You, Me and Other People (11 page)

This place looks nothing like it did back when Kiera and I met here ten years ago. Gone are the faded velvet booths, in favour of leather lounging chairs. I shift about, unable to get comfortable in the low-slung seat. Sighing aloud, I lean forward and pick up my glass from the table. Hendrick’s and tonic with cucumber peelings – I ordered two in the hope that her choice of drink hasn’t changed. Glancing at my wrist, I see she’s late.

I go through what I know already in my head. Noah is ill. My son has leukaemia. Acute Myeloid Leukaemia. He has just undergone a second, more aggressive course of chemotherapy. No, I can’t meet him. Of course I can’t meet him. Don’t be stupid. This course of chemo needs to have worked. This course of chemo really needs to have worked, or his only option is a stem cell donation.

I have Googled it. I’ve spent hours on the laptop and not learnt a whole lot other than what Kiera originally told me on the phone. I’ve texted her questions and she’s answered them as best she can, but I’m confused about what happens next. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I do know. I do know. I know what happens next. This course of chemo really needs to work … My head shakes. It’s an involuntary twitch, maybe my brain trying to wrestle the real facts from my skull.

I hear her arrive before I see her. She’s hassled, her hair loose and tousled, not like I remember her wearing it. Her coat is undone, despite the cold outside. I tease her, pointing at my watch, but she’s not in the mood for jokes as she air-kisses my cheeks.

‘I got you a G&T,’ I say. ‘Hendrick’s?’

She takes the glass, frowns at the fact that she has to squeeze in beside me on a sofa, and sips. ‘And bree-a-the,’ she says slowly.

‘You all right?’

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ She doesn’t offer a reason why and I don’t ask.

‘Gordon know you’re here?’ I do ask.

‘Yes, Adam, Gordon knows I’m here. I’m not the one who lies to their spouse.’

‘Ouch.’ I’d love to tell her I’m different now, that that’s all in the past, but apparently it isn’t. The remark surprises me though. It seems bitchy, not like her – but then, I remind myself, I don’t really know this woman at all, and she has got a lot on her mind at the moment.

‘I’ve been in hell since you called.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can filter them.

She nods. ‘I know, it’s been a shock to us all.’

Her skin, I notice, is blotchy, probably tear-stained. ‘You must be out of your mind with worry.’ I whisper the words.

Her eyes fill immediately but she holds it in, reluctant to cry in front of me.

‘How is he? Noah?’ My hands are clenched together and I’ve squeezed them between the tops of my thighs.

She shakes her head. ‘When we spoke, he was just about to start the second course of chemo. I know we’ve texted but …’

I nod.

‘Well, it hasn’t worked.’ She looks at me, her eyes probing mine. ‘There are certain things that shouldn’t be said by text.’ I know straight away what this means; she told me as much during her original phone call. My eyelids drop. My hands, released from my thighs, knead one another, my right-hand knuckles pressing hard into my left-hand palm.

‘So he definitely needs a bone marrow donation?’

She nods. ‘Well, stem cell donation, proper name: “peripheral blood stem cell donation”. It’s an easier procedure, just a series of hormone injections to the donor for four days before the extraction itself, and that’s then just like giving blood.’ Her shoulders move up and down, a gesture meant to reassure me that the donation is easy, something anyone could do.

‘Is she the only way?’ I will do anything it takes to help him, but I need to know. Now.

‘We’re all being tested now. I’m not a match, we’re waiting on the boys’ results …’

The boys; the brothers who – since Kiera told them recently who Noah’s natural father is – decided to punish me by removing me from their family account. I have, apparently, a ‘questionable moral compass’.

‘Obviously, there’s a chance that some random person on the register could be right, but …’

‘I’ll be tested, immediately.’ I’m almost grabbing my coat and running out through the door.

‘Adam,’ she rests a hand on my knee, ‘I’m sorry, but you know. You know we’ve already been told that a sibling is the most likely match. Meg’s only a half-sibling, but they’d really like to test her, if she’s willing …’

I feel the gin ease its way back up my throat.

‘As I said, some things should never be texted … In the meantime, I’m moving him tomorrow from Great Ormond Street to a specialist unit in Chertsey. There’s an American guy, over on a teaching secondment there, who’s agreed to treat him privately. If we can’t get a donor soon, he’s going to undergo a new treatment from the States. It’s pioneering stuff but his oncologists think it’s worth a try.’

