One Moment, One Morning

  It’s always the same. The inequality between them taps into Steve’s insecurity, which fuels his low self-esteem, and, in turn, his drinking. Only, of course, this hatred doesn’t get directed internally when he is drunk; it spirals out at anyone who gets in the way, like a cluster bomb. More often than not, the chief casualty is Anna.

  They have had this row before, which makes it the more tiresome. ‘I invited you to move in before I realized what a drunk you were,’ Anna snaps, and thinks, what a nasty drunk. ‘If I’ve changed my tune, you’ve only yourself to blame.’

  ‘I am NOT drunk!’ Steve yells.

  She laughs. It’s ludicrous; he so obviously is.

  ‘You always say I’m drunk when I’m not.’

  She shakes her head, then for want of comment, just spits, ‘Fuck off, Steve.’

  A red rag, of course. He comes right up to her, takes her chin in his hands, and, gripping her hard, says, ‘You know what? You’re a cunt.’

  She flinches at the word, but he misreads her, thinks she’s recoiling for another reason.

  ‘Don’t worry. You think I’m going to hit you? Well, I won’t.’

  ‘I don’t think that, no,’ she says. He’s never hit her yet. The way he towers over her – shoulders braced menacingly, arm muscles taut with anger – is scary. But he has always stopped there, just before actual violence. It is as if he knows that if he ever were to hit her, he would be crossing a line from which he – they – can never return, because while Anna will put up with a lot, she won’t put up with that.

  ‘You’re a fucking cunt,’ he says again, and punches the wall with his fist.

  Anna takes the opportunity to duck out from beneath his arm. At the bottom of the stairs she stops, turns, and says, ‘Steve, just leave it. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ He tries to grab her, misses. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk to you.’ She moves up a couple of steps. ‘If you’re not ready to come to bed, I suggest you watch some telly, and go to sleep down there.’

  ‘TALK TO ME!’ he bellows.

  ‘I don’t want to. It’s nearly midnight, and I’ve got work tomorrow. I’m tired.’

  ‘Why won’t you talk to me?’ he wails. She can sense his mood shifting. Sure enough: ‘I love you, Anna.’ Then, grotesquely, madly, he falls to his knees, pleading. The hall floor is quarry tile; it must be painful. ‘I love you!’

  Anna doesn’t feel loved, or loving. She feels repelled by him, and is almost inclined to rebuff him completely. But her anger has ebbed, she wants an easy time of it, she needs sleep.

  So she says, ‘I love you too, but it’s bedtime.’ And while he is still on his knees, she turns back and mounts the stairs.

  As she gets undressed she thinks, there is such a vast gulf between her relationship with Steve, and Karen’s with Simon. The tenderness Lou touched on, that she was able to discern in a few seconds – that’s love, isn’t it? And the caring Karen talked of; she and Simon looked after one another all the time. But Steve had failed Anna earlier, and has failed her again now.

  Steve.

  Simon.

  Similar names. Similar ages. Similar partners, in many ways. They even lived a few hundred yards from one another.

  But they are a world apart.

  * * *

  ‘I do worry about her, you know.’ Karen hangs up her blouse in the wardrobe.

  ‘I know you do, love.’ Simon is in bed already, sitting half up, propped by pillows. He leans to turn on the bedside light.

  ‘Well, at least she’s here tonight. But she’ll go back to him in the morning, I know she will.’

  ‘She’s a grown woman,’ says Simon.

  ‘And stubborn.’

  ‘Call it stubborn if you want. I’d say she knows her own mind.’

  ‘She’s in love with him, that’s the trouble.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. But I don’t think he’s good for her.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’ Karen reaches for her cleanser, scrubs her eye make-up more viciously than usual to remove it.

  ‘She says he doesn’t hit her. Do you believe her?’

  ‘I think so.’ Karen steps out of her knickers, unclips her bra, hurls them at the laundry basket. Frustration makes her do it with extra force, but the gesture is futile – they catch in the air and fall short of their destination. She picks them up. ‘But how long before he does?’ She sits down on the edge of the bed, naked, gloomy.

