Another Mother's Life (26 page)

“I know,” Jimmy told her. “But it was only once. I only did it once.”

The two looked at each other for a moment, but just as Catherine was about to speak, she heard the girls burst into excited laughter as Kirsty slammed her front door shut and climbed over the low brick wall, still wearing her pajamas.

“Bloody men,” she said, staring hard at Jimmy. “Bloody bastard men. And by the way where did you go to at that party?”

“Come in,” Catherine said, waving at her daughters as they set off for school with their father. “Tell me all about it.”

“Not up to scratch, then?” Catherine asked Kirsty, who was wearing red-checked flannel pajamas and pink fluffy slippers, items that Catherine presumed she had donned in utmost secrecy. “Not the love of your life after all?”

Kirsty wandered into the front room and sat heavily on the sofa.

“No, everything went
great
. He was funny, charming, and gorgeous and so was I. At the party we were chatting away, getting on like a house on fire one minute and then the next we were in the downstairs loo going at it like a pair of freight trains. I thought
this is it: this is the end of my life as a single philandering hussy and the beginning of my life with the
love
of my life, with Steve.”

“Sam, and doing it with a man you hardly know in a loo was your perfect scenario for true love?”

“It wasn’t where we did it, it was how. It was so sexy, Cat, and slow and sensuous. And the sink was pretty sturdy too, so that was a bonus. Anyway, we made ourselves presentable and came out but I couldn’t find you anywhere. So I let Sam walk me home. And I let him come in and I let him stay for the whole weekend. It was wonderful. The whole weekend, just the two of us in bed. Getting up to make bacon sandwiches, or uncork a bottle of wine, but mainly just us in bed doing it and laughing and talking and sometimes sleeping. It was
lovely
.”

“So?” Catherine pressed her, sitting down beside her on the sofa. “If it was all so wonderful, why are you so down—wait, was the ‘doing it’ bit not up to scratch? Was he funny, charming, and handsome but a narcissistic and selfish lover? After all that buildup did you have to endure a weekend of anticlimactic sex?”

Kirsty sat up and straightened her shoulders. “No, my dear, the sex was perfect. It was multiclimactic. He was attentive, generous, and very well hung. God, can that man fuck.”

“Right—so why are you here looking all cross and fed up?” Catherine was perplexed. “Did he snore or talk in his sleep? Has he unwittingly revealed he has a thing for ladies’ underwear?”

“None of those would necessarily be a deal breaker,” Kirsty said on a heavy sigh. “I’m here because he’s gone. I woke up, and it was so nice, Catherine, to be all achy and sore in all the right places, the sort of feeling you only ever have after a great night of sex, and I thought I was about ready for some more, so I rolled over to wake him up and … he was gone.” She shrugged, dropping her chin onto her chest.

“To the loo?” Catherine asked optimistically.

“Nope, gone out of the house. Left. Not a good-bye, not a note, not a thing. After that whole lovely long weekend he just got up before dawn and went home. I don’t even have his number.”

“Well, he probably knows he’ll see you at the gym later,” Catherine said.

“Yes, he probably does,” Kirsty said miserably. “But after a whole weekend of sex and talking and laughing and kissing, Catherine, you don’t just get up and leave without saying good-bye. It’s not done. It isn’t sex etiquette. It’s not sexiquette.”

Kirsty sniffed loudly. “I really thought he liked me.”

“Are you going to cry?” Catherine asked nervously.

“No,” Kirsty said, promptly bursting into tears.

“I’ll make tea,” Catherine said.

“I’m fine, really,” Kirsty said some time and several tissues later. “I mean yes, he was handsome and funny and great at sex—but he wasn’t really my type, not really.”

“I didn’t think he was,” Catherine said with a wry smile. “I always thought you were more into the ugly, dull, and impotent men myself.”

“Catherine, this is no time to be teasing me. I know you’re rusty at this best friend thing but this part is where you give me a pep talk and say something to make me feel better, okay?”

