The Godmother (10 page)

“It's not my fault Mum got pregnant.”

“No. Has she ever made you feel as if it were?”

Caspar shook his head.

“I didn't catch that.”

“No.”

“So what's this all about, then?”

“Tessa, you don't know what it's like. Mum and Dad are always so involved with each other.”

“And this is your problem?”

“You make me sound like a spoilt brat.”

“You said it.”

“I thought you understood. I thought you weren't angry with me.”

“I'm not. I'm fucking furious.”

After that the conversation took a turn for worse.

“They've done bloody everything for you. Do you have any idea what they
missed out on?” I wasn't even talking about all the big things they missed out on, like holidays, a dishwasher, a car, Fran's career; I was talking about nipping down to the pub for a quick pint. I was talking about attending their graduation party. Having a twenty-first. Friends.

“Your mum was the smartest girl I knew, have ever known.” Not so easy to tell these days, I had to admit, but she was far smarter than me. I'd always had to work twice as hard to stay level with her. I sat next to her in the first lecture, I was sitting next to her at the last; the only difference between her and me on that last lecture was that she had a huge stomach and I had a hangover. In the months that followed graduation, we were both up all night but for different reasons. While I was at law school, she was at playschool. By the time I was doing the rounds of regional courthouses, Francesca was on the school run.

“She had big dreams, Caspar. She wanted to work for the UN, travel all over the world, make things better. All it would have taken was twenty minutes under general anesthetic.”

Caspar winced. But it was true, one abortion, the abortion I told her to have, and Francesca could have been running the UN by now.

“When it came to it, she couldn't do it and her reasons, it turned out, were sound. Don't repay them with this shoddy behavior, Caspar, please. For her and you. Because I tell you, you'll regret it eventually and you'll never be able to make it up to her. And then you might really need this shit.” I held out the packet of talcum powder again.

“It was only a bit of speed.”

Speed. OK, I figured that was better than coke or crack. “‘Only'? And what about all this skunk you're smoking. Do you know it can make you paranoid? Antisocial? Irrational? Angry? I wonder whom I'm describing…”

“It's only weed.”

“It's not
only
weed or
only
speed, these are drugs, Caspar. I don't care what you think, but I don't know many heroin addicts who went from Kool-Aid to heroin—you know what I mean? There is a process that sucks you in. And it starts with this. Honestly, I thought you were more intelligent than this.”

It was about this point that we both started to tire of the fight.

We went to the kitchen and I put the kettle on. Caspar dragged his sorry arse on to a stool and put his chin into his hands. My cherubic, number
one godson, all curls and pink cheeks—taking speed. It was a horrendous thought. He'd been so well loved; what more could any parent do than love their child? What did they want, these kids?

“Would you prefer it if your parents hated each other?”

“No, but it's embarrassing.”

“It embarrasses you because they are in love with each other?”

He grimaced.

“You have no idea how lucky you are. You think happy marriages are the norm? Think about it. Fran's parents aren't together, Ben's parents were never married, Billy is divorced, I'm alone—”

“You're not married. It doesn't count.”

“I might be if one of my relationships had worked.”

“You need a boyfriend first, Tessa,” said Caspar. Out of the mouths of babes.

“Oi, you're in the doghouse, don't be cheeky. If your mum and dad reward themselves with a private joke that you are not part of, or a cuddle on the sofa, or holding each other's hands rather than yours, you should thank your lucky stars. It's why you have the foundation you do. It's why you have a home.”

He picked at a digestive biscuit. “I feel left out.”

“So you think it's your turn to embarrass them?”

“Maybe.”

“But the only person you're embarrassing is yourself.”

Caspar couldn't grasp the reasons for his behavior or how he felt because he didn't understand them himself. He was a boy. Having a childish reaction. Throwing his toys out of his pram. The trouble was, at sixteen, he had access to more adult toys. He rubbed his hands over his face. When he looked up he had tears in his eyes.

“You're right. I've lost all my friends. Zac's an arsehole, I don't know why I listen to him; I've put Mum and Dad through hell…”

I walked round the bar and put my arm around him. He leaned against me like he used to do when he was a child. I could feel my heart surge with love for him and nearly burst into tears myself with relief.

“Tessa?” he said quietly after a few minutes.

“Yes?”

“I stole £50 from your wallet,” he said.

If I thought I couldn't love him more, I was wrong. I kissed his head. “I know,” I said.

“You didn't say anything.”

“I was waiting for you to tell me.”

“I'm sorry, Tessa—for that, for last night, for my behavior when you came home…”

“Ssh. No more sorries. Not to me, anyway.” I held him, feeling the full force of unconditional love.

“Have I got a record?”

“No,” I said. “But it was close and trust me, a drug record is a very hard thing to shake.” I knew what I was talking about, not just from a legal point of view, but from a personal one. Claudia and Al had wanted to adopt after their third attempt at IVF failed. They had a horrendous time. Al had a record. He was caught bringing half an ounce of cannabis resin into the country from Vietnam. It was a mistake, of course. He'd thought he'd lost the stuff but it had fallen through a tear in the lining of his bag. The adoption agency could only read in black and white; Al's grey story couldn't be heard. Ironically, Claudia was told that she'd be more likely to get a child if she wasn't married to Al, but Claudia wouldn't listen to his idea of divorce, even if it was only on paper. We all thought his insignificant record would not play a part in his adult life. We were very wrong.

“Thank you for bailing me out.”

“It wasn't me. The officer gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

“I should thank her for that.”

“Well, you can. I know where she's stationed.”

“I'll write a note…” He sighed heavily. “It's over, Tessa,” he said into my shoulder. “I've been an arsehole.”

That was when I felt the little boy I loved was gone, and a fine man would emerge, though not all at once, in his place. So much for my maternal instinct.

Why is it that when I know I have to be suited and booted and on parade I fall in through my flat door at four in the morning, having popped out for a quick drink nine hours earlier? It was innocent enough. I'd spent the week effectively ignoring all the things I had to do while spending hours on the things I didn't. Despite having long chats with my parents about my next move, I managed to forget to make any of the calls I had to until I was in the middle of a yoga class, in the cinema, or it was three o'clock in the morning. I'd lie awake having lengthy rehearsals of what I would say when I called the recruitment agency but in the morning I'd have a boiled egg, make some coffee and spend a happy four hours listening to music and clearing out my wardrobe. Procrastination is an art I have clearly mastered.

But then on Friday evening a girl I used to work with sent me a text message saying she was in the area. We agreed to meet up in my local pub for a speedy catch up. I would have ducked it, although I liked the girl very much, because she was closer to the work drama than I cared to go at present. However, she told me she was meeting friends for dinner, which meant we couldn't get stuck into a long debate about my ex-boss, and also, she had moved to another chambers. It was to be one quick drink before going home to think pure thoughts about renouncing the devil at the twins' christening the following morning. I had a shandy, for heaven's sake. What trouble could a shandy get me into? Less and less lemonade, that's what. I am a weak-willed woman with a terrible desire to flout responsibility—except, of course, that's only half the story. Because I long for responsibility too. I long to say, “Sorry, can't find a babysitter. See you in seventeen years.”

I should have never left my flat because after a few more pints, and a great
deal of gossip, it seemed like a good idea to make my ex-colleague's friends come to where we were. Then it seemed like crisps were as good as anything for dinner. And then the bell tolled and someone suggested a sweaty disco club round the corner that I didn't even know existed. And then, of course, tequila…

Most civilized christenings are at three o'clock in the afternoon. Thus the replete and fully rested child is more likely to reflect the success of their exceptionally natural, gifted parents and gurgle perfectly through the service. It also gives the godparents, who tend to be a breed apart, time to recover from their night out. But Helen and Neil opted for the eleven o'clock service, followed by a fully catered-for champagne brunch back at their enormous house. I woke the morning after my “quick drink,” pulled the eyepatch off one eye and squinted at the clock through caked-on mascara. I pressed “snooze” one more time, knowing I was getting dangerously close to cutting down even my own speedy personal record for scrubbing up to an unacceptable panic. I went over my outfit in my head. My hair reeked of tobacco, but I didn't have time to wash and dry it. I wondered whether Febreeze might work. Maybe a heavily scented hat was a better option. I possessed a particularly fetching trilby that I purchased off eBay which would hold the odor in nicely, but it meant a quick rethink on the part of the wardrobe. Trouser suit. High boots. Airy, fairy, floaty godmother look was out, gangsta-rap, hip-hop queen was in. The alarm buzzed again. Surely twenty minutes hadn't passed already?

