You, Me and Other People (19 page)

Never before. Never before have I felt like this … The man is an orgasm machine. He should be patented. His fingers and tongue linger over every inch of my body. His gasp of pleasure at my nude undercarriage makes me grateful I got up early. He turns me over, every which way but loose, and insists on my leaving my underwear on. I’m strangely grateful for this and find his teasing aside of my $200 knickers with his tongue one of the most erotic things … Having played with me for ages, he finally removes them and fucks me slowly. He is gentle for such a big man and, when he enters me, he seems to hold his breath. I realize I’ve almost closed up and must feel like a frigging virgin. When I come, he comes quickly after. He leaves me spent but wanting more.

While he sleeps, I reach across to my phone in the charger. I’m about to switch it on and check for messages when a hand stretches across and he whispers, ‘Leave it.’ I laugh, my hand dropping over the side of the bed onto Pink’s trousers on the floor. Condoms spill from his trouser pocket, and though part of me is horrified that he knew I’d be this easy, the bigger part of me turns around wanting more.

This time, I sit astride him and, feeling him fill me the way he can, I’m sorry that it’s taken me this long to discover wanton sex. And, as I move above him, building to another climax, I’m aware of exactly what this is. Sex. Brilliant, uncomplicated sex. A real first for me.

When sunlight spills through a crack in the curtains from the Brighton Street, sunlit side of the hotel, I get up and shower. I order some breakfast for both of us through room service – some fruit, muesli, tea and coffee. He must be hungry – neither of us ate much dinner last night.

I’m right. He eats everything on the plate and drinks two cups of black coffee. He takes a long shower and joins me on the edge of the bed, just as I’m about to dry my hair. For a man who says so little, he is very persuasive. All he has to do is stroke my face with the back of his hand. I’m momentarily torn. I have a full itinerary of touristy things to do. Then again, I could delay them and just enjoy the only attraction I’m interested in in Hollywood. If Pink featured in my Hollywood tour guide, he would be a five-star ticket. So I do what any woman would – I get back into bed with him.

With Boyd’s help, who is thankfully on call to me today, I have an itinerary waiting for me at reception. Since the studio people don’t need to see me and I have the day free, they have obviously told him to take me sightseeing in LA. As I take a seat in the back of the car, I glance down at the sheet of paper and switch my phone on. It immediately goes crazy.

There are several missed calls and lots of texts from Josh, the final one reading ‘CALL ME OR I SHALL COME OVER THERE AND HUNT YOU DOWN!’

I listen to several voicemails before I hear a voice I don’t recognize.

‘This is a message from Newham General Hospital in London. We have a Mr Adam Hall here and I understand you’re his emergency contact number. Please could you call us as soon as possible? My name is Lisa and the number here is …’

I clutch my chest, check the time of the message – 09.30 LA time, this morning. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I ask Boyd for a pen, listen to the message again and write the number on the back of the itinerary before dialling it. The neon clock on his dashboard tells me it’s after half past five in the afternoon over there.

I manage to speak to someone who tells me what’s happened. Relief seeps over me when I realize he’s okay. The thought had crossed my mind that Adam would be capable of dying, just because I was over here forgetting him. The next voicemail is from Meg; as soon as I hear her troubled voice, guilt for my beautiful night last night overwhelms me.

‘Mum, where are you? I’ve been trying to call all day! I
need
to talk to you. Call me –
soon as
you get this message. It’s important, Mum.’

My fingers jab her number on my mobile. I nod apologetically at Boyd in his rear-view mirror, lean forward to increase the air con in the back of the car as a powerful flush rises on my cheeks. Relief blasts through my veins, overwhelms any guilt, dampens the tint of self-reproach on my face as soon as I hear the click of her phone being answered. For a few seconds’ wait, in just a short space in time, I hold my breath, hope that everything at home is not really falling apart just because I’ve managed to forget them for a few hours.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I blurt. ‘My phone was charging and I … Are you all right? Have you spoken to your dad?’

‘No. Where were you? I’ve been trying you for ages?’ She sounds relieved, not angry. ‘Do you know already, know about Dad?’

I tell her about my call to the hospital, reassure her that I’ve been told he’s okay – just a scare.

