Games People Play (26 page)

‘But, Mark, we finished weeks ago,’ I say, as if it is perfectly understandable that he’d already be in another relationship. ‘Why shouldn’t you meet someone else? I assumed there was no chance for us anyway. Was I wrong?’

‘Um. Well. No, not exactly, but…’ He pauses, then blurts out, ‘You
hurt
me, Rach. I thought we had something really good going. I was really upset when you said ...’ He turns away and leans against the kitchen table. I am puzzled, and shocked.

‘So was I. I didn’t want us to break up, you know. You didn’t have to do it.’ All my old passion for him returns, and I am furious that I’ve lost him to a new woman. ‘So did you really come all the way out here to tell me you’d met someone else already? Who is she, by the way?’

‘No. I came to say I’m sorry for the way it ended between us, and for all the troubles you’re having with Ivan, and all that ...I know that he and I don’t see eye to eye, and well, whatever he’s been up to is none of my business—’

‘He hasn’t been “up to” anything!’ I flash back, hotly. ‘He didn’t do it; someone set him up.’

‘Yeah, sorry, sure. But it must be a nightmare for you and Gordana, on top of your accident.’

You don’t even know the half of it, I think, picturing Gordana in hospital, anticipating her bald, wan with lethargy, the skin stretched tightly across her cheekbones. It’s an image which kept me awake last night.

He has ignored the last part of my question. ‘So who is she?’ I repeat. He looks shifty, and scratches the stubble on his chin.

‘It’s, um, Sally-Anne.’

I grit my teeth. Bloody Sally-Anne Salkeld. I might have guessed. He only knows her through me – she’s in the same squad as me and Kerry. She’s been after him for ages, not appearing to let the evidence of our involvement bother her. She’s a loud, horsey, blonde Sloane with a flash car – personalized numberplate, natch – who thinks she’s better than everyone else. I feel like slapping Mark around the head. But since I’ve been playing it cool, I make a gargantuan effort to keep it up. I make myself put it all in perspective by thinking about Gordana again, and what she is going through.

‘Well!’ I say brightly, forcing my lower lip not to wobble. ‘I’m very happy for you both. So what’s this present, then? You really didn’t need to get me a get-well present. I’m over the worst. It’s just a matter of time now.’

‘I know. But it’s the sort of present I couldn’t give you until you were much better,’ he says, the spark back in his eyes. He is practically hopping from foot to foot now, as if the gift will wipe out all the bad feeling between us.

‘Come on then, where is it? The suspense is killing me.’

‘Back in a minute.’ He shoots out of the kitchen and I hear the front door open. I watch him run over to his car. I’ve always loved to watch him run, he’s so agile and sexy when he moves. He carefully extracts the large box – giving me ample chance to admire his tight rear view – and carries it gingerly back to the house.

Now I am really mystified.

He comes into the kitchen and puts the box on the floor. It has a big red ribbon tying the top of it closed.

Something inside is scrabbling around and making funny little noises, and my heart sinks. The silly prat has bought me a
pet
.

‘It’s a mental present, babe, wait till you see it,’ he says excitedly. ‘I just felt so sorry for you, what with your career being over and everything—’

‘What do you mean? I’m probably going to be fine,’I snap at him. ‘I just won’t know for sure until I can start walking again.’

This is not going well. I don’t want a pet, unless it’s something completely low maintenance, like a tortoise. But the way the box is hurling itself around the floor makes me think that unless it’s on serious amphetamines, this is no tortoise.

‘Oh, right, sorry ...Anyway, I thought: What would really cheer me up if I was you?’

Now I’m beginning to suspect he’s bought me an Arsenal season ticket, and whatever is in the box is merely a decoy.

The box skids about a foot along the kitchen floor and the strange noise turns into unmistakable yelps.

‘You haven’t . . .’ I begin incredulously.

‘I have!’ He beams, ripping off the ribbon and delving into the box to lift out a squirming, yapping – admittedly very cute – puppy.

‘It’s a dog,’ I say, stupidly.

