Single Mother on the Verge Page 13

  If it weren’t for the bracing wind whipping at my knees, I’d have passed out seconds ago.

  Roughly I yank Toga’s head close to mine so I can kiss him hard, then push on the railings, heaving myself up, squeezing my legs around him. ‘Quickly then.’

  Toga looks around – should we, shouldn’t we?

  Just as I think Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! we don’t. A group of men jostle down the alleyway, then another crowd, then a couple, then a man walking his dog, then five million people who have just climbed out of a bus – I dismount Toga, we wrap up and head back to the pub.

  What a disappointment. Surely, the point of a lover is for the kind of impulsive sex unavailable at home. Rhodri and I used to have that but lately we’ve been very polite with one another. If he calls me a bitch in bed, I furrow my eyebrows and feign horror.

  After the play we dine at Carluccio’s. Toga pays the bill, then sees me onto a bus and waves me off as it shuttles towards Piccadilly Circus. Maybe I should have asked if I could stay at his. He’s never invited me to his flat, even though he’s stayed over at my house.

  At the door to the backpackers’ hostel where I’m staying, Spanish tourists smoke and stamp their feet to keep warm. My room is on the fifth floor. Ignoring the queue for the lift, I take the stairs, striding up moodily. In the room I haul myself onto the top bunk, then tug the thin white sheet and coarse grey blanket over me. Outside in the corridors laughter peals out as European travellers run in and out of their rooms. The air is electric with naïvety and passion. Just as I’m dropping off to sleep, the light flicks on, three Italian teenagers spill into the bedroom, and fight for the mirror to reapply their lipstick.

  ‘Buona sera.’ They titter. They chatter in Italian about the boys on the floor below – who should pair up with whom. Should they go with them to a bar?

  I listen quietly, then say in English, ‘Be careful, girls.’

  To which they mock, ‘Goodnight, Mother.’

  They gather up their money and cigarettes. The light flicks off as they slam the door.

  ‘No,’ says Rhodri. It’s the next afternoon, I’m back home and full of remorse. Nothing much happened with Toga, but even so I feel sick with guilt. Rhodri and I sit at opposite ends of the sofa. I can hear Jack singing in his bedroom as he plays with his toys. He must be happy. ‘That’s not what I want. I can’t be in a relationship if it’s monogamous,’ Rhodri is saying.

  Why can’t he? I don’t see what the problem is: the only person in our relationship larking around is me. The only remarkable change for Rhodri would be that I’d be his alone. How can he not want that? ‘Are you seeing someone?’ I probe uncertainly. ‘Do you fancy someone? Have you been with someone?’

  Even though I ask the questions, I don’t want to know the answers. If Rhodri says yes, I’ll be hurt. Already my eyes are filling with tears.

  ‘That isn’t the point. You know I haven’t.’

  ‘I’m not going to do this ever again.’

  ‘You know you will.’

  ‘I won’t. If you tell me not to, I won’t.’

  ‘You can make that decision yourself. You don’t need me to tell you.’

  ‘I can’t. I need boundaries.’

  ‘If you want a monogamous relationship, you’ll have to have it with someone else.’

  ‘But I feel that my attention is taken away from you.’

  ‘I don’t want all of your attention. That would be too much.’ Rhodri pulls me to his side of the sofa and kisses my hair. ‘I’m not going to stop you doing what you want to do.’

  ‘Rhodri, you need to stop me.’

  ‘Do you want to see other men?’

  ‘No, not any more.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  This morning I resolved to change. I’ll try hard to be good. I won’t text Toga. Or think of him again. While Rhodri is sowing carrot seeds at the allotment with Jack, I’ve cooked a special vegetable crumble, pulled out an old sheet that can double up as a picnic blanket, prepared a fruit salad and filled a large flask with rooibos tea. It will be impossible for me to transport all this on my bicycle so I’ll have to drive. Rhodri won’t like that: petrol consumption in exchange for food consumption.