‘I’ve spoken to them too,’ she says. ‘They’ve said the same to me. Typical, eh? Dad has a heart attack just when we’re both mad as hell at him.’

‘It’s just a scare,’ I repeat. ‘He’ll be fine.’

She’s silent.

‘You’d love it out here. Correction, you will love it out here when we come back together. The shopping is brilliant and there’s so much to do and see.’ I eyeball the itinerary, wonder quickly if I could still do it. I’m flying back later tonight anyway, and I’m damned if I’m getting an earlier flight just because Adam has decided to take centre stage again. ‘Plus it’s warm at this time of year, just lovely,’ I add to Meg.

She tells me she’ll look forward to it. Then we talk briefly about the elephant in the room that is a stem cell donation to her brother next week. By the time we hang up, she has talked it through calmly and seems in control. I am again in awe of my own daughter.

‘Boyd,’ I catch his eye in the mirror. ‘This programme, can we really do it all today?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Let’s go then!’

We manage to squeeze most of it in. He drives me to the Hollywood Bowl and the Hollywood Hills, where I take pictures of the famous white letters. They seem from a distance to be etched into the mountain, though I see now they hang from large white lattices. We go to Santa Monica Beach and Pier. I don’t tell him I’ve already been, albeit briefly. I take some sightseeing snaps of the ocean, before heading to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I cover only about three of the fifteen blocks of Hollywood Boulevard, before Boyd picks me up and drives me to the Griffith Observatory. All the while my mind is reeling with confusion. Adam lying in a hospital, Meg wired up to tubes and Pink, yes, Pink and his expert hands.

Back in the hotel bar I’m exhausted, sated, wondering when I can come back again. My packed bag resting against my leg, I’m sipping on the G&T that Toots has made for me while I wait for Boyd to return and take me to the airport. I dial Adam’s phone and he answers after one ring.

‘Hey you, what time is it in LA?’

I smile, relieved at the sound of his voice. ‘Never mind that, are you okay?’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d call.’

‘Neither was I.’ I raise the gin to my lips. ‘I guess I had to check you’re alive.’

‘And kicking,’ he says.

He’s okay, I’m relieved, and suddenly I also feel all sad to be leaving somewhere I’ve instinctively loved. The rest of our conversation is quick and I’ve tuned out by the time we hang up.

Adam is alive and kicking and my break from reality is, it seems, very much over.

Five days in here and they’re letting me out. I’m mid-lecture. I’m being told that had it been any worse, they would have put a stent in me. I’m being told to take some blood-thinners, take my cholesterol-lowering medication and not to do anything too physical for at least three weeks.

Right. No running then.

‘No running,’ the doctor says, reading my mind, ‘and no sex either. You’ll know when the time is right, but take a break for a while.’

I try not to laugh out loud. I try not to wish that I’d had the ‘shot across the bows mini-heart attack’ last year. That way, Beth would be by my side; driving me home to the house we share in Weybridge. She’d mind me, nurse me, feed me … I’d do some gentle gardening to help build me up again. Instead, Beth is probably already home from her LA trip, jet-lagged in Weybridge. I’m not sure where she is. I only know she’s not here.

I shake the doctor’s hand, agree that I’ll be back in a week for a check-up and put my rucksack on my back. It has my keys, the running clothes they cut from me, a pair of pyjamas, my trainers and a bottle of water inside. I’m wearing clothes Ben brought in for me, denims that are swimming on me and which I have to hoist up at the waist, a sweatshirt that has seen better days – all of it hidden under an overcoat and my long scarf.

Outside the main entrance of Newham General Hospital, the air is bracing. I’m wrapped like an onion, but I still feel the cold. Anxious to get back, I hail a cab, and within five minutes I’m home. Home … It’s not really home and never will be. In the flat I toss the keys on the tiny hall table. There’s a note there, which I strain to read without my glasses.

Adam, hope you’re feeling okay. I’ve done a food shop for you, put it all away in the fridge and cupboards and I changed the bed. The other linen is in the drier.

Get better soon. Karen x

PS I feel bad about the time we argued. You’re not my favourite person because of what you’ve done to Beth, but you are Ben’s brother and you and I have been friends for a long time. I hope, in time, we can regroup?

