The A-Z of Us (27 page)

‘Hello, Reverend Thompson!'

Gemma is at my side, extending her hand for my father to shake. My father looks puzzled, she's holding out her right hand which demands that he holds out his right hand, but it's clasped firmly behind his back. Slowly, he unfolds his arm and his fingers are outstretched, his hand shaking uncontrollably. Gemma shakes it quickly.

‘Good to see you, Gemma,' says my father, as if everything is fine. Gemma releases my father's hand, which falls to his side before creeping up to hide behind his back once more.

‘I've been at the hospital all day…' says my father, as if this is an answer to a question that Gemma has posed him. Gemma, of course, looks confused.

‘Dad's having tests, they think it might be Parkinson's,' I stammer, quickly. Gemma looks concerned.

‘That's terrible…'

‘Gemma's no big fan of hospitals either, Dad' I continue, clumsily, ‘She never goes to her appointments…'

‘What?'

Gemma is looking at me, her eyes narrowed.

‘I saw that letter from the hospital about that appointment you missed…'

‘I don't know what you're talking about!'

I look at Gemma, surprised. Her tone is angry, emphatic.

‘Oh, sorry. Maybe I got the wrong idea…'

Beyond, by the bar area, the pretty waitress is trying to open another bottle of red wine. I turn and walk quickly over to her.

‘Do you need a hand?'

She looks up and smiles.

‘Obviously I should work out more often.' She hands me the wine bottle and I pull up the cork with relative ease. She smiles. I smile. I look back at my father and Gemma who are now talking animatedly. I wonder about Gemma and the hospital appointment. I must find a way to ask her if it's serious.

As I look at my watch (7.50 p.m.) and then around the room at the thirty-five people I've invited to Molly's surprise birthday party, Raj appears by the vol-au-vent table.

I breathe out. Suddenly my great plan for Gemma seems foolhardy. I realize that I didn't really believe that Raj would show up. I left him a message on his work number, telling him about the party, and asking him to come, just to say hello to Gemma. It made me feel better about the whole Neil scenario, which I was still feeling a little guilty about.

Raj sees Gemma, but Gemma's back is turned so she doesn't see Raj. I watch the lawyer pause. He's evidently trying to decide whether to get a drink first, or to say hello to his estranged wife. I wonder whether I should go up to him, but I don't want to appear until after the husband and wife have spoken.

Raj takes a drink from the pretty waitress, a glass of red wine. I watch as he glances over at his wife. He seems to inhale, as if trying to muster strength. Then he strides purposefully over, until he gets to within a step of her. And then he stops.

Gemma is in full flow, relating some story to Justin Wilson and my father. Raj doesn't want to interrupt her. So he waits, her shadow, shrinking smaller with each second that passes. I want to shout out to Gemma, like a child at a pantomime:

‘Behind you!', but I've sworn myself to non-intervention. It's as if they are frozen, once more, in a tableau of separation.

Then Gemma pauses, Raj coughs, Gemma turns, and drops her drink. The glass shoots from her hand, as if sucked, to the floor. The glass shatters, the drink splashing her combat trousers. Gemma doesn't react. She stands, rigid, white-faced. My father steps back. Justin Wilson laughs. Raj falls to his knees, and hurriedly begins picking up pieces of glass. As he does so, Gemma turns and walks away.

I hobble fast to catch up with her.

‘Gemma…'

Her glare is brimming with passionate fury.

‘Why didn't you tell me? You bastard!'

‘Slow down, Gemma, please…'

I catch hold of her wrist. It's always surprised me how thin and fragile her wrists are. My fingers meet around it. She stops.

‘Look, he's just here for one drink. Have a quick chat, then leave it at that…'

Gemma looks at me, a hard stare, as if she's attempting to define some darker ulterior motive behind my words.

‘Who do you think you are? Jerry bloody Springer?'

‘Come on Gemma, what have you got to lose?'

Five minutes later, Gemma and Raj are sitting on the sofa by the window. I remain near the front door, wanting desperately to hear their conversation, but knowing I have to be alert to Molly's arrival. I am nervous. I think I hear the lift mechanism clunk. Footsteps in the hall.

