“He gave it to them ‘for a laugh,’” my husband adds.
I want to say something, to reassure Ed that this is a terrible mistake, that this isn’t dope or puff or shit, it’s earth-tone Play-Doh or, indeed, a stale bouillon cube or a practical joke or something else other than cannabis resin that my children have been smoking, supplied by my lover. How would Christian have given it to them? He would have had to show them what to do, and he’s never been alone with them except for the Sunday afternoon when I popped over to Jemma’s…. Oh fuck.
The Sunday afternoon when I came back to find them all stoned out of their heads and not just sleeping gently as I supposed. My stomach does a double somersault and I feel like I’m going to vomit, adding my own signature to the manky coffee table. How could Christian have done this? He wouldn’t, surely? I can hardly breathe, I hurt so much. “I’ll sort it out,” I say tightly. “Let me speak to Christian.”
Ed goes an even darker shade of black. “If I ever see him, I’m going to break his fucking neck, Alicia. You can tell him that from me. I haven’t yet decided if I’m going to go to the police. I wanted to see what you had to say. But, Alicia, if it’s up to me, neither you nor that bastard boyfriend of yours will be allowed within twenty miles of my children ever again. Do you understand?”
I shake my head, unable to take this in. “I’m sure there’s been a mistake….” Even I don’t think I sound convinced.
Ed stands up. “Are you?” he says. He snaps the silver case shut, taking his evidence with him. Case closed.
CHAPTER 60
Orla was sitting up in bed with a sheet wrapped round her waist and her breasts exposed, and Ed was trying to avoid looking at them because he really didn’t want to make love again and thought discretion might be the better part of valor. He was also drinking champagne, which he didn’t want either. After his meeting with Ali, something that smacked of celebration was a long way from his mind. His performance in bed had been half-hearted, quickly over and not even attempting to scale the dizzy heights of perfunctory.
They were in her dark, antique-ridden rented flat, and the sun was about to leave the sky for the night. He hated the fact that she had sheets and blankets—they pinned him to the bed with their weight, and whoever did Orla’s cleaning made up wicked hospital corners, which meant you had no hope of dislodging the covers even if, unlike Ed, you did manage to be particularly athletic and amorous.
“I feel like going round there and blacking both his eyes,” Ed said now.
“I can understand that.” Orla nodded sympathetically.
“With a baseball bat.”
“It’s good to let go of your anger.” Orla sipped her champagne.
“Well, it might be in America,” Ed pointed out wearily, “but here you just get arrested and charged with grievous bodily harm.”
Orla snuggled down next to him. She didn’t do snuggly very easily. She was all pointy bits and angles. Even her curves were sharp, and there was a tension in her muscles that never quite went away. Not like Nicola Jones, who was far too snuggly for her own good. And that was another thing; he wasn’t very proud that he too had turned into some kind of moral black hole, although his brother seemed to find it highly amusing.
It wasn’t that difficult to avoid Nicola. He just sort of threw Elliott at her in the morning, and while his son had got her stalled with his incessant chattering, legged it to the school gate with a friendly, noncommittal wave. Nicola was a barnacle, but a barnacle with a small “b.” One that could be prized away without a great deal of difficulty or overexertion. Clingy rather than stuck fast. With Orla it was more difficult. Orla was an octopus. Powerful and crushing. She had wound her tentacles around him tightly, encircling his mind, filling it with dreams of Hollywood, entwining their lives, drawing threads of them together until she had woven her version of an interlocked future for them. And it was so hard to keep his head out of the water and gasp for air that he didn’t have the time to consider what it was he really wanted.
“This will all be over soon,” she said. “Sooner than you think.”
“Oh?” Ed dragged his attention back to her.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Orla glanced at him with black, shuttered eyes. “I had a meeting with the Board last week. My contract with Wavelength is about to be foreshortened. I’ve done all I can for them. For you. My report’s almost finished. It’s time for me to go home.” Orla brushed her hair from her face. “You should think about putting your resignation in soon. In the next few days.”
“How can I?” Ed sighed. “What will I do with the kids? I need to wait until the end of the summer term. Tanya’s at a critical stage in her education,” he said, sounding more like her headmaster than her father. “And you haven’t even met them properly yet. We’ll have to sort it out soon. I want them to like you. I’m sure they will. You can’t be any worse than him….”
“Your faith in me is touching, Ed.”
“And what will I do with them in the holidays? I don’t want them coming back here without me to keep an eye on them.”
Orla lowered her champagne and pulled up the covers. “Coming back?” The softness had disappeared from her mouth. “From where?”
“That’s another good question,” Ed said. “Where are we all going to live? We haven’t discussed it.”
“We all…?”
“The kids,” Ed said hesitantly. “And us.”
“You’re thinking of bringing your children to the States?” Orla’s lips pursed into a small tight circle.
“What did you think I was going to do with them?”
“Leave them here,” she said plainly.
“Here? With Ali—and him?”
“Why not?”
Ed huffed. “Not on your nelly!”
Orla turned toward him in the bed, but Ed noticed that she was putting a little extra distance between them. “We are going to be extraordinarily busy setting up this new project, Ed. It means everything to me. Everything. I thought it did to you. This is your big chance to get back into the real world. A world without zero-budget promos for Easi-Lift Bath Attachments and Fresh Bottom Incontinence Pads. Who do you think’s going to look after them?”
Ed looked hurt. “I thought we would.”
“Not on your nelly!” Orla said. “Whatever a nelly is.”
“Don’t you like children?”
“I love children. Someday I would like children of my own. When the time is right.”
“You’re not getting any younger,” Ed tried, pushing to the back of his mind the fact that he might be required to be the father of these proposed children.
“And neither are you,” Orla snapped back.
In the same way he’d avoided the subject with Nicola Jones, he hadn’t mentioned to Orla that he was firing blank ammunition either. Ed decided this possibly wasn’t the best time to raise it. “I can’t just abandon them. After all they’ve been through.”
“And I can’t have someone else’s children thrust upon me.”
“Other people manage.” Ed knew he sounded pathetic.
“Well, not me.”
“I thought you…you…loved me,” he said, realizing that it wasn’t a word that, as yet, had been spoken between them.
“So did I.” Orla pulled at the sheet in frustration. She let out a puff of exasperation. “And I do,” she said. “I love you. I want you to come to the States.”
“But my children are a part of me.”
“But they’re not a part of me,” Orla said more softly.
Ed’s mouth had gone dry, but he couldn’t bear the taste of his champagne and put the glass down, half full. He wondered if this was how Ali was feeling and then realized he hadn’t given a thought to how difficult it would be for her to be separated from the kids. Not until he had been forced to face it himself.
The sun had gone and Orla snapped on the bedside light, drowning them in a pool of harsh, revealing light. Ed let out a heavy, unhappy exhalati
on of breath. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Neither do I, Ed. This is something you have to work through for yourself.”
“Yes.”
“You have to prioritize,” she said firmly.
“Yes.” As if this could be sorted out with the logic of a business report. Orla was back to her “izes.” Minimize, maximize, compartmentalize, finalize. Jeopardize. Now his immediate wish was to organize his departure. He wanted to be out of here. He wanted to go. He wanted to leave and rush home to his unloved, unwanted, destined never-to-be-American children, who would be coming home from their clubs and Scouts and music lessons ferried by other children’s parents because he wasn’t around to do it because he was in bed with a woman who didn’t want them around.
“I have to get back to the children.” And he sounded old and sad and worn-out.
Orla’s face was impassive. “I know,” she said.
