Close Relations (30 page)

It was liberating, however, to get rid of the house. Dorothy had said that she was glad to get shot of it. Maybe, despite her bitterness, she too felt liberated. It felt unnatural that he couldn't ask her. That, and so many other questions that popped into his head. She was his oldest friend; he couldn't just switch her off. He missed her, and he could tell nobody this. How daft that you could love somebody else and still miss your wife! Perhaps everybody felt this; he didn't have a clue. Men his age didn't have these sorts of conversations.

The Sunday after the house was sold he took April out to lunch. They went to a restaurant in Maidenhead, overlooking the river. The couple at the next table gazed at them; it was envy, of course.

April opened the menu and yawned. She had just come off a week of night duty.

‘Why don't you give up your job?' he asked. ‘Let me take care of you.'

‘I don't want to give it up.' Her face appeared over the leather binder. ‘I like it.'

‘You told me you're just a glorified skivvy.'

‘Yes, but it's glorified. It's what I've always wanted to do.' She pointed to the menu. ‘I'll have the avocado and the pheasant. I know I complain about it but so do you, about yours. That's why people live together. Well, one of the reasons. It's cosy complaining.' She put down the menu and smiled at him. She wore a demure white blouse he hadn't
seen before; she still had clothes he hadn't yet seen.

He said: ‘I want to buy you a house. How about it? How about renting out your place and moving in with me, somewhere nice.' He put his hand over hers. ‘You deserve it.'

She gazed out of the window. The river was grey and swollen. ‘Everyone who doesn't live in Brixton thinks that everyone who does is longing to get out. Actually, I like it.' She smiled at him. ‘Let's not rush things. We're happy as we are, aren't we? You're such a restless bugger.'

It's a funny thing about love. The same words can be an accusation or a verbal caress. Words are like tofu: their taste comes from the emotions that drench them.

Gordon looked at April. She picked through a bowl of nuts, searching for the cashews. She put one into her mouth.

In her white lacy collar she looked like a gospel singer. He said: ‘Right enough. I'll do whatever you want,' because what he really wanted was to kiss her.

But he was unconvinced. He wanted to look after her. He wanted to be in charge.

At the end of the month Erin's book was published. Prudence held a party in her flat. Dorothy helped with the preparations. She needed tasks to anchor herself. She felt she was spinning into space, dizzy with loneliness. She needed to get a grip.

‘Haven't you got any more baking trays?' she asked Prudence irritably. If only sadness were as appealing as it sounded. In fact, it makes those suffering from it quarrelsome and egotistical, distempered and intolerant. Dorothy knew that she mustn't alienate her daughters; they were all she had. But as she laid out the onion bhajis she felt herself prickle with hostility – towards the guests, who would no doubt be contented and handsome, towards Erin whose book she didn't like the sound of, towards the very fact that they had to have vegetarian food, which struck her as self-righteous. She knew she was being unreasonable. She knew
that even her daughters had only a limited reservoir of tolerance, but the very fact that she now had to be nice to people – she was a guest in their homes, she was beholden to them – only increased her bad temper.

She carried a plate of crudités into the living room. ‘Your father's not coming, is he?'

‘Of course not,' said Prudence. ‘You think I'm an idiot?'

‘He'd love to show up and ruin it for me.' Dorothy dumped down the plate. She was a tanker, run aground on the rocks. Her sides were split open; out of them seeped poisonous oil.

The guests arrived – a lot of people Dorothy didn't know. They did indeed look handsome and contented; there was a sheen to them. Some of the women wore suits.

‘So you're Prudence's mother,' said one of them. ‘I've heard so much about you.'

What: that I'm an abandoned wife? Her gaze flickered around the room, searching for Gordon to rescue her.

He wasn't there, of course. She was so stupid. Her eyes filled with tears. It was the blasted cigarette smoke. What could she do with these old habits, how could she slough them off? How did anyone do anything?

