You, Me and Other People (9 page)

‘Why the urgency, Beth, are you okay?’

‘Thanks for squeezing me in. I know I only saw you a few days ago, but something’s changed and I needed to let you know. For the next few minutes, I watch Caroline’s facial expressions turn from intrigue to something like pride as I explain I’ve decided – enough with the therapy, the introspection – it’s time to move on with life. We chat for just a few minutes and, as I’m about to leave, I tell her I’m having the house valued today. ‘Someone called Giles.’ I laugh and she makes a face that tells me that she, like me, knows exactly what to expect from an estate agent called Giles. ‘I didn’t catch his surname but it will be double barrelled and he’ll have a pinkie on his little finger.’

She smiles, indulging me for the few moments we have left.

‘Do you remember I named my inner saboteur Lucy Fir?’

‘Indeed I do.’ Caroline laughs out loud – the Lucifer connection had always amused her.

‘Anyway, she’s been busy this morning. I was clearing out my “fat wardrobe”, putting all my old, bigger clothes into charity bags, and she was whispering in my ear telling me to wait a while, that I’d probably grow into them again.’

‘What did you do?’

‘They’re downstairs in the boot, tied tighter than her gag.’

Caroline laughs again and I realize it’s a sound I’ve not really heard before. I’m making my therapist laugh – perhaps it really is time to move on.

‘You know, I’m not claiming it doesn’t hurt any more, but I used to walk around with a tight knot lodged in my chest and it’s gone. Adam and me, it doesn’t take up every moment of my day any more.’

‘Time …’ She shrugs. ‘It can heal the most determined, deep feelings.’

‘I like my life. I loved my life with Adam but I’ve got to learn to love it without him. I know I can. It’s what I want going forward.’ I offer her my right hand.

Her grasp is warm and sincere. ‘My door is always open,’ she smiles.

Meg is angry with me – furious, actually – for two reasons. Firstly, I’ve asked for her help in creating a CV and her response was that she’d have to make it all up, because I am a songwriter looking for a real job. I laughed and told her that this is the real world and that I’m going to have to find a
real job
, because her
errant
father may not continue being as compliant as he has been. Bad move. Bad Mummy …

The second reason is because I told her that I’m having the house valued. When I responded to her angry tirade with, ‘I refer you to the answer I gave earlier,’ she stormed off in her car and I haven’t seen her since. It’s probably just as well as, any moment now, Giles, the estate agent, will be on the doorstep.

When I hear the sound of the bell, I am shocked to see Karen. She left here this morning with Ben, telling me she’d drop him off at a Tube station en route.

‘Yeah, I know,’ she says. ‘I got home and then realized that maybe I should have stayed the weekend. So I thought I’d surprise you. Anyway, I’m back. Three tickets for the Odeon, eight o’clock showing of the latest Morgan Freeman movie. You, me, Meg.’ She waves three stubs at me, tells me if we’re quick we can get a pizza in, that she has vouchers for that too. Behind her, I see a man in a pinstripe suit walk up the drive.

Moving her gently to one side with my left arm, I hold out my right one, extending my hand. ‘Giles?’

‘Mrs Hall? Good to meet you. Yes, I’m Giles. What a lovely property.’

‘Thank you, do come in.’ From the corner of my eye, I can see Karen, tickets in her hand, an expression of pure horror on her gaping face. ‘Close your mouth, Karen,’ I whisper behind Giles’s back.

‘You’re selling the house?’ she hisses.

I push her towards the kitchen, aware that Giles has stopped to read my artwork in the hall. ‘Yes, about that,’ I call back to him, ‘I can explain.’ I park Karen on a breakfast stool, glare at her to be silent, then rush back to the hall. ‘I didn’t have time to fix it, I’m afraid. I mean, when I rang and you said you could come around today, I … I mean, obviously I’ll paint over it, but just while you’re here, valuing, I mean, I thought it’s fine.’