  He is weeding the onion bed furiously when I arrive. A new couple have taken over the ramshackle plot near ours and are hard at work: their allotment looks fabulous. ‘Hello,’ I call to them. ‘Aren’t you doing well!’ I hope the envy in my voice is disguised. I’m trying to sound pleased for them, with their brand new shed, raised beds and pretty walkways. We look like vagabonds in comparison. I flap the sheet out, spreading it over a dense patch of weeds, adorn it with condiments and the centrepiece: a Crock-Pot of bubbling vegan wheat-free crumble.

  The man digging on the allotment next to ours eyes our food hungrily, and looks at his wife. I notice she’s pregnant. She looks happy. I wish I were her, with her perfect allotment, husband and imminent baby. The man nods approvingly at Rhodri.‘Lucky bloke,’ he seems to be saying, ‘to have a lady bring you a hot Sunday lunch on a cold March afternoon. I wish my missus would do that.’

  Back home I check my emails as the washing spins out yet another load of wet clothes to be hastily dried, then packed for our forthcoming holiday to Cobble Cottage.

  Drat. Just when I was doing so well, Morton has emailed me:

  In Manchester tomorrow to attend an event. Will be staying overnight at a hotel. What you doing?

  Jack is staying with my mum and Rufus tomorrow night. He can’t stand to go a weekend without seeing his grandparents and we’re off on holiday to Cobble Cottage next week. Rhodri is busy with work and activism stuff, so, I may as well meet up with Morton. If I pack for our holiday today, I can go out tomorrow and head off on Monday with Jack and Rhodri. I email back:

  What a coincidence. I’m free. Meet you tomorrow?

  I’m too weak. I’m sure that when I was born I was lacking a backbone.

  This room is too large for a networking drinks reception, even though a third of it is filled with a stage where a band is setting up. I scan the bar for Morton. He isn’t here, but I see a few familiar faces so I take a deep breath and prepare to strike up a stilted conversation. Networking parties are so difficult. Most of the time I’d rather be anywhere else.

  I glance downwards. Excellent. My breasts look quite voluptuous in this empire-line dress. I inspect the buffet. No sweet and sour pork ribs, no barbecued chicken wings, no cheesy puffs and cold pizza, just sushi, canapés and lots of classy picks. I order another glass of wine, then head back to the buffet. I lift a small parcel of rice and pop it onto my tongue: fishy, but tasty.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ Morton leans in close to me, excluding all others.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, with my mouth full.

  ‘Why don’t we –’ Morton is interrupted by a man who has come over to speak to him. I retreat, knocking the table with my bottom. I pick up a few canapés to sit pretty on my plate.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Morton says to the man, and touches my arm. ‘Let me get you a drink.’ Gingerly I walk off with him, aware that I have stolen someone else’s moment. ‘We’ll share a bottle,’ he says kindly. ‘A bottle of white and two glasses,’ he tells the barman. I take the glasses. He follows with the wine. At the side of the room we stand by a window looking out onto the bustle of Portland Street. He fills my glass, stopping every now and then to look directly at me.

  It’s impossible to hold Morton’s attention for long. Other people are keen to talk to him, including an eager, glittery woman in her fifties. A tall bald man looms over me, looking gravely down my cleavage while talking about politics and his old friend Gordon Brown. I mutter on about the disadvantaged children on our estate, that something needs to change, starting with the parents and not the kids. I tell him it’s mothers of my age who are doing all the damage. He looks vaguely charmed to meet a bona fide plebeian; a real-life breadliner. I top up my glass and wander off to watch the band.

 
The party is almost over and so far my only contact with Morton has been glances exchanged from afar. An intelligent, pretty girl has his attention. I’m going to put my coat on and go home.

  At the cloakroom, I retrieve my velvet jacket from a stubborn hanger and am slipping one arm into a sleeve when Morton appears. ‘Goodbye,’ I say. ‘Nice to see you again.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Perhaps we could go somewhere from here?’

  ‘I don’t know where is open.’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll be somewhere.’

  ‘Kro, probably.’

  ‘Well, let’s go there.’

