Or…
“Jealousy. I’m jealous of people who had a normal childhood.”
Or…
“Grief…”
“What, again?” demanded Meredia. “We had grief only a couple of days ago.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “But it’s a different kind of grief; this time it’s grief for me.”
We had all kinds of wonderful, metaphysical discussions.
I instigated a lot of conversations about survival in extreme circumstances.
“Remember those boys that were in the plane crash in the Andes?” I asked.
“The ones who ate the other passengers?” asked Meredia.
“And the survivors were shunned by the rest of the town when they got home for eating their neighbours?” asked Jed.
As an office, we had never stinted on reading the tabloids.
“That’s right,” I said. “So do you think it’s better to die with honor or to get your hands good and dirty in the base, ignoble struggle for survival?” We argued it back and forth for hours, and pondered vital moral issues.
“What do you think human flesh tastes like?” asked Jed. “I think I heard someone say it was a bit like chicken.”
“Chicken breast or chicken thigh?” asked Meredia
thoughtfully. “Because if it was chicken breast I wouldn’t mind, but if it was chicken thigh I don’t think I could.”
“Me neither,” I agreed. “Not unless it was in barbecue sauce.”
“Do you think they cooked it or ate it raw?” asked Megan.
“Probably raw,” I said.
“Shut up or I might puke,” said Megan.
“Really?” We all looked at her in surprise. Megan wasn’t the squeamish type.
“But you weren’t out drinking last night.” I was confused.
She did look pale. But that could have just been because her tan had finally faded.
She placed her hand on her chest and made heaving kind of actions.
“Are you really going to puke?” I asked in alarm. Jed thoughtfully placed a wastepaper basket on her lap.
The three of us stared at her, delighted with the drama, hoping that she might throw up and add some excitement to our day. But she didn’t. After a few minutes she flung the basket on the floor and said, “Okay I’m fine. Let’s have a show of hands. All those in favour of eating the corpses for survival?”
Three hands shot up.
“Come on, Lucy,” said Jed. “Put your hand up.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Lucy, who did you allow to survive? You or your father? Eh?”
I shamefacedly put my hand up. Then while Meredia still had her hand up, Jed tickled under her arm. She squealed and giggled and said, “Ooooh, you little…” Oblivious of their audience, they called each other names and pretended to wrestle. I raised my eyebrows meaningfully at Megan, and she raised hers back at me.
Gray January limped along. And my social life remained barren.
I recommenced my close relationship with Adrian in the video shop.
I tried to take out When a Man Loves a Woman and came home instead with Krzysztof Kieslowski’s The Double Life of Veronique. I wanted to rent Postcards from the Edge and somehow ended up with Il Postino (the undubbed, unsubtitled version). I begged Adrian to give me Leaving Las Vegas but instead he gave me something called Eine Sonderbare Liebe, which I didn’t even bother to watch.
I didn’t really need to go out because there was a real life soap opera taking place in my office. Meredia and Jed had become very close. Very close indeed. They always left at the same time—although that was no great surprise because every employee in the building bolted from their desks the second it was five o’clock. But, more tellingly, they always arrived at the same time. And their behaviour in the office was very loving and couply. Giggly and coy and constantly simpering and blushing—Jed seemed to have fallen hard. And they had a private little game that no one else was allowed to play, where Meredia threw Rolos or grapes in an arc across the office at Jed and he tried to catch them in his mouth, then flapped his arms together and made seal noises.
I envied them their happiness.
I was delighted that they were falling in love before my very eyes. Because I could no longer depend on Megan to provide me with romantic drama. She had changed. She didn’t look like Megan anymore, as the sharp falloff in the number of young men hanging around the office was testament to—now we could get out the door without having to push and shove grimly and say, “Excuse me, do you mind?” I couldn’t figure out what was different about her and then I realized. Of course! The tan—it was no more. Winter had finally run her into the ground and stripped her of her golden, lit-from-within translucence. It had faded her from a magnificent goddess to an ordinary, sturdy girl whose hair sometimes looked greasy.
But I realized that it wasn’t just her good looks that had been muted. She wasn’t the breezy, happy, energetic person she used to be. She no longer tried to find out Meredia’s real name. She was often sullen and snappy, and it worried me.
That was quite an achievement, considering how busy I was feeling sorry for myself, but I cared about her.
I tried to find out what was wrong—and not just out of morbid curiosity either. I drew blanks until the day I tentatively asked her if she missed Australia. She turned to me and yelled, “Okay, Lucy, I’m bloody homesick! Now, stop asking me what’s wrong.”
I knew how she felt—I had spent my whole life feeling homesick. The only difference between the two of us was that I didn’t know what or where home was.
As soon as I realized that Megan’s happiness was solar powered, I was anxious to give her some sun. Although I couldn’t buy her a trip to Australia, I could buy her a gift certificate from the tanning salon near work. But when I gave it to her, she looked appalled. She stared at it like it was a warrant for her death, then finally choked out, “No Lucy, I couldn’t.”
And then I was really worried about her—it’s not that Megan was a stingy woman, but she had a great deal of respect for money and especially for things that were free.
