Virtual Strangers (13 page)

Truth is, there’s no getting away from the unconscious invention of sexual/romantic fantasies. It is a normal adult behaviour. It is as nature intended. But it is also, at times, a pain.

Friday.
Grim.

‘A shambles! I agree! That’s exactly what it is! An utter shambles!’

Davina hooked her ankle round a chair and yanked it towards her. I pushed my nose deeper between the pages of
Homescene.

‘Bah!’ she said next, transferring the phone to her other ear. ‘What’s the point? Charlie!’ I looked up. ‘This social worker of yours. What’s her name?’

I told her. She told Austin Metro. ‘And you’re sure she said Monday?’

I nodded. ‘At ten.’

‘At ten,’ said Davina to the phone. Then, ‘Oh, Austin, don’t bother! These people simply will not respond to your pathetic faux-gangland bully boy tactics. You forget, they spend most of their time dealing with the sort of people who’d ram a traffic cone up your backside for the price of ten cigarettes. A softie like you isn’t going to cut any ice.’

Then she laughed.

‘Yes, you are! Always were, always will be.’

Then again.

‘Whoah! You’re outrageous! Now look. Got to go. See you next - What was that?’

She rose from the chair than laughed again, loudly. Then glanced at me. ‘I’ll remind you you said that,’ she purred down the receiver, then plopped it back down on its rest on my desk.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Third and last time for Mrs Drinkwater. Or that’s it. She’ll just have to stay there and rot.’

It occurred to me that it would be so much better if Minnie
did
leave the house before we tried to sell it, but without selling she simply couldn’t afford the Malting’s fees. She could, of course, go to the council home first, but it was pretty grim there, and miles away too; the few friends she had wouldn’t be able to visit - I certainly wouldn’t have much opportunity. And once there, she’d stay there, house sale or no house sale. The trauma of just moving once would be bad enough. I didn’t think she’d cope well with moving again.

‘Things will be fine,’ I said. Just like everyone knows that an iced bun is ten calories.

‘Things will be fine,’ Ben assured me as we hurtled into the maelstrom under the Hammersmith flyover that evening. ‘I’m not a
child
, Mum. I do know how to look after myself.’

None of which reassured me in the least. My misgivings, already robust and fast-growing, had been busy self-seeding baby misgivings all week. Which were amply manured by the dark London streets, which were inhabited, it seemed by every species of low life. Even the men selling papers on corners looked like drug barons, rapists or yardie gang heads.

The west end itself though, was more reassuring. The familiar throng of tourists filled every inch of festive pavement, and the traffic nosed along like a lava flow with motivational difficulties. Because there seemed to be nowhere on the street I could leave the car for the evening, we buried it instead in an underground car park just off Regent Street, the fee for which would have bought a perfectly adequate tent. Then we set off on foot to Euston Square station; the place where we’d agreed to meet Dan and Jack.

Which we did, soon after. And were introduced by Dan to Jack only to find that Jack was not the beefy, hairy, real-ale swilling blokey young buck I had envisaged, but female. In fact, the same dour looking, pop-eyed female in a cardigan that had been loitering on the corner with us for last five minutes, while we waited for Dan. And also strenuously ignoring us. Moments of embarrassed (slightly hysterical) laughter (on my own part in relation to the sex mistake, on her part, presumably, in relation to the fact that woman plus pre-pubescent boy plus backpack plus Nicholson Streetfinder obviously meant
nothing
) were finally put to an end when Jack remarked that she didn’t expect me to be quite as young as I was in a manner that made it seem as if I was five and she was ninety two. Not impressed at all.

We then dumped Ben’s stuff in Dan’s room at the hall of residence and headed off by tube for our curry.

Which I was sorely tempted to shovel down her front.

Warning bells rang as soon as we entered. For though we were in approximately the right postal area, this was no curry house. Not in the sense that it existed as a place to eat basic Indian food for not much money and with lashings of beer. Instead we were treated to lavish flock wallpaper, amber paraffin lamps, bronze effect plastic tableaus of elephants and multi-limbed women in saris, a fishtank (three fish, one neon fairytale castle, much algae), corner bar (red PVC quilted frontage), and a matched pair of Cona coffee filter machines. This was, in short, not your bona fide turn of the century curry house, but rather, I suspected, a chic retro version; a rather cynical early seventies theming of one. For which, I realised sadly, there was no small demand; it was filled not with students, but by what looked suspiciously more like clutches of post-modern thirty-something male novelists (who may, I supposed, account for much of the student population anyway), all no doubt making mental notes on the stream-of-consciousness-drunken-curry-experience that seemed obligatory in much contemporary writing these days, and which, no doubt, they were soon going to write.