  ‘If he did, he’d have me to answer to.’

  ‘I love that you’re so protective of her.’ Karen gives Simon a kiss on the top of his head.

  He shifts to reach her, starts to stroke her back. ‘With any luck, it won’t get that far.’

  At his touch, Karen relaxes a little. ‘You never know, maybe he’ll get some help.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Simon strokes her some more. ‘I could have a word with him, if you like.’

  She turns to look at him. ‘Could you?’

  He shrugs. ‘If you think it’ll do any good.’

  ‘What would you say?’

  ‘I don’t know. Take him to the pub?’ He chuckles. ‘Tell him man-to-man he has a problem with drink?’

  Karen laughs too – going for a couple of beers is Simon’s usual way of befriending men. Then she thinks of her friend, downstairs asleep on the sofa. She knows it has taken a lot for Anna to come over; things must have got pretty bad. ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think talking to him is a good idea. It might have the reverse effect. You’ll make him defensive, and he could behave even worse.’

  ‘Whatever; I’ll take my lead from you. You’ve been friends such ages, but you know I’m really fond of her too.’

  Karen smiles, rueful. ‘I wish I’d never introduced them. But after breaking up with Neil I thought she could do with a boost and I liked Steve at first – he seemed so confident and down to earth. You know what she’s like – give her a weak man and she’ll run rings around him. Neil simply wasn’t strong enough for her. And let’s face it, Steve is very good looking.’

  ‘He’s nice, too – sober,’ observes Simon. ‘Even I can see that.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I suppose. That’s half the problem, though, isn’t it? If he weren’t, she wouldn’t give him the time of day. She’s stubborn and proud, but she’s not a complete idiot.’

  ‘No, she’s not.’

  Karen reaches under the pillow for her nightdress, stands up and pulls it on. ‘I guess we’ve done what we can for now. My hunch is this isn’t the first time he’s been vile – I reckon she’s just kept it from us before. But it won’t be the last, either. All we can do is be here for her. It just makes me appreciate how lucky I am having a lovely man like you.’ She gets into bed beside him. ‘Light, hon.’

  Simon reaches to turn out his bedside lamp. ‘Spoon me,’ he requests, rolling over onto his side.

  It’s not fair, she thinks, snuggling up to the curl of her husband’s back as his breathing slows. Why should I get Simon and Anna get Steve?

  But then life’s not fair, is it?

  From the way light is bleaching through the curtains, Lou can tell it’s sunny.

  Good-oh, she thinks, Friday. No work, no commute, plus today is tennis. She plays throughout the year, weather permitting. And that’s not all – she has the evening to look forward to. She is meeting a new girl!

  Lou knows her optimism is irrational. She may not even like this woman, let alone fancy her. But perhaps, this once, she could be lucky. Vic gets on with her; that says a lot. Vic thinks Lou will fancy her; Vic knows Lou’s taste. If she is a director of a web company, she is likely to be bright. Then there is her name. Sofia. Lou likes that especially – it seems ripe with potential.

  Yet there is a dull ache in the back of her skull, as if her brain has been parched of water.

  Stupid me, she berates herself. I had too much wine at Karen’s last night.


  Lou knows why she did it, too. She was ‘drinking on feelings’, as they say in counselling; a clumsy expression used to describe often complex behaviour. And how stupid of her, when it even advised not to use alcohol like that in the list she gave Karen. But she’d been keen not to say the wrong thing, needed to relax and hadn’t kept track as she would usually. Lou is not a big drinker, generally, so it doesn’t take much before she feels the effects.

  Ah, well, she decides. There’s nothing else for it: best get busy. I’m out again tonight and may well drink then too – knowing Vic, we are sure to – so I need to get rid of one headache before acquiring another.

  She throws back the covers, goes into the living room and opens the curtains. Sun streams in through her window, clear, bright, forcing her to squint.

  She can see the old man opposite, looking out of his attic window too. He’s there every morning at this time, drinking tea from a cup and saucer – the street is so narrow he can’t be more than twenty feet away. His hair is uncombed, wispy, forming long, mad cobwebs like a character from a fairy tale, and he is still in his paisley pyjamas, which are buttoned wrong, asymmetric. She waves, but his eyesight is not good, and he doesn’t see her. She’s chatted to him, though, in the nearby newsagent on their street corner. He’s lived in the same flat for over forty years, and there is something about this that pleases Lou. It might be wishful thinking, but she has a hunch he’s gay, and she likes to think he has been there since the early days; she fondly imagines him being a homosexual crusader in the 1960s, coming to an area that was rougher round the edges, then. Whatever his persuasion, he is fragile and solitary now; she supposes he doesn’t participate in much fraternizing these days.

  Looking down at the street, Lou can see that the seagulls have been busy. Brighton’s dustmen fight a losing battle against them, and today the birds have got into a couple of bags of rubbish, ripping them open and scattering debris. Briefly Lou is annoyed and wishes people would dispose of their waste in the communal bins. There always seems to be something left out on the pavement – a half-eaten take-away, old furniture, a rusting bike with bent wheels – but the city has such an itinerant population that many local residents don’t seem to know what the collection arrangements are, or care.

  Then she reminds herself that the mess, the scruffiness, the couldn’t-care-less-ness, is all part of Brighton’s rich but well-worn tapestry. And let’s face it, she has it better than most. For there, twinkling at her from down the end of the street, is the sea. It is flat beneath a clear blue sky; a stripe of deepest azure at the horizon, paler by the shingle, so there can’t be much wind. A perfect day. If Karen’s bereavement has clarified anything for Lou, it is to be thankful for small blessings.

  She does not bother to shower; she’ll only get hot playing tennis, and anyway, she wants to make a ritual of it before she meets Vic and Sofia later. There’s something about getting clean after exercise that is especially pleasurable. What she will do, however, is ring her mother.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ she says, when her mother answers. ‘Just thought I’d let you know when I’ll be with you.’

  ‘Oh, super. When?’

  Lou knows they are likely to be out late and she doesn’t want to rush her guests in the morning, and that’s aside from any ulterior motives. ‘I was hoping to be with you early afternoon. Say about two?’

  Silence.

  ‘OK?’ she prompts.

  ‘I guess so.’

  I guess not, thinks Lou. If recent events are making her assess what’s important, the flip side is that she is less tolerant of minor irritations. Immediately, she is riled. Her mother seems so petty. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, it’s only I was expecting you earlier. Given you said you were coming for the weekend, Saturday afternoon is rather late.’

  ‘I never said that.’ Lou’s response is clipped. She feels guilty, however: did she, maybe? She’s fairly sure not, but such a lot has happened in the last few days, she can’t be certain. ‘I thought I said I’d head to you on Saturday morning—’

  ‘Two o’clock is hardly morning, darling.’

  Grrr! It’s a perfect example of her mother’s manipulation: ‘darling’ used to conjure up a sense of daughterly responsibility, not a term of endearment at all. Lou mutters, ‘I meant I was leaving in the morning, not that I’d be there then.’

  ‘Oh, right, my misunderstanding,’ says her mother, clearly believing it isn’t.

  ‘It takes me over two hours on the train up to you,’ Lou justifies.

  ‘Hm,’ says her mother. Lou can sense her calculating journey times – can almost hear the unspoken question down the line: what on earth is my daughter doing till midday? – not to mention the accompanying disapproval.

  She is about to retaliate when the elderly man opposite shifts from his stance at the window, gazes in her direction. Suddenly, he sees her; she is caught in the sun. He waves and smiles; it deflates Lou’s fury. It’s not worth it; life, as she has so recently been reminded, is too short. She changes her tone.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean to mislead you. I have friends coming down tonight, you see, and I can hardly shove them out into the cold before breakfast. You’re such a good host yourself, you’d hate it if I did that, wouldn’t you?’

  The flattery works. ‘Do you think I’m a good host, dear? Why, thank you.’

  ‘Of course, Mum,’ lies Lou. ‘The best. And you know what? I’ve got some lovely photos to show you, when I come.’