CHAPTER 61
Christian hasn’t yet come home, even though the hands of the clock are currently nudging midnight in the ribs. I can’t relax. You know how it is. I am fully aware, on one level, that Christian is being a selfish bastard and is out somewhere enjoying himself without giving a thought to me and how concerned I might be. Somewhere, on another, entirely separate level, I am terrified that he is hurt, has been mugged, is lying in a deserted ditch or is currently on a stretcher sweating it out with the drunks in an Accident and Emergency Department somewhere waiting for some overworked doctor to find time to attend to a potentially mortal wound. And, if he isn’t dead, I’ll kill him when he gets here.
This is the golden age of communications. My God, it’s harder to stay out of touch than it is to stay in it! I’ve tried phoning his mobile, but one of those bloody robotic voices keeps telling me that it’s not responding. I know that! What I want to know is why? He is going to get it with both barrels when he gets back!
I am pacing up and down the kitchen floor. Robbie and Rebecca have wisely disappeared to their rooms. We have nothing to talk about when Christian isn’t here as some sort of emotional Superglue. Robbie isn’t so bad, he’ll chat away about nothing, but with Rebecca it’s all meaningful pauses, slights, covert jibes and veiled accusations. God, it’s like being married to her! I don’t fit in here. I know that. I’m like a fish out of water. I’m out of place. As welcome as an unsightly blob of cellulite on the lovely thighs of Liz Hurley. And now that I’ve found out that Christian is some sort of drug dealer, I really have no idea what I’m doing here. Other than waiting to murder him.
I hear a key in the lock and all my hackles rise—not just the ones on the back of my neck, but hackles in places that you can’t even begin to imagine. Christian thumps around in the hall for a bit. Goodness only knows what he’s doing. Probably taking his coat off. Whatever it is, he’s making a meal of it. The lid is rattling up and down on my boiling pot of anger, and great puffs of steam are escaping. Christian opens the door and smiles the most beautiful, disarming smile. “You waited up,” he says, delighted to see me.
“Waited up?” I say. “Waited up! I’ll say I waited up!”
Christian looks deeply concerned, as well he might. “Is something wrong?”
“Something wrong?” I say. “Something wrong? I’ll say there’s something wrong!” I regret that my eloquence, like a timid young bird, has temporarily flown its nest in fright.
“Sit down, Ali. You’re looking very purple. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Sit down?” I say. “Sit down! I’ll sit down when I’m ready!”
“Good.” Christian is obviously very bemused, and I feel that I’m perhaps not putting my point across clearly enough. He looks as if he’s about to make a cup of tea—in the midst of my pain he can still only think about himself.
“I’ll make you a nice cup of tea,” he says sweetly.
“Where the hell do you think you’ve been until now?” I burst out, more loudly than I’d intended.
“Pimlico,” he says.
“Pimlico!”
“I was doing a talk at the Arts Club about the joys of being a street artist in Covent Garden. Nice bunch of people. It went well.” Christian nods contentedly to himself. “Remember? I told you.”
“Yes,” I say waspishly. And I do remember, now he comes to mention it.
“I went for a swift half with them afterward. Got a couple of commissions. Birthday presents, that sort of stuff. Not life-changing, but it’ll keep the bank manager from the door.” He is clearly very pleased. “Then one of the guys offered to run me home, but he got chatting so I had to wait. I tried to phone you, but I’m out of talk time. I need to get a voucher tomorrow,” he adds absently.
“Couldn’t you have borrowed someone else’s phone?”
Christian tuts. “It didn’t even cross my mind, Ali. What an idiot! Tea?”
“I do not want tea!” I am going even more purple. “I saw Ed today.”
Christian frowns. “Won’t he let us have the children for the weekend? Is that what this is about?”
“He might not even let me see the children ever again.” I can feel tears rushing up, choking my words.
Christian crosses to me and puts his arms round my waist. I don’t want them round me. I don’t want him touching me. “Why? Why not?”
“Because he caught them smoking dope, Christian. Dope that you gave them!”
He has gone pale and his arms drop away from me. “Shit.”
“Exactly.” I narrow my eyes.
Christian sits down at the table. “It was a mistake, Ali. A mistake.”
I fold my arms. I have come out of crying mode and am cross again. “A big mistake.”
