Can't Live Without (17 page)

‘First you and now little Lipsy,’ she wails as I try to hustle her into her favourite seat and ply her with calming camomile tea. ‘And while she was under my own roof as well. It’s all my fault. I’ve let you all down.’

Now, I blame my mother for a lot of things. It can’t have escaped your notice that relations are sometimes a bit strained between us. But I have never blamed my mother for my own mistakes, and I certainly won’t be blaming her for Lipsy’s. That’s why I prepare her camomile tea now with just a little bit more care than usual, and then I sit opposite her and take both her hands in mine. I squeeze them together, telling her with as much sincerity as I can, ‘Mum, it definitely isn’t in any way your fault.’ And then I tell her that I love her. Because, in lots of ways, I do.

It turns out that she was worried that I would think she’d encouraged it. I laugh at this – she may be more lenient as a grandma than she was as a mother, but I know for a fact she couldn’t relax
that
much.

We talk about Lipsy for a while, planning her future for her the way adults do when their kids aren’t around to speak up for what they want.

‘I’m going to ask Lipsy to move back home,’ I tell my mum. ‘Not because of anything you’ve done,’ I add as she starts wailing again. ‘You’ve been fantastic and we’re both really grateful. And, if you don’t mind, I could still do with using your washing machine facilities, just until I can afford one of my own.’

‘I’ll buy you a washing machine,’ my mother says between sniffs. ‘I’d love to help out with the house.’

‘I know you would, Mum. But you don’t have any money, do you? You’d put it on a credit card. And then what would happen?’ I really don’t want to be having this conversation again but why won’t the woman just give it up with the buying things all the time? What is wrong with her? It’s like she only gets her self-worth from spending money, from having “stuff”.

Lipsy’s words from yesterday come back to me, almost obliterated by everything else that came after. What had she said exactly?
It’s just stuff, Mum. There are more important things in life than that.
Something along those lines. The words niggle at me but I’m not sure why. My mother could do with hearing them, though. If she wasn’t feeling so vulnerable right now I might tell her.

The front door opens and slams, and my mother stiffens. ‘It’s Alistair,’ she hisses.

Well, duh. Unless she’s given a key to someone else.

He comes into the kitchen, calling, ‘Hi Mags,’ and then follows it with, ‘Oh, Stella. You’re here.’ Charming.

‘Actually, Alistair,’ she says, ‘we’re in the middle of something right now. If you don’t mind?’

I’m in shock – this is the first time I’ve seen my mother be anything other than simpering around her lodger. Alistair looks shocked too, and I watch with delight as he hovers by the doorway, clearly unwilling to be dismissed like that, especially in front of me.

I can’t resist a little dig of my own. ‘Run along now, there’s a good boy. I’m sure you’ve got some games to play or something.’

He gives me a look that promises retribution and I laugh at him openly.

When he’s gone I turn to my mother. ‘What was all that about?’

‘He’s been making a bit of a nuisance of himself, I’m afraid.’ She starts twirling her hair furiously. I know I should back off now but I’m hooked.

‘What’s he done?’

‘Well, he hasn’t paid his rent again. That’s two months now. I know it can’t go on like this, Stella. I can’t have a lodger who doesn’t pay any rent. So anyway, I tackled him about it a few nights ago.’

‘Well done, Mum. I’m proud of you.’ Atta girl.

‘Mmm. It didn’t go as well as I’d have liked.’

‘In what way?’

My mother shifts uncomfortably in her favourite – comfy – chair. ‘He, erm, he said he would pay me in kind.’

I stare at her blankly. ‘Pay you in what?’

‘In kind.’

In kind
, I repeat internally. And then I realise what that means. ‘Urghh! That’s disgusting. I hope you told him where to go?’

‘I most certainly did,’ she says indignantly.

‘Thank God for that.’ I look closely at my mother’s face. Just a little bit too uncomfortable. ‘This isn’t the first time it’s happened, is it?’

‘Actually, now you come to mention it, no, it’s not.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘But I told him where to go then as well. I thought he was joking. I’m so much older than he is. I told him, I said, “You’ve got to be joking.” But he said he wasn’t and then the other night he said it again.’

