The A-Z of Us (7 page)

I wondered if she knew how important she was to me, and how that would make her feel. I was terrified, suddenly, that if she sensed my need, she would pull away.

I decided to take a shower in the downstairs cubicle, used by the homeless people my mother invited to dinner, and young mothers needing to change babies' nappies during church services.

The water was lukewarm. I washed my hair quickly, my plaster-cast lower leg sticking out of the rickety shower
door. Then, as I was about to rinse, the water cut off, abruptly. Soap streamed down my face, filling my eyes.

‘Ow!' I bellowed. This was too much. This was an insult.

I cursed the ugly '60s house, I cursed the Church of England, I cursed my father's ineptitude with home maintenance and his creed of poverty. I stumbled out of the shower, eyes screwed shut, feeling for the towel. But it was mysteriously absent. I grappled for the doorhandle, turned and lurched out into the hallway, slipping slightly. I knocked into something hard and angular.

‘Bollocks!' I exclaimed, loudly.

‘Oh my!'

I blinked. There appeared to be someone else in the hallway.

‘Ian?'

I opened my eyes against the searing soap. My mother and two middle-aged women stood in the doorway wearing floral summer dresses. One of them was Mrs Atkinson, the wife of the part-time organist, whose daughter Cynthia once wrote a typed letter to my father, complaining that I'd tried to kiss her during a Young Pilgrims sponsored walk (I had, I was bored).

I was naked in front of my mother and two female Parish council members.

I became aware of something crumbly by my naked right foot. I looked down. A cake lay crumbled into several pieces next to my hairy toes. My mother's voice cracked with anguish and distress.

‘My Victoria sponge!'

*

At lunch I present my father with the map of Palestine.

‘Happy Birthday, Dad.'

‘Thank you, Ian. It's very pretty. Very delicate shading.'

‘I'm sorry I didn't have time to get you a frame. But I will…'

‘Thank you.'

‘Sorry about the cake,' I mumble.

‘Next time, Ian, perhaps you could try and keep the towel close by,' says my mother, as we munch the replacement malt loaf.

‘Next time, perhaps there could be some hot water…' I reply, a little too harshly.

‘Ian! Please don't talk to your mother like that!'

We fall into silence. I am a bad son, I know, but I can't take much more of this. I need to escape. I stare at the plastic wall clock, the thick black hand clicking inexorably to the right.

My mobile rings. I snatch it out of my pocket.

‘Hello, Ian?'

I wonder, for a moment, if I'm imagining this, if I have created Gemma out of my boredom.

‘Hey, gorgeous, how are you doing?' I stand awkwardly from the table, mouth the word ‘Gemma' at my parents and hobble gratefully into the hallway.

‘Sorry to trouble you…' she says, falteringly.

‘No, it's fine, I'm at my parents, they're driving me mad. It's great to hear from you. Sorry I haven't called, it's been a bit crazy since I got back.'

‘Yeah, me too. I've been meaning to call, but… you know… Where are you off to next?'

‘Er… I'm not sure yet. France, maybe. I've got to sort it out.'

I pause, the lie sticking in my throat. She's silent. I wonder what to say next. Our telephone conversations have been like this in the last few months – stilted, disconnected. I'm worried we're drifting too far apart, like satellites whose orbits change by millimetres each day, until all at once, they're too distant to communicate. I know both of us feel it, and both of us regret it, but we seem powerless to prevent it. Once again, I wonder if it has something to do with me going out with her sister.

‘So what's up with you?' I ask, brightly.

‘I'm… er…' stumbles Gemma.

‘Are you okay?' She doesn't sound okay.

‘Yeah, I'm… oh God…'

‘Gem?'

‘It's Raj…'

‘What? Is he okay?'

‘I'm sorry… I didn't mean…'

Gemma chokes; once, then twice. She's trying not to cry.

‘What's happened, Gemma?'

‘He left. Raj has gone, Ian.'

My pulse quickens. I know I shouldn't feel excitement, but I can't help it. I feel alive, suddenly invigorated.

‘I… don't know… what… to… do…'

I stand from the hallway chair, unaware of my ankle for the first time since Venezuela.

‘Don't worry, Gem. I'm on my way. I'll be there by five.'

