Coming Clean (16 page)

“So, what on earth are you doing in these parts?” I asked.

“Well, after Somalia I went back to India for a few years. I was teaching slum kids in Mumbai. In the end I decided that after all these years in Africa and India, I was missing home, so about six months ago—much to my parents’ delight—I decided to come back. I applied for a job working for a charity that runs youth clubs for underprivileged kids. Long story short, I got the job.” He paused. “So, what about you? The last I heard, you were at the BBC.”

I brought him up to speed.

“
Coffee Break
is a great program,” he said. “I always listened to it when I came home on visits.”

“Well, the way things are going, it may not be much longer for this world.” I explained about the plans to take it down-market.

“That’s sacrilege. You guys should think about going on strike.”

I told him that the thought had occurred. “So you’re working at a youth club around here?” I asked.

“Yes. My official title is senior manager. In other words, I’m in charge. It’s at the Princess Margaret houses.”

“Blimey. You must have your work cut out there.”

He gave a half smile. “You could say that.”

The Princess Margaret public housing projects had been built in the sixties as part of London’s slum clearance scheme. Bleak didn’t begin to describe it. Not long ago, one of the newspapers had called it “an emblem of urban decrepitude.” It consisted of acre upon windswept acre of drab impregnable concrete blocks—apparently inspired by Le Corbusier—connected by dank passageways and tight stairwells that provided refuge for addicts and muggers. There were filthy curtains behind rotten window frames, showing little sign of life.

“During the day we feed the homeless. In the evening we attempt to keep the kids living there occupied. Not that we get many turning up. Playing table tennis on a crappy old table with no net doesn’t exactly get their adrenaline pumping. It wasn’t long before I discovered that nearly every teenager there is a member of a gang. Hardly a week goes by when some kid doesn’t get knifed.”

“I know. It always makes the headlines in the local paper. What sort of a society lets children grow up in these places? You drive past and you see these beautiful, innocent babies in their buggies and wonder how they’ll end up.”

“I have that thought every day,” he said.

I was so enjoying catching up that I suggested we each finish our shopping and meet in the supermarket café for a quick cuppa. I said I couldn’t stay long because I wanted to get back to the kids and spend some time with them before bedtime.

Half an hour later we were sitting at a table looking out over the car park and drinking weak cappuccinos.

Huck asked about Amy and Ben. I took out my phone and showed him pictures. He seemed genuinely interested. “They look like great kids.”

“They are, and they’ve been through so much recently.”

“In what way?”

“Their father and I split up six months ago.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have been hard.”

“Yeah,” I said, spooning my cappuccino froth. “It wasn’t great.”

These days, I made a point of not going on about my marriage breakup. Apart from Annie and Gail and my other close friends, people weren’t interested in hearing the ins and outs of what was, after all, just another divorce saga. Huck didn’t say anything—he clearly wasn’t about to pry—but there was something about his expression that seemed to be inviting me to talk. I found myself telling him about the separation.

“I am so sorry,” he said when I’d come to the end of my tale. “What a shitty time you’ve had.”

I managed a smile. “It hasn’t been easy, but it feels like the worst is over.” By now I felt that I’d burdened him long enough with my woes. I decided to change the subject.

“So,” I said, “is there a Mrs. Huck?” Bearing in mind the frozen pizzas and ready meals for one, I sensed that there wasn’t.

He shook his head.

“Ah, same old Huck, still playing the field,” I said, grinning.

“Hardly. I’ve spent the last two decades living in huts and tents, miles from anywhere. Believe me, the field was pretty limited. I’ve had a few flings on trips back home, but that’s all they were. Plus, as you get older, you realize that casual affairs aren’t really very satisfying.”

“So there’s been nobody serious?”

“Uh-uh.”

I took a sip of coffee. “So tell me more about Africa. Why did you stop sending the postcards? I used to look forward to hearing from you.”

“I apologize,” Huck said. “It was nothing personal—honest. The thing is, when you’re working in the middle of nowhere and there’s no phone or Internet, you become very inward looking. I found myself focusing entirely on the people I was trying to help. The rest of the world didn’t seem very important. I carried on writing to my family, but that was about it. All my friends got pissed off with me. In fact a few even stopped being my friends.”