‘You weren’t flattered, were you?’

‘Maybe,’ she says, more than a little defensively. ‘A bit, perhaps. But not really. He was just trying to get out of paying the rent, wasn’t he? He doesn’t really fancy me. I don’t suppose anyone would anymore.’ She sighs, looking forlornly out of the window to the untamed wilderness beyond. I know that right now I’m supposed to bolster her ego and tell her that dad will still fancy her, but I just can’t bring myself to talk about him. Not yet.

‘You have to kick him out,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Right now. Tonight. Tell him to pack his bags and do one.’

‘But I need the money, Stella. I can’t manage on my own.’

Don’t I bloody well know it. ‘But you’re not getting any money from him, Mum. That’s the point. You might as well look for another lodger, give his room to someone who will actually pay you. And won’t proposition you instead.’

She smiles wryly at this. ‘I know, I know. You’re right. I need to curb my spending and stand on my own two feet, don’t I?’

‘Well, yes,’ I say, the one feeling uncomfortable now. ‘You do really. I wish I could help you out but I can’t even afford to run my own life at the moment. I’ve got two jobs as it is, and I’m still struggling to do up the house. And now there’s a baby on the way things are only going to get harder. Still, when…’ I stop suddenly. I was about to say, ‘When dad comes out,’ but the words catch in my throat.

My mother pats my hand. ‘I know, I know.’ Her attention wanders to the overgrown garden again and she purses her lips. ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone who might be up for a bit of gardening do you?’

***

Thursday 12
th
July

I can’t believe it’s been four whole days since I last wrote in my diary. Sorry, diary, I’ll make up for it now.

After telling my mother about the baby on Sunday things started to get a bit weird. First of all there was her reaction. I expected her to go ballistic – totally mental, like ground me for a century and send me away to a remedial school or something. But she was kind of cool about it. She made a few comments, about Rob mostly, and about me being too young. But she took it well, so well it completely freaked me out. When she asked me on Monday to move back into the house of horrors with her I just kind of said yes. Just like that. I think she was as shocked as I was.

I’m glad to be out of Gran’s, though. She was weird about it, too. Crying a lot and asking me strange questions like, Where was the baby conceived? I mean – what does that matter, for God’s sake?

So here I am, back in Crownhill, in my old room which still smells of mildew and looks like the set of a horror film. Mum’s got me a new bed and we went out together to choose paint for the walls. We’re going to paint it together, she says. She says it will be fun. I think she thinks it will be “bonding”. At least, that’s what Rosie thinks. Her mum made her take her belly ring out as soon as she’d had it done and grounded her for a month. My mum laughed when she saw mine. ‘Make the most of having a nice flat belly while you can,’ she said. I took it out that night.

The absolutely weirdest thing, though, is that my dad – my actual dad – is round at the house most nights now doing odd jobs and bringing fish and chips and bottles of wine and diet coke for me. It’s just freaky. Like, are they doing this for my benefit or what?

If they are I wish they wouldn’t. Mum acts weird around him, sort of giggly and girly one minute and pissed off the next.

God! I’ve just had the weirdest thought. You don’t think they’ll get back together, do you? My mum and my dad? That would just be too weird.

She doesn’t need to have him do everything for her anyway. I’ve told her –Rob is more than willing to help us do up the house. He really, really wants to make a good impression, he’s so lovely like that. And he’s good at DIY – OK, he’s not a tiler like my dad, or a plumber or anything, but he can fix stuff and make shelves and cupboards and things. He says he’s going to make a crib for the baby. Mum said she’d buy us one from John Lewis but I said no. I want our baby to have Rob’s crib not some posh shop-bought one. She looked at me like I was from another planet when I said this. I don’t know where she gets the idea that I want loads of things buying for me – I may have been like that at one time but I was a kid then. I’m an adult now. I’m having a baby of my own.

Yesterday I saw the doctor. She was nice, didn’t make me feel stupid or ignorant. She asked for dates and stuff and then told me I was six weeks’ pregnant and that the baby is due at the end of February. Rob cried when I told him. He said he couldn’t believe it, an actual baby in seven and a half months’ time. Then he had to go back to work so I went to look around Mothercare. Kids’ stuff is really expensive. Maybe I should get a job – will anyone employ you if you’re pregnant?

