You, Me and Other People (15 page)

Tim and Kiera have come through. Together they must have worked on Gordon, who absolutely does not want me near his son. Later today, I’m going to the hospital to meet Noah. They both think it’s best if I’m introduced as a friend of Tim’s. Before this can happen later today, I have to send another grovelling text to Meg, go for a thirty-minute run and get through a day’s work in the office in half the time.

My running gear lies in a squashed ball at the back of the hall cupboard. It whiffs a bit but I pull it apart and add additional layers. It’s a month to Christmas and it’s cold outside. Water bottle in hand, I leave the flat and, turning left, walk down Narrow Street, past the Italian and Indian restaurants, past the warehouse conversions, towards the pedestrian entrance to Limehouse Marina. Stopping to stretch, I cross the street and start to run. I run around the Isle of Dogs, across the top, past Canary Wharf tower and the shopping mall.

Beth is in my head. With every rhythmic beat of my feet on the pavement, there is another thought of her. It’s as though I’m on countdown and I have to savour every image, every memory before she makes that call. Before she tells me that we too are finished, before I give in to the black cloud that has been lying over me since Sunday. Back in Narrow Street, I buy a newspaper and cross the road.

As soon as I hear the sound, I recognize it immediately: brakes on tarmac. Turning swiftly left, I raise an apologetic hand to a taxi driver who swears aloud. I watch his face, his words appearing in amplified slow motion, open hostility tumbling from his mouth. I reach the footpath, balance myself against a wall and rub my temples. My head throbs, as if my brain has loosened from its anchor and is banging off my skull. Sounds ambush me like someone has turned the volume up. Turning around, I move slowly towards the building I now know as home.

In the shower, I stand for ages beneath a scalding flow of water. I am wearing my running clothes. Unsure if this is genius as it means they get washed too, or it’s another sign of me losing the plot, I remove them and scrub them with shower gel. I’m not quite ready for the funny farm yet. Hanging them on the side of the bath, I dress for work before shovelling a slice of toast and a tepid coffee down me. Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at my desk.

In Oakside paediatric unit, my palms are sweaty, my heartbeat loud and irregular. I’ve been told what to say; I’ve been told what to do. If I stick to the plan, everything will be fine. I know they don’t have to let me see him, so I’m grateful to Kiera and Tim, and Gordon who, though he won’t be here today, has agreed reluctantly to my meeting Noah. The story is simple. I’m a friend of Tim’s; I’ve come to collect him as we’re going out for a catch-up with some university friends later. It sounds a little convoluted to me, but I figure they must know what they’re doing and, frankly, I’d agree to anything if they let me meet my son, just once.

I make my way to the ward. My phone notes hold all the directions dictated by Kiera and I finally reach the right room. Looking in from a small porthole window in the door, I see Kiera and Tim both laughing inside. On the bed lies a small boy, tubes and wires all over him. He is having an animated conversation with his mother, both his hands in the air, as though he’s debating a point. I stand still, very still. He looks just like me, or just like I did at his age. His hair, though patchy, is the same colour and has the same curl running through it. He has Kiera’s mouth and my nose and, though I can’t see from here, I suspect he has my green eyes. I’m locked in position when I see Tim wave at me and beckon me into the room.

Pushing the door open, I suddenly have second thoughts. What am I doing here? What right have I got to be here? I shouldn’t be here …

Tim offers me his hand. ‘Adam. Good to see you, mate. Noah, this is Adam, the friend I told you about. Thinks he’s a scratch golfer but all he does is scratch his head a lot when we play.’

Kiera comes forward, offers me both her cheeks. ‘Good to meet you.’ Her voice is almost a murmur.

Noah smiles. ‘Nice to meet you, Adam.’

‘How are you. Feeling?’ I know it’s lame but it’s all I can think of to say. It’s impossible to ignore the medical paraphernalia in the room. It’s impossible to ignore the tubes and wires attached to the child. It’s impossible to come to any conclusion other than this little boy is very sick.

‘I’ve had worse days – how about you?’

‘I’m good, thanks.’ I was right: his eyes when they meet mine are green. I see it then, immediately – he knows something. His eyes seem to say to mine: ‘Hello, Adam. I’m Noah and you look just like me. How about that …’ Kiera senses it too. She shifts uncomfortably, starts to fidget in her handbag. I don’t know where to look and find myself focusing on the floor tiles. Chequered, black and white, they remind me of a chessboard.