Giles is nodding. He’s very good-looking, I note, in an older, distinguished-looking man kind of way. Tightly cut, caramel-coloured hair that gives him an ex-army look. I imagine he’s mid-forties and, for some inexplicable reason, my eyes dart towards his wedding hand. No ring. Good. No tan lines from a ring. Good.

He catches me looking. ‘I love Ikea meatballs and I hate horseradish too. It’s great.’ He nods towards my wall art. ‘I’d leave it.’

In that moment, I decide I’m a little bit in love with Giles.

I can hear Karen putting the kettle on in the kitchen. ‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ I ask.

‘No, I won’t thanks. I’m sure you guys are busy, so we’ll just get on. Do you mind showing me around?’

‘No problem, let’s start at the top in the loft.’

Giles follows me and I find myself wishing I was wearing something other than my standard ‘writing’ uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. He glances back at Karen in the kitchen. ‘Great movie by the way, I saw it on Monday. Really good thriller, you’ll love it.’ Karen, despite herself, is immediately charmed and smiles back.

I have been cleaning like a dervish all morning, so am really pissed off at the state of Meg’s room when we’re there. ‘I’m sorry. My daughter’s nineteen. She’s just arrived back from uni for a few days.’ I look at the clothes strewn across the bed and the floor. She probably did it deliberately. I’m surprised she didn’t smear Nutella on the wall of her bathroom.

‘Please.’ Giles doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. ‘Don’t apologize. I’ve got two teenage daughters, who seem to have inherited some mutant gene that means they can’t keep anywhere tidy.’

Married then …

‘They’re only with me weekends, and in three days they manage to make my place look like the storeroom in a charity shop.’

Separated … ‘How old are they?’ I ask.

‘Sixteen – twins, Amélie and Brigitte. Their mother’s French,’ he tells me.

I nod as we navigate our way to my room, what was Adam and my bedroom. ‘This is the master,’ I tell Giles. I want to tell Giles that this is my bedroom. Mine alone. That I don’t share it with anyone. Hey, look, Giles – I’m single! I want to tell him that months of therapy are willing me to say this out loud. I want to ask him if he cheated on his wife, if that’s why they’re not together any more. I want to ask him if he’s a kind man, if he’s worth investing a bit of time in, because for the first time in over twenty years, I’m looking at another man. I want to say all these things, but I have a clear vision of him going back to his office talking about the psycho in Laurel Avenue, so I smile sweetly and say nothing.

Back in the kitchen, Giles has his electronic measuring thing held against the wall at the far end of the open-plan room. Karen catches my eye, cocks her head in his direction and licks her lips suggestively.

‘You’re dis-gust-ing.’ I mouth the words to her.

She nods, grins widely, then licks her lips again. I pass her on my way to meet Giles and give her a thump.

‘So, all done?’

‘Yes.’ He holds out his hand again, shakes mine firmly. ‘It’s a fabulous house, one we’d have no problem selling if you decide to put it on the market. Let me go back to the office and chat with some colleagues for the best valuation. There’s one around the corner on—’

Giles’s pitch is interrupted by a yelling sound in the hall. Both of us move back a couple of steps and stare at the letterbox.

‘Muuuuum. I’m sorrreeeeee. Open up, I forgot my house key. I’ll even help you with your CV. I’m sorreeeee. I know you need to get a job and I know it’s ’cause Dad’s a dickwit.’

I gulp loudly. I can feel a flush – that I suspect is purple rather than a delicate shade of red – crawl along my chest, up my neck and plant itself firmly on my cheeks.

Giles gives an understanding smile. ‘Teenagers,’ he whispers.

Meg, however, has not finished. ‘Is that Karen’s car? I thought she’d left? Whatevs. She can help. Between the three of us, we’ll have you employed in a week. Please don’t sell the house, Mum. You can have one of my kidneys?’

I rush to the front door, open it quickly and pull her kneeling figure upright.