Is Molly the one, I think suddenly? Is this it?

I should be angry, I know, but I don't have the energy. I dropped the wine glass in surprise rather than fury. Part of me, I have to admit to myself, is intrigued to see Raj. It's a meeting I've imagined countless times, since the moment I heard the front door slam and the Audi charge away down Raleigh Street. I've pictured his face in various moods, from fury to contrition. Yet recently, my firm image of what he looks like has dissolved a little, like a television picture flickering and waning during strong winds.

He's thinner and more diminutive than I remember him. His slender body seems shrunken. His dark brown eyes look tired, ringed by dark shadows. He's nervous, I know by the way he holds his hands together, kneading the fingers as if they are clay. It shocks me a little to recognize his every gesture, his every intonation, his every look. I know him so well, whether I like it or not.

Raj leads me to my sister's hideous white leather sofa. I'm surprised by his forthrightness. Once installed, I swiftly review the numerous scenarios I've imagined for our first meeting since the split. I decide on the one which shows me in the best light – the trusty old ‘Polite Grown-up Superficial Conversation Approach'. This will be the best tactic to avoid confrontation, at least to begin with.

‘Well, this is a bit of a surprise…'

‘I wasn't going to come. I didn't sleep at all last night. But I had to come…'

‘How's the hotel?'

‘I'm back at my parents. It was too miserable…'

I feel sick. The Singhs know. It's gone further than I expected. In a brief flash of panic, I wonder if Geeta Singh has called my own mother, to remonstrate. But my mother is standing by the window, laughing uproariously at another of Stanley Myers's terrible jokes. If she knew, she would have marched up to me and demanded an explanation the moment she saw me.

‘Oh. What do they think about it all?'

‘They're sad. And confused… They don't really understand…'

‘Do they hate me?'

Raj looks at me, but not with the irritation I'm expecting following this somewhat self-centred remark.

‘No. Of course not,' he says quietly. I realize I'm keeping my left hand hidden, underneath the cushion. I don't want him to see that I'm not wearing my wedding ring. But I shouldn't hide it. I should be strong.

I place my hand in my lap. His eyes flicker. He registers the ringless finger. I wait for him to say something, to protest and remonstrate. But he says nothing.

There's silence between us. I look away, not able to stay within the suffocating gaze of my estranged husband. I see one of Molly's friends, Amy, the really pretty one that all the men fancy. True to form they are all sneaking glances at her. Except Raj. He's still staring at me, I know, without looking back at him.

‘Molly and Ian seem to be getting on well…'

‘I've been thinking, Gemma…'

‘What? What have you been thinking about, Raj?'

‘About everything…'

There's something about his tone that scares me a little. He sounds… resolved. I turn back. He's looking down at the sofa, jawbones prominent, indicating clenched teeth. I feel my stomach tighten. What if he decides to divorce me? That's what it sounds like. Perhaps seeing me without my wedding ring has been the last straw. I've thought about such a possibility a thousand times in the past few weeks, but here, now, as it's happening in front of me, it seems too big, too horrible, too dreadful. Maybe he'll announce it here, in front of all my sister's friends, in front of my mother. If he divorces me, I will be alone. Completely alone.

‘Raj…'

‘No, Gemma. Let me speak. You owe me that much.'

I close my mouth. It's a childish gesture, I know, but instinctive. I can be respectful.

‘I want to say sorry.'

I look at him, eyes narrowing, trying to detect which direction his speech is going in. My heart is beating fast. I wonder if he can hear it.

‘I'm sorry I put my red socks with your underwear.'

‘What?'

I look at him. What the hell is he talking about? Then I remember. The pink laundry. I'd forgotten about it – I'd simply bleached the vests to something approximating white, and the panties and bra had been consigned to my ‘weekend slobbing' drawer.

‘It doesn't matter, Raj.'

‘It was a mistake.'

‘I know.'

‘I didn't mean to.'

‘I said it doesn't matter!'

He's silent for a moment. I sense anger simmering. Was this all he wanted to say? Does he just want forgiveness for a minor domestic incident, so he can head off into a new life with someone else, happy in the knowledge that he can once again be trusted to do a woman's knicker wash?