Noah looks over the side of his bed. ‘I often think it looks like a chessboard, the floor …’ He pulls himself upright against the mound of pillows behind his head. ‘Sometimes, at night, if I have to lie on my side, I look down and move pretend pieces around the floor. Do you play?’

I’m left wondering if the child is a mind-reader, but I nod. ‘It’s been a while but I used to – a lot.’

‘We should have a game,’ he says. ‘I get bored playing with myself on the DS. And these two are rubbish.’ He smiles at his mother and uncle. ‘Dad’s not so bad, but he’s easy to beat if I concentrate.’ Suddenly, his breathing seems a little laboured, as if talking has exhausted him.

Kiera approaches the bed, leans into him, where he automatically loops her arm for her to pull him upright. She gently massages his back. ‘You need to take it easy,’ she whispers. ‘Enough chatting for today, time to get some rest.’

‘I’m fine, Mum, really.’

‘Rest,’ she says firmly, ‘now.’

Noah’s eyes roll upwards. ‘You’re fussing.’

‘Someone has to.’ She kisses his forehead.

I find myself moved by the scene. I’ve only ever known Kiera as a friend, someone I had an illicit, fun night with. Now, she’s here – an anxious, loving mother to her child, the child I helped create. It’s surreal and I feel as if I’m watching a film reel.

‘We should go, Adam.’ Tim gathers up his coat and briefcase, leans into the boy and high-fives him.

I want to say, ‘No. Please, just another few minutes. Please, just let me look at him?’

I say nothing, but offer him my hand.

‘Come back for that game of chess?’ he says.

I nod and turn to leave with Tim.

‘Adam?’

I look back over my shoulder.

‘What university did you go to?’ he asks.

My eyes dart to Tim’s. I went to King’s College, but I’ve no idea where Tim went.

‘We went to Brunel,’ Tim replies, then glances at his watch. ‘C’mon, we should go. The boys will start without us.’

I paste a frozen smile to my lips, mutter a goodbye, and exit ahead of Tim.

‘That was close,’ he whispers when he catches me up. ‘I’d swear sometimes, that kid can see through walls.’

‘Do you think he suspects something?’

Tim shakes his head. ‘Nah, he’s just fishing. I’ve got to get back to London for a meeting, Adam. You okay from here?’

I nod, wave him off. Tim heads out to the west entrance car park and I head back, through a warren of corridors, towards the east one.

Quickening my pace, I feel an urgent need to get out of here. Convinced Noah asked the question for a reason, I have a vision of Kiera appearing with tears in her eyes or, worse, Gordon appearing with murder in his. I wanted to meet my son, but I do not want to upset his family dynamic.

Without warning, my gut begins to heave and I know I’m going to be sick. I scan the hallway and see a male toilet up ahead. Running, I push the swing door open and barely make it to the cubicle before my stomach empties. Gripping the sides of the bowl, I vomit continuously for what must be a few minutes. Finally, I try to stand. My legs unsteady, I balance myself against the stall wall. I wipe my mouth with some toilet paper and open the door. Thankfully, the room is empty. I wash my mouth out, spray in some mint freshener. My reflection shows a man who looks much older than my forty-three years. My skin is pale, veined, my eyes heavy and dark. Though I keep my hair cut very short, a few of the tiny curls at the edge of my hairline are stuck in a line of sweat. Noah has curly hair … Noah has very little curly hair left, presumably from chemotherapy.

I straighten out my clothes, take the opportunity to sit in a chair, just by the inside of the door. I wonder why it’s here. For the elderly? Infirm? Selfish middle-aged men who find their shoulders unable to carry their load? The chair is hard plastic, not designed for comfort or to encourage sitting for long.

A man enters the room, looks at me, and asks me if I’m okay. I nod, mutter a thanks and stand up. I need to get home and it’ll take ages at this time in traffic. Outside the men’s loo there is a vending machine; I search my pockets for coins to feed it for a bottle of water. Just drink the water, I tell myself as I unscrew the cap. Drink the water, get in your car and drive home slowly. Do not drive to Weybridge, which is no longer your home. I’m tempted. Just drive the ten-minute drive there, ask Beth if I can stay over and crash for the night. I am deciding it’s a very bad idea when I hear my name being called.

