‘I'd love to.'

‘Great.'

‘Next Thursday.'

‘Yeah.'

‘See you then.'

‘You too.'

She puts down the phone. I breathe out. I'm not sure quite how I got here, but I feel… comfortable. Satisfied.

I sit in the bedroom for a while, staring out of the window at the concrete garden. Sometimes, when I'm travel-writing, the places that I think will be spectacular,
or fascinating, or simply provide good material for my article, turn out to be just plain dull – the museums shabby and uninformative, the bars tame and predictable, the beaches dirty and overcrowded. Quite often, another place – an unplanned stopover in a strange little fishing village, or a hidden beach resort recommended by a fellow traveller – turns out to be a much better story.

Maybe it's the same with Molly and I. We haven't taken the obvious route, but perhaps we've ended up on the best path. I thought that Molly seeing Will Masterson was the end of our relationship. But maybe, like Molly claimed, it's just the beginning.

I feel strong. I didn't run away. I'm not like Gemma's description of me. I was mature enough to listen to Molly. I feel as if things are somehow clearer now. Imagining life without Molly has made me realize that I need her. I want the security of knowing we are together, that I am part of a couple. Unlike Gemma, who has sought liberation and independence, I am seeking unity and connection. Perhaps, I think, I am finally ready to settle down. It feels liberating. It feels grown-up.

As I open the door to head back downstairs to tell Gemma what has happened, I wonder if this is what love really means.

A week after Brighton, I receive another envelope from the Surgery Nurse. The hospital has evidently passed the task of tracking me down to my doctor's office on Lauriston Road. I put the envelope in the bin, tie the plastic yellow strings shut and leave the bag out for the dustmen. I know, in my head, that I'm being foolish (worse than foolish, potentially life-threatening). But I've reached a plateau in my emotions, a ‘mid-project' juncture where I feel numb enough to get up each morning and go to work, to get through the day (enjoying moments, I can't deny), returning to the house, where Ian has cooked me something, and going to bed. It's a normal, humdrum existence. It seems miraculous after all that's happened.

I know I should tell Ian to leave, but I can't. I don't want to be alone.

Monday morning, the second week of September. The final sultry days of August have given way to the first gusts of autumn, trees shaking, leaves flickering earthwards. I get dressed, ignoring the small red mark on my left breast where the needle entered, easing on my most expensive La Perla bra, pulling up the Prada skirt I bought the previous Christmas (I have lost weight, haven't I?).

I glance at my body in the mirror, observing the sagging. At any other time, I would be ecstatic, like one of those beaming women in the television commercials for pink
dieting drinks who wriggle suggestively into their jeans. At another time, losing ten pounds would have made me whoop and dance through the streets of east London.

Absentmindedly, I glance out of the window at number 22, at the black railings, the black front door. Since Brighton, I've returned to my spying on the house. Yesterday evening, a well-dressed couple called at the black door as I was getting back from work. I waited in the shadows by the motorcycle bay, hoping for a glimpse of the house interior. But the door opened and closed swiftly. The couple did not come out again.

Then, this very morning, two more younger men in suits disappeared quickly into the house at around 8 a.m., only to reappear a matter of minutes later, walking away swiftly, hands deep in their pockets.

I have a sudden urge to call Raj, to tell him about the early morning visitors. Yet what once seemed so normal is now an impossibility. I can't call him, I'm not allowed. I told him that I didn't love him. Relationships are horrible – the connection, then disconnection, a house you love, then leave behind without a word.

Why shouldn't I call him? We haven't taken a vow of silence. My hand trembles as I punch the numbers, hearing the ringing. I'll keep it light, just say hello, chat in a friendly but detached way about our mysterious neighbour and the comings and goings at number 22.

Voicemail. The perfect rounded vowels, the calm, paced delivery.

‘This is the voicemail of Raj Singh. Please leave a message after the tone.'

I'm about to hang up when I realize that my number
will have registered on his caller display, so I leave a hurried message asking him to call. He calls back three minutes later.

‘Were you screening your calls?' I ask, without thinking.

‘So what if I was?' he replies, tersely.

‘Okay Raj, I didn't call you to fight.'

‘Why did you call?'