Trouble is, I totally have no idea what I could do. I am absolutely not working in McDonald’s. Rosie’s going to work at her dad’s office for the summer, lucky cow. Maybe I could work for Paul at Smart Homes. With my mum. Maybe not. I suppose the only option for me is to get a job in a café like her, but I think I’ll just hang on a bit longer and see what turns up. I’m not that desperate yet.

***

As I pull out of the services (second toilet stop – anyone would think I was nervous), and back into the flow of traffic, the sun beams at me kindly, all golden light and happiness. On a sultry summer’s day like this, the last place you want to be is on one of the busiest stretches of motorway in the UK.

And the very last place you want to be is on your way to prison.

I have no more desire to visit my father than to pull out my eyes and mount them on sticks. I have clearly succumbed to the oldest and cruellest of tricks: emotional blackmail. Even now, as I exit the M25 to join the M23, I can’t quite believe where I am or what I’m doing. Only days ago I protested to Bonnie that I would never see the man again, never give him so much as the time of day.

Have I lost my mind? Have I changed my mind?

I believe I have done neither – and possibly both. I never said it was uncomplicated.

After three and a half hours’ driving I’m edgy and red-eyed when I arrive. I am also an hour early. My visit isn’t supposed to be until two o’clock, and I don’t think it’s the kind of place where they let you sit and have a cup of tea while you wait. Pulling into the vast car park I wonder how to pass the time without winding myself up into a frenzy. Jeremy Vine is on the radio, the topic of the day Fat Cat Payouts – which the masses are well and truly worked up about. Not my problem.

I root around in my bag to find my now very grubby list. The day when I will finally be able to go shopping for some of my “must haves” is drawing nearer, but lately I’ve started to get the feeling that I’ve left something really important out, something pivotal to my future happiness. I unfold the sheet of paper and spread it carefully across the steering wheel.

CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT

American double-door ice-maker fridge-freezer

Kenwood food mixer

Cath Kidston Kitchenalia

Furniture! (Sofa, dining table, chairs, beds, wardrobes …)

Clothes: see sub-list

TV – whatever

Lipsy – computer, Playstation, iPod, clothes…

Carpets for entire house

New bathroom suite and towels √

Tiling – bathroom and kitchen

Bed linen x 4 – Marks & Spencer

Hmm. Immediately it strikes me that it isn’t really much of a list at all. Bits of it read more like a letter to Father Christmas from some gadget-deprived wannabe. Maybe the problem is that there are just so many things I can’t live without that it would be impossible to get them all onto one piece of paper. My list is bound to be woefully inadequate, isn’t it? Whose stupid idea was this?

At least I can now put a tick against tiling, thanks to my strangely-attentive-all-of-sudden ex. And I might as well cross out Lipsy’s entry, seeing as how she’s gone all anti-materialistic on me. Well, I guess she’s got more important things to worry about now.

Just before two I lock my car and walk across to the visitors’ centre. In the brilliant sunshine the rows of pale brick buildings look less like a prison and more like a sprawling college campus. My mouth is dry and my palms are sweaty – not just from the heat. I have no idea what to expect, or how I will be feeling an hour from now. What will he say to me? Will he be angry with me?

This last thought stops me in my tracks. That
he
may be pissed off with
me
had not occurred to me until now, but suddenly I picture myself in his shoes and see the situation through his eyes for the first time.

A daughter who abandoned him in his hour of need, spurning all attempts at contact for nearly two years.

Or perhaps he will be remorseful and worn down by the sheer weight of his guilt, shouldering it like a brickie’s hod, searching for a place to let it rest …

For God’s sake! Why am I doing this to myself? I shake off the image of my father as a saddened, wizened, crestfallen figure and replace it with one of him standing defiantly in the dock, like the last time I saw him. If I am going to do this, for Lipsy and for my mother, I need to be strong. And I’ve always found my best reserves of strength come from that place, deep inside, where I’m permanently angry. With a final deep breath I square my shoulders, lift my chin and enter the prison.