I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge door. It’s full of healthy fruit and yogurts and all the things that are, no doubt, on the diet sheet I’ve been given. Not a piece of bacon in sight. The cupboards are the same. The naughtiest thing I can find is some sugar-free muesli.

I walk to the window, look out onto the busy street below. The café opposite beckons and, without even taking my coat off, I leave the flat and head straight across the road to the riverside greasy spoon. I promise myself that it will be the last full English I will ever have but, right now, I’m starving, and muesli just won’t cut it. While I wait, I text Karen, tell her I’m home, thank her for the thoughtful food shop and tell her that whatever ‘regrouping’ means, I’m up for it.

‘Just recover our friendship’, she texts back.

‘Sounds good’, is my thumbed reply.

I let Kiera know what’s happened by text, assure her I’m fine, tell her that as soon as I can I’d like to see Noah. I resist the urge to text or call Meg. I’m still reeling from the fact that she never came to see me. It hurts far more than the vice-like squeeze I felt on my heart last Monday and I still don’t get it. I know she’s winded from my deceit; I know she told me we were finished, but … this is my little girl. I didn’t believe her then. I didn’t think she really meant it. Now, I do, and the pain is something no fucking statin or blood-thinner will cure.

I drink two strong coffees, eat a plateful of food. The eggs are fried, sunny side up, and the bread, my only concession to improving my health today, is brown with seeds in it. I clear the plate and ask for another helping of toast – with butter.

With the prospect of the weekend stretching beyond me, nowhere to go, no one to see, I already feel restless. A quiet angst fills my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I swallow the pills I need with the last of my coffee and pay the bill. Not being able to run, I decide to, at least, walk up along the river. I make it as far as the riverboat stop, just by the steps up to Canary Wharf, before the tiredness kicks in.

It feels overwhelming, as if I have no choice but to stop. I look up. I know there are twenty-three stone steps because last week I was running up and down them, Rocky-like. Today, I turn around and slowly walk back to the flat. Maybe next month …

I download the fourth series of
Breaking Bad
, make myself a cup of tea and settle in for the day. Wrapped in a blanket, I stare at the television and lose myself in the lives of a fictional teacher-cum-drug overlord. Somehow, his life seems more real than my own.

At six o’clock there’s a knock on the door, not a ring on the bell from the main door downstairs, but a knock on the actual flat door. I press pause, gather my blanket around me and peer through the spyhole.

I open it quickly, almost tripping myself up.

‘Dad,’ she says, walking past me.

‘You came.’ I’m reminded of the last time I saw her and she screamed that we were finished.

She looks back over her shoulder. ‘I did.’

I shut the front door and follow her through to the one room that combines the kitchen and living space. She has automatically walked through to the kitchen. I return to the sofa.

‘I’ve been immersed in a book about the psychology of serial killers,’ she says, ‘and I’ve come to the conclusion there are worse people in the world than you. So, here I am.’

I’m not quite sure what to say. I’m thrilled she’s here. I’m not so thrilled she’s here because, in comparison to a habitual murderer, I’m not so bad. I say nothing.

‘I’ve brought some food. Soup and a cooked chicken with salad. I Googled what you should be eating.’

I try not to shiver at the mention of a salad. Outside, the slate-grey sky is threatening snow. Salad in December. Thank you, Heart, thank you very much.

‘It was only a shot across the bows,’ I repeat the medic’s words. ‘More a warning.’

‘The thing about warnings.’ She peers over the breakfast bar between the kitchen and the living room. ‘Is that you have to decide to listen to them?’

I nod, the guilt over my only meal today already setting in.

‘You watching
Breaking Bad
?’

‘Yes, just catching up.’ I don’t tell her that I’ve already watched seven episodes today. ‘Meg, thank you for coming.’ I’m not sure how else to say it.

‘I can’t stay long. Jack is expecting me. I’m here to make sure you have a meal and fill you in on the procedure – that’s all.’

There’s a finality at the end of her sentence that confirms she’s still pissed off at me.

‘Jack is wondering what sort of family I have,’ she continues. ‘This year I’m dealing with the break-up of my parents’ marriage and the discovery of a secret – and, oh, dying – brother.’