To my mind such prose had long outlived its charm. There’s only so many times you can read about throwing up in your korma without actually wanting to do so yourself.

‘Vinod! Hi! lovely to see you!’ Jack chanted, her strings of runes clicking together like the feet of so many scuttling cockroaches. ‘Our table okay?’ And she headed off down the aisle towards an ornamental fountain. With an expression that could have been read as respect or embarrassment (the latter, I judged), Dan hurried after her, leaving Ben and I to troll along in their wake, like sherpas.

‘Been coming here for oh,
ever
, haven’t I, Vinod? Daddy used to bring me for the lunch buffet, didn’t he? When he was on biz here. It’s the absolute best.’

‘Is this Brick Lane then, Dan?’ asked Ben.

‘Harharhar! No! Goodness me! That’s so nineties!’ twittered Jack. ‘Now, Mrs Simpson, shall I explain the menu to you? I’m thinking nothing too spicy, right? Lamb Pasanda’s quite nice. And if I were you, I’d go for the Kabli kebab as a starter. It’s fabulous; not too hot, not too bland - plenty of depth of flavour without the burn. You know?’

‘I don’t care what I have,’ Ben said, ‘As long as no one expects me to give them any of my naan. Okay?
Okay
, Mum? I always end up having to share it with someone. And I get sick and tired -’

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine, Ben,’ I snarled. ‘Now, let me see...’

‘Or a korma? Wouldn’t a korma be safest? Or actually -
act
ually, I think your mother would
prob
ably be okay with a bhoona, don’t you, Dan? - that’s a dryish dish, Mrs Simpson, with fried onions and peppers -’

‘And I want a
whole
rice, Mum,’ said Ben. ‘I’m not sharing your one.’

‘ -or.....yes! There’s a thought! Chicken Moglai!’ She leaned across, hugging the PVC menu. ‘Yes. Have that. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.’

The choking fit was nothing to do with my Vindaloo, of course. It was simply that I had inhaled a cardamom pod.

Ben passed me his napkin, and I dabbed some of the sweat from my brow.

‘She’s always doing this sort of thing,’ he told Jack happily. ‘Last Christmas when she was carving the turkey, she sliced off the whole top off of one of her knuckles. There was blood, like,
every
where - all over the meat, and -’

‘Speaking of Christmas,’ Dan started, fork waggling as diversion. ‘I’ve er..been invited to spend it at Jack’s place this year.’ He plunged his fork into a large chunk of chicken and studied the gummy green stains on the flock.

‘Jack’s place?’ I spluttered.

Jack nodded enthusiastically, and made a little um-hum noise through her spinach. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Firmed up with Daddy just on Thursday. Dan’s very welcome to join us for Crimble. Be nice for him to meet my people, won’t it, Dan? If that’s all right with you, of course, Mrs Simpson. More Keema Naan?’

10 pm.
Grimmer.

Am pathetic beyond belief. Am lacking backbone, self control and also a packet of antacids. I cannot believe I am driving down the M25 in tears simply because my adult son has made arrangements to spend Christmas day with a goggle-eyed witch called Jack and-her-people. Like death and taxes, children growing up/leaving home/deciding to spend Christmas elsewhere is a perfectly normal, expected phenomenon and should not give rise to feelings of hopelessness, despair, and abandonment, but, rather, to feelings of elation/liberation/pride in a job well done/solvency etc. (solvency does lift spirits marginally as Everest fund in extremis at present and fare is in region of £1200 even allowing for eight billion air miles so far amassed.)

But no Dan! The stark realisation bobs like a rabbit in my headlamps, accompanied by a picture of a pathetic Bob Cratchet sized turkey and a left over cracker in box come New Year.