‘Mum!’ She puts her arms around me and hugs me tight.

‘Meg.’ I wrestle away from her. ‘This is Giles, the estate agent valuing the house.’

Giles nods in her direction and now it’s Meg’s turn to colour brightly, a shade she has definitely inherited from me. I can hear Karen in the kitchen and am not sure if she’s laughing or crying.

Meg jerks her head towards Giles and edges her way towards Karen’s sounds.

At the doorway, he hands me his business card. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow morning with an exact valuation. A price and marketing plan, should you decide to instruct us.’ Giles bites his lower lip. ‘Er, I should just let you know that if the house is in two names, we would need both permissions before actively marketing it.’

‘That won’t be a problem. If we sell the house, it will be because my ex and I both agree to sell it.’ I can’t believe I’ve called Adam ‘my ex’. ‘Well, he’s not officially my ex yet, but he will be.’ I hear myself stumble over my impossibly stupid explanation.

‘It’s a tough time.’ Giles seems to stare out over my hedges in the front garden. ‘Anyway, I must get back. I’ll call you in the morning but, in the meantime, if you have any questions, the mobile and email are on the card.’

I watch Giles walk down the garden, past Karen’s, mine and Meg’s cars. Looking down, I see his surname is not double barrelled, but ‘Brousseau’, a French name. Hmmm, an Englishman with a possible French father, married to a Frenchwoman?

‘Oh, by the way.’ He has turned back. ‘Email me that CV when you have it done. We have a vacancy for a part-time receptionist. I’m not sure what you’re after, but your daughter should probably keep both kidneys?’ Both his eyebrows move north and he smiles broadly.

I laugh. ‘I will. Thank you.’ And then, he’s gone.

‘What in hell have you been up to?’ Ben’s voice seems to echo in the flat. We’re in the kitchen and I spot his travel holdalls stacked in the corner, realising he must have dropped them off last night before seeing Beth.

His level of concern for me is slightly worrying. His face, younger and much more handsome than mine, is creasing as he looks me up and down. His eyes, eyes that have had the luxury of being worry-free for the last year, seem uneasy, and his general demeanour is stressed, nervous.

‘Why do
you
look so worried? You’ve just had a year off work, travelling the world.’ I take a bite of the warm buttered toast he’s handed me and stare back. It smells and tastes divine.

‘Don’t answer a question with a question.’

‘It’s difficult to know where to start …’

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t,’ I conclude. ‘You don’t see. Beth has obviously got to you first, and now you think I’m an awful shit who tells lies all the time.’

‘Do you tell lies all the time?’

I don’t remember the brother who left last year being so persistent. I hesitate a moment. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Only when it’s necessary and only ever to avoid hurting people I love.’

‘And how’s that working out for you?’

That trace of sarcasm in his voice, that air of judging superiority, makes me want to punch him. I want to pretend we’re twelve and ten, shove him to the kitchen floor and knock his stupid lights out. ‘Not all of us have had the luxury of chilling in some yoga retreat, with some chanting guru steering our path to perfection.’ I chuck the remaining toast in his direction. He ducks and I retreat to the bedroom.

Moments later, he knocks on the door. Inside, I’m packing a bag. ‘It’s your bedroom!’ I yell at him.

He opens the door and his large frame fills the doorway.

‘There was very little chanting,’ he says, his arms folded defensively, ‘and I haven’t yet managed to find the path to perfection.’

‘Yeah, well, when you do, remember your big brother’s had a different journey.’

Suddenly, he’s beside me. He is taking the clothes I am throwing into the bag out again and then he holds me tight, a big bear hug. ‘Stop,’ he whispers. ‘Let me be the strong one for a while. I owe you that …’

I crumple in his embrace, drop to the bed and cry – deep, heavy, wracking sobs. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t leave my side. We sit like that, edged together like bookends, for what seems an age. Eventually, he looks at his wrist.

