Precocious (25 page)

I found out later that Alex had tried to give Dave the ‘if you ever hurt my sister …’ talk, but they’d both ended up laughing. Perhaps somehow they realised that if anything it was going to end up being the other way around. Anyway, they’d staggered in drunk, Alex slurring to me what a ‘good bloke’ Dave was, which was high praise from Boy, who’d inherited Dad’s scant conversation skills.

My husband has a knack of putting people at ease, I realise, and of bringing out the best in them; and that includes me.

The house feels a little emptier because he’s not here.

After dinner, Jill carries the plates into the kitchen and Mum and I start the washing up while Dad and Alex retire to the sofas. Gender stereotypes are alive and well in this house.

I fill the sink with hot water and plunge my hands into it, swirling them to make more bubbles. Mum picks up two tea towels, throwing one to Jill.

‘What are our husbands up to in there?’ she asks her.

‘Charlie’s looking for something on Teletext,’ Jill laughs.

‘Who the hell uses Teletext these days?’ I ask. ‘Mum, you really ought to get the internet.’

‘What do we want the internet for?’

‘Well, y’know, to keep in touch with the world.’

‘What’s so good about the bloody world?’ she sighs, then smiles, ‘I have all the world I need here.’

We form a little conveyor belt, washing, drying, putting away, in comfortable silence until Mum says, ‘You go and see if the boys want a brew, Jill love.’ Once we’re alone, she says to me,

‘Now then. What’s going on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No Dave? What’s that about?’

‘Nothing. He’s …’ I can’t think what to say.

‘Well, whatever it is, sort it out, will you? We like Dave.’

‘Oh, well, as long as
you
like him …’

‘We assumed you did too, given that you married him.’

‘Fair point,’ I sigh, ‘but my track record in relationships isn’t that brilliant, is it?’

‘I don’t suppose I set you the best example.’

At this moment Jill calls from the living room, ‘Charlie and Alex would like tea please, Tina!’

‘And you, my love?’

‘I’ll have a coffee, please. Shall I come and give you a hand?’

‘No, no,’ Mum’s eyes not leaving my face, ‘me and Fiona can manage. Stay where you are.’ She lowers her voice and says to me, ‘You’re like your mother, that’s the trouble … flighty.’

‘Well, it takes two to make a marriage work, Mum.’

‘I could have been a better wife, though. And a better mother,’ she laughs, a brittle sound, and looks at me closely. She places an awkward hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry, you know. I should have been better, when you were … young. I should have protected you. I thought you were so … grown up.’

I laugh, say ‘so did I’, and take her in a brief hug.

‘Well, you’re all grown up now.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So sort it out. Right,’ she puts away the last plate. ‘Pudding?’

Later, as the world outside turns dark, I doze on the sofa, stomach full of chocolate pudding and custard, resentful of the train I have to catch, sorry for the first time I can remember to have to leave these people, leave this life.

When Dave and I began, we would pass time making lists. He had teased me about the list thing, said I was a control freak, but soon our lists became a ritual, a game, a fairly crude way, with hindsight, of probing for personal detail before getting involved. Top Ten Songs, Top Ten Films, Top Ten Foods. Like a game of Snap! for the personality; trying to find a match. By the time I met Dave I’d been through so many short-term, ill-advised relationships that I just wanted to say ‘Snap!’ enough times with someone that it seemed possible to live together.

You don’t want to play the list game.

‘It’s childish,’ you say.
You would’ve humoured me when I was fourteen
, I think.

‘Too much like giving something of yourself away?’ I ask.

I don’t know why I start trying to call Alice. I’ve no idea what I’ll say if she picks up.

I’m not surprised when it rings out. ‘Hi, this is Alice,’ her machine tells me, ‘leave a message.’ I hang up.

This age of texts, of emails, of instant messaging, instant contact, has added speed but removed romance and excitement. I wish for the prolonged anticipation of the post: letters from Laura, from Mari, when I was at university. Laura’s three or four pages with fortnightly regularity; Mari’s sometimes a gushing tap, sometimes a two line update on a postcard, those ones from the local corner shop, all bleached at the edges where they’ve sat on the shelf for years: ‘Everything much the same here, kid. Miss ya! x’

Letters from you, at school, in plain envelopes, handed under a desk or brushing by me in the corridor.

