‘You know what, sweetheart, I’m not going to call your dad right now. It’s Saturday night, you spent most of this morning with him when he took you to dance club, and then for lunch, he’s done his weekend bit.’
‘But I forgot to ask him about it then.’
‘Well, you can ask him tomorrow.’
‘But, Mum, seriously, if you want me to do well at school and in my exams, I need to know how to multiply with decimals. It’s the same with you giving me the Wi-Fi code – I might as well have it now since I’m going to be living here when I grow up.’
I curl my body forward and scoop up my girl in my arms. ‘Goodnight, Betina. I love you. Sleep well.’ There are times when there is no point in entering into a discussion-cum-argument with this child. It will only result in me giving in to something undoable.
‘Night, Mum,’ she replies, receiving my hug and returning it a hundredfold. When I pull away, she pushes her forefinger onto the centre of my nose while whispering ‘Boop’ like she has just pressed a magic button. I’ve stopped asking her why she does it because the answer is always the same: I like booping your nose. Why? Because you’ve got a boopable nose. Said with an air of exasperation that I don’t know something so obvious.
In the living room, everything is neat and tidy. While Betina was out at her class with Alain, I had managed to spruce the place up. I drop onto the sofa and pick up the house phone. I stare at the sleek black receiver, a present from Alain when I first moved in all those years ago. Never mind Betina wanting to call him, I do.
These past few years, time hasn’t just been marked out by when I last picked up a blade, it’s been measured by when the last time I wanted to call Alain was. When was the last time I called Alain? When was the last time I let him come over and woke up next to him in the morning?
I’ve been doing well of late. It’s been six months. Six months, two weeks, four days. It’s been that long since I gave in to myself and slept with him. Which is probably why the Sunday lunch thing irritates me more. I’m not feeling as kindly towards him because we’re moving further and further away from being a couple.
My mobile buzzing and ringing on the other side of the room makes me jump. Then I leap up, because it’s that kind of noise that wakes Betina and then she’s awake for hours as the ten-minute nap she’s had will work like a booster.
‘Bella’ is flashing up on the screen.
Huh? I think as I lift the phone to my ear, while clicking the call answer button. She never calls. She always texts.
‘What?’ I whisper into the phone when she speaks. No hello. No preamble. Just straight into what has happened.
She continues to talk, pausing to calm herself every few words to stop herself spiralling off into hysteria.
‘I’ll meet you there,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll get Alain to come and stay with Betina and I’ll meet you at the hospital.’ I’m about to let her go when I say desperately into the phone. ‘Bella? Bella? Don’t tell Mum and Dad. Not yet. Not until we know what’s happening. If we have to wake them up, I want to be able to tell them something concrete.’
She agrees and then rings off.
I have to sit down. Take a moment before I can call my ex.
Logan has been attacked. He’s at the hospital and they don’t think he’s going to survive the night.
verity
Now
Mum is silent on the drive over to the hospital.
Dad went with Logan in the back of the ambulance, which seemed to take for ever to arrive. They didn’t send a first responder because there were several trillion doctors at the event, and when the paramedics arrived Dad and Dr Joiner had already done as much as anyone could.
Mum sits beside me in the back of the taxi in her finery, her large black-and-red scarf wrapped around her like a pashmina she wants to hide behind. I can see she feels uncomfortable, exposed in the dress. She’s only dressed like that because it’s Dad’s party, normally she is covered up and casual. Not boring, but not willing to draw attention to herself.
We’d left before the police arrived, even though they’d asked everyone to stay where they were. We’d said we were going to be at the hospital and the police could find us there, and then we called a taxi so we could follow Dad.
‘Are you going to say something?’ I ask my mother quietly when the taxi pauses at the roundabout by the Palace Pier, having just left the West Pier. I love the two piers in Brighton mainly because of how different they are: one gaudy and overdressed, the other tired and decrepit, standing proud despite the way time and the elements have ravaged it.
When we pause at the entrance to the Palace Pier, the hum of the engine seems to count out the time it will take for her to say something.
‘I don’t know what there is to say, Verity,’ Mum states.
‘Just say something. Anything.’
‘All right. What I keep thinking about is how your dad reacted when he found out about . . . well, you obviously know all about my past. I keep thinking about how he reacted to finding that out about me. I remember how terrified I was by his response and I don’t want to do that right now. I don’t want to scare you. I don’t want to shout at you and call you a liar. I don’t . . . I don’t want any of it, so I think it’s best I don’t say anything at all.’
Mum refocuses on the outside world again. I’ve got the sea side of the car, she has the street side. On her side the buildings have different combinations of lights, people unintentionally hide themselves by stepping into the shadows. I have the better deal, I can see the soothing, comforting blackness of the water, I can feel the rise and fall, push and pull of the world in motion. I can send my mind out there as a way for me to not be where I am right now.
I want to tell her that I’m sorry. That I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. That we were never meant to get involved in that way. That today was not meant to happen like this. But it’s better I just sit here and do nothing. Say nothing. Nothing I say will make it any better. Nothing I say will unhurt my mother.
July, 2019
‘So, tell me, who was your last bay?’
‘My last what?’ I asked.
‘Your last boo, your last bay. Who were you last involved with?’
‘Oh, you mean, my last bae? My last “before anyone else”?’
‘Ohhhh, is that what it means?’
I shook my head and curled my lips into my mouth to stop myself laughing out loud. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be using words you don’t understand?’
‘Hey,’ he laughed, and tickled me in the side. Giggling, I twisted away and tried to shift away from him on the sofa.
‘I thought it was . . . Anyway, who was your last “before anything else”?’
‘That’s even worse!’ I squealed. ‘Just ask me who my last boyfriend was, if you want to know. Stop trying to be down with the kids when you’re so obviously not!’
He laughed again and I paused to relish the sound. It was lovely when Logan laughed, it made my heart dance and my stomach skip. I liked, too, that when he laughed it was because of me. He shuffled up the sofa and lay his head on my shoulder. ‘All right, sweetness, who was your last boyfriend?’