She’s counting out my sins on her fingers.

‘Oh, and some stem cell donation thrown in for good measure.’

She has only reached her third finger, but looks as though she’s not finished and, yes, put like that, my guilt is multiplying as she speaks. It feels as if it’s in the fibres of the shabby tartan cloth wrapped around me.

‘Not to mention the fact that all of this means that you’re a liar. When you left us first …’

I inhale deeply, wait for the sucker punch.

‘When you left us,’ she repeats, then bites her lip, ‘Mum was the one who told me to keep communication lines open with you. She was the one who told me that you’d lied to her but never to me, but that’s not true, Dad, is it? You’ve been lying to me all along too.’ She stares at me, but I have no response. Nothing. ‘Talk about something else,’ she demands as she stabs a cooked chicken with a large carving fork. ‘Just do, before I decide this was a bad idea.’

‘Are you getting the hormone injections?’ Probably not the best change of tack, but it’s all I have.

She nods. ‘Yes, a nurse comes in each day for the four days beforehand, gives me a quick shot …’

‘Will your mum definitely be with you for the extraction?’

‘She will.’

‘Okay.’ No invite for me then. ‘Are you staying to eat?’ I try and keep the hope from my voice. I’m desperate for her company for a few more hours.

She hesitates. ‘I’ll have some soup with you, but then I’ve got to go.’

Outside, a small sprinkling of snow is beginning to fall. It leaves a dusting on the narrow wooden slats of the balcony. Part of me hopes it becomes a flurry and that it settles and that we get snowed in and that she can’t leave for a while. Maybe if I could get her to listen, she might look me in the eye again …

Just minutes later, we are both sitting at the tiny breakfast bar supping soup. It tastes delicious.

‘Have you heard how your mum got on in LA?’

‘She had a fantastic time. They love her out there.’ Meg swirls her soup around with a spoon then takes a sip. ‘Of course, she was floored when she got the call from the hospital.
That
upset her.’

‘I know. I feel bad. She must have got a fright. I hate having disturbed her time over there.’

‘It was obvious, talking to the medical people, that you were fine. Both Mum and I talked to your doctors separately.’

I eat the last of my soup. ‘They must have wondered. Wondered why neither of you turned up.’ I try not to sound resentful.

She shrugs, half smiling. ‘I asked if your life was in danger and they said no. She did the same. If I wasn’t going to come to see you from Clapham, there was no chance she was coming from LA.’

‘Of course not …’

Meg clears the soup dishes away and plates up my dinner. ‘Right, I’ll head off and leave you to it.’ She slips her coat over her shoulders, puts a floppy, woolly hat on her head. ‘Why did you never tell us about your son, Dad?’ And there it is, the eyeball look. Probably the real reason she’s here. The Meg I know will always want to know why … Why are there leaves on the trees, Daddy? Why are boys different to girls, Daddy? Where do colours come from, Daddy? Why do numbers happen the way they do, Daddy? Why are you such a lying bastard, Daddy? Her penetrating eyes fix on mine with such intent that I avert my own. I can’t bear that accusatory stare.

I’ve known it’s coming, this exact question, but it still floors me. I sit back down, on the edge of the sofa.

‘It was like if I didn’t say it out loud, it wasn’t real.’ It’s a crap explanation, I know.

‘But Mum knew about this Kiera woman anyway. Pregnancies happen, although honestly, the lectures I’ve had from you over the years on safe sex?’

She’s right. I’ve been a hypocrite as well as a liar.

‘I might have liked to know my brother.’

‘It would have killed your mother. It would have killed us, me and her. And it would have killed me and you.’

She shakes her head. ‘I disagree. It’s done all of that now, but only after years of lying.’

‘We’ll never know how things might have worked out. I did what I did because I thought it was best for everyone.’

‘You know you did what you did because it was best for you.’

My shoulders slump and I stand up. Her final, caustic line stings. She will probably never understand how lies beget lies. One leads to two, then three, then thirty.

‘Maybe,’ I concede, as she walks away, and I know that, despite her being here, forgiveness is a long way off.

‘Enjoy your meal,’ she says, pulling open the front door and then, without a hug or a kiss, she’s gone. I stare at the plate of chicken and know I’ll never eat it.