‘I… I just wanted to see how you were.'

‘I'm fine. Busy. Is there anything else?'

Suddenly, my stories about the man at 22 seem to belong to another time, another relationship. Another me, another Raj Singh. I have to think of a bigger reason to justify my need to call him.

‘I'm sorry Ian came by…'

‘Did you send him?' His voice is curt, accusatory, the perfect prosecution counsel.

‘No, he was just passing, he was just trying to help…'

‘Yeah, sure.'

His sulky tone annoys me.

‘Ian's been really kind…'

‘Oh, I bet he has…'

‘Stop it, Raj!'

‘Stop what?'

‘Oh, just forget it, I don't know why I called…'

‘I don't bloody know either!'

And we slam down our phones.

I burst into tears. Something about his tone has shattered the last wall preventing the terror from taking my body. I shake, my arms shivering, my heart trembling, teeth grinding down.

The most painful thought is that I might never be a
mother. I might never feel my child against my breast. I have so many plans – drawn up since I was young. The three names – Chloe, Sarah and Daniel; the house where we'd live – four bedrooms, large garden, my studio office under some trees where the children would burst in after school, full of tales of painting and spelling tests and netball matches.

I don't want to die. It's a simple, overwhelming desire that wracks my body.

In the bathroom I try to stop sobbing. I have to focus on what is right in front of me, like when I'm drawing a detail of a building project and I have to concentrate solely on the small and the intricate, trusting that it will eventually fit and work in the whole. Think positive, I hear a voice say. First things, first. The voice sounds like Raj, but I shake my head to rid myself of it, like turning the dial on a radio.

Ian knocks on the door and asks if I'm okay. I tell him I'm fine. I listen to his limp thump slowly down the stairs.

I'm meeting Neil at the bar by Smithfield Market. 7.30 p.m. Neil. My first love. I take down my make-up bag and choose my favourite items – a Lancôme juicy tube, my most sophisticated Christian Dior lipstick and my Mac face powder. Then I do two things I hadn't realized I was going to do. I go to the medicine cabinet and take three condoms from the box of ‘Elite Pleasure Ribbed'. I feel a strange mixture of thrill and dread. Next, I pull off my wedding ring. It slips off my finger with surprising ease. I place it on the glass shelf above the sink. Wiping my eyes one last time, I drag on my coat and head for the door.

‘Have a good one…' chimes Ian, smiling broadly. I pretend to smile back, and close the door gently behind me.

Suggesting the surprise birthday party for my sister was inspired. Ian has been in such a good mood since I gave him the task of planning it. He's treating it like a travel article – researching caterers, compiling the guest list, tasting wine and champagne. I hadn't realized how much he needed a project.

As the bus passes the canal, I marvel at the ease at which men can feel happy. There's something Pavlovian about Ian's puppy demeanour now he has my sister's birthday to occupy him. Then my irritation slips immediately to guilt. Why shouldn't he be happy, just because the thick-thighed, cancerous Gemma Cook is not?

I'm not jealous. It's just… I'm not sure about Molly. I think I know why she wants Ian back. Turning thirty-two definitely has something to do with it – impending birthdays have always intensified Molly's need to be loved, to be looked after, to be considered special.

Yet I should reserve judgement, shouldn't I? If Ian is happy, and Molly is happy, that should be enough, shouldn't it? Just because I'm not happy doesn't mean I can interfere. I can't let my own troubles influence my judgment concerning my sister and my best friend.

I haven't told either of them about my imminent date with Neil. My secrecy makes me feel a little smug. I sense Ian was relieved, pleased even, to discover my Brighton night didn't turn out to be the great romantic occasion I'd hoped for. His satisfaction surprised me, since he was the one to suggest tracking down Neil Farrelly in the first
place. It annoyed me too – it seemed to confirm my long-term suspicions that Ian likes me best when I'm downtrodden, troubled or in distress.

Molly has called once since Brighton, asking how I was doing before moaning about how much work she had on. We didn't talk about Ian. I listened and wondered for the thousandth time whether I could tell my sister about the lump in my breast and the terror that prevents me sleeping most nights. I almost confessed, on more than one occasion, but something about Molly's habitual dismissiveness prevented me, and prevents me still.