  Silly me to think it would be just Morton and me going for a drink. We’re seated at opposite ends of a long table. I’m perched next to a handsome academic. He’s only a few years older than me and wears the rough-diamond look expertly, complete with leather biker jacket. Already he has passed me his card and insisted I must make my way to Newcastle one day. Or call him. He’ll send me some books. I know I won’t contact him. He’s young, he’s attractive, but he’s not Morton – who is chatting effervescently to yet another pretty young academic. I don’t like her much. She was very brisk earlier.

  ‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ asks Morton, which is tragically translated as an invitation to the whole group.

  As the only local, I’ve directed the crowd to a gay bar on Canal Street. We teeter drunkenly down the steps to a basement room, an anachronistic blur of fluorescent lights and burlesque wallpaper, where cute men in tight tops and young lads with funky hair chase looks across the dance floor.

  ‘Too loud,’ booms Morton, into my ear. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Ocean Breeze.’

  ‘Right.’

  I hang loosely with the group, swaying rather than dancing, watching Morton watch me. It’s unfair for him to be here, I think. He’s so much older than anyone else. I don’t even want to be here. ‘I think I’ll go,’ I say to the rough-diamond academic.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says, his fingers suspended over mine. ‘Stay a bit longer.’

  ‘I have to.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ I shout into Morton’s ear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m leaving. Do you know how to get back to your hotel?’

  ‘I think so.’ He swigs his pint quickly. ‘Hang on. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ says the academic. ‘He can make his own way back. He can look after himself.’ He touches my wrist. ‘Stay,’ he says. ‘We were just dancing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Email me?’ he adds, but I’m already walking away.

  Out on the street, I wait at the door watching Morton tread uncertainly up the stairs. A lad who knows Rhodri and me is queuing to get in. ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Hiya.’ He catches sight of Morton, then eyes me quizzically. I stare back at him. Usual rules don’t apply. I’m not going to make apologies.

  Morton slips his fingers through mine and pulls me close to him. ‘I only went into that bar because of you,’ he says. ‘I hated it in there.’

  We set off down Canal Street, heading towards Piccadilly Gardens.

  ‘Will you come into the hotel and have a drink with me?’ asks Morton.

  ‘Yes.’ I hesitate. ‘But nothing else.’

  We walk up the hotel steps. Morton allows me to go ahead of him. We are abruptly stopped by the doorman. ‘Is the lady a guest here?’

  ‘No, she is not. She’s a friend. We were going to have a drink in the bar.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. If you wish the lady…’ Did the doorman really just sneer at me? ‘… to accompany you, you will have to pay at the desk. Sir.’

  ‘But she’s only coming in for a drink.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He looks at Morton, then back to me, and clearly thinks a friendly drink is improbable. ‘Take it up with the desk, sir.’

  The woman at the desk is equally uncompromising. She speaks to Morton as though he’s a dirty old man and I’m a hired tart. ‘If you want the lady to accompany you to your room then you will have to pay.’

  ‘But I don’t. She is simply joining me for a drink in the bar.’

  ‘Yes, sir. As I said, if you wish the lady to accompany you to your room you will have to pay for her. You are booked in as a single.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘An extra thirty pounds.’

  ‘She thinks I’m a prostitute,’ I mutter, appalled. ‘I can’t believe she thinks I’m a prostitute.’

  ‘She’s a friend,’ Morton insists.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir, and if you wish her to spend the night with you, you must pay.’

  ‘She isn’t going to… We are simply –’

  ‘Sir,’ she barks aggressively, ‘shall I have the…’ she stares hard at me ‘… young lady removed from the hotel?’

  ‘Forget it,’ I whisper. ‘This is embarrassing.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ says Morton, handing over his credit card. ‘You’re here now. What a disgrace,’ he says to the receptionist.

  ‘Sir…’ she replies harshly, her frown suggesting that he is the disgrace.

  I look out of the hotel window across Piccadilly Gardens. It’s seven o’clock on Sunday morning and the city centre is slowly grinding to life again. I shouldn’t still be here. ‘I lost my purse,’ I tell Rhodri over the phone.