I’m nodding, but I’ve gone straight to limbo. Do not pass ‘Go’. Do not collect your son en route. A seismic shift has just occurred in my life.

She takes her phone from her bag, checks for messages and puts it on the table in front of us. There’s a photo on the screen. He looks so like me.

‘I stayed away because you asked me to.’ I’ve picked up her phone and am staring at it. She doesn’t stop me. ‘I stayed away because you wanted the baby and I didn’t want Beth to know. I stayed away because you wanted it that way. You didn’t want money from me, nothing. It was easy at first but, since then, there have been so many times when I wanted to drive past the house and just catch a glimpse.’ I don’t confess to the many times when I have actually done this, as recently as a few weeks ago. I think of every birthday and Christmas Eve where I’ve just glanced in their windows, the wrapped gift on the passenger seat never delivered.

She squeezes my knee, puts her phone back in her bag.

‘You got married.’ I turn and look at her. ‘I stayed away, knew someone else was bringing him up. I stayed away because you didn’t need me. He didn’t need me.’

‘He needs you now,’ she says, ‘we really need you now.’

‘What does it involve?’ Part of me is listening as she explains the procedure and part of me is not. Whatever he needs, is all I can think. She takes my phone, opens up the Notes section, types in instructions and the phone number I need to start the process.

‘My moral compass,’ I tell her. ‘Will you please …’

‘Leave Tim to me. He’s very close to Noah.’

‘And Gordon?’

‘Gordon’s a good father.’

‘Are they close?’

She nods, tears finally falling from her beautiful eyes. I pull her to me. Her head rests a few moments on my chest. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry that you’ve had to deal with all of this.’

‘Don’t be. We’ll get through it.’ She stands up, already putting her coat on. ‘I’ve got to get back. I’ve still got calls to make about the move tomorrow, a mountain of paperwork still to sign.’ She wraps a scarf around her, slides her bag up her arm. ‘Will you tell Beth straight away?’ she asks, avoiding my eyes. ‘She’ll have to know when you ask Meg to help. It might be better coming from you first?’ Her leaking eyes now lock on mine.

‘You’re probably right. I’ll be in touch.’ I kiss her lightly on the cheek and we leave the bar together, Kiera turning right as we exit and me turning left.

‘Adam?’ she calls back to me. ‘Please, don’t take too long.’ Outside, the chilled evening air hits and I nod as I pull my jacket tight around me. I wrap my scarf, a Dr Who-style long scarf, a gift from Beth last Christmas, around me three times.

I walk quickly towards Bank station. Nervous anxiety grips my stomach. The thought that I may have to tell Beth everything … I can almost hear my head moan as I descend to the Underground.

I’m only just in the flat when my phone pings two messages. I glance at the screen, somehow expecting one to be from Kiera, so I’m surprised to see Emma’s name underneath Meg’s. I click on Meg first.

‘Hey Dad, have some ideas for grand gestures. Call me? x’

Grand gestures to get Beth back … Not if I move the Taj Mahal to Beth’s back garden will she forgive me when she finds out about Noah. And Meg – I’m not sure I can bear hearing her voice tonight.

Emma … We didn’t part well and I haven’t heard from her in over three weeks. At the time, though her Twitter feed never mentioned me by name, #dickhead appeared regularly in her tweets. I sign in, to see if I’ve missed something, if there’s an explanation for her sudden contact. Nothing. She’s been quiet in the Twitter-sphere for more than ten days. I check my phone again, read her message again. I don’t want to misunderstand.

‘Yours if you want, here tonight. No strings. Consider this a booty call. E. x’

I haven’t misunderstood and my dick automatically twitches at the thought of her. I miss fucking her. I miss it so much that, just for a moment, I think if I jump in the car now, I could be there in thirty minutes. It could help me forget … Just for a moment … Then, I text back an apology – something along the lines of: tempting though her offer is, it wouldn’t be a good idea. Still thinking of her, still salivating at the thought of her, I head to the shower. A DIY will have to do.

After lathering my body, washing my hair, I banish all other thoughts and summon an image of Emma naked and … nothing. The water’s hot. It’s too hot, I tell myself. I switch it to a cooler temperature, shiver at the shock, let it run for a moment or two and try again. What the hell? After towelling myself dry, I walk to the bedroom, lie on the bed and close my eyes. There’s a jumble of images in my head; only one is Emma naked, her rear end rising up towards me as I take her from behind. My eyes shoot open and I look down. Twitches. My dick is twitching but that’s it.

