‘Then how do you know it’s true? Maybe you’re not difficult to live with at all, maybe you’re just a busy, successful, beautiful woman who won’t settle for anything but the best – and why should you?’
That moves me, almost to tears.
‘Maybe,’ he says.
My tears instantly dry.
‘Or maybe you’re crap in bed and impossible to live with.’
You start laughing and I throw a nacho at you.
‘He told me tonight that he was lonely in my company. That’s why he left me.’
Silence.
‘Lonely in your company,’ you say slowly, thoughtfully.
‘Lonely in my company,’ I repeat, refilling my glass.
Imagine how I felt – imagine how he’d felt, being with somebody who made him feel lonely. It’s quite an awful thing to feel lonely in the company of someone you love. It is quite something to say it, it is unbearable to be the one to hear it, to be the one to have it said of you.
‘He said this before or after you slept with him?’ you ask, leaning forward, elbows on the table, interested, studying me.
‘Before. But I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t a line.’
‘It was a line,’ you say, annoyed. ‘Come on, Jasmine, it was a line. I bet you two were on your own somewhere, bet it was the end of the night, he takes you aside, talks to Jasmine, still single and jobless, bound to be in a vulnerable state, her friends popping sprogs all around her. Even though she says she doesn’t want them, it’s still going to get her thinking. And then he pulls the line out of his pocket. He looks at you, all red hair and big tits …’
I snort, trying not to smile.
‘Smudged eyeliner …’
I wipe under my eyes.
‘It’s a line. It’s bound to go one of two ways: either you get angry and throw your drink on him, or you feel guilty and he gets laid. Nine times out of ten, it works.’
‘To quote Dr J: “Codswallop!” You did not try that ten times,’ I say, dubious.
‘Twice. Got a drink in my face once, got my happy ending once. And the drink in question was a Sambuca, which really stung my skin, with the coffee bean still on fire.’
I laugh.
‘Finally. She smiles,’ you say softly.
I light up a cigarette.
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘Only when I drink.’
‘Wild thing.’
I roll my eyes.
‘So what about your boyfriend? You going to tell him about what you did tonight?’
‘What boyfriend?’
‘The good-looking guy who calls around all the time. The one who’s not your cousin.’ You hold your hands up and laugh. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend. That’s Monday. He’s a headhunter. He was trying to get me to go for a job.’
‘Monday?’
‘He was born on a Monday.’
‘Right. And Monday is headhunting you.’
I don’t like the amused look on your face.
‘Was. Or do you think that was a line too?’ I’m being sarcastic, I don’t expect you to give it serious consideration.
‘What was the job?’
‘Working with the DavidGordonWhite Foundation.’
‘The tax consultants?’
‘They have a new foundation dedicated to climate justice.’
You look at me pointedly. ‘You do start-ups.’
‘It’s new. I’d have to start it up.’
‘And you’re telling me he’s not trying to get you into bed?’
‘I wish he would,’ I reply, and you laugh. I drop the cigarette on the ground and pivot on it with my strappy heel. For a moment I’d contemplated extinguishing it on the varnished table, but the thought of the children’s hard work stopped me. ‘Anyway it’s too late. I missed the interview.’
‘Why? Get scared?’ You’re not teasing this time.
‘No.’ But I was scared, though it wasn’t over the job.
I think about telling you the truth. It would mean having to explain my fears about Heather going away on her own, and I don’t want to reinforce your stereotypical view of Down syndrome, even if my own thinking was wrong. She has been home for one week and while we have spoken on the phone – of course she’s talking to me, Heather couldn’t be any other way – things are not the same. She is distant. I’ve lost a piece of her, the invisible piece that held her and me together.
‘Did you miss the interview because you were drunk?’ you ask, concerned.
‘No,’ I snap.
‘Okay, okay. It just seems to be a recurring theme these days, so I thought I should mention it, seeing as you so kindly brought my drinking to my attention.’ You hold your hands up, defensively.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, more calmly. ‘I’m just … so …’ I make a fart noise with my mouth and then sigh, unable to sum up my feelings any more than that.
‘Yeah. I understand.’
And despite my inability to explain, I think that you do understand exactly. We sit in a comfortable silence which makes me think of how Jonathan and Heather were together, the jealousy I felt, not realising I have that comfort right here with you.
‘That man who comes over to your house with the little girl. Is that your dad?’
I nod.
‘He seems like a good dad.’
I think you’re going to start picking at me again, but as you run your hand down the smooth varnished wood I know that you’re thinking about yourself and your current predicament.
‘He is now,’ I say. I want to add to someone else, but I don’t.
You look up at me. Study me in that way that you do, which I hate, because it’s as though you’re seeing, or trying to see right through to my soul.
‘Interesting.’
‘Interesting,’ I sigh. ‘What’s interesting about that?’
‘It explains the things you said to me, that’s all.’
‘I told you you were a terrible dad because you were a terrible dad.’
‘But you noticed it. It bothered you.’
I don’t respond. I drink instead.
‘Is he trying to make up for it now?’
‘No, he’s interfering in my life – different thing altogether.’ On your questioning look, I explain: ‘He’s trying to get me a job. At his old company. Pull in a few favours, that kind of thing.’