Prudence tapped her glass. The room fell silent. ‘People say that publishing isn't a risk-taking business any more, that new novels are hard to promote unless they're written – or not written, as the case may be – by a TV personality or stand-up comedian. Well, Erin Fox is not a household name – yet. But listen to these reviews.' She read from a piece of paper. ‘
Marie Claire
said
A stunning debut
. The
Guardian
said
Compulsively readable, a raunchy trans-global romp through the female psyche
. . . and there are plenty more where they came from. So, please raise your glasses to
Playing with Fire
. We played with it and – look! – we haven't got burned.'

There was a murmur of laughter; the clink of glasses. Dorothy was standing near Stephen. A man turned to him. ‘Here's to you too, old cock.' He raised his glass. ‘I hear you're working for a builder, eh? Doing their paperwork.' He
grinned. ‘Need all your editing skills there, I bet.'

‘What do you mean?' asked Stephen.

The man grinned. ‘Making things vanish, nudge-nudge.'

Stephen laughed. Dorothy stared at him. She turned to the man. ‘Not all builders are crooked, you know. Certainly not our firm.' She turned to Stephen. ‘Thank you for standing up for us.'

She collected an empty plate and took it into the kitchen, where Maddy was pouring out some grapefruit juice. She dumped the plate on the draining board. ‘How could Prudence live with such a weak man?' she demanded.

‘Don't spoil things!' hissed Maddy. ‘It is Erin's party.'

Dorothy looked at her daughter. ‘That used to be your department.'

‘What did?'

Dorothy said: ‘Oh, it doesn't matter.'

The Literary Editor of the
Sunday Times
flicked his fag-end into the fire. Prudence flinched. Couldn't he tell it was gas?

Her room was packed with people. Between the heads she could see Stephen talking to Erin. She wore the same tribal dress she had worn to that dinner party all those months ago.
At least he didn't have trouble with one erection.
What a fateful party that had been! Maddy had fallen in love, she had become a lesbian. Now she had moved home and started a new career. Their father had fallen in love, again with the most unexpected of people. Their parents had split up, their home sold and their childhood packed into crates and locked up in Croydon. Stephen had left his wife and come to live here, with her. She thought of the absent Louise. Only she had remained untouched, her charmed life sealed off from the mess everybody else made of theirs.

Prudence passed round the samosas. She was a practised host, she liked giving parties. This was a business affair, however, and the presence of her mother made her uncomfortable. In the old days Maddy had been the troublemaker but
love had changed her. She was proud of Erin's book, she had somehow entered into Prudence's life.

‘It is a wonderful novel, isn't it,' Prudence said to the man from
Kaleidoscope
.

‘I'm going to sue you,' he said. ‘It's ruined my sex life. My girlfriend brought it to bed every night for a week.'

Prudence laughed. ‘Maybe we could market it as a contraceptive device.'

She moved away, looking for her mother. She didn't trust Dorothy; she had become so unpredictable – weepy, aggressive, manically cheerful. Dorothy was passing round a plate of quiche. Her hair was tinted a redder shade nowadays. She wore her suede waistcoat and emerald-green slacks; she looked like a brassy woman who picked up men on cruises. Behind the bold front, however, she seemed to have disintegrated. Prudence realised, standing there, that she didn't know her mother at all. She wasn't a separate person; she was half of Prudence's parents. Was she mean or generous, for instance? Was she a sensual person, or basically inhibited? Prudence didn't have a clue. Her mother's identity had drained into her husband, he was the dominant person and had bullied her into a shape of his making. What on earth was going on in her mother's head?

‘Are you okay?' Prudence asked. ‘Are you enjoying it?'

‘I'm fine.' Her mother smiled – a sweet smile, Louise's smile. Her mother was scattered into all of them.

They were interrupted by a woman with a crew-cut who worked for Channel 4. ‘Erin Fox is a real star!' she sighed, her cheeks blazing.

‘She is, isn't she? We've got great hopes of her.' Prudence thought: there's a substance to Erin, an inner conviction, that's why people are drawn to her.

Prudence found her handbag. She rummaged in it and took out her cigarettes. Lighting one she realised: this is the first time I've smoked in front of my mother. Is it because I've finally grown up, or that now she's a weakened vessel I just don't care?