I close my eyes again and my son’s image, the one from Kiera’s phone, fills my eyelids. He’s there and, suddenly, he’s not; he’s in a hospital bed covered in a web of tubes. My mother’s face appears and I ask her to please leave. She is not welcome in my head-space tonight. She is absolutely not welcome. I curl up in a foetal position and pull the duvet over me.

The last step on the stairway creaks but I’m so used to it that I take a little leap to avoid the sound. I walk up the narrow landing to my bedroom at the end, passing my parents’ room on the right. The door is shut, yet there are sounds from inside. I stop a moment, listen, my ear rested against one of the orange pine panels. My face creases in disgust. Lunchtime. Parents. Having sex. Not nice.

I let myself into my room quietly and go to draw the heavy curtains. The headache I’ve come home from college with is one that will only clear in a darkened room. My hand on the first drape, I know immediately. It’s like an electric shock to my system. The thoughts process quickly, the reality instant. My father’s car is not outside.

‘Who’s there?’ my mother’s voice sounds down the corridor. I stand still, unable to move. My door is opened.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ She runs a hand through her bed hair and ties her robe. She stares at me, her probing eyes focused on mine. Neither speaks but we both know. We both know.

I do the drive in twenty-five minutes. It’s late so I text her from outside rather than ring the bell. I see her bedroom light go on and she takes another five minutes to come downstairs. Her shadowy silhouette wafts behind the door. She opens it just wide enough to speak through.

‘You came,’ she says.

‘I’m here.’

‘I wasn’t sure you would, your life being so complicated and all that.’

The dig at my break-up speech does not go unnoticed.

She opens the door fully and I see that, under her robe, she is dressed identically to the image I had conjured up earlier. A tiny bra, matching thong, lacy stockings, heels. Christ … I move towards her. She holds a hand up.

‘Wait,’ she says.

‘It’s freezing out here, Emma.’ I rub my hands together for effect.

‘Why did you come?’

I can see her nipples through the thin cotton bra. They’re hard, pointing straight at me.

‘To fuck you, to see if I
can
fuck you.’ My honesty surprises me.

‘Harold’s asleep upstairs.’

‘So I’ll fuck you quietly downstairs.’

This brings a smile and she offers me her hand. I take hers in mine and enter the White House for the first time in weeks. Inside, she guides my hand into her tiny pants, parting herself for my freezing fingers.

She gasps. ‘You need warming up,’ she says.

I feel immediate stirrings and am grateful for small mercies. My life as I knew it may well be broken, but my dick is not.

The Neighbourhood Watch chairman is my old cricket buddy and ex-neighbour, Nigel, so I’ll be all right if I’m caught loitering with intent. I’ll just drop his name and I’ll be fine. The irony is not lost on me – I’ve already seen both of my ex-mistresses tonight and here I am outside my wife’s door. It’s two a.m. and I’m due in work at seven. A grand gesture it’s not, but I’ve just dropped a mega-bunch of yellow tulips on Beth’s doorstep. Tesco really is open all night.

The card, though, does have a grand message. It says I’m sorry for hurting her, for hurting Meg and other people too. It says I’m sorry for being a crap husband and father. It says I will always love her …

This is just plain weird. I put the bins out last night after midnight, so Adam must have dropped these flowers off after that. I place them in water, snipping the ends on a slant in the hope that their overnight droop may be revived. Just before I head out of the door to work, I remember someone telling me once that soluble aspirin works. So I go back in and drop one in the water.

I haven’t time to text him, ask him what he’s doing. Something tells me just to accept the flowers and the sentiment because my life is moving on without him. Approaching the High Street, I focus on the morning’s work. Today, I have another tour of properties for Stephanie. I’m excited. It’s completely different to Mrs Scott’s tour, which is one of the things I’m enjoying about this job – no two days are the same. Today I’m showing a woman around three different serviced flats, all top-notch, all très posh.