Full-fat Coke and tinted extra moisturizing cream with an SPF of twenty-five were the first items I lined up for my repair kit. I took the Coke into the shower and coated my boozy skin with extract of grapefruit, wearing a plastic shower cap so watertight that it left unsightly indentations along my hairline, like my own personal stigmata. More scented body cream, hairbrush, no make-up—make-up, more scent, fabulous boots, bag and hat and I was ready to walk into the hallowed portals of St. John's Church perched on top of the hill that Ladbroke Road climbs. Claudia could be the good godmother. I would be the godmother that made the grandmothers' eyes roll and the grandfathers revert to their twenty-five-year-old selves. I would be the ying to Claudia's yang. I didn't know who the godfathers were. Friends of Neil's, I presumed, so I had already dismissed them.

My taxi arrived outside the church just as Neil's ochre-colored Range Rover Sport pulled up behind. I paid, then turned to see Helen, looking incredibly glamorous, emerge from the back. She was wearing a very tailored white suit with a tight pencil skirt and staggeringly high “nude” heels. Her dark skin glowed, her hair was pulled back and hung in one long thick furling strand down her back. Her bold make-up accentuated the tapering of her wide eyes. The only jewelry she wore was a diamond cross and her diamond wedding ring. The haggard creature I'd seen was gone. She looked incredibly beautiful. The transformation was hard to take in. She smiled at me as someone handed her a bundle of lace that I took to be one of her sons. Neil took the other bundle. He looked fit to burst and it reminded me sharply that despite my own prejudices towards the man, no one really knows what goes on in the privacy of a marriage. It was a secret society that boasted only two members. It should not be judged on the snippets of information that landed at the feet of the non-members, or second-guessed by the uninitiated. Neil and Helen smiled at each other and I stepped proudly into line behind them, ready to become godmother once more. Twice more. Four times more. Tick. Tock.

Claudia was already inside the church, chatting to a portly woman clutching a stack of hymn books. I could see Al's bald pate hiding behind a rather unwieldy, old-fashioned video recorder, taping it all for posterity. I waved at some people I recognized, and then realized seconds later that I was waving at the cast of a sitcom that Neil had been in, and lowered my hand. I looked away and smiled at a pillar. I was trying so hard not to feel awkward or out of place. Maybe I shouldn't have dressed like Michael Jackson.

“You look fabulous,” said Claudia, grabbing my arm.

“No, I don't,” I replied. “But I appreciate the lie.”

“You do,” she insisted. “Why is it so hard to get you to accept a compliment?”

“I only got to bed a few hours ago.”

“Now you mention it, there is a vague whiff of the brewery about you.”

“Compliment, you say…I hoped I'd covered most of it with grapefruit.”

“Don't worry, I'm pregnant. I have the nose of a hound. No one else will notice. Was it a fun night?”

“Very. I met a girl from work—”

Claudia grabbed me aside. “Oh my God. And…?”

I exhaled. “He's gone. In fact, he went mad after I left. He's been committed!”

Claudia's mouth dropped open.

“I know. Complete breakdown. It wasn't really anything to do with me.” I felt an odd sensation saying that. Relief. Disbelief. And a terrible sadness and anger because if it hadn't been anything to do with me, why had he chosen to follow me home? To call me during the night; stand over my desk and watch me work; ostracize me from my colleagues by favoring everything I did. Then throw an enormous boulder in the middle of my career path. If it had nothing to do with me, why was my life upended, on hold? “Turns out he's got some mad compulsive thing going on; it could have manifested itself as pencil shavings collection or avoiding cracks in the pavement. My friend didn't really know the details. They're trying to keep it hush-hush, but according to someone else in another chambers, the wife had him committed.”

“Something many wives might envy.”

“Not you.”

Claudia smiled but carried on patting my arm reassuringly. “Seriously, you must be so relieved.”

“I'm relieved because it proves that I didn't invent all of this.”

“Come on, why would you?”

To make my life more interesting, I wanted to say. I paused, “Because I was bored at work?”

Claudia ran her hand up and down my arm. “No, hon, that was real.” If there was a silent subliminal message in her reply, I chose to ignore it and my first answer. Just in case.

Al came up and put his arm around his wife's waist. Claudia beamed up at him. Al was slimmer in build than Ben. And obviously had much less hair. But there were similarities too. They both had an easy charm, and were men of the deepest integrity. Al spoke softly and listened to others, which was why Helen adored him as well. Hell, we all adored Al. He was fundamentally a kind man, and they seemed hard to come by. He smiled back at his glowing wife and held the smile until she was distracted by the organist, pumping up the pedals, then I saw his expression change. The look we exchanged was
enough. He knew I knew, I now knew he knew I knew, and we were both terrified. Claudia's attention returned to us and the moment passed.

“So, Tessa, are you ready to welcome Jesus into your heart?” Al said, leaning over for a kiss.