‘Isn’t he awesome! He’s called Jackson. He’s an Alsatian.’

‘It’s a
dog
,’ I repeat. Mark is grinning from ear to ear, and in fact, at that moment, is the spitting image of Jackson, who is madly trying to lick his face.

Something bubbles up inside me, an emotion I had not anticipated: pure, red, rage. ‘You – stupid – thoughtless . . .’ I can’t think of a suitable noun, so I change the subject: ‘Are you sleeping with Sally-Anne?’ I yell, and burst into tears.

Funny, isn’t it, how I can hold it together when my beloved grandmother tells me she has cancer, but I can’t cope with my ex-boyfriend having sex with another girl?

Gordana

Dear Lord, I know I complain sometimes – well, often – about stupid things like Manuel not raking leaves and Ted snoring and the fact my singing career never got off the ground, and I know I don’t come to see you in this beautiful church as often as I should ...and I’m sorry, Lord. I don’t know why I don’t come so much these days. It is so good to be in here. It’s warm and still and the colours of the windows are soothing like throat sweets and even though outside it is so windy, the flame of this candle is constant and straight and somehow brave like I know I must be. People think I’m brave but you know I’m not, Lord. Just because I have a good figure and nice clothes and am married to a good, kind, rich man, somehow that make people think I’m strong as well as lucky. Although I suppose now they do not think I’m so lucky, with my son in such a disgrace for this dirty crime. Oh, I pray it never gets back to the cousins in Korčula. It’s bad enough that the Midweek ladies know. Well, everyone knows. Even the postman gives me funny looks now...anyway, I must not fret about it. I cannot help that.

I am strong and lucky in many ways, I know – but I am scared, Lord, I am so, so scared. I curse myself for ignoring the evil lump. I knew it was there, why did I not go to see Mr Babish and his gentle hands weeks ago? How could I be such a coward? I suppose I was thinking: never mind, I’ve had a good life, I am officially Old Aged Pensioner although I feel like a teenager. I have been lucky, but if my time is up, it’s up, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I feel so guilty for that, Lord. It’s my life, but I have others to consider. I am still a mother, and Ivan still needs mothering, especially now, whatever he might say. I can’t leave him to cope with all this on his own.

Rachel needs me; she has been through so much and although she does not talk about it, she must know that she might not play again, not professionally. She needs her family. God knows – sorry,
you
know – that we have not been so good at sticking together before, and now we must. I must hold us together. I wish I had enough arms to pull everyone in, all these people who can be difficult but who I love more than nice houses and clothes and success, despite what others may think. OK, so I married Ted because he said he would look after me; he was my escape. But now I want to look after him. He has loved me all these years and I am selfish enough to think I don’t care if I die? I knew I was selfish, Lord, but I didn’t realize how selfish ...It makes me weep. I love him dearly.

I am glad there is nobody else in here. I don’t like anyone to see me cry. I will not cry after the operation.

I will tell myself that it doesn’t matter if I lose my dignity and my hair, and if I’m sick all the time. Apart from seasickness on that unfortunate dolphin-watching expedition in Spain, I have not vomited for seventeen years; not since the bad mussel in Bayeux.

But I am strong. I will cope with the chemo and everything else. I will let them stick in their needles and their toxins, just so that Ted will not be left alone, and Ivan and Rachel will not have something else to be sad about.

Besides, I am not ready to go yet. I want to see Ivan cleared of all these nasty charges. I want to win the Veterans Club championship. I want to sing in a nightclub. I want to teach Ted to do Ceroc – tricky, with those stumpy little legs of his – and to go on cruise around the fjords in Norway. I want to see Rachel married to a kind, loving man who adores her (not Mark, I suspect) in a big wedding I can organize with Susie, and we can wear the biggest, most outrageous hats we can find. I would like to watch Ivan walking with her down the aisle.

And while we’re on the subject of weddings, I would love to see Ivan married again too. Just not to that Anthea; I’m sure you agree.

I won’t do bargaining with you, Lord, I expect you hate that. So I will just say: Please, consider to let me stay a bit longer. Ten or twenty years, perhaps. I am too busy to go now.

Rachel

Mark gapes at me in genuine astonishment. ‘Don’t you like him?’ he asks, holding the puppy at arm’s length to avoid the frantic licking.

‘It’s not about whether I
like
him or not,’ I sob, turning away, my shoulders heaving. ‘And are you? Shagging her?’

‘I don’t see that it’s important,’ Mark says defensively.

‘Why not? It is to me. I bet you any money if we’d been sleeping together, you wouldn’t have broken up with me.’ I grab a tissue from the box on the windowsill and blow my nose, but can’t stop crying.

‘I’m sorry, Rach. I shouldn’t have come. But I really thought you’d like the dog.’

So they are sleeping together. Of course they are. Why wouldn’t they be, for heaven’s sake? It’s what most normal couples do, unless they have religious or health reasons why they shouldn’t. I stop asking him. It’s obvious. Might as well just talk about the damn dog instead.

‘What possessed you, without even asking me first?’

The puppy widdles luxuriantly, and it’s Mark’s turn to yelp as dog wee splatters all down the front of his jogging bottoms. I tut angrily and unroll several sheets of kitchen towel, which I drop on the sparkling white tiles to soak up the puddle. Gordana would have a fit if she saw the mess.

‘You always said you wanted a dog,’ he says, sounding defensive. ‘And Gordana said you need to start doing lots of walking, so I thought it’d be perfect.’

I drop more dry kitchen paper on top of the sodden yellow sheets, and wipe them around with my good foot.

‘Mark, you prat,’ I say, tears still flooding down my face, ‘I
can’t
walk! I can’t even put weight on my knee, not for three months! She didn’t mean I was actually walking yet, at least not without crutches.’ I brush the tears away angrily; I so hadn’t wanted to cry in front of him. But they are tears of pent-up fury; frustration; grief – for me, for Mark and me, for Dad, and most of all for Gordana and Ted.

‘A bloody dog is a huge commitment for anyone – I mean, how long do these things live for? Ten, fifteen years? You need to spend a couple of hours every single day walking them. And even when I’m back on my feet, who’s going to take it – Jackson – when I’m away at tournaments? Plus I don’t even
live
here, remember? I live with Dad and Anthea, in a house which doesn’t have a nearby park, and I don’t drive, so I won’t be able to take him to one. Anthea hates dogs. She’s probably allergic to them. The house is far too small for anything bigger than a gerbil to live in comfort with us three. And Anthea sure as hell won’t want to look after him when Dad and I go away.’

It’s the look on Mark’s face which finishes me off.

He’s gone from pleased to defensive to – and this is the worst one of all – pitying. He pities me.

‘You don’t think I’m going to play again, do you?’ I ask abruptly. Mark puts the puppy down and it immediately shoots under the kitchen table, crouches down, and defecates on the floor.

Mark spreads his arms wide and shrugs his shoulders. ‘What do I know?’ he says, as the offensive aroma of wet dog poo fills the air. ‘It seems I can’t do or say anything right. I thought he’d give you some stability. Something you could, you know, bond with.’

‘What – now that I don’t have a boyfriend any more? You don’t want me to be lonely, so you buy me a dog instead, while you and Horse-Face Salkeld shag your way round the world? Unbelievable.’

I shove the roll of kitchen towel and a pair of rubber gloves at him, and go in search of air-freshener in the cupboard under the sink. ‘
You
clean that up.’

Mark obliges, humbly crawling under the table. ‘I’m sorry, Rach. I really thought you’d love him. And he wasn’t cheap, either – he cost me three hundred and fifty quid, you know!’ I hear him gag slightly. ‘Man, that
stinks
!’ he comments in a choked voice.

‘I am touched, Mark, honestly. It’s just that it’s so ...
ill conceived
. I can’t possibly keep him. You’ll have to take him back.’

At that moment the puppy capers around the table, barking excitedly at the sight of Mark on his hands and knees down there.

‘He is kind of sweet,’ I admit, almost managing a smile.

Mark emerges, holding a wad of paper towel at arm’s length, his head turned away in disgust. ‘Where’s the bin?’

‘Take it outside, by the back door. But don’t let the dog out.’

‘Pick him up then, otherwise he’ll make a run for it.’

Mark vanishes, and the dog and I are left alone, staring at each other. Jackson puts his head to one side and whines appealingly at me.

‘Oh please. Don’t start all that.’ But I gingerly scoop him up and stroke him, wondering how clean a recently defecating puppy’s nether regions are, since they’re resting on my forearm. Jackson squirms joyously and licks my neck. It reminds of the way Mark used to lick me.

‘Hello, you,’ I say crossly, tickling him under his chin.

Mark comes back in, peeling off the Marigolds. ‘You don’t really want me to take him back to the shop, do you?’

I remember a book Mum used to read me as a kid:
The Diggingest Dog
. It was about a dog who’d lived in a pet shop all his life and, because of the hard stone floor, had never learned to dig. When he was finally purchased, by one Sammy Brown, he finally cracked the art of digging, and proceeded to dig up everything he could; in fact, he dug up the whole town, shops and roads and all. Jackson cuddles into me, flopping his big paws over my arm.

‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ I warn him darkly.

At that moment Pops’s car edges slowly up the drive – he always drives at speeds of less than thirty miles per hour, because he’s terrified of scratching or in any way damaging his car, a beautiful caramel-coloured vintage Jaguar so shiny that I could have plucked my eyebrows by peering at my reflection in the bodywork. (Not that I ever did pluck them. Mark used to call me ‘Brooke’, after Brooke Shields, because of my bushy eyebrows).

We watch my grandfather laboriously climb out and approach the house. He looks anxious and pale, and my heart goes out to him.

‘You haven’t met Pops before, have you?’ I sniff the air suspiciously, to make sure the smell of Jackson’s misdemeanours has been sufficiently masked by liberal sprays of forest fruit air-freshener. It hasn’t.

‘No. So that’s Gordana’s old man? Wow, he
is
an old guy too, isn’t he? Bet she wears him out!’

Mark and I used to laugh and joke about Gordana and her Midweek friends, but I can’t countenance any teasing of her at the moment. ‘He’s not that much older than her. Don’t be so rude.’

‘Sorry,’ Mark says. ‘Can’t do anything right, can I?’

Pops comes in the back door and stops, wiping his feet meticulously on the doormat. It has an image of three kittens somehow stamped into its bristles, and I think how much this house reflects Gordana’s taste and not his. I wonder if he minds wiping his feet on kittens. He raises his eyebrows at the sight of Mark and the puppy. Then he holds out his hand and advances towards us.

‘Hello. I’m Ted. You must be Mark. Very kind of you to visit Rachel. Is this your dog? What a lovely puppy!’

‘Good to meet you,’ says Mark, giving him the firm handshake and eye-contact he does so well with umpires after tennis matches. Particularly matches he’s just won. ‘This is Jackson. He’s a present for Rachel.’

Pops’s white eyebrows shoot up his forehead again. He glances at me, taking in my tear-stained face, and I roll my eyes and shake my head. ‘A present? Well...well. That’s certainly ...quite a gift.’

‘I’ve told Mark I can’t possibly keep him,’ I say firmly. ‘I won’t be able to take him for the sort of walks that he needs, and Anthea would have a fit if I took him home with me.’

‘May I?’ asks Pops, scooping the dog out of my arms and into his own. ‘Hello, old chap, you’re rather nice, aren’t you?’ He scratches the puppy’s head, and Jackson wriggles and pants with bliss, frantically licking Pops’s hand. ‘That’s a shame. Why don’t you at least ask Anthea if she’d mind?’

‘Pops! Back me up here, can’t you? I don’t want a dog! Not right now, anyhow. It’s too much of a commitment.’

But Pops appears to be besotted. He and Jackson are gazing into each other’s eyes. ‘Always wanted a dog,’ he says dreamily. ‘Can’t imagine what Dana will say, though ….’