There’s a tiny box on my desk when I reach the office. Intrigued, I remove the top. Inside are two hundred and fifty of my new business cards. I stare at the name, unsure now, seeing it in black and white. Lizzie works, because Ben and my mum use it, but it doesn’t really feel like my name … It’s when I see the maiden name that I’ve readopted, I’m doubly unsure. I’ve opened a bank account in her name but who is this Lizzie Moir person? I quite liked being Beth Hall. She’s who I’ve been for so long …

I look up to see Stephanie hover over my desk.

‘Do you like them?’ she beams.

‘They’re lovely.’

‘The applicant will be here at nine fifteen. Would you like a quick coffee? I’m just about to make one.’

I look at her growing frame. ‘You sit down. I’ll make the coffee.’

‘Thanks, Lizzie.’ She rubs her back. ‘This lady, when she comes in? Try and get her to understand that there’s not a huge selection of really good-quality serviced flats. Just let her know these are the best of the best?’

‘I will.’ I make my way to the tiny kitchenette at the back of the office space. I’d spent last night driving the route in my head, and am now sure that I could do it blindfolded. I make two coffees, since everyone else is out of the office. Outside, I hand Stephanie hers – a decaf, black, no sugar. My latte I try and knock back, just as the door opens.

Stephanie is on her feet, offering her hand, steering the woman towards her desk. I look on, trying my best to remember the woman’s name. She’s tiny in stature, walking on tall heels. Wearing dark jeans and a short fur jacket, and sunglasses that are too wide for her tiny face.

‘Lizzie? Come and meet your lady.’

I put my mug on the desk and try not to laugh. It sounds as if I’m about to offer her a cut and blow-dry. Coat still on, I cross the office and take the stranger’s hand.

‘Lizzie, this is Mrs Pugh.’

‘Hi, good to meet you.’ Her gloved hand offers a firm handshake. ‘Am I stopping you finishing your coffee?’

‘No, not at all, I’ve finished. Good to meet you too.’ I hand her one of my shiny new business cards. ‘We’ve got three to see and I know you’re pushed for time, so shall we go?’

Mrs Pugh laughs, pockets the card. ‘A woman after my own heart! I do hate tardiness, don’t you?’

My first thought is that she has never met Adam, who would be late for his own funeral. As she follows me out through the rear entrance to Stephanie’s car, I pray that the gearstick will behave and that I will make it to the end of this property tour looking as if I know what the hell I’m doing.

In the car, I hand her a copy of the itinerary.

She removes a pair of reading glasses from her bag, swaps her sunglasses for them and studies it. ‘I don’t know any of these streets. Are they all safe, secure?’

I put the car into reverse and, thankfully, it moves without the grinding noise I’d been dreading. ‘They’re all relatively central, close to Weybridge High Street, and they’ve all got twenty-four-hour porterage.’

Even if I say so myself, I sound good. I’d rent a flat from me … I offer her a winning smile.

‘I know serviced blocks are hard to come by so, hopefully, one of these will suit.’

‘Is there anything about Weybridge you want to know, Mrs Pugh?’

‘No thanks, Lizzie. As long as I can get to the hospital easily, I’ll only be using the flat as a sleeping space – and please,’ she turns to me and smiles, ‘call me Kiera.’

I swear that if Kiera Pugh hadn’t liked the third flat, I’d have asked her to come and live with me. I feel that sorry for the poor woman. But she is gushing as we walk around property number three, and I sense this is the one for her. She won’t need to come and live with me after all, and I won’t need to explain to Meg and Adam why my heart went out to a perfect stranger and I asked her to move in.

‘Not quite home, but it’s perfect for my needs,’ she says as we pull the door behind us and I double-lock it. She grabs my arm with both her hands. ‘Thank you, Lizzie,’ she says. ‘Thanks for finding this place and for listening.’ I don’t correct her. Stephanie found the place. I’m just the chauffeur. As for listening, I’m trying to swallow the lump that’s been crawling up my throat ever since she started telling me her story. I can’t help thinking of Simon, and Mum’s words, ‘Nobody should have to lose a child.’ Silently, I pray that Kiera’s son makes it. ‘Why Chertsey?’ I find myself asking her when we’re back in the car.

‘There’s an American paediatric oncologist on a teaching secondment for two months at Chertsey, and he’s agreed to private treatment,’ she explains. ‘I’ve moved Noah from Great Ormond Street in order to try a new treatment there. It’s ground-breaking stuff, but it could help prolong his life. Meantime we’re hoping for a suitable bone marrow donor …’

I can’t help but think at least she’s lucky she has money. That’s obvious. At least she has enough money to throw everything she has at saving her son. Before we go back into the office and I have to hand her back to Stephanie for the paperwork, I tell her I hope that everything works out. I tell her I’ll say a prayer. And I mean it, even though it’s a very long time since I’ve asked any form of higher power for anything.