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

‘I know why you said what you did that Saturday.'

I decide to remain silent, suddenly terrified that he's known about the lump in my breast all along.

‘I neglected you.'

‘Raj…'

‘Just listen, please!'

I close my mouth again, the human goldfish. He begins to speak, and there is something in his measured tone, in his exact and careful choice of words and stress, that tells me he's written this, probably on the computer, and practised it several times before coming to Molly's flat.

‘I felt so rejected and hurt by you, Gemma. By what you said. I didn't know what to do.'

‘So you just ran away? Like a bloody child?'

‘I didn't know what to do! Yes, it was childish, but I was shocked. You'd rejected me. I had to get out. I went to work and I felt a little better. It was somewhere to hide. But the harder I worked, the less happy I was…'

I look at him, noting his wide open eyes, imploring me to believe in him. It's a shame his boss doesn't consider him feisty enough to plead in front of a jury. Any woman seeing those eyes would fall straight into them.

‘Then, after Ian came to my office telling me I should talk to you, I wondered, had you sent him?'

‘I didn't, I told you…'

‘I know. But I wanted you to have sent him.'

‘Why?'

‘Because that would have meant you wanted me back.'

He looks at me, and I recall the same look three-and-a-half years ago, at the bar in Hoxton, a mile away from where we are on this night. It's the same mixture of confidence and extreme vulnerability. Back then I lost a breath on receiving that gaze. Tonight, it seems like a device, a ploy from the prosecuting council.

I say nothing. After a moment, Raj speaks again.

‘I need you, Gemma. I haven't slept in weeks. I lie awake in that bed I slept in when I was ten and all I can think of is you.'

He breathes in deeply, and in doing so seems to straighten a little, growing as he talks.

‘I love you. I will do whatever it takes. I'll give up work if I have to, find something else, something that allows me to spend more time with you. If you'll only give me a chance. Please?'

He finishes this typical reticent Raj performance with a small smile. It's his greatest weapon, and I'm sure he knows this. I wait, count to five, Gemma, and then nod twice.

‘Well, that's just fine then. Thank you, Raj. You've done
your thinking. You've got it all sorted out. You will stop work and everything will be fine. Brilliant! Why didn't I think of that?'

My sarcasm is heavy. It's not a tactic I've used in a long while, and I'm pleased to discover that I'm still good at it. I have my sister to thank – Molly, the queen of the caustic reply.

‘Please Gemma. I'm being serious…'

‘So am I! God, men are so stupid sometimes!'

‘Why? Why is this stupid?'

‘You're just doing that typical male thing, you think that just because you've made up your mind, everything will be great. What about me? What about where I'm at?'

My sudden vehemence stems from relief, I know. He still wants me. I am still in control.

‘I just thought… you were right about me not putting enough time into our relationship. I was too caught up in work. I don't care about the stupid bloody partnership… if I can't have you. I want a partnership with you!'

It's a good line, I have to give him that. He sounds more sincere, more desperate than I've ever heard him. I sense tears welling. I fight them back, with anger.

‘You're overreacting, Raj! What good will that do, you giving up the job you love? You'd just resent me. It would be a nightmare…'

‘I don't love it.'

‘Yes you do!'

‘THAT'S WHAT I'VE REALIZED, GEMMY! I HATE MY BLOODY JOB! I HATE THE WANKERS THAT WORK THERE!'

He's shouting now, but no one seems to hear him,
they're too busy in their own London conversations. He continues, his voice deep and surprisingly booming.

‘I did law because I wanted to prove something to my parents. To myself. I wanted to fit in, because I've never felt like I've fitted in. But I hate the firm, I hate the people I work for. The only person who accepted me was you. You took me for who I am, not the colour of my skin, not my education, not my background. For me. And then you rejected me…'

‘Don't turn this round, Raj!' It's my turn to raise my voice. ‘I rejected you for a reason. For a good reason. You were taking me for granted. You thought you could just buy that bloody house and everything would be hunky-fucking-dory…'