Draw up the plans, calculate angles, stress points and maximum load-bearing. Figure it out.

The differences between Gemma and Raj

Raj uncaring. Gemma compassionate.

Raj television. Gemma theatre, museums, new restaurants, clubs.

Raj 32. Gemma 29.

Raj sleeps on his front. Gemma sleeps on her back.

Raj apple juice. Gemma orange.

Raj work. Gemma relationship.

Raj Phil Collins. Gemma Eminem.

Raj beach. Gemma backstroke.

Raj door open ‘to see where the opposition is coming from'. Gemma door shut. To keep her safe.

Raj intellectual and determined. Gemma reserved, and sometimes confused.

How could it be that the very things that attract you to someone become the things that drive you away from them? At the outset, I loved his slow, cautious step. He'd built strong, old-fashioned walls around him, so different from the insubstantial construction in which I lived with its paper-thin divisions, and fragile reflecting glass. I was delighted to discover his solidity, the protection and solace
his building offered. So how could it be that these same walls have become a prison to me?

What's changed? What do I need?

I need to feel something. Something I've felt only at bright, sharp moments in my life – my first kiss with Matthew Vincent, when he grasped my arm behind the wheelie bins by the science block, Neil's look from the Student Union bar, his huge fingers brushing my breast two weeks' later, the phone call to tell me I had the job at KPSG, Raj's quiet insistent voice in my ear on our second date, his soft dark hand on mine the night he proposed.

Is it too much to ask? The bright sharp flash? Because I need it more than ever.

‘How about pizza?' asks Ian, uncorking the wine he's purchased at the off-licence on the corner.

‘I'm not hungry, I told you.'

‘You have to eat. You're looking so skinny.'

He thinks I'll take this as a compliment; he's waiting for a smile. I remain stone-faced. He orders a pizza. I haven't the energy to protest.

‘Come on, let's watch a film.'

‘The machine's in a box somewhere.'

‘Where? I'll find it. Look, I've got all your favourites, some Clooney, some Brad Pitt,
Gladiator
with the burly yet strangely irresistible Russell Crowe…'

The mention of Russell Crowe makes me think of Raj and I start to cry again. Ian looks panicked.

‘We don't have to watch any of them…'

I glance up at him, eyes swollen.

‘I don't know what to do.'

He puts his hand on my shoulder. I want him to grip it firmly, but he seems unsure, embarrassed.

‘Look, give it a few more days, then who knows. Maybe I can talk to him?'

‘Please don't try and solve this, Ian…'

‘Sorry.'

The ache gapes open once more. I wonder if I can tell him, my oldest friend.

‘What's wrong with me?' I ask, a question I've been wanting to voice out loud for two weeks.

‘Nothing's wrong with you.'

Ian doesn't seem to believe his own answer. He likes reasons, he wants an explanation of why his friend, who has always seemed so sorted, so bold and stringent in following the path she's drawn for herself, has lost her way.

‘I like security. I'm not adventurous or carefree like you…'

Ian opens his mouth to protest, but I continue, hell-bent.

‘… So I chose Raj. He was easy. Convenient. He fitted my perfect little plan.'

‘Has the plan changed?' Ian asks, gently.

‘I DON'T KNOW!'

My empty wine glass flies across the room. It hits the brick wall and shatters. I'm impressed. It's a good throw, for a girl.

‘Gemma…'

I turn on him, eyes wide now.

‘Don't Ian! Please don't use that tone, don't patronize me. Just listen to me, for once, will you?'

He holds up his hands in defence and supplication.

‘I'm sorry…'

I start sobbing again. It's as if I'm possessed by some spirit that comes and goes, passing through me at intervals and sucking out my strength and flooding me with misery.

‘I've fucked up everything. I'm one big fuck-up.'

Ian sits down on the sofa beside me. The deeply upholstered cushions breathe out lusciously, as if on the verge of orgasm.

‘Bollocks. I'm the fuck-up.'

I ignore him. Ian continues.

‘Yes, I am. I'm more of a fuck-up than you.'

I shake my head, in admonishment rather than negation. Ian repeats himself, his voice becoming increasingly childish.

‘Really. I'm the biggest fuck-up.'

‘Ian…'

‘I'm the biggest.'

He tries a quick, thin smile, hoping I'll take the bait. Something in his eagerness softens me.