But, no matter how hard I tried, she continued to insist that it was far too decent of me and that she couldn’t possibly accept.
So, in the end I went myself and all it did was give me eight million more freckles than I already had.
Chapter 78
The only person I saw in any kind of a social sense was Daniel. He was always available because he was still without a girlfriend, which must have been the longest gap since the day he was born. I didn’t feel guilty about the time he spent with me—I reckoned I was keeping him out of harm’s way and saving some poor woman from falling in love with him.
I always felt really glad to see him, but I knew it was just because he filled the fatherless vacuum in my life. And I thought it was very important to tell him that—I didn’t want him to get the idea that I might, God forbid, be attracted to him. So every time I met him, the first thing I said was, “I’m very glad to see you, Daniel, but only because you’re filling an empty space in my life.” And he showed unusual restraint by not making some vulgar comment about which one of my empty spaces he’d like to be filling. Which made me sad for the days when he made suggestive remarks to me all the time.
I said the empty space thing so often, that in the end he used to beat me to it. Whenever I said, “Hi Daniel, it’s lovely to see you…” he’d interrupt, “Yes, yes, Lucy, I know, but it’s only because I’m filling the father figure gap in your life.”
We went out two or three times a week, and somehow I never got around to telling Karen about it. I meant to, of course, but I was so concerned with trying to ration the number of times I saw Daniel that I didn’t have the energy to tackle Karen.
At least that was what I liked to believe. And it was hard work trying to not see Daniel every night.
“Stop asking me out!” I scolded him, one evening while he cooked dinner for me at his apartment.
&nbs
p; “Sorry, Lucy,” he said humbly, as he chopped carrots.
“I can’t let myself become too dependent on you,” I complained. “There’s a danger it could happen, you know, because without Dad there’s a big gap in my life…”
“…And your immediate instinct is to fill it,” he finished for me. “You’re very vulnerable right now and you can’t afford to become too close to anyone.”
I looked at him with admiration.
“Very good, Daniel. Now finish the sentence. Especially not who? Who should I especially not become too close to?”
“Especially not a man,” he said proudly.
“Correct,” I beamed. “Top marks.”
I was delighted with him for knowing so much psychobabble. Especially when you considered that he was a good-looking man who enjoyed great success with women and didn’t need to read up on pop psychology.
“Oh, while I think of it,” I said. “Will you come to the movies with me tomorrow night?”
“Of course I will, Lucy, but didn’t you just say you can’t get too close to a man…”
“I don’t mean you,” I said airily. “You don’t count as a man.”
He threw me a hurt look.
“Oh, you know what I mean.” I was exasperated. “Of course you’re a man for other women, but you’re my friend.”
“I’m still a man,” he muttered. “Even if I’m your friend.”
“Daniel, don’t sulk. Think about it—isn’t it far better for me to be with you than with some other man that I might fall for? Well, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…” he trailed away. He sounded confused.
He wasn’t the only one. I didn’t know whether it was safe to be with Daniel because it was keeping me out of harm’s way or whether I was putting myself in mortal danger of becoming too close to him. On balance I thought I was safer with him than not with him. And I kept the barriers up simply by constantly reminding him that they were there. It was okay to be with him as long as I reminded us both that it wasn’t okay. Or something like that. All in all, it was easier not to think about it.
Occasionally I remembered the time he had kissed me, then banished the memory immediately. Because whenever I remembered it—and it really was very rarely—quick as a flash, I immediately remembered the night when he wouldn’t kiss me, and the rush of shame that followed put an end to my reminiscences good and fast.
Anyway, Daniel and I were back on our old footing, so relaxed with each other that we could laugh together at our brief romantic-sexual encounter.
Well, almost.
Sometimes when he said to me, “Would you like another drink?” I forced a laugh and lightly replied, “Oh no, I’ve had enough. After all we don’t want a repeat of that night out at Dad’s when I tried to seduce you.”
I always laughed heartily, hoping to laugh away any residual shame and embarrassment. He never really laughed at all, but then again, he didn’t need to.
Chapter 79
January became February. Crocuses and snowdrops started to appear. People emerged from their cocoons, especially around the time they got paid and had money for the first time since the financial holocaust of Christmas. Meredia, Jed and Megan lost interest in my personal life now that they had money to go out drinking and create lives of their own. Which was a terrible shame because I still had so much to offer—not a day passed that I wasn’t tortured by self-loathing and shame.
I went to see Dad once a week. Every Sunday—because I always felt suicidal on Sunday anyway, and it seemed a shame to waste it. And, acute and all as my self-loathing was, it was nothing compared to the hatred that Dad had for me. Of course, I warmly welcomed his disgust and venom because I felt that it was all that I deserved.
February edged into March and I was the only living thing still in hibernation. Even though Dad was being well taken care of in a physical sense, I felt filthy with guilt. And Daniel was the only person left that I felt comfortable whining to. No matter what people say, there is a time limit to the amount of time you’re allowed to be in mourning, be it for a father, a boyfriend or a pair of shoes that they didn’t have in your size. And Daniel’s time limit was a lot longer than everyone else’s.