‘C’mon, get dressed. We’re going to the pub, you’re going to tell me all about it and we’re going to get sozzled.’

‘How much did Beth tell you?’ We’re sitting in The Narrow, the closest pub to the flat, which sits at the mouth of the Thames at Limehouse Basin. It’s a dull, dank day and the river, as always, is busy, with more traffic on it than the surrounding streets. Ben hasn’t replied yet. He seems to be taking his time, watching life on the water go by. ‘Ben?’

He shakes his head, as if to bring him back to the moment. ‘She told me you’d left, that you have a girlfriend; that “you and she are no more”.’ He mimics quotation marks in the air with his fingers. ‘That’s it really; she was a bit sketchy on the detail. Most of the time I spent there was taking that much in, and making sure she was all right.’

‘Is she? All right, I mean.’

‘She seems to be. She had her friend Karen with her. I think I interrupted a Bridget Jones evening.’

My eyebrows rise.

‘You haven’t seen
Bridget Jones’s Diary
?’ He laughs. ‘Suffice to say, they had heartbreak music on, they were both dressed in matching pyjamas, and there was spaghetti bolognese followed by chocolate ice cream.’

I find myself nodding, although I have no idea what he means. Beth is not one for matching pyjamas, and she’s a ‘crisps’ girl – she doesn’t really like ice cream, unless it’s the Ben and Jerry’s one with big chunks of caramel in it.

‘What did you think of Karen? How long is it since you’ve seen her?’

Ben sighs. ‘Ages, years … I don’t think our paths crossed at all when I was with Elise.’ He shakes his head, a tiny movement, as if to jerk himself from a sad memory. ‘Wasn’t she married? I seem to remember she was married?’

‘She was once, ages ago. It only lasted a couple of years.’ My shoulders rise and fall.

‘She was married, I was practically married. I guess I never paid much attention but Christ, she’s hot. I think I’m a little bit in love with her. Mind you, she’s not a fan – of yours I mean. She really has it in for you.’

I swallow half of my pint as I digest what I already know. Karen hates me. This is bad enough, without Ben walking around with a hard-on for her.

‘She is a looker,’ I agree. ‘But watch it. She’d eat you up and spit you out.’

‘I look forward to it.’ He smiles, raising his first pint of the day to his lips.

‘I’m serious, Ben, there’s—’

‘Adam, we’re here to talk about you,’ he interrupts, holding a palm up. ‘C’mon, let’s start at the very beginning.’

I watch my brother, now observing the swell of the muddy Thames again – take in the contours of his face, more obvious after a year in the sun. His eyes seem bluer than they were, a few fret lines around their edges. His hair has been sun-bleached and needs a good cut. He’s wearing canvas trousers with more pockets in them than even Bear Grylls would ever need. His T-shirt has a tiny hole at the collar and displays the washed-out logo of some Indian beer; I don’t recognize the name of it. He has faded leather flip-flops on his feet and I wonder if his feet are cold. All of this he manages to carry off at forty-one. Rather than look like an ageing surfer dude, he wears the look of a relaxed man, approaching middle age and comfortable in his own skin. I realize that I envy him.

I follow his gaze to the river, full to the brim at high tide, and wonder where to begin, where exactly is the beginning? Do I start almost a year ago, when he went overseas? That was a time when Beth and I were still making plans, still had a future together. Do I go back to the night I met Emma? That cab journey home? Or my night with Kiera?

‘Do you ever think of Mum and Dad?’ He interrupts my flow of suitable beginnings.

‘Of course. I went to visit them a few days ago.’

‘No, I meant, think of the time that …’ He doesn’t finish the sentence.

‘No.’ My tone is abrupt. That is not the beginning that I had in mind, and I’m pretty sure I’m not willing to go there.

He doesn’t pursue it, just nods. I wave at the waitress to bring me another pint, ignoring the clock on the wall telling me it’s only half past eleven in the morning.

‘A long time ago, I cheated on Beth for the first time,’ is, I decide, my opener.