I offered him a smile. “Well, I forgive you. I totally get how you would cut off from the world.”

We carried on chatting, but I was aware that it was getting late. By now Arthur and Georgia would have been picked up. I wanted to get back to the kids for sofa and TV time. “Huck, this has been great, but I really do need to get going. My babysitter never minds working late, but I don’t like taking advantage of her good nature.”

“Of course. I shouldn’t have kept you.”

“You haven’t, honestly. I’ve really enjoyed catching up.”

“Me, too. Look, why don’t we do it again? Maybe we could meet up for a drink?”

I almost looked around to check he wasn’t asking some hot blond who had just walked in. “OK. Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”

“Great. I’ll call you.”

I wrote my number down on a napkin and we hugged good-bye.

•   •   •

“A
bit of me thought I’d heard wrong,” I said, chopsticks hovering over a bowl of kung pao shrimp. “I mean, you should have seen the girls he dated at university. They were stunning. They all looked like fashion models. And here he was asking me out.
Me
. Sophie Lawson with the nose.”

“Oh, behave,” Annie said. “The way you go on, anyone would think you were the spawn of Cyrano de Bergerac. Your nose is beautiful.”

“OK, fine. Whatever.” I moved in on a particularly plump shrimp and pincered it.

“No. Enough with the ‘whatever.’ I’ve seen the way men look at you.”

“OK,” I said, my mouth full of delicious shrimp. “I admit that I scrub up reasonably well.”

“Finally!”

“So now can I get on with telling you about Huck?”

“Tell away.”

“OK. So last night the phone goes and it’s him to say he’s working flat out until after the new year, tending to the homeless and kids from the projects, and how am I fixed for the beginning of January?”

“And you consulted your diary,” Annie said, helping herself to more Singapore noodles, “and told him you’d need to move a few things around, but you’d do your best to fit him in.”

I laughed. “Yeah, something like that. Of course, by the time I put the phone down reality had set in. There was no way he was asking me out on a
date
date.”

“Naturally . . . what with your hideous nose and all.”

“Correct. Plus it’s not like we have history or anything. We were only ever friends at school. I think now that he’s back in the UK, he’s feeling lonely. Apparently he lost touch with quite a few of his friends. He’s probably looking for people to hang out with.”

“OK, have it your own way, but if you ask me, there’s no way he’s asked you out simply because he wants to hang out and chat about old times. The man is coming on to you. A fiver says I’m right.” She spooned up some crispy beef and added it to her bowl of noodles.

“OK, you’re on,” I said, laughing.

It was the Saturday before Christmas. Rob was back from a ten-day stint in Sydney and had taken the boys to see Chelsea play Arsenal while Annie and I had lunch in Chinatown.

“So,” Annie said, “you all set for Christmas?”

I said I’d bought the kids’ presents and that the tree—always referred to in our house as the Chanukah bush—was up. “But you know me—I’ll probably buy a turkey that’s too big for the oven, run out of Scotch tape on Christmas Eve and end up wrapping presents with the aid of a stapler. Plus the house is going to be in even more of a mess than usual.” I explained that I’d had to let Mrs. Fredericks go.

“How did she take it?”

“Not well. Money’s really tight for her and she relies on her cleaning jobs. I paid her up to January, but I felt absolutely dreadful. If there had been any other way . . .”

“I know. Please don’t beat yourself up. You did your best. Come on, let’s change the subject. So, are you getting Greg anything for Christmas?”

I said probably not. “Doesn’t feel right, somehow. Plus, if the kids see us exchanging gifts, it might send the wrong message and make them think we’re getting back together.”

Annie said she hadn’t thought of that.

“So,” I said, “you on top of everything holiday-wise?” It was a daft question. This was the woman who had a Christmas Clock Countdown app for her phone and had started buying presents in September. Two years ago we’d gone to Annie’s for Christmas lunch. She’d made her own cheese straws, mulled her own wine, decorated the house with spicy scented candles and fresh greenery. Her goose was roasted to perfection. Ditto her spuds, honey carrots and red cabbage.