The next day is not a good day. If I could draw it, it would have drooping eyes and a turned-down smiley face. It is only ten o’clock and, so far, I have made a complete fool of myself and I still haven’t heard from Josh. The fool bit bothers me. Giles came around on the way to work, dropped off a bottle of champagne for me from Kiera Pugh, and for some reason I thought it might be the right time to ask if he felt I could do Stephanie’s maternity leave cover.

I asked him for a job I am ill-qualified to perform; one I don’t even want – which meant he had no choice but to highlight both embarrassing facts to me. He is right, of course. I want to live in my loft and write Grammy-winning songs, but until Josh calls me with any news, that’s not even a pipe dream. And though Kiera’s gesture is lovely, all it has done on this blue day is to highlight in neon my sad singledom. I have no one to share this champagne with, which just means today reverts to being one big frown.

Unable to work, I play on the Internet. On Pinterest, I make a page of some ‘beautiful shoes’ I’m going to buy. If Josh doesn’t phone me soon, I will just have to sack him and keep his fifteen per cent for Selfridges shoe department. I ignore his voice ringing in my head, reminding me that fifteen per cent of nothing is still nothing. After I fire him and go shoe-shopping, I will lock his bony arse in his shabby, not-so-chic office, where he will starve slowly and his body will be found by Polish builders when they decide to renovate the building in years to come.

I call Ben, who is, after all, my accountant. He picks up on the first ring.

‘Whassup, Lizzie?’

‘If I fire my agent and spend his commission on shoes, is it still tax deductible?’

‘Hmmm. Shoes …’

‘Yes, shoes. Well, boots to be specific.’

‘I thought you were busy writing a song for the movies.’

‘It’s done, I’m waiting to hear.’ I pull a hangnail from my left thumb. ‘So, I’m shoe-shopping on the Internet. Selfridges have a particularly sexy pair of boots. They have red soles. I want their babies.’

‘Ahhh …’

‘What do you mean, “Ahh”?’

‘Nothing.’

I insist. ‘It was a very loaded “Ahh”.’

‘Call Josh.’

‘He won’t answer my fucking calls!!! It’s driving me crazy …’

‘Buy the boots anyway.’

‘I can’t afford the boots unless I get the song thing.’

‘They’re not tax deductible.’

‘No, I thought not.’

‘Come up to London tonight, you’re obviously bored. I’m meeting Karen at The Waterhole. She’d love to see you. We’ll surprise her.’

I hesitate. It’s strange to be asked by Ben to meet him and Karen for a drink. I’ve known Karen since we hooked up at after-school drama club. She was twelve and I was fourteen. I’ve seen her through one bad marriage and a few bad relationships, so really, deep down, I’m pleased that she’s found Ben. But The Waterhole is the place where
we
meet for drinks in town, which means – right up on surface level – my epidermis is trembling with jealousy.

‘You could get a train early afternoon,’ he continues. ‘Meet us at seven. I’ve booked a booth for nibbles and bubbles. Why don’t you come via Selfridges – that way you could actually
touch
the boots.’

Nibbles and bubbles. These are the words that Karen and I use when we go to The Waterhole for a treat. We have lots of tiny titbits to eat and share a bottle of champagne or cava, depending on how flush we are. Despite the fact that I now want to lock Ben in that office with Josh, I push my resentment to one side. ‘Deal. Meantime, work out a way to make the boots a necessary expense.’

I finish the call thinking, ‘To hell with Josh and Ben. To hell with Giles and his “senior role”. I’m going to buy boots.’ I ignore the sound of Lucy Fir saying: ‘You’re a shallow woman! Yesterday you spent time with someone who has a dying child … And you’re going to buy boots?’

I reason with her – something I’ve been trying to do, lately, rather than ignore her totally. Calmly, I tell her that – sad as it is – life goes on. I will buy my boots, because I am worthy. And when LA love my song, I will donate some money to the paediatric unit at Oakside in Chertsey. Lucy seems satisfied with this offer. The bitch has finally been silenced …