“Okay,” Catherine said. She had never considered herself to be Kirsty’s best friend, but now that Kirsty had mentioned it, the idea made her feel quite pleased. The old best friend had stalked back into town all high and mighty and married to her first love, but it was okay because Catherine had a new best friend. One she was fairly sure would not run off with her husband. She thought for a moment.

“There are plenty more fish in the sea,” she said.

“That is a bollocks pep talk,” Kirsty said, sniffing. “You’re so
right, you know. I never thought I’d say it but you, Catherine Ashley, are absolutely right about everything. I take it all back. Men are shit and you and me, we’re old, we’re past thirty. Boys in gas stations calls us
madam
, men don’t look at us when we walk by anymore. Our bosoms—or at least those of us who have bosoms—are collapsing. The wrinkle creams don’t work. The hair dye doesn’t cover all the gray. We’ve had it. All we can do is what you’re doing, give up on love and sex and hope and life because it’s horrible out there, Catherine. It’s horrible being single and old.”

“And you think
I’m
bad at pep talks,” Catherine said mildly. “Look, you are nothing like me. First of all, you are not old, and second of all, men love you, Kirsty. You’re pretty and funny and fit and hardly have any wrinkles and have really nice shiny hair that always goes into a style. You go out there and grab life and look for happiness instead of just waiting for it to somehow find you tucked away in a terraced two-bedroom house. And probably Sam was just being an idiot, a stupid idiot who doesn’t know the rules of—what did you call it—sexiquette and thinks he’ll see you later at the gym to get your number off you and arrange a date. He’s a personal trainer, Kirsty. He probably had to go for a fifty-mile run before breakfast or something.”

Kirsty smiled at Catherine. “Now that was a pep talk,” she said. “But still, how will I know if he really loves me? How will I know?”

“When you see him today go up to him and say hi there, great weekend—let’s hook up again, how about tonight? And if he says yes, then he likes you, and if he says no, then he might be busy tonight, so suggest another date and if he still says no, then he probably doesn’t like you.”

Kirsty stared at her. “That seems an awfully
literal
way of finding out.”

“Well, what else can you do? Employ a psychic?”

“Oh, you are so naive,” Kirsty said. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, completing the panda look. “Never mind all this asking business—what I’ll do is implement Universal Plan A.”

“What’s Plan A?” Catherine asked.

“Catherine, where have you
been
all of your life?” Kirsty exclaimed. “Universal Plan A is to act as if nothing has happened. You meet boy, you like boy, you and boy have sex, boy disappears into the night, but you still have an appointment with boy to work on your buttocks on Monday morning at eleven fifteen. You attend the aforementioned appointment. You act as if none of the above has happened. Either the mystery of it will do boy’s head in and he’ll be forced to ask me if I’m still into him, or he’ll be so grateful I don’t want to pursue it anymore that he’ll act as if nothing happened and we’ll be able to put it behind us forever. And then I’ll know. I’ll know if he really loves me.”

Kirsty looked resolute. “That’s a much better way of sorting things out. Never mind asking him straight questions and expecting straight answers. That would blow all his circuits for sure!”

“I’m not sure.” Catherine sounded unconvinced by Universal Plan A. “Would it not be better perhaps to try and talk to him about last night, clear the air at least? Find out what happened so you don’t drive yourself mad thinking about it?”

Kirsty looked at her friend, an expression of pure pity on her face.

“Oh my dear,” she said. “For one so old you have so very much to learn. Rarely in the history of humanity has a woman actually talking to a man about anything ever got her anywhere. You have to manipulate them, Catherine. It’s the only language they understand. But don’t worry, I actually feel better now that I’ve talked to you. So tell me. Where did you go to at the party and why aren’t you getting ready for work now? If you tell me that you went
home and had sex with your husband, you owe me five hundred pounds because I bet you months ago that that would eventually happen.”

“No, you didn’t!” Catherine exclaimed.

“I did, I just haven’t told you yet.”

