You, Me and Other People (14 page)

‘You have another child?’ she interrupts. ‘Are you telling me you have another child?’

‘Yes. A son – I’ve never known him. That was what we agreed. Kiera wanted it that way and … that suited me. I have never told your mother. I have never told anyone until, weeks ago, things changed.’

Meg’s eyes have not moved from mine. ‘I have a brother,’ she says, quietly. ‘One my mother knows nothing about. Jeee-sus Christ … You really are a piece of shit! Why now? You planning on making us all the fucking Brady Bunch?’

I look away, count the stripes in her carpet. ‘He’s sick. Leukaemia. We need to test you as a bone marrow match urgently. If you agree, that is. The fact is, siblings are the most likely match and you’re his only sibling. Half-sibling.’ I correct myself.

She raises both hands to her mouth, then suddenly reaches down to the floor for her wastepaper bin. She breathes deeply, holds her stomach as though she’s going to be sick.

‘Meg, I …’ I stand, move towards her, and she shoves me away.

‘Get out,’ she whispers. ‘Leave now.’

‘Please, Meg. Please listen.’ I want to scream at her that I get it. That she can be mad as hell at me afterwards, after she’s been tested and given Noah a miracle cure.

She stares up at me. ‘I don’t know who you are. I’m not sure I ever knew who you are.’

‘He’s just a little boy and he’s dying.’ I’m determined for her to hear me out.

She bites a trembling lip. ‘Leave now. Get out.’ Tears slide down her face, as if a silent tap has been turned on. ‘Do not say another word. You and I are finished. FINISHED! And don’t think for a second that I’m keeping this from Mum.’

With that, she points to the door. ‘Get the fuck out!’

Steadying myself on the back of her chair, I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I have never known a pain like this. My heart feels as though it has been shredded, minced.

I turn and leave her room. ‘
You and I are finished
’ echoes all around me. It ricochets off the walls on the stairs and the pulsed message seeps into my body repeatedly, penetrates my bones, pierces my brain. I grasp at anything that looks or sounds like hope. The pictures, the memories … She doesn’t mean it. She’s hurting. It’s a lot to take in. She’s angry and sad. Of course she’ll help. We haven’t brought her up to do anything else – but she’s going to tell Beth. That is as sure and as certain as the fact that Meg has my DNA flowing in her veins, as the fact that Noah has my DNA flowing in his veins. She will tell all, if I don’t first.

I’m afraid. I can feel fear in my stomach and limbs – such fear that I have a sense of what my parents felt. It scares me shitless.

It’s pissing rain, the sort of relentless rain that bangs against the Velux windows in the loft, making it difficult to concentrate, so I haven’t been able to work. Plus, I woke up this morning singing ‘Miss You Nights’ by Cliff … The lyrics made me think of Adam; I can’t seem to shake him from my head this morning. I’m staring out through the bi-folds at the back of the house. The garden is in an awful state. We’re having a pretty mild winter, but I really need to find a gardener before December sets in and everything just dies. That, or I need to develop gardening skills. An idea forms in my head, and before I have time to dismiss it, I pick up the phone.

‘It’s me.’

‘Hi.’ He sounds nervous. Only one word and, somehow, I can tell.

‘You all right?’ I ask.

‘Yes, I’m …’ He sighs. ‘How’re you? All packed?’

I’m not going to LA for another six days, but he knows me so well. All of my ‘summer’ clothes are washed, ironed and packed already. I have sunscreen, a full make-up bag, hairdryer, straighteners, knickers and bras, all arranged in neat piles in the case. In a separate plastic folder sitting on top of the case are all my travel documents – ticket, passport, insurance. I like to be organized well in advance of travel.

‘I’m not going for nearly a week,’ I say, ‘but yes, most of it’s done. Listen, I was wondering. When I’m away, would you be interested in doing some gardening? It’s really looking a mess. I could get a gardener, but I thought, maybe you miss it, maybe you’d like … You used to love the garden. I mean, it’s in both our interests to …’

‘Er, yes. Okay. If you’d like.’

‘I leave on a Sunday, thought maybe you could take the Monday off and stay over?’ I decide to leave a note directing him to one of the spare rooms. Our bed is now my bed.

‘If you’re sure.’ He seems a little hesitant. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, that’s sorted then. I suppose I’ll have to lend you some keys.’ I emphasize the word ‘lend’ deliberately. I already know he can’t get a set cut as they’re security locks allocated to me.

‘Maybe leave them with Sylvia and I’ll pick them up from her?’

‘Okay. Have you heard anything from Meg?’

He is silent.

‘It’s just she’s not answering my calls. She was here yesterday. I’ve been nagging her to sort her room out, but by the time I got back, she was gone.’

‘We spoke yesterday.’

‘Did she seem okay? She left her room in a worse state than it was when she arrived …’ I realize Adam wouldn’t know if she was okay or not as he has the emotional antennae of an earthworm, so I don’t wait for a reply. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll just keep trying her. I’d better get on … Thanks for the gardening. I’ll make sure Sylvia has a key.’

‘Beth?’

‘Yes?’ I hear a slight catch in his voice as he seems to hesitate. ‘What is it, Adam?’

‘You know I love you, don’t you.’

I honestly think my mouth has fallen open.

‘It’s important you know that. I love you. I have always loved you and I always will. I know it’s too late, but I want you to know.’

I close my mouth, inhale deeply.

‘Say something,’ he pleads. ‘Anything …’

‘You’re right. Too little, too late,’ I say.

‘Should I have fought for you?’ he asks. ‘Ben – other people – keep telling me that I should have fought for you. Made you listen.’

‘Other people are wrong. It was never going to happen, Adam. You were too busy reinventing yourself with Emma. You may have loved me, you may still do, but you always loved yourself more. It’s beyond you to fight for someone.’

A part of me feels cruel saying this to him, but it’s the truth. I’m not saying it to hurt him. I’m even sad, because I know it does hurt him, but I really feel that he needs to grow up, to somehow realize that the world doesn’t spin on his axis.

‘I’m not quite that selfish,’ he says. ‘I was vain, stupid and, yes, selfish. But not quite that bad …’

‘Okay, why didn’t you then?’

‘Didn’t I what?’

‘Fight for me? Why did you leave, Adam? Why did you keep on seeing Emma? I thought you’d made a choice and that our marriage was over.’ Silence again.

‘Let’s face it. You left for sex. Lots of it. Lots of different, exciting and new sex with a younger woman. And that’s the crux of it. You put your sexual gratification over your love for me and your love for Meg.’ I’m on a roll. ‘Forget me for a moment. Have you any idea what our break-up has done to her? Have you any real clue how destructive all that brilliant sex has been?’

There is only the sound of his breathing on the phone.

‘Have you?’ I repeat.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, and hangs up the phone.

I’m left staring at the receiver. What just happened? I decide against ringing back. There’s no point. Instead, I find my mobile in the kitchen and text Meg. I have a worrying niggle and ask her to call me. All the time Cliff Richard is nagging away in my brain. Not for the first time, I lean my hands on the kitchen worktop and work on my breathing. There are times when I do wonder, what if? Like now, after that strange conversation. There are times when I miss him so much, still. It feels like the pain of a phantom limb. Days like this are rare but, when they happen, they’re long and lonely. I close my eyes, focus on LA, on Meg and all the blessings in my life. But yes, Cliff. Thinking about tonight, you’re right. Those ‘miss you’ nights are bloody awful.

Giles is coming over. We’re having supper and a bottle of wine. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, made after the phone call with Adam, and I am now officially crapping myself. I did it so quickly that I didn’t really think about it. Will he think I’m interested? Am I interested? Will he think this is like a date? God. What have I done? I’ve made a lasagne and salad. I have a bottle of white chilled and a bottle of red open. I’ve had a shower, have worn matching underwear and spritzed scent behind my ears. I’m wearing a favourite dress – one that I know I look good in. Shit, shit, shit. What am I doing? I glance at the oven clock. In an hour he’ll be here. I call Karen. After hooting with laughter, she tells me to stop worrying, that it’s like riding a bike. She tells me to calm down and have a glass of wine, just one. Then she snorts with laughter again. This is not helping. I hang up on her.

Pouring my one glass of wine, my hand is shaking. Actually shaking, like full proper tremors. It makes me remember a day shortly after Adam left, and I had started to see Dr Caroline Gothenburg. I had such bad shakes that day … Caroline would be proud today. I close my eyes, get in touch with my inner Babushka, who is smiling with me, rather than laughing at me. It’s going to be okay. Babushka often struggles, living side by side with Lucy Fir, but today she’s strong. I am a successful writer. I am a good-looking forty-two-year-old woman, ready to start living again. I am about to have supper with a new friend. That is all. Day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment, Babushka reminds me.

An hour and a half later, I have consumed almost a whole bottle of wine. Giles is on his first glass of red. The lasagne is in the oven. The kitchen smells like Jamie Oliver has been in and I’m still scared witless. Giles has made an effort, looking smart in an open-neck shirt and chinos. He’s sitting at the breakfast bar and picks up one of the many congratulatory cards on the side. ‘May I?’ he asks.

I nod. I suppose now is as good a time as any to confess that I’m only in estate agency for the regular salary. I never dreamt of it as a child. But I did dream of writing songs …

He has read a few of the cards. ‘So, let me get this right,’ he says. ‘You have written a song and this song is going to be in a Hollywood movie.’

When I hear it said like that, I sort of want to squeal, but I contain myself and just agree. ‘That’s right.’

‘And the holiday time that you’ve just booked off. You did say you were going to LA. Is it anything to do with this?’ He waves one of the cards.

‘I’m meeting the producers.’

‘Holy shit! I’m impressed! I mean, you put it in your CV – “Songwriting” – and I thought it was an unusual hobby, but wow! Well done you.’

I bring the lasagne to the dining table. It’s already set and the salad is sitting in the centre. When we’re seated, I hand him a steaming portion. ‘Careful, it’s hot,’ I say, passing the salad bowl and side plates.

‘Did you make this?’ He rubs his thighs with both hands.