  ‘Oh, really, dear? What of?’

  ‘Georgia and the children,’ she says. ‘I took them at Christmas, remember?’ Secretly, she is proud of her ability behind a lens.

  ‘That’ll be nice,’ says her mother.

  ‘Great,’ says Lou. The placation seems to have worked. ‘Look, I have tennis now, so I have to go. We’ll catch up properly tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it. See you then, between two and three. Bye.’

  She sits down heavily, head in her hands. ‘Looking forward to it’ – as if! She needs to sort out these issues with her mother. She hates the way they are both behaving – there is so much duplicity and manipulation, so little integrity to their dealings. It is such a contrast to the openness of her conversation last night – and Karen and Anna are almost strangers. To be so false with the woman who gave birth to her; now more than ever, it doesn’t feel right.

  * * *

  Little by little Anna pieces events together as she wakes from slumber. With a lurch she remembers; Simon is dead . . . Ah, yes; that is why her alarm has not gone off: she is not going to work today. She is helping Karen make food for the funeral. Yet she had a good evening with Karen and Lou the night before, given the circumstances. Lou seemed genuinely helpful. Introducing them has been a good thing.

  I like Lou, she thinks.

  Then, another lurch: Steve.

  When she arrived home, he was vile. She’d actually thought he might hit her . . . just fleetingly. Didn’t she? She’d denied it at the time; she didn’t really acknowledge it. It’s only with hindsight that she can recognize what he momentarily seemed capable of. Now she has slept on it, his drunken behaviour seems almost unreal. His moods are so extreme compared to anything else she has experienced that it’s as if she can’t find a place for them in her day-to-day existence. She knows that if she were to judge him by the same criteria she applies to herself and others, he would fall far short, yet she makes an exception. Perhaps because his conduct is often at its worst outside of normal waking hours, it creates a sense that the two of them occupy somewhere utterly foreign and other, a place where normal standards do not apply. A looking-glass world.

  But maybe it is time she stopped making excuses. Simon was a man with principles; he was never excessive or self-righteous about them, but he always treated people well. Anna admired him for that. And now that Simon is dead, it has thrown her double standards into sharp relief. Living with compromise seems harder. For that is what she is doing, isn’
t it?

  Her back is turned to Steve, but she can smell the alcohol, even from here. She is on the very edge of the bed, as if even in sleep she wanted to keep her distance.

  She rolls over slowly, so as not to wake him.

  At this moment, she does not love him. She doesn’t even hate him. She pities him. And once pity has entered any relationship . . .

  Fuck it, she thinks. Fuck him. Steve has taken too much of her energy already; since waking she has done nothing but think of him. Their issues can wait. He doesn’t deserve it. Until after the funeral at least, Karen must be her priority.

  * * *

  The supermarket is crowded; Friday morning is a busy time. Karen is one of many mothers pushing a large trolley round the aisles, stocking up for the weekend. Unlike many, she is without the children; for this she is thankful. It is good to have this opportunity; she doesn’t get it very often. But every Friday she has a few hours to herself. She doesn’t go to work, Luke is at school and Molly is at Tracy’s. Shopping might not seem a thrilling use of her time; nonetheless she is enjoying it. It is a relief to be without her offspring, wheedling to buy items she has no wish to purchase. So she allows herself to float round the aisles in an indulgent daze.

  Close to the entrance, she spies a box of bright pink, scaly produce she does not recognize. Dragon fruit, says the label. She picks one up. It is cool, smooth to the touch, almost like plastic. She wonders how it tastes, what it’s like inside. It is expensive, they don’t need it, but Luke might enjoy it, and Karen tries to encourage him to eat more healthily. She puts it in the trolley along with her regulars: bananas, grapes, apples.

  She finishes her round of vegetables and stocks up on staples: bread, dried pasta, fish, chicken. At the end of an aisle, she sees a wheat beer on offer. Simon has always said North European lager is best: does Belgium meet his remit? She’s not sure, but she likes the design of the bottles, the intriguing mistiness of the liquid, and the price seems reasonable, so she scoops up a six-pack.