“Well, anyway, I didn’t have sex with Jimmy. Of course I didn’t. We are well past all that now. No, what happened was far more weird and strange and … I don’t know what I’m going to do about it, Kirsty. I have no idea how to handle it …”

“So tell me, then!” Kirsty shouted. “I’ve got hours to kill before I have to go to the gym to ignore Sam.”

Catherine looked at Kirsty’s empty mug. “I’d better make another cup of tea first,” she said.

“Da-ad,” Eloise said, stretching out the word as she swung Jimmy’s hand.

“Yes, love,” Jimmy said. He was watching Leila, who had run a few feet ahead and was midperformance in her latest staging of “Leila: The Musical” as she danced and sang her way along High Street.

“Litter bin! Litter bin!” she sang as she stopped to do star jumps in front of a rubbish bin. “People put litter in you and that is goooooooooood! Yeah!”

One thing Jimmy could say about his younger daughter was that she was never afraid to express herself in public. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

“Well … is Mum okay? I know you stayed up all night after the party talking and you’ve stayed in the house all weekend and now she’s having a day off work. What does it mean, Dad? Does it mean you’re moving back home for good?”

Jimmy was very careful not to let the question break the rhythm of his stride.

“No, love,” he said. “No, I’m not moving back in. Mum just needed a friend around this weekend to talk to and I’m her friend now.”

“Kirsty next door is her
friend
,” Eloise said. “You’re her husband and she wanted you around all weekend so that might mean she wants you to move back in, mightn’t it, Dad? It might mean that it’s nearly time?” Eloise hopped a little, tugging on Jimmy’s hand.

“Ellie,” Jimmy began purposefully. “I don’t think I am going to be moving back home at all, in fact I might get this job soon that means—”

“But you would, wouldn’t you?” Eloise interrupted him. “If Mummy said you could move back home for good, you would, right?”

Jimmy sighed inwardly; he’d promised Catherine never to lie when it came to questions like this one, that he’d never gloss over the truth or give the girls false hope. Yet how could he, a grown man—a parent—confide in his eight-year-old daughter everything that he was still struggling to come to terms with? Of course he’d move back in if Catherine asked him to, he’d move back in like a shot. But she wasn’t going to and the nearest he was ever going to get to her now was being her friend, her children’s father, and soon enough even those roles would lead to his being nothing more than a peripheral character in her life as she blossomed and grew and found her own way in life, which she was bound to do. Jimmy knew that Catherine was really only at the beginning of herself, even if she didn’t realize it yet. But how could he explain all of that to Eloise, who just wanted to hear that her daddy would come home if he could?

“I don’t know,” Jimmy tried to explain uncomfortably. “I live on the boat now …”

“Yes, I know, but if Mummy says you can come home, you will, won’t you?” Eloise persisted.

“No, I mean I would but …” Jimmy got the distinct feeling he’d said something that he shouldn’t.

“But what?” Eloise asked him. “You do want to come home, don’t you, Daddy? You do miss us, you’ve just said so. So but what?”

“But Mummy doesn’t want me to move back home,” Jimmy blurted out before he really knew it. He grabbed Leila’s hand as they came to the pedestrian crossing and for a few awkward moments Leila performed her self-taught version of Irish dancing over the black and white stripes while Eloise was silent, holding on to his hand tightly. Once on the other side, Jimmy released Leila again and watched her gallop off through the school gate and into the playground, where she immediately commenced skipping around in a circle, an activity that soon attracted four other participants. Those were the days, Jimmy thought, the days when all you had to do to feel good was skip in a circle.

He looked down at Eloise, whose face was filled with thunder-clouds. She was so like her mother, it made his breath catch in his chest.

“Look, it’s not really Mummy’s fault,” he attempted to explain, resorting guiltily to trotting out the standard speech. “These things happen. Sometimes grown-ups who still care about each other just can’t live together and it doesn’t mean they don’t love their children …”

“I hate her,” Eloise said quietly as they followed Leila into the playground.

“Now listen.” Jimmy stopped and put his hand on his daughter’s shoulders, bending to look into her green eyes. “You don’t hate your mummy, you love your mummy.”