‘Adam?’

I turn around to see Kiera.

‘You still here?’ she asks.

‘I, er—’

‘You okay? You look a bit green around the gills.’

I shrug. ‘I’m okay, just been sick,’ I find myself confessing and nodding towards the men’s toilets.

‘You shouldn’t drive. I’m heading home for an hour. Come back, have a hot drink?’

I’m confused. Kiera lives in London too.

‘I’ve rented a flat nearby.’ She reads my face. ‘Just while Noah’s here. You really shouldn’t drive, you know. I’m meeting Gordon back here in an hour, so I could drop you back to your car then.’

I feel my head bob up and down before I realize I’ve actually agreed to this.

‘It would be good to have a chat anyway. Let me know what you think of Noah,’ she smiles. ‘I just need to pop in here quickly – won’t last until home.’ Her head nods towards the Ladies.

I watch her tiny frame push through the swing door, have no time to wonder if a drink, hot or cold, in Kiera’s local flat is a good or a bad idea, before I hear my name being called again. This time, I recognize the voice. As I turn towards it, I hope I’m dreaming and soon discover I’m not. God, I decide, is fucking with me. Oh yes, fucking me large.

Typed on my iPhone, my ‘To Do’ list looks more organized than a paper version, but it’s still too long. I only have a few days before LA and this list makes me feel dizzy. My morning, so far, has been spent in the offices of a man called ‘Bear’. I have no idea how Bear got his name: whether his parents had a sick sense of humour, or whether he was given the nickname when his stature was greater than it is now. But I do know the Gospel according to Josh says that Bear is the best in the business for funky, ‘with it’, ‘songwriterly’ websites.

Josh is right – the man knows his stuff; after spending a few hours at his office in Chiswick, I have the bones of what looks like a really exciting website. Josh has insisted that the whole thing be up and running with songs I’ve written but are as yet unsigned – all up there before Friday. Great. Bear (who is in fact a small, geeky-looking guy with scant hair and John Lennon glasses) and I have our work cut out …

Right now, though, sitting in my car parked outside Bear’s office, number eight on the ‘To Do’ list is glaring up at me. I have been putting it off for too long and can no longer ignore it. Closing my eyes, I count to a hundred. Then I start up the car and point it in the direction of home.

Five minutes from the house, I take a turn off the A3 and head towards my three o’clock appointment. When I get there, I walk through to reception. I’m nervous. Having Googled what to do, I am here, because I know I have to be. Every cell in my body is screaming ‘No.’ At reception, I’m handed a clipboard, asked to take a seat, fill in my details, then someone will be with me shortly.

I stare at the page. Having spent all morning building the www.beth-hall.co.uk website, I’m not too keen on using my real name, so fill it in as Lucy Babushkowizc. As a combination of my inner saboteur and my fabulous inner core, I think it does reflect some parts of me. The rest of the questions I answer as honestly as possible, apart from my date of birth – for some reason, I make myself two years younger.

About fifteen minutes later, I hear the name being called and look up. A young girl, not much older than Meg and very similar in looks to her, beckons me through to a smaller room. There we are met by an older, more matronly looking woman. She is seated, while the Meg lookalike stands. ‘Matron’ asks the questions. In a kind voice, she explains what sort of questions are on the way and what else may happen. I try not to gulp.

I’m asked if I have had any medical problems, any outward physical signs of trouble. I shake my head, but tell them I’d like them to check anyway. I’m asked if I’ve had sex with anyone from outside the UK recently. I try not to laugh. They are not to know I haven’t had sex with anyone since Adam. There’s every chance when they get down there to have a look, they may need a can opener. I’m asked when I last had sex. I tell them, then explain a little about the circumstances, about why I’m here at the Genito-Urinary Medicine clinic, a fancy name for the place I have to come to, to check if I’ve acquired any sexual diseases from my philandering husband.

