They both looked like their mom; almost like three sisters. I’m all father, something which definitely disappointed my mom from the word go. Today, the younger girl was a bundle of chaos and cuteness, but the older girl, she seemed – I don’t know – sad? Okay, maybe not sad, but tense. I was about her age when my parents finally called it a day. We were living in Singapore then. I’d just settled into school. I sometimes think about the friends I made, wonder if I’d still be friends with them now if social media had been around back then. Would I know the names of their kids? See what they wore on their wedding day? Perhaps been invited to some of those weddings? Or would they just be names that ‘like’ a photo now and again, or wish me a Happy Birthday, hon!?
By the time I arrive back at the hostel, my whole body feels battered, bruised with exhaustion. I know it’s not actually possible for a human heart to break, a lightning crack down its centre, but it’s the only way I can describe the feeling in my chest, beside my lungs, trapped behind my ribcage. It hurts. It really fucking hurts.
The room itself isn’t too bad, though. Pine desk with a matching chair, a clean sink and mirror, a single bed with fresh folded sheets. Folded. Oh, God. I’ve got to make my own bed.
I pick up the white bed sheet, hard and crisp, and shake it open.
No. I’m just too tired.
There’s nothing I want to do right now. And I mean it. Nothing.
So, I flop down onto the bare mattress, not even pausing to remove my army jacket or my suede sneakers, damp with the splashes from the outdoor puddles. The sheet’s creases are harsh, lines as sharp as rulers, but I cuddle it against me. It can act as a giant tissue.
I haven’t cried over a guy like this, ever.
Sure, I cried over Zein (I know – Zein and Zara – believe me, that’s as cute as it got). Another lifelong expat, he was a first-class engineering graduate and we were on and off for years; usually on when we were both in Dubai. When he suggested a ski weekend in Beirut, I’d just been offered a promo job and couldn’t say no to the money. I mean, if I wasn’t paying my papa back for the wasted tuition fees after I dropped out of university, I would’ve gone. Except, I was. Paying my papa back. And, guess what? Zein fell in love on the slopes of Mzaar. Fate. They’re married now and have a son. I’ve always told myself that was beautiful because if it happened to Zein, it will happen to me. It happens to all of us.
But I’ve been single – well, ‘dating’ – ever since.
I check my phone.
Nick is online. Oh my God, he’s online. And yet he hasn’t messaged me. Did he see me? God, of course he saw me. Unless he’s blind, something else he might have miraculously forgotten to mention along with the whole house and the whole wife and the two whole fucking children. I can’t help myself. I type.
What happened today? Send.
I wait for the tick. The two ticks. They don’t turn blue. He hasn’t seen it. He’s no longer online. He’ll reply as soon as he sees it, though. I know he will. His head can’t handle leaving it until later. He’s the most efficient replier since the internet began. Nobody replies more quickly than Nick Gregory. You’d think he had nothing better to do. Oh, we’ve joked about it a million times over. It’s one of our things.
Come on.
Where are you?
I hold my phone close to my chest, too afraid to check again and yet not ready to let go. I think of the mop in the Peugeot. Oh, what a fool I am.
I wish I hadn’t left those bottles of wine in my suitcases now.
I grab my purse, go down five flights of stairs and run past Ida. There’s a store opposite and I buy their finest bottle of screw-top red. Five pounds ninety-nine. Back in my hostel room, I turn the lamp on, but there’s no bulb inside. The main light will have to do. Well, it’s either that or total darkness. Besides, I’ve unscrewed the bottle. This isn’t a party. I swig as the harsh light beams down on me, like the sun when you’re desperate to find shade. I swig some more. The wine is tart, dry, coating my teeth and landing in the pit of my empty stomach with a heavy splosh.
In the corridor, I can hear Spanish voices, fast talking, full of song.
My sobs grow thicker and slower, until I’m so drowned in disappointment that I drop my phone and, thankfully, fall into a deep, deep sleep.
8
Jim
Pulling up in front of next door’s house, just to throw my ma off a little, I decide not to use my set of spare keys and ring the doorbell instead.
‘M’lady,’ I say, mocking some sort of posh accent. ‘Your carriage awaits.’
My ma wraps her baggy cardigan across her body and rolls her eyes. ‘You been drinking? Get in, you daft sod.’
‘Nope. I haven’t been drinking and I’m not coming in.’
‘Y’what?’
‘You, m’lady, are coming out.’
‘Get in, soft lad. And what’s all this “m’lady” stuff? Get in, I’m freezing.’
‘Go on, go upstairs and put on your best frock.’
‘It’s gone eight o’clock. I’m watching Corrie.’
‘Bloody hell, Mother! I’m taking you out.’
‘Out? Why?’
‘I’ve got a taxi waiting,’ I fib. ‘He’s waiting on the corner.’
‘You serious?’
‘Best frock. Now. The spotty one you wore for me graduation.’
‘I’ll never squeeze into that.’
‘The jumper with the sparkly stuff—’
‘That’s me Christmas top.’
‘Well, it hasn’t got Father bloody Christmas on it, has it?’
‘No.’
‘Go!’
The front door slams in my face and I return to my car, grinning. Closing my eyes, I imagine Griffo’s dad handing me a briefcase filled with notes wrapped in wads of a hundred quid. A strong handshake. Like in a film. What the hell am I going to do with it all? After pouring the lot into an empty bath tub – of course – and climbing inside; smelling it, crunching it, flicking it into the air?
Fifty. Grand.
My phone vibrates again. I know who it’ll be.
I rally shouldn’t mix me dunks. I do love Snowy. He’s the bather of my kids. H xx
Maybe I’ll bugger off to South East Asia for a few months. That’s where people go, isn’t it? Angkor Wat and war museums, partying in giant donuts floating along the Mekong? Or is thirty-three a bit too old for all that? Will I look like that loser who still hasn’t found his way? Around nineteen-year-olds, cocksure they’ve found theirs?
Ah, shit.
I feel soooooooo guilty. I really move Snowy. He’s a good man. H xx
*love
Christ’s sake. I’m just going to keep ignoring her. Helen’s lucky to be with Snowy. They’ve always had my blessing.
Through the rear-view mirror, I see my ma coming, the street lamps reflecting off the sequins on her top. Good, her handbag is hung over her arm. Her pills will be in there. Sitting on her shoulders is her red anorak, slung around her like a cape.
I jump out, opening the passenger door for her, and bow. She gives me an impatient slap across my head and bends over to peer inside the car, looking for a driver perhaps, before standing up straight again. A rocket squeals, bangs pattering out low in the sky above us.