Now that we have all the technology, we’re losing our language. We shorten words, don’t bother talking. And there are more ways to cheat, and more means of being found out.

There have been a couple more late night calls, each time shrugged off by you as ‘a prank’ or a ‘wrong number’. You’ve taken to setting your phone to silent. I’ve taken to staring at it, as it idles in your hand while we watch TV, willing it to become separate from you, watching it and wishing for it to give up its secrets. But I haven’t been able to get near it: for weeks you’ve kept it close as a talisman, as you lounge on the sofa, as you cook, as you lean over exercise books with your red pen. I’ve been trying to remember whether you’ve always done this, and I just haven’t noticed, until now. Until the doubts started to take their insidious roots in my brain.

You’ve even been picking it up and taking it with you as you move from room to room. Have you always done this? I don’t think so.

‘Waiting for a call?’ I’ve asked occasionally, trying to keep my voice casual, leafing through a magazine. You’ve shrugged, or changed the subject.

I don’t know what makes you less vigilant today. It’s been a relaxed day; we’ve just talked, and lazed around the house, with no plans except for a meal out in the evening. We’ve laughed lots, and made love, and the gnawing, needling feeling I’ve had for the past few weeks has all but subsided. So when you announce you’re off for a shower, leaving the precious phone blinking on the coffee table, I actually hesitate before picking it up.

The sound of the shower is like a meter running. I’m trembling, breaths short and shallow in my chest.

With one eye on the door, I pick up the phone, press my thumb to the arrow keys. Scroll quickly.

There’s no name on the text message, just a number. It reads:

I wish I was your cigarette

Between your lips so warm and wet

Take a breath

Don’t fear, sweet death

will take you, but not yet.

And a kiss.

I look at it quickly, then press the red button. Stop. Then I look at it again, for longer. Then I consider sending it to my own phone, so that I can look at it some more. No.

My brain buzzes.

Someone is writing for you. It’s not even very good. What is it supposed to mean, anyway? Is it supposed to be clever, or deep, or something?

Have you kept the message because it means something, or because it means nothing?

The shower shuts off; I count the seconds out in my head, picture you stepping out, grabbing a towel, running your fingers through your wet hair, rubbing steam from the mirror so you can look at yourself.

Staring at the little screen, I blink as I notice another message. How had I not seen that? With a trembling thumb I open it:
When will we get 2 spend a whole night together?
and a string of kisses, like bullets.

I feel faint.

Even though I’m going to confront you, so you’ll know soon enough what I’ve done, I put the phone back exactly in its place. I
am
going to confront you – aren’t I?

If I ask if you are cheating, I know what you’ll say. Never a straight answer. A teasing smile will play on your lips and you’ll say ‘depends on your definition of cheat’. I glance at the overstuffed bookcase, wondering crazily if I’ve got time to look it up, imagining confronting you with the dictionary, because you never could argue with black and white, on the page.

When you’re back in the room, wet hair, beaming smile, I try for what seems like hours, days even, to say nothing, to let it go, but I suppose it is just minutes.

The moment before saying something that you know will take you from here to there – will change everything – is like holding your breath. Suddenly it seems to me that our relationship has been just a string of these instances. Like going to a cliff edge, taking in the view for just a moment, then leaping off, only to find that when you reach the bottom, even though you’ve survived, there’s another ledge right in front of you.

Is this how it’s supposed to be? When will there be no more drops?

You move towards me and I move away, panicking, trying to keep a distance between us. I know if you touch me I’ll bottle it. You lean forward again and I lean back, as though the space between us is not space at all but an actual, solid thing, a boulder, a block.

Your face creases into an amused frown, and as you reach for me a third time, I blurt, ‘I’ve done a bad thing.’ I didn’t know until the words came out that this was going to be my opener; that I was going to come to you penitent, instead of accusing.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ your voice low with mock gravity, ‘what might that be then? Confess all.’

I can see how this will play out. Why did I start off penitent?

‘I’m sorry’, I will say. Perhaps through tears, perhaps just sniffing, and blinking, as though even my tears haven’t the energy to roll out.

You will give a long pause and a dramatic exhalation of breath. Maybe you will do the running your hand through your hair thing.

‘It’s alright’, you will say. Beatific smile. Arms outstretched. Grateful, I will take them and bury my silly head in your shoulder. Thank God, thank God, you haven’t had enough of me yet. You are still putting up with me.

‘Thank you’, I will say/sob/whisper.

You are so patient.

And I, so untrusting, with my black heart, will nestle into your arm.

Not tonight. Not this time.

‘I looked in your phone,’ I say, ‘I looked in your phone while you were in the shower, and I read your messages, and …’ I falter because I’m not sure what comes next. I swallow the ‘I’m sorry’ that’s waiting in my throat and look at you.

‘Okay,’ you say slowly, ‘okay.’ You are staring at the phone, but you don’t pick it up. I can tell by this that you know what I’ve seen, what I’ve read.

I’d expected that if you had something to hide you’d be angry, and the fact that you’re not confuses me, and gives my own anger nowhere to go.

But remembering the kisses at the end of the texts, bold letter ‘X’s screaming ‘wrong’ at me as though marking me in a test, I press on.

‘So who is she?’

‘She’s a kid,’ you say simply.

‘A kid,’ I repeat, ‘and
you’re
forty-three,’ and you bounce back, blue-grey eyes unblinking, unflinching.

‘She’s a kid at school with some … problems.’ You are calm. I breathe slower.

‘
Have you learned nothing?
’ I want to scream.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Tess.’

‘How old?’

‘Why’s that important?’

‘How old?’

‘She’s year ten, so, fourteen or fifteen I suppose.’

‘And why would she send you a message – messages – like that?’

To my amazement, you laugh.

‘Like I said, she’s a bit … troubled. I haven’t the heart to have a go at her about this sort of thing, so I just ignore it.’ You pick up your phone and, saying ‘ignore it’ again, still smiling, casually delete the messages. The messages you’ve kept for four days.

‘Is it her that’s been ringing? Late at night?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘No idea? So it might have been? You said they were wrong numbers. Which is it?’

‘Look, Fee, is this going to take long?’ The exasperation creeping into your voice pleases me; it feels like I’m having an impact, it feels like progress. ‘I want to get ready for dinner …’

‘We’re not going out,’ I say. ‘We need to have a talk.’

‘We can talk over dinner.’

I ignore this.

‘How many?’ The question is quiet, calm, necessary. You look confused.

‘What? How many what?’

‘You know.’ ‘
You fucking well know
’ I want to say, but I need to keep control and I know swearing will drag volume out of my lungs.

You lean back in your chair with a bored sigh, the shift from confusion to indifference visible in your eyes.

‘How. Many?’ I stand up. ‘How many?’

‘Fee, sit down. You’re being—’

‘What? What am I being?’ I’m shaking.

‘Dramatic. Childish.’

‘Childish?’ I laugh uncontrollably, and razor blades slice through my chest, my throat and out of my mouth. I think I will never stop laughing. ‘Childish! Ha. You are
brilliant
.’

‘What is it you want from me, exactly?’ There it is, the smooth control, the perfect contrast to dramatic, childish, hysterical little me. My laughter subsides to a sigh.

‘I want to know. That’s all. Me. This Tess girl. Alice. How many others? If you care about me – if you’ve ever cared – just tell me.’

You are silent. Words scramble up through my body, over the hard, tight knot in my stomach, and when they reach my mouth they taste of where they came from, they taste of bile and regret.

‘I left my bloody husband for you. I left my
life
.’

‘I didn’t ask you to.’

The sound that comes out of me is a short, sharp scream, just an echo of the howl that I’ve got whirring about inside.

‘How fucking many,
Mister
Morgan?’

Fights have a rhythm, like everything else, and in between bouts of shouting there are often quiet phases, where the words are soft, even affectionate.

‘You’re not a man to grow old with,’ I say, shaking my head, trying to lose this realisation, but once it’s said, it’s out there, it must be true.

‘You’re just saying that because I’m already old,’ you smile but it’s a weak joke, and it’s as though we’re both staring, shocked, at my words as they hang in the air.