She drew the smoke into her lungs. Standing, jostled by her guests, she bade a mental farewell to her mother. For Dorothy had now become a person, incomprehensible and contradictory, loosed into the world; a woman for whom Prudence felt the weight of responsibility.

Dorothy went into the bedroom. Allegra sat on a pile of coats playing with her Game Boy.

‘I've been looking for you,' said Dorothy.

‘I don't know any of these people,' said Allegra.

‘Nor do I.'

‘I'm fed up with vegetarian muck,' said Allegra.

‘So am I.' Dorothy smiled at the little girl. ‘Get your coat.'

‘This is much more fun,' said Dorothy.

Allegra, her mouth full, nodded. They were sitting in a place called Costas's Burgers and Kebabs, opposite Clapham Junction station. Allegra was eating a double burger and chips. She was small for her age; she looked as if she needed fattening up.

‘She your granddaughter then?' asked the man behind the counter – a large, moustachioed Greek.

Dorothy shook her head. ‘I've just borrowed her.'

‘We've borrowed each other,' said Allegra.

What a tenuous link they had, she and this little girl. They were sticks, tossed by a storm and washed up together on a beach.

‘Where does your daddy live?' she asked Allegra.

‘In his office.'

‘His office?'

Allegra nodded. ‘He's lived there since Christmas but he's not supposed to. It's against the regulations.'

‘Hasn't he got a home?'

Allegra shook her head. ‘His wife chucked him out.'

‘He's married?'

Allegra tore open a ketchup sachet with her teeth. ‘She's a cow. She's got these horrible children.'

Dorothy's head spun. ‘Whose children?'

‘Someone she met before Dad.' Allegra squirted ketchup over her chips. ‘Anyway, Dad and her bought this house, it was all falling down, and he did it up really nicely. It took him ages, years and years. And then, when it was finished, she said she didn't love him any more. She chucked him out and her pottery instructor moved in. Dad's really bitter.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘He's trying to get her out. He's spending all his money on lawyers.'

‘Does he have any other children of his own?' Dorothy asked.

‘No. Only me. And he hardly ever sees me.'

‘But he sends you faxes.'

Allegra nodded. She speared a chip with her fork and put it into her mouth.

‘Do you want to see him?' Dorothy asked.

Allegra nodded.

‘Do you know his phone number?'

Dorothy felt invigorated as they got into the car. Everyone else broke the rules; why shouldn't she? She felt sorry for this Aziz man, he had sounded nice on the phone. He had been thrown out of his home too, just as she had. She drove through the littered streets. The world seemed full of such cruelty, such selfish brutality. Why not mend two of the broken pieces?

She drove north, across Waterloo Bridge. She knew she was interfering, but what the hell. Erin thought she was taking Allegra home, and would baby-sit her until they returned from the party. If she found out – too bad.

Dorothy had found the place in her
A-Z
. She drove to Kentish Town and parked the car in a turning off the high street, next to a closed Magnet showroom. Allegra took her
hand and led her up an alleyway. The greasy cobbles shone in the lamplight. It was cold; the wind whipped a plastic bag into the air.

‘He lives here?' she whispered.

A voice called: ‘Hello, Sunshine.' A man sat in a doorway.

Allegra said, ‘Hello.'

‘How's my little girl been then?'

‘Fine.'

For a mad moment Dorothy thought that this was Allegra's father. Nothing would surprise her any more. The man lifted a can of lager to his mouth, toasting them. ‘Light o'my life!'

‘He's always there,' whispered Allegra. She led Dorothy to a doorway at the end of the alley and rang the bell.

Aziz's office was a high-tech sliver of concrete and glass. He opened the door, hugged Allegra and led them up a spiral staircase into a room. It had a drawing-board, a computer and a settee. Allegra pointed: ‘That's where he sleeps.'

Another sofabed, thought Dorothy.

Aziz was charming. He was a courtly, formal man, dressed harmoniously in russet and ochre. He poured Dorothy a glass of wine.

‘Everyone was sucking up to Mum so we thought we'd come here.' Allegra went to a cupboard, opened it pro-prietorially and took out a computer game.

‘I shouldn't be doing this,' said Dorothy, ‘but I have.'