I see a glance pass between them, realize it’s probably quite common, this situation. A woman, or indeed a man, having to check out they’re okay after years of being with the same person, years of being with the same unfaithful person. I can tell from that glance that I’m not alone. Unsure if I feel better or worse, they ask if I’m able to give a urine sample; they prepare one of those kidney-shaped cardboard bowls with a needle to take a blood sample. Inside, I’m starting to seethe. That fucker. That shitbag. Christ, there’s times I hate him …

I fill the tiny sample bottle and hand ‘Matron’ my bottle of warm pee. I make a fist to let her take some blood. I open my legs and let her part the folds of my undercarriage with her gloved hands. During this last part, my eyes are closed. I say some sort of prayer – a muttered gobbledegook cluster of words that pray to some God somewhere that I have nothing nasty, that she doesn’t spot some foul rash. She raises her head, unsnaps her gloves, smiles and tells me everything looks fine and I heave a very deep sigh of relief.

I’m asked how I’d like to receive my test results. As quickly as possible, please, is what I’m thinking, but we agree that they will call my mobile. I thank them and exit, stage left.

I am trembling as I come out to the car park. Hoping no one sees me, I skirt the edge of the clinic and enter the main ground floor of the adjoining building. My shakes need a coffee before I drive home. I snake my way through the crowds and I’m almost at the Costa concession when I see a familiar figure up ahead of me. Confused, I call his name.

‘Adam?’

He turns to face me, his expression one of pure horror. ‘Beth,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’ As he speaks, he walks, steering me by the elbow, back towards the exit.

I stop moving. ‘I’ve been to the GUM clinic to have myself tested. Why are
you
here?’

He looks as if he is about to die on the spot. ‘I’m …’

‘You’re what?’ I’m aware that he’s looking back over my shoulder to where we just came from. ‘Who are you here with?’

He doesn’t reply.

‘Did you hear what I just said, Adam? I’ve just had a woman checking my bits for nasty rashes. Now what the fuck are
you
doing here?’

He’s steering me again.

‘I’ve been visiting a friend. I was just leaving …’

I grind myself to a halt again. ‘Who? Who were you visiting?’ I notice how pale he is, how much weight he’s lost. It would look good on him if he wasn’t such a ghastly shade of wan. A thought that he might be ill flits through my mind – maybe he’s been having tests?

‘Just a friend of a friend. I said I’d pop in and visit if I was out this way.’

I am at the Costa bar and, though I don’t believe a word he’s saying, I need a coffee more than I need a row in the middle of the hospital. ‘I need a coffee. My visit to the clinic has traumatized me.’

‘Right,’ he says, his eyes darting up and down the corridor. ‘I’m sorry. I mean, of course I’m sorry that, you know, you feel you had to go there.’

I snort out loud. ‘Are you having one? Tea? Coffee?’

‘No, no, I don’t want anything.’ He glances at his wrist. ‘I’ve got to go, Beth. Sorry to be so short, but I’ve got to go.’ Within seconds, he’s vanished, and I’m left standing there, a fiver in my hand, my mouth wide open.

I order a double latte and sit on one of the armchairs near a large pillar, wondering what just happened. From the throng of people around me, I see Kiera Pugh walk towards the exit next to me and remember her son is in hospital here. Shame flushes my face as I look down, place myself behind the pillar, trying to avoid her eyes and the inevitable small talk. Though I feel for her right now, I’m more concerned about Adam. He was behaving like a madman. A madman with something else to hide …

In my driveway, I’m greeted by my very irate mother.

‘For Christ’s sake, Elizabeth. Five o’clock means five o’clock. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour and it’s bloody cold.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum, really sorry.’ I unlock the front door and turn the lights on. I cannot tell her the truth and say she didn’t make my ‘To Do’ list and so I forgot she was coming. ‘I got horribly delayed on the A3,’ I lie.

‘I’ll keep my coat on for a while,’ she grumbles as I turn the thermostat up. The temperature outside has really dropped this week and the house is cold.

‘I’ve put you in the green room,’ I tell her, trying to cheer her up. It’s the warmest room in the house and, because it looks over the garden, it’s also my mother’s favourite bedroom. ‘And I thought we’d get a takeaway, a nice treat.’

‘What you mean is you have no food in.’

I make a face. ‘There’s no point. I’m away soon for a few days. Chinese or Indian?’ I put my arm around her.

‘Chinese,’ she smiles. ‘Are you excited? Los Angeles, eh? Your dad would be so proud. Will you play me the song?’

‘I will. Let me just grab a shower, Mum. I’ll take your bags upstairs. Put the telly on?’

I’m heading upstairs when she yells at me to leave the nail bag downstairs. I leave the smaller, patent, orange one that rattles. A Chinese, a manicure, my mum telling me that my song is worthy of a Grammy, some Sky Plus recordings of good television drama and a glass of wine. All in all a good evening, if only I can stop thinking about Adam Hall, the madman.

Upstairs, my mobile flashes, just as I get naked. I grab it, seeing it’s Meg. ‘Long time no speak, stranger. Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, Mum, just busy.’

I throw a towel around me to keep warm. ‘I’ve tried to call you a few times, left a few messages.’ I’m trying hard not to sound accusing. ‘You never did finish your room.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘How’s Jack?’ There’s a downbeat tone in her voice and I’m wondering if he might be responsible.

‘He’s fine. He’s been great actually …’ She stops herself. ‘Listen, are you in tomorrow night? I need to see you before you go to LA.’

I am supposed to be seeing Giles tomorrow night. A night out at the cinema. I couldn’t tell him that I don’t like the cinema, because he knows from the first time being at the house that I do. I couldn’t tell him that I don’t want to go for fear he’ll kiss me again, because I’m too nice to say something that awful. And I’ve decided I really didn’t like the kiss. So, I agreed to go, and now hopefully Meg is going to offer me an excuse to get out of it. I may, however, have to ham up her urgent need to see me.

‘Well, it’ll have to be tomorrow night then,’ I tell her. Suddenly, I’m worried. My mummy antennae twitch. ‘Are you all right, really?’

‘Don’t be silly, Mum, I’m fine. I’ll be there about seven?’

‘Okay, see you then, love you.’

‘Love you too.’ She hangs up.

I drop the towel and wait for the water to heat up. Shivering, I go through the call in my head again. Leaning against the tiles, I say another gobbledegook prayer, my second of the day. Counting my prayer for Kiera Pugh’s child, it’s my third of the month – of the year – in a decade. I step under the steaming spray and ask all the gods who are listening to please not let Meg tell me she’s pregnant. And, just for a moment, an ever-so-brief smidgeon of a second, I think of LA and how I’ll like it. And whether I could stay there forever …

Mum is sitting in her favourite chair, eyes shut, head back, and her leg moving gently in time with the slow ballad music. She takes a sip from her glass of wine, eyes still closed. I can tell she’s listening to the lyrics. When it’s finished she looks across at me. ‘Brilliant, darling, really, it’s brilliant. The best you’ve ever written.’

I can’t help but beam.

‘Do you believe it?’ she asks. ‘The words of your song?’

My smile turns itself upside down. ‘It’s not about Adam and me,’ I say, a tad too defensively. I start to clear the plates in front of us. It had been a lovely laptop supper until now.

‘Why not? Don’t you think it could be?’

I sigh. ‘It’s for the movies, Mum, not real life. In real life people can’t always reconcile.’

‘I know that. But what if it’s what he wants and what you want deep down? I know it’s what Meg wants.’

There are times when Sybil Moir frustrates the hell out of me, and this is one of them. I know she and Meg are close, but I don’t want her filling Meg’s head with false hopes.

‘Meg knows it’s not what I want, deep down or otherwise. Nor is it what I need. She’ll get used to the idea soon and she’ll always have both Adam and me in her life.’

Mum stands, walks across to the kitchen and loads the plates in the dishwasher. We pass by each other as she heads back and I’m trying to squash the Chinese foil containers into the recycling bin. She puts her arms around my neck. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

‘I will be, but not with Adam.’

She sighs into my hair. ‘Maybe he just has to show you he still loves you.’

‘It wouldn’t make any difference, Mum. It’s just too late.’

‘I see,’ she says, then moves away, fills her glass with more pinot grigio and retires to her favourite chair. ‘It’s nine o’clock,’ she calls back. ‘
Game of Thrones
is on. I’ll do your nails in the morning.’

Later I fall asleep dreaming of Tyrion and Adam duelling for my love. And I wake, wondering, what if … What if he really fought for me?