“What can I say?” Christian rakes his hair. “When you went to Jemma’s, I was still feeling really rough from the night before.” He looks decidedly sheepish. “I decided to roll myself a joint to see if it would take the edge off. Tanya is very streetwise,” Christian looks up at me, and there is a hint of irony in his eyes. “She knew straight away what it was. Against my better judgment, she persuaded me to let them have a drag.” He looks away again. “Or two.”
“Even Elliott?”
“Especially Elliott. He said they’d tell on me if I didn’t share it. So I did and they all sort of flaked out. I didn’t know it would make them do that. It must have been good stuff.”
“Or a really bad idea.”
“Don’t you think I know that!” Christian looked bleak. “I wanted to be one of the gang. I wanted them to like me, Ali. It was silly. I didn’t think it through, but I thought that would be the end of it.”
“So?”
“So, when I got home, I realized I hadn’t got my stash. It must have fallen down the back of the sofa or something. Maybe Elliott lifted it when I was asleep.”
“Don’t try to blame my children for your stupidity!”
“I’m not,” he says. “But I could hardly ring Ed up and ask if he’d have a rummage round the cushions to see if I’d left it behind.”
“You might as well have done.”
“There was only enough left for one more joint. Maybe two. It didn’t even occur to me that they might try to smoke it.”
“There’s a lot that doesn’t seem to occur to you, Christian.”
“That’s not fair,” he argues, his expression pained.
“It was stupid and totally irresponsible.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “But it isn’t the end of the world.”
“It might be! Ed is threatening us—us, not just you—with the police, Social Services, withdrawal of access rights.” Eternal damnation.
“Don’t you think he’s overreacting?”
“Overreacting!”
“Ali, Ali.” Christian is trying to be measured. “They smoked some dope, got wasted, and if they had any sense, they wouldn’t have tried it again. And I’ve apologized. If you think it won’t make matters worse, I’ll apologize to Ed.”
“I don’t think you realize the seriousness of this,” I say harshly
. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a parent!”
“No, I don’t, Alicia. You’re right. I have absolutely no idea of what it’s like to be a parent. And that’s because I’m twenty-three years old and have never been in this situation before. But, in my defense, I feel that I have tried really, really hard to understand what it feels like and, up until now, I thought I was doing pretty well.” Christian stands up. “And now I’m going to bed.”
And with that he walks out of the room, leaving me with my mouth open and my cup of tea well and truly forgotten.
CHAPTER 62
Neil would have been very jealous. Up to a point. Ed sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He was on location in the garden of a sprawling manor house in the heart of the Home Counties, directing a promotional video for Sit-Down Showers—a device which no one who is fat, over fifty and terminally unfit should be without.
The idea was that if it was all too much of an effort to stand up for the three minutes required to shower, why not sit in a cozy, plastic armchair while you lather up your bits instead? If you were actually infirm rather than just lazy, this would be of great benefit, but the powers-that-be at Sit-Down Showers wanted to stress the glamour and labor-saving elements of their products rather than the fact that they’d come in a bit damn useful if your legs were buggered.
To illustrate this, they’d chosen a lithesome twenty-year-old brunette called Bonnie, with barrage balloon breasts and a 1970s curly perm, to “model” a Sit-Down Shower, involving her, of course, in getting her extremely scanty bikini and her curly perm very wet. Bonnie’s legs were definitely not buggered, but it was becoming abundantly clear that her brain probably was. They were on take 472 or something—Ed had lost count and the will to live—and she had yet to manage saying anything other than “Shit-Down Sowers” before dissolving into fits of giggles.
The first few times, the crew had roared, which was a big mistake, because she’d then played it for laughs for half an hour. Then, when they’d lost interest, she’d gone for the sympathy vote, and now didn’t appear to be able, even if she was willing, to nudge her needle out of the groove it was stuck in. Ed felt tempted to go and slap her across the face to snap her out of it, like they do with hysterical women in films.