Ben’s blue eyes are steady – he doesn’t flinch; not even a flicker of an iris.

‘I had a one-night stand.’ I see it then, a barely noticeable raising of his left eyebrow. He already doesn’t believe me. ‘It was just one night,’ I continue. ‘She was a client.’

‘Does Beth know?’

‘Yes. I told her. It was a mistake, a stupid fuck-up on my part. But we sorted it, we put it behind us.’ Something in the speaking aloud of these words doesn’t ring true. I’m surprised that I can hear it and imagine Ben is hearing it with bells on.

‘She forgave you?’

‘She did,’ I reply, ‘but she never forgot. I don’t think she ever completely trusted me again.’

‘Well, she was right not to, wasn’t she?’

I sigh. ‘Nothing else happened until this year, nearly six months ago.’ The waitress arrives with our pints.

‘Let’s order some food,’ Ben says, leaning forward. ‘Is it too late for a full English?’ He smiles a winning smile at her.

She looks at the clock, then smiles back at him. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

I’m unsure how it will go down with Guinness but hear myself say, ‘Make that two.’ I try my own captivating smile, but she’s lost to my younger brother – the fledgling version of myself; the more youthful, honest, trustworthy edition. I sit back in the library-style chair. It is dull, slate grey, mottled leather, with a studded high back and two armrests. I’m holding my pint in my left hand, with my right arm resting on the right armrest. I notice that my skin is pale, veined and almost as mottled as the hide it rests on. I need a sun holiday. Switching my gaze from my arm to the other early drinkers, I try to ignore the full English breakfast flirtations in front of me.

‘So, nearly six months ago,’ Ben says when the waitress leaves. ‘What happened?’

‘I met Emma. We were on a works night out.’ I shrug. ‘What can I say? I fell for her feminine charms. I was flattered that a younger, gorgeous woman fancied me. And the sex is amazing.’ I flash a conspiratorial smile at my brother, but he doesn’t smile back.

‘When did you leave Beth?’ he asks.

‘A few months after it started. She guessed – tackled me about it. I couldn’t lie. I knew she knew. And, as far as leaving her is concerned, let the record show that I did not willingly leave. She threw me out.’

He seems to ignore this. ‘Why didn’t you stop the affair, try and persuade Beth to take you back? She did it once before.’

I shake my head. ‘She wouldn’t even listen to me. There was no coming back from this.’

‘Did you try?’

‘What do you mean?’ I put my drink on the coffee table. The conspiracy theorist in me thinks they’ve all been talking: Sybil, Meg and Ben.

‘Did you try and persuade her? Tell her it was a mistake. Tell her you love her, fight for her?’

‘No.’ I crack my knuckles. ‘I didn’t. When she threw me out, I went straight to Emma’s and had sex and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.’ I know I sound like a petulant child, but I don’t care.

‘And how’s that working out for you?’

‘Not great,’ I concede, determined not to rise to his prodding. ‘I’ve made better decisions.’

We sit for a few minutes, silent. I’m trying to convince myself that he is in fact trying to help, but all I can hear is, ‘How’s that working out for you?’ over and over again in my head. It’s not, is what I want to tell him. I want to pick up the phone and plead with Beth to take me back, but I know she won’t and I know she shouldn’t. I’m probably a good man but – even I know – I’m a shit husband.

‘Who’s Noah?’ Ben asks suddenly. ‘You never said earlier.’

I swear I can see stars. Little silver speckles of light flicking across my eyeline. On the sparkly horizon, I see our waitress heading in our direction with what look like two lovely breakfasts on a large metallic tray. My stomach curdles, my appetite gone in an instant.

‘Adam?’ Ben’s voice seems muted.

‘He’s my son,’ I tell the riverboats, the captains, the passengers, the seagulls. Somehow, though, Ben hears, and when I turn back to him, his face has aged a decade. Now he looks just like me.