No one at work even listened to me anymore. On Mondays when someone asked, “Hi, nice weekend?” and I replied, “Awful, I wish I were dead,” no one lifted an eyebrow.
I think I would have gone crazy without Daniel. He was just like a therapist, except he didn’t charge me forty pounds an hour, or wear beige corduroys or socks with sandals.
It wasn’t always doom and gloom when I met him but, when it was, he was great. Time after time he listened to me covering the same ground, going over the same anguish again and again.
I could meet him for a drink after work and flop onto the seat beside him and say, “Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this, but…” and launch into yet another saga of—let’s just say—a sleepless night, or a tearful Sunday, or a miserable evening I’d had worrying or feeling guilty or ashamed about Dad. Daniel never once complained about my lack of new material. He never held up his hand like a policeman stopping traffic and said, “No, hold on! Wait a minute, Lucy, I think I know this one!”
And he would have been perfectly entitled to. Because if Daniel had heard my story of woe once, he had heard it a million times. Sometimes the wording was slightly different, but the punch line was always the same. Poor him.
“Sorry, Daniel,” I said. “I wish my misery was a bit more varied. It must be very boring for you.”
“It’s okay, Lucy.” He grinned. “I’m like a goldfish, I have a very short memory. Every time I hear it, it’s as if it’s for the first time.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” I said awkwardly.
“I’m sure,” he said cheerfully. “Come on and tell me again about the imaginary bargain that you’ve made with your father.”
I flicked him a quick glance to see if he was making fun of me, but he wasn’t. “Okay,” I said awkwardly, trying (once again) to find the right words to say how I felt. “It’s like I’ve made a bargain with Dad.”
“What kind of bargain?” Daniel asked, in the same kind of voice that music hall comedians said, “But how does he smell?” Straight man to my funny man. We made a great double act.
“It’s all in my head,” I said. “But it’s like I’ve said, ‘It’s okay, Dad, I know I abandoned you, but my life isn’t worth living because I hate myself so much for saving me instead of you. So, we’re equal. Quits.’ Am I making any sense, Dan?”
“Absolutely,” he agreed, for the umpteenth time.
It surprised me to realize how highly I thought of Daniel. He had been so good to me through the whole Dad crisis.
“You’re a good man,” I told him, one evening, when I had paused for breath.
“No, I’m not. I wouldn’t do it for anyone except you.” He smiled.
“But, even so, I mustn’t become too dependent on you,” I added hurriedly. I hadn’t said it in at least five minutes and his smile had unnerved me. I had to neutralize it. “I’m on the emotional rebound, you know.”
“Yes, Lucy.”
“I’m getting over the loss of my dad, you know.”
“Yes, Lucy.”
I wanted that twilight life to continue forever, where I didn’t have any real contact with anyone except my therapist—by which I mean Daniel. Until Daniel decided that he’d had enough, which threatened to destroy the nice safe world I’d created.
He gave me no warning.
One evening we met and I said the usual, “Hi Daniel, it’s lovely to see you but only because you’re filling a gap in my life,” he held my hand and very gently said, “Lucy, isn’t it about time that this stopped?”
“Wh-what?” I asked, feeling as if the ground had swayed beneath my feet. “What are you talking about?”
“Lucy, the last thing I want to do is upset you, but I’ve been thinking and I wondered if the time has come for you to try and get over this,” he
said, in an even more gentle tone. The expression on my face was on the rigor mortis end of the stricken scale.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have indulged you so much,” he said. He looked sick. “Maybe I’ve even been bad for you.”
“No, no,” I hastened to say. “You’ve been good for me.”
“Lucy, I think you should start going out again,” he suggested in gentle tones, which did nothing but scare me.
“But I’m out now.” I was apprehensive. Not to mention defensive. I sensed that my days in the safe haven were coming to an end.
“I mean, out, out,” said Daniel. “When are you going to start living again? Seeing other people? Going to parties?”
“When the guilt about Dad goes away, of course.” I looked at him suspiciously. “Daniel, you’re supposed to understand.”
“So you can’t have a life because you feel guilty about your dad?”
“Exactly!” I hoped that meant that the subject was closed. But it wasn’t.
Daniel said, “Guilt doesn’t go away on its own. You’ve got to make it happen.”
Oh no! I didn’t want to hear that. I decided to sway him with my womanly charms so I gave him a coy little glance from under my eyelashes.
“Please don’t look at me like that, Lucy,” he said. “It won’t work.”
“Fuck you,” I muttered, then I sat in embarrassed, sullen silence.
I tried a nasty glare, but no luck with that either. I could see he meant business.
“Lucy,” he said, “I don’t want to upset you, so please let me help you.” In fairness to him, he did sound as if he was in terrible anguish.
I sighed and gave in. “Okay, you mean bastard, help me then.”
“Lucy, your guilt will probably get less, but it won’t ever disappear completely. You’ll have to learn to live with it.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“I know, but you’re going to have to. You can’t just opt out of life until some time in the distant future when you don’t feel guilty—it might never happen.”
I had been quite happy to do just that.