‘That sounds helpful.’
‘It’s not helpful. It’s nepotism.’
‘Is it a good job?’
‘Actually, yes, it is. Account director, manage a team of eight. Forty thousand,’ I repeat dad’s mantra in a bad impression of him.
‘It’s a good job.’
‘Yes, it’s a great job. That’s what I said.’
‘Not something that he’d give to anyone.’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’d have to do an interview.’
‘Of course. It’s not his company any more. He’s only putting my name forward.’
‘So he believes in you. Thinks you’re capable. I’m sure he’s a proud man. He wouldn’t want to be embarrassed by an underperforming daughter.’
I prickle at that and wonder if you’re referring to Heather. I ready myself, but realise you’re not. I don’t know what to say to you.
‘I’d take it as a compliment.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You and Fionn have a lot in common,’ you say, and I know you’re criticising my childish response, but I go for the jugular.
‘Because we’ve both got crap dads?’
You sigh. ‘If I told you I knew someone with a great idea for a start-up, and they were looking for someone to work with, would you be interested?’
‘Is her name Caroline?’ I say, and hear the dread in my voice.
‘I mean hypothetically.’
‘Yes. I would meet them.’
‘But your dad knows someone who’s looking for someone and you won’t entertain i
t.’
I don’t know how to answer, so in the spirit of Fionn, I shrug.
‘I wouldn’t rule it out if I were you.’
‘I don’t need his help.’
‘Yes, you do.’
I’m silent.
‘You’ve a headhunter hunting you for a job you would have taken by now if you were in any way interested, and a friend who wants you to help her set up a website about dresses. I was in your house, I heard,’ you explain, seeing my reaction. ‘Of course you need help.’
I’m silent.
‘I know you don’t like other people’s opinions. You think they’re wrong. That they’re not open-minded. Don’t look at me like that, you’ve told me this. Sometimes – just sometimes – I think you look at things entirely the wrong way. I don’t know what you think you’re defending yourself against, but it’s all the wrong things.’
You let that hang for a while. I preferred it when I hated you and we didn’t speak. But seeing as you’ve picked through me and my issues, I feel we’ve reached the point where I can tackle yours. ‘What’s with the Guns N’ Roses song?’
You look at me blankly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘“Paradise City”?’ I smile. ‘It’s blaring out most nights when you come home.’
You stare at me blankly. ‘Nothing. The CD player in the jeep is jammed. It’s the only song that plays.’
I’m disappointed. Where I thought I found meaning in you, it turns out I am wrong. Where I thought I had a glimpse of something, I am mistaken.
‘I better get back to bed, the kids will be up early in the morning. We’re picking our peas tomorrow and planting tomatoes.’
I make a faux impressed face. I’m actually jealous. My peas failed.
‘You okay here?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just for the record, Jasmine: I would have said the opposite about you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If it wasn’t for you, I would have been alone too many times. I’ve never felt lonely in your company, not for a second.’
My breath catches in my throat. I watch you disappear inside the house. I suddenly feel stone-cold sober. Although I’m dizzy, I have clarity of thought. I’m sitting at the head of the table, at the seat you usually sit in. Your drinking table. How the tables turn in life.
22
The following morning I’m woken by the sun streaming in on my face and the doorbell is ringing. My head is hot, as though I’ve been lying on the tarmac with a magnifying glass held over my face, God’s childish joke on me. I didn’t bother closing the curtains when I fell into bed. Everything comes back to me in an instant, as though I’m being hit over the head with a stone-filled sock. The christening, Laurence. I don’t even care that I dragged you out of bed last night, it is Laurence that beats everything, hands down. The doorbell continues to ring.
‘She’s not here, Dad!’ I hear a little girl’s voice shout beneath my window. Kylie. Or maybe Kris, whose voice hasn’t broken yet.
‘She’s there. Keep trying,’ I hear you shout across the road.
I grunt as I open my eyes and try to adjust to the white light. My mouth is like sandpaper and I look to my bedside locker for water and instead see an empty bottle of vodka. My stomach heaves. This is becoming all too familiar and I know, I just know, that this is the last time this will happen. I can’t take any more. Wanting to be out of my system is now all out of my system. I want to come back now. My alarm clock tells me it is noon and I believe it, the midday sun on my hot cheeks.
I trip going down the stairs and catch myself on the banister. My heart is pounding from the shock, but it gives me the wake-up call I need. I pull open the door and two blondes and Monday stare at me, two looking my dishevelled state up and down with distaste, the other with an amused expression. I immediately close the door in their faces and I hear him laugh.
‘Come on, kids, why don’t we give her a second to get ready.’
I open the door a little for him to enter and then run upstairs to take a shower and humanise myself. I come back downstairs feeling refreshed but tender. Everything is achey – my head, my body …
‘Rough night?’ Monday asks, mildly entertained by my state. ‘Or are you still ill?’ The last sentence comes out angry, and it makes me wince.