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty much under control,” she said. “The boys and I stirred the pudding last night. We’re taking it to Rob’s parents. It’ll be my contribution to lunch. All I’ve got left to do is ice the cake. And I thought I might have a go at stollen bread this year.”

“What, no mince pies?”

“Oh, I did them days ago. They’re in the freezer.”

I burst out laughing. “Of course they are. God, just listening to you makes me feel exhausted.”

“I enjoy doing Christmas. It’s about being together as a family and I want the kids to have something to remember.” She stopped herself. “Oh God. I shouldn’t have said that—what with you and Greg . . . I wasn’t thinking.”

I patted her hand and reminded her that for Jews—even lapsed, correction,
collapsed
ones like Greg and me—Christmas wasn’t that big a deal.

I topped up our wineglasses. “Annie, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Look, you can tell me to mind my own business, but I’ve been worried about you.”

“About me? Why on earth would you be worried about me?”

“It’s just that the other day when I was over at your place with Amy and Ben, you got really angry with Freddie. It’s so unlike you to lose it with your kids. I’ve been wondering what it was about and if you’re OK.”

She shuffled in her chair. “It wasn’t about anything. I told you. It was just the time of the month. I was feeling ratty.”

“Really? You sure there’s nothing else going on?”

“Soph, I’m fine. Honest. I was having a bad day. Don’t you have bad days with your kids?”

“Of course I do. All the time.”

“Right, so there you go.”

Just then her phone beeped from inside her bag. She took it out and read the text. “Jesus. Why can’t he bloody do it for once?” she muttered. “Why does it always have to be me?”

“What’s up?”

She forced a smile. “Nothing. Just Rob being a prat.”

“You know, in all these years I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call your husband a prat. Come on, Annie, speak to me. What’s going on?”

She picked up her glass and downed a large glug of wine. “I’m just a bit fed up, that’s all.”

“Are things all right with you two?”

“We’re great. Rob just annoys me sometimes.”

“Like when he just assumed you would put on a New Year’s Eve party.”

“Yes.” She drained her wineglass.

“You seemed fairly pissed off with him.”

“Not much gets past you, does it?”

“Oh, come on, Annie. It was pretty hard to miss.”

She poured herself some more wine. “I just wish that once in a while Rob would stop treating me like the hired help.”

“You sound like me before Greg and I split up.”

“He’s not untidy like Greg. It’s just that he believes that as a stay-at-home wife and mother, I should be responsible for all the domestic duties and that includes seeing to his dry cleaning, ironing his shirts and making sure he never runs out of clean socks and underwear. That text just now was him asking me to stop off on the way home to pick up the pants he left at the dry cleaners to be shortened. Here I am having lunch with you for the first time in ages. Plus he knows that I’ve been slogging away for weeks doing Christmas stuff, and he can’t bloody leave me alone for five minutes.” She looked like she might burst into tears. “So you’re right. I’m not OK. In fact, I’m very un-OK. And FYI, the New Year’s Eve party isn’t happening. I managed to find a babysitter and told Rob that he was taking me out to dinner instead.”

“Good for you . . . But why didn’t you tell me about all this? I’m your best friend. How long have you been bottling this up?”

“A year. Maybe more.”

“Now I feel guilty because I didn’t pick up that you were unhappy.”

“Don’t. I’ve worked very hard at hiding my feelings.”

“You can say that again. I thought you were deliriously happy. You were always going on about how you enjoyed staying home to raise the boys and how you felt you were doing your bit for the next generation. Talk about an Oscar-winning performance. You totally had me fooled.”

“I wasn’t lying—at least not in the beginning. Then, gradually, my feelings started to change, but there was no way I could tell you. I knew that the moment I admitted to another person that I was unhappy, it would become real. I wouldn’t have been able to live in denial anymore.” She was having trouble controlling the tears now. “This isn’t what I signed up for, Soph. It just isn’t. I didn’t realize that by staying at home to raise our kids and run the home, I would feel so lost.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m either Freddie and Tom’s mum or Rob’s wife. I’m never Annie. I’m not a person; I’m an appendage.” She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.