‘I did.’

‘A woman of many talents.’ He smiles. ‘So, your mum’s card. Tell me why, in the middle of your mother’s obvious excitement at your success, she seems most concerned with giving you a manicure before you leave?’

I laugh. ‘My mother is a force of nature. Her latest adult education-acquired skill is all things nails. Gels, nail art, everything. She’s now added some sort of holistic healing oil on the hands and, yes, she’s desperate to try it out on me before I go.’ I shrug. ‘She’s harmless and she adores me. I find it quite comforting having her spoil me … She’s coming tomorrow night to paint a personally designed treble clef on my thumbnail.’

‘Bring her into the office, I’d love to meet her.’

My face creases. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’d probably have us married off.’ The words have escaped before I have a chance to filter them.

He laughs out loud at this idea and I’m not sure what’s funny, my mother pairing us off, or me telling him that’s what she’d be doing. I am of course ignoring the fact that Mum would prefer Adam and me to reconcile above all else.

I notice he’s eating a lot of salad and playing with the lasagne. ‘Is it okay?’ I ask. ‘The food?’

He flushes red, puts his knife and fork down. ‘I should’ve said something. I don’t eat meat.’

My hand covers my mouth.

‘Please,’ he says ‘it’s my fault … I normally tell people but, to be honest, I was so shocked when you called and asked me to supper that I just said yes, and then felt I couldn’t ring back.’

I go to take his plate away and he catches my hand, covers it with his. ‘Please leave it. I’ll just have more of this delicious salad.’

I sit down again. ‘Sorry.’ I’ve no idea why I’m apologizing. Probably for serving a vegetarian with meat, but it might be because I felt nothing during the hand-touching thing. As it happened, I thought, maybe there’ll be sparks, like in the movies. But there were no sparks. And no one knows more than I do what crap they serve up in the movies. I’m disappointed, so help myself to the last of the white. Another glass down. I remove the lasagne to the kitchen and pray he likes apple pie.

Conversation is flowing. He is a lovely, kind, attentive man who seems genuinely interested in me and what I do. I carve two triangles of pastried apple.

‘Tell me about you, Giles. I know you were married – do you mind talking about it?’

I need to know if he has cheat DNA in him before I even let him kiss me.

‘I don’t mind,’ he says, ‘though there’s really not a lot to tell. We married young. We got married because Mireille was pregnant.’

He says the word ‘Mireille’, pronouncing it with an authentic French accent. As I’ve learnt tonight that Giles is forty and the twins sixteen, I quickly work out that ‘married young’ means at the age of twenty-four. Older than I was …

‘It was tough. We were living in France. I was working there, selling holiday homes to Brits mostly. It didn’t bring in a lot of money and Mireille’s an artist. Money was tight.’

‘When did you come back?’

‘Over ten years ago.’

‘They stayed?’

‘They did.’ He sighs, deeply and loudly. ‘We just fell out of love. It was friendly; as friendly as two people with two children falling out of love can be. Her parents lived a mile away. They were glad to see the back of me.’

‘And the girls. How often did you see them?’

‘Not often enough for the first five years. As soon as they were eleven, we both agreed that they should come to school in England. They’re boarding over in Walton, so they’re with me most weekends and go back to France for all of the holidays. It works quite well now.’

I don’t ask how he went from struggling holiday-home seller to privately educating two children. Something tells me the random mention of her parents has something to do with it. I hope not, for his sake. I hope he’s made a shitload of money selling houses in Weybridge and Mireille has become a name in the French art world.

It’s not long after coffee that Giles suggests he should go, it being a ‘school night’ – work tomorrow. We are both in the office tomorrow, so I’m anxious that the next few minutes don’t make that awkward. At the door, standing under my text-art, he tells me he hates horseradish even more than meat and I laugh.

‘You have a lovely laugh,’ he says, then he leans in for the kiss. It is tender at first, just a gentle touching of lips, before a full-on kiss. It feels strange, this sensation of another man’s tongue in my mouth. His hand is on the back of my head, and that makes me think of Adam, the way his fingers used to lace through my hair. I end the kiss.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he whispers.

‘You will,’ I reply, my voice a whisper too.

I close the door behind him, lean my back flat up against it. Immediately, I know I will not be kissing Giles again. I’m cast back to being seventeen again. I felt nothing, absolutely nothing, when he kissed me. Is this normal? Is it because I haven’t kissed anyone else in so long? Maybe it’s me. Maybe I can say that. ‘It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve forgotten how to kiss.’ I shake my head, grab my phone and head straight up to bed. The clean-up can wait until the morning. My phone registers fourteen missed calls from Karen since I hung up on her. I listen to the last 121 message and smile. She, too, can wait …

Lying in bed, I go over it in my head. For the first time in many months, I really miss kissing Adam – the physicality of it. The way he held me, the way he used his tongue, the way I tingled every time he did. I miss making love. I haven’t made love to another man in over two decades, so I’m not sure if I miss making love or, again, if I miss making love to Adam. Cliff is back, singing away, and I end up putting my pillow over my head and begging Lucy Fir to deck him.