I can barely look at him, I feel so guilty about not showing up for the interview, but mostly for not having the nerve to inform him I wouldn’t be. He has made coffee, he’s dressed casually, and somehow he seems more vulnerable out of his business suit. This doesn’t feel like a business call, he can’t hide behind the work persona that he usually disappears behind. Suddenly I feel guilty in the pit of my stomach about Laurence, as though I’ve betrayed Monday, even though there was never anything between us. He is a headhunter and I am unemployed and there was never anything more, or even a hint, but the deception I feel tells me that there was something. It was silent and hidden but it was there. And of course it took sleeping with someone else to realise that.
‘Monday,’ I take his hand, which takes him by surprise. ‘I am so sorry about last week. Please don’t think that it was a decision that I took lightly, because it wasn’t. I want to explain everything to you now and I hope you’ll understand.’
‘So you weren’t sick then,’ he says flatly.
‘No.’ I bite my lip.
‘I don’t think we’ll have much time to talk,’ he says, looking at his watch and my heart falls.
‘If you can, please stay, I’ll explain everything—’
‘No, I’m not leaving,’ he says, leaning against the kitchen counter, folding his arms and looking at me.
I’m confused but I can barely hold his look without smiling. He softens me so much, turns me to mush. He finally smiles and shakes his head, as though doing so is against his better judgement.
‘You’re a mess, you know that?’ he says it gently, as though it’s a compliment and I take it as such.
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
He watches my lips and swallows hard and I wonder when on earth it’s going to happen, I mean, I think it’s really going to happen, maybe I should say something, make the first move to kiss him, but the doorbell rings and he jumps, startled, as though we’ve been caught.
I sigh and open the door and in you walk with your blonde children, my dad, Zara, Leilah, who is looking very apologetic, and behind her is Kevin, closely followed by Heather and her assistant Jamie. Heather is looking very proud of herself. You look like you’re finding this hilarious. Monday is suddenly looking at me with concern. He steps away from the counter and drops his folded arms.
‘Are you okay?’
My body has started to tremble from head to toe. I’m not sure if alcohol withdrawal has something to do with it, but the sense of terror that has engulfed me over what is to come is certainly playing a part. The earlier heart-pound of passion is gone, now it is dread, anxiety, nerves. My brain is telling my body to run. Now! Fight or flight, and flight has well and truly kicked in. I know what this is, I know what they’ve done. I can tell from the proud look on Heather’s face that she feels she is doing this for my own benefit, that I will be happy about this.
Kevin gives me a warm hug, which makes me freeze with my hands elevated in the air, away from his body, unable to touch him.
You chuckle, my life your Saturday entertainment on this match-free summer weekend.
Finally Kevin pulls away. ‘Heather asked me to invite Jennifer, but she wasn’t home so I thought I’d come along myself.’
I open my mouth but no words come out.
‘You’re the gardener?’ Kevin says to you, remembering you from the day he called by.
You look at me, amused by the entire situation.
‘Matt is my neighbour. His son was helping me out with some work around the garden a while back.’
Kevin fixes you with a steely stare.
‘Come on, don’t tell me it’s the first time you’ve been cock-blocked,’ you s
ay, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Everybody moves to the living room and sits, some taking the kitchen chairs with them as there isn’t enough seating. You’re looking around with a big smile on your face, all eager beaver. The kids sit together at the kitchen table, with their colouring books and Play-Doh. I pace the kitchen pretending I’m making tea and coffee, but I’m making escape plans, excuses, get-out clauses. Monday has hung back, though I am so much in my head I am not present any more.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
I stop pacing. ‘I want to die,’ I say firmly. ‘I want to fucking die now.’
He drops his hand and looks over at the gathering, biting his lip with his front chipped tooth. He looks as though he’s trying to figure out a way to get me out of here. I cling to hope.
Jamie makes her way over to the kitchen. I can hear the soles of her feet sticking and unsticking to her sandals as she walks. I think I prefer it when she wears her sport socks.
‘I brought some biscuits,’ she says putting a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the counter. I hate Jaffa Cakes.
‘Jamie, what the hell is going on? What is this?’
‘Heather wanted to do this for you,’ she says. ‘It’s her circle of support for you.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I snap, a bit too loudly, and I hear you chuckle in the living room.
‘I’ll have coffee, two sugars, splash of milk, dear,’ you call.
Caroline walks in, wearing black sunglasses large enough to cover half her face. ‘Oh my God, I’m so hungover. These christenings are killing me. Oh my God!’ She slaps me playfully on the arm and hisses, ‘I heard you slept with Laurence last night!’
I cringe. I know Monday is right over my shoulder and he has heard. I feel his eyes searing into my back. I feel sick. I look at him and he looks away, busying himself. He brings a tray of cups into the living room and sits down.
‘Oh,’ she says sensing the atmosphere. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you two were—’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ I rub my face tiredly. ‘You knew about this meeting though?’
She nods, takes a pack of headache pills from her bag and knocks two back with a bottle of water. ‘Wasn’t allowed to tell you. Heather wanted to surprise you.’
I am panicking inside. I want to run, I really do, but one look at Heather – who is sitting at the head of the circle wearing her best blouse and trousers, looking so proud, beaming, confident and bright-eyed about what she has pulled together – and I know I can’t back out on her now. I must endure.