‘No…'

‘Am.'

‘Not.'

‘Am.'

‘Jesus…'

‘I'm the fuck-up.'

‘No. I am,' I say quietly, offering a hint of a smile.

‘Nowhere near. You've just fucked up your marriage. At least you've a roof over your head. I'm homeless, I've fucked up my career, and I haven't had sex in weeks.'

I hit him sharply on the arm, as I've always done in the past whenever he says something that I consider out of order. I try not to imagine him and my sister having sex.

The pizza arrives and Ian tells me about his broken ankle and how he made up an article about a village in Venezuela. I manage a couple of short sharp laughs, and by the end of his full and fairly frank account I'm sitting upright on the sofa once more.

‘Okay. You win, Thompson. You are a fuck-up.'

He nods, sagely.

‘I thought you never made up anything in your articles, Mr Reality Report?'

‘Ironic, isn't it?'

‘So what does Molly think about all this?'

He glances down at his hands.

‘You haven't told her?'

‘I will. I just haven't had time.'

‘You should tell her,' I say, aware at the moment of saying it that I'm a terrible hypocrite. When am I going to tell my sister anything? Hopefully never.

‘I'm sorry, Ian. It's none of my business. I'll keep it quiet.'

He doesn't reply and I'm worried I've touched a nerve.

‘Thanks for coming to my rescue like this. I appreciate it. Really, I do.'

He nods, more happily.

Suddenly, the phone rings. I grab it, snatching up the receiver to analyze the caller display. It's my mother. I don't press talk. The answering machine clicks on. My mother's voice trills loudly.

‘Hello dear, calling for our Sunday chat, I haven't heard from you in a while. Hope all is well. Love to lovely Raj. Call me soon. Bye-eee!'

I shake my head. The machine clicks off.

Ian looks at me. Now he knows that I haven't told anyone about Raj. He looks a little scared. I realize that I've been a dreadful coward. I've made him responsible. I've summoned him to be the audience for my bad news, in the knowledge that he will have to break it to my sister, and by extension to my mother.

‘Does anyone else know about Raj?' he asks, quietly.

I try to meet his gaze, my fingers kneading my forehead.

‘Not really.'

‘Your sister?'

I shake my head.

‘We're both big chickens, aren't we?'

I nod.

‘Do you want me to keep quiet?'

‘I can't tell her anything until I know what I'm going to do. Where I'm going.'

‘She'll understand.'

‘No. She won't!' My voice is more strident than I'd intended. ‘She'll tell me that I'm being selfish and it's about time I realized I can't have everything in life. She'll want answers!'

He looks down, uncertain. Suddenly I want to hide away.

‘Look, I'm sorry the place is such a mess. There's a duvet on the bed in the back bedroom. Do you mind if I try and get some sleep? I'm knackered.'

‘No problem. Wake me if you need anything.'

‘Thanks Hopalong.'

‘That's what Molly called me.'

‘Oh. Well. I've never been that original.'

Before he can reply, I turn and disappear up the rickety wooden stairs, stepping quickly away.

I can't sleep. Again. It has crossed my mind that perhaps I'm getting depressed, a thought which depresses me. I've never considered myself a candidate for melancholia – such people are weak, or infirm, or living in conditions a thousand times worse than mine. I can't feel depressed. As my mother is fond of pointing out, I'm too well-off, too comfortable. But here I am, feeling awful, an emotion that just won't go away. I feel heavy, as if wearing lead. My stomach is as tight as a wrung towel.

I think about Raj, about how he might be coping with the hotel, whether he's getting any sleep, how his work is going, his ‘highly complex case'. I wonder, with a pang of panic, whether he's told his parents yet.

His mother won't be surprised. The formidable Geeta Singh was tacitly against him marrying an English girl in the first place, even though, to her credit, she softened during our engagement (in no small part due to my steadfast and energetic attempts to learn and perform all the right Hindu ceremonies, and meet every single aunty and cousin in the family – there seemed to be hundreds). Raj's father, the venerable Panjit Singh, was more overtly welcoming. A dentist in Croydon, he considered good teeth the mark of a good character, no matter what race or creed, and since my incisors have been praised by dental experts from Brent Cross to Bradford, he warmed to me.