“Unmarried, skilled and willing to provide food—you bet,” I said.

“I thought he was married, wore dresses and had a penchant for prostitutes,” Al replied, before being poked in the ribs by his wife. “Or was he married to a prostitute?”

“Al, we are in a church!” said Claudia, raising her eyes to the heavens.

“The dress thing I could probably overlook, but married men are out.”

“Do you think monogamy and monotheism are part of the same package?” asked Al, tilting his head to one side.

“Alexander Ward, are you suggesting Jesus could have taken a second wife?”

“Shh,” said Claudia.

I giggled. “I think Claudia thinks we are getting dangerously close to blaspheming.”

“No,” said Claudia, beaming broadly. “You are blaspheming. Ah, Reverend Larkin, may I introduce you to Tessa King, the other godmother.”

I turned to see a handsome man in a dog collar smiling at me. “Of course, the one who couldn't make it to our little pre-christening chat.”

I searched my brain for a reason why I hadn't wanted to have a tête-à-tête with this man. Oh yes. I am not a Christian and currently see organized religion as an impediment to social inclusion and world peace. I don't have a problem with God, you understand. I have a problem with what is done in His name. Any of His names. Is it hypocritical of me to accept the role of godmother, therefore? I have had this debate with myself numerous times and the answer I've conveniently come up with is no. Slight of word, an extra vowel here and there, and religious declarations are easily transformed into sensible moral codes of conduct that I've been happy to verbalize. God becomes Good, and I'm happy to welcome good into my heart. Renouncing evil is a skill I'm honing. At Caspar's christening I opted for sneezes instead of Jesus, which didn't work so well because I got the giggles; I don't think Fran and Nick minded. The day they were married and christened their son was a day of incessant laughter. We were playing at being grown-ups. Well, I was.

“Claudia tells me you are a bit of a pro at the godmother thing, so you've probably heard it all before.”

I smiled at the vicar. He was being nice, but his words had a familiar sting about them that I was keen to ignore.

“A refresher course over a pint would probably be useful,” I replied.

The vicar laughed.

Claudia laughed.

“You're terrible, Muriel,” she whispered into my ear, as we watched him go.

She was wrong, I wasn't terrible. I felt terrible. I didn't want to be a vamp, a predator, a woman with loose morals. I wasn't really like that—couldn't they see? I was simply reverting to type, putting on a show, being what they expected me to be. I didn't want to be a professional godmother. I wanted to be me. But who was that? Just as I got a handle on her, she seemed to change.

I must have frowned because Claudia looked concerned.

“You all right with this?” she asked.

I nodded like Churchill. Not the statesman. The nodding dog.

“Remember,” said Claudia, “I know how you feel.”

That was true. We had both done a fair few christenings; this was only the first time she'd done one pregnant.

I kissed her cheek. “Right,” I said. “Let's do it.”

Claudia took my arm and together we walked up the aisle to take our place in the second pew.

A lot of my single friends find weddings hard. Another brazen reminder of what they have failed to achieve: to find someone to love them. I don't. I actually love a good wedding so long as you know the people getting married really well. The trick is avoiding the weddings of people you don't know that well but are invited to unexpectedly. I went to a few of those, thinking that venturing into new pastures may yield alternative and exciting crops. It was not to be. My dining companions were either gay, prepubescent, or sat to the right of Genghis Khan. So I stopped accepting those invitations. They are also cripplingly expensive.

Weddings of friends I find easy. I go with no expectations other than to have fun with my mates. Christenings, however, are different. At weddings
you are only one step behind. Something that could be rectified by the end of the evening.

Failing that, possibly by the end of the month because no one ever knows when they are going to meet “the one” or “someone,” at any rate. At christenings it is all too clear that you are two steps behind, and suddenly the one in the white dress getting all the attention is toothless and dribbling and reminding you that babies take time to cook, time to make and you still haven't found someone to make them with and the one thing you don't have is time. I lowered my head and pretended to pray, which felt largely like praying. Keep my mother strong. My father alive. My friends safe. My godchildren happy. And me? What did I pray for me? I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted children, God, not more Godchildren.

“Hey, Tessa, shift it.” It was Neil. “This is David and Michael.” I looked up at the godfathers. We all shook hands. David did not have a ring on his finger, but there was a chalky watermark on the left shoulder of his jacket that looked distinctly like dried spittle to me. Sure enough, moments later, a small child ran up to him and passed him a plastic train, then ran away again to a woman holding a baby. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Michael, I recognized from the world of comedy but couldn't quite place.