I stop at Clacket Lane services to refuel /find a box of chocolates that look as if it’s actually bought from a stylish shop, and am faced with a veritable sea of magazines urging Christmas Craft Frenzy; free stencils, free cookie cutters, free gold icing pens, free pom-pom frame even, and am faced with another stark reality; that I have spent many, many previous Christmasses not getting around to doing anything creative with free stencils, free cookie cutters, free gold icing pens etc (though did use a free snowflake stamper as a fancy dress party face paint for Daniel once, though indelible so a bad move). And that
it is now almost too late
. I eventually plump for a magazine promising Small Budget Big Style! Xmas repast plus free tasteful partridge-in-a-pear-tree stencil. I could possibly help Ben design/construct tasteful and individual personalised wrapping paper/gift box selection for Francesca. Could possibly even invite Francesca to Xmas lunch. Could possibly invite entire Stableford contingent to Christmas lunch in wild-child break with tradition innovation.

I am obviously in an emotional crevasse right now.

‘Hello! Hello! Hello!’ says Rose as she clutches me to her bosom. Though it has only been three months since I last saw her I fall upon her lovely flowers mixed with school hall polish scent as if I haven’t seen her in years.

‘Well!’ I say. ‘Here at last! I can almost smell the parsnips!’

Rose reins me in then pushes me away to arms length and says ‘are you all right?’ in her teacherly way, and I have to take a firm grip on myself before I dissolve again.

‘Parsnips,’ I clarify. ‘I remember you talking to me about parsnips recently and I remember thinking how idyllic all this (I fan an arm around to take in the entire hall/idyll conglomeration) sounded. I can’t really smell parsnips, of course. It was just a little picture I had in my head. Of you, at your Raeburn, basting a tray of parsnips that Matt had grown himself - something to look forward to, and -’>

‘Shit! Pellets!’ says Matt enigmatically, rolling his eyes and walking away.

‘I could do you some parsnips, if you like,’ Rose offers. ‘Matt’s just pulled a few. Only I thought you said you were having a curry with Dan. Come along. Come through. Let me give you the tour.’

We make it as far as the guest bedroom cum study where she flops onto the duvet and then bursts into tears.

Which throws me completely. ‘What on earth is it?’ I begin, but she jiggles her head wildly. Then gesticulates that I should close the door. I do so, then go back and sit down on the end of the bed beside her. She sniffs and snorts a bit, then turns to face me. By the look of her now, she has been crying a lot.

‘Rose, what
is
it?’

‘God!’ she says, finally. ‘Get a grip, Griffith!’ Then turns to me. ‘Charlie, I’ve had a bitch of a month here. I’ve got some sort of growth, and the pits end of symptoms. And - well, I won’t bore you with the gruesome details, but I’ve got to have a hysterectomy. They’re not sure, exactly. Fibroids, most likely, but they’re concerned that - well, shit. Cancer, basically.
Cancer
. Can you credit it?
Cancer!
Perhaps. They say they don’t think so, but, well, I’ve had some dodgy cells so they seem to think it’s best to whip it all out. Whatever. I’m trying not to get hysterical about it. The chances are it’s all perfectly benign and nothing to worry about, but, well, there you go. What a bitch, eh? Anyway. There it is.’ She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘So. What have you done? Have you emailed him back about his mountaineer friend, then? I think you should. You should.’ She grabs my wrist. ‘Don’t put it off,’ she says. ‘Don’t back-seat your dreams.’

Her eyes swim again and I pull her against me. ‘Rose, I don’t care about that! What about
you
? Oh, God. This is dreadful news. How long has this all been going on?’

She pulls away, stands up then sits straight down again. ‘Few weeks, that’s all,’ she says, visibly regaining composure. ‘I saw the GP and then - well, whoosh, basically. Consultant, biopsy, Consultant again. It’s all been so quick. Which is why it’s so scary. They keep telling me not to worry, and that they don’t think it
is
cancer, but how can I not? Anyway, I’m waiting to hear when I’m going to go in. After Christmas, at least.’

‘Not before?’

She shakes her head.

‘Well that’s encouraging, isn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily.’ She looks suddenly sheepish. ‘I turned down a slot in two weeks. School Nativity.’

‘Oh, Rose,
why
? Surely this is a priority? And couldn’t you go private? Have it done now? Is it horrendously expensive? You know, I do have a bit saved up. If you want some, you only have to -’

‘Oh, Charlie, that’s so sweet, but really, we’re fine. It’s only a few weeks away after all. And I’d rather get Christmas over with first anyway. If I’m going to be laid up like a stuffed duck for a month, it may as well be when there’s not much doing anyway.’

‘I guess so. But you know you only have to ask, don’t you?’

She nods, then stands up again.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Subject closed for the weekend. Lets get some bloody wine open and get ourselves drunk.’