  Which is true. When I went to pay for drinks at the hotel bar, I discovered that I’d left it in the club on Canal Street.

  ‘So I couldn’t get home.’

  Which is also true. No money, no cards, so no taxi home.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Morton is dozing in the bed next to me. I could tell Rhodri the truth: I’m on a bed in a hotel in Manchester with a man old enough to be my father who looks old enough to be my grandfather. He would say something magnanimous like: ‘Lucky you. Was it good? I hope you used protection. You didn’t use Mates condoms, did you? You know how allergic you are to them. I’ll make a nice dinner this evening.’

  But I didn’t do anything. And I don’t want his understanding.

  ‘At Emmeline’s.’ The lie feels horrible, like swallowing a spoonful of cod-liver oil. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  I tread lightly over to the kettle to make Morton a cup of tea. I leave it on the bedside table, anxious not to wake him, but then he stretches an arm out from under the duvet and searches for his glasses. ‘What’s going on?’

  I move to the foot of the bed, and stand in front of the dressing-table, I peer into the mirror and try to scrape dried mascara from under my eyelids with my fingernail. ‘I don’t suppose you have a comb, do you?’ I ask.

  ‘Bathroom.’

  I return with one, and begin to yank the knots from my hair.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  Morton shuffles down the bed until he’s sitting behind me, then reaches up and pulls me down to sit on his lap. He clasps his hands beneath my ribcage, presses his warmth into my stomach. ‘Here,’ he breathes through my hair onto my neck, ‘let me take it all away from you. Give all that worry to me.’ He holds me for a moment and we look at one another’s reflection in the glass. I fall for Morton then because those are the kindest words anyone has ever said to me. I wish he could take it away, this black hole that has everything to do with Damien, Jack and me. But he has just five minutes, and to get rid of all that would take years.

  18

  We should be leaving for our holiday in Wales but it took me all day to pack our suitcases. Now I’m working on a last-minute feature for a magazine as Rhodri loads the car. When I have filed it I head outdoors to see how things are progressing.

  ‘Are you sure you want to drive?’ asks Rhodri. He is attaching the bicycles tightly to their rack. We parked the car beneath a lamppost for extra light. It’s almost midnight, and a drunken man from the bungalows sits on the grass chatting to us.

  ‘What you doing
?’ he slurs. ‘Very late at night to be messing about doing that. Loved cycling, me. Years ago.’ He takes another noisy slurp from a can of Tennants Super Strength, stands up, hitches his trousers, sways to his door, veers off track, spins back and loiters at Rhodri’s side, repeating the same question over and over again. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘There.’ I wave in the direction of a collective mass of at least thirty houses.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Shush,’ I say to Rhodri, before he has time to answer. ‘We don’t want the house getting robbed.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Just over there.’ He waves in the same direction I did.

  ‘Where?’ asks the man.

  ‘There.’ Rhodri waves. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Finally.’

  ‘Did you ask Josie to look after the house and rabbits?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s going to water the tomatoes and cucumbers in the garden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the strawberries?’

  ‘Yes. Come on. Get in. Let’s go.’

  I open the car door to find Jack snuggled up to his floppy bear, with his special blanket on his knee. ‘Excited?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yes. But why are we setting off at midnight?’

  ‘Because your mum was working all day,’ says Rhodri, accusingly.

  ‘Had to finish my assignment,’ I remind Rhodri, ‘or work would be coming on holiday with us.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Are you driving, Mum?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say proudly. ‘Off we go.’

  I rev the car, flick on the radio and head for the motorway.

  The holiday starts now.

  If there’s one thing Jack, Rhodri and I do well it’s cramping ourselves into a small car together for a long time. We’re barely out of Jackson when Rhodri belts out the Welsh national anthem, followed by Welsh folk songs, one of which is about a saucepan. That always makes me laugh – a song about a saucepan in Welsh! How funny. Jack follows the words.

  ‘What language are you singing in?’ I ask him.

  ‘Zog.’