Getting Over It (11 page)

But Jasper widened his paradise-blue eyes and insisted. “She’s seeing someone, there’s nothing between us, babe, hand on heart.”

You don’t have one,
I thought. Then I had another thought: “So if you’re not shagging Louisa,” I enquired cunningly, “why should we cool it?”

His risible excuse? “It’s a single room.” He started to waffle about “time out to reflect,” but I held up a stiff hand in protest and he shut up.

My parting shot: “Actually, Jasper, if you’d cared to ask you’d know that I’m also buying a flat. And my second bedroom will be a double.” Okay, it wasn’t a whipcracking touché, but nor was it a turkey. At least it wasn’t until I bristled out of the door with my nose in the air and tripped over the step.

This morning, before work, I relate the outrage to Luke in florid detail. My disappointment at his response reminds me of how I felt, aged five, when my scoop of ice cream fell off its cone, plopped to the pavement, and was instantly devoured by a large dog. Luke’s first bathetic comment: “But you had nothing in common.” Luke’s second bathetic comment: “So are you buying a flat?”

I roll my eyes in despair. Some men have truly no idea about how to talk to women. “Luke,” I say patiently, “I don’t want you to make unhelpful comments and ask silly questions. I want you to say ‘Oh, dear,’ ”What a bastard,’ and tut a lot.” He looks hurt so I add quickly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. But, no. I’m not buying a flat. Me and Fatboy are staying right here.”

What I don’t tell Luke is that as of two days ago, I could buy a flat. That is, I could put down a deposit for a modest pad in a reasonably un-crime-ridden area. The reason for this is I have, to put it bluntly, profited from Dad’s death. To cut a boring tale short, a month ago, our solicitor Alex Simpkinson informed my mother—as executrix and main beneficiary of my father’s will—that the probate papers were ready to check and sign.

My mother rose to the occasion. She’s progressed. After the first hear no evil, see no evil month, Mr. Simpkinson had—in desperation—offered her the option of renouncing her legal responsibilities to another beneficiary, i.e. me or Nana Flo. My mother considered it. Then, as she declared to me over a TV dinner—brandishing her empty fork in emphasis—“I told myself, ‘Cecelia, if that’s what Morrie wanted, you do it.’ ” I think she needed an excuse to renew the
FT
subscription. And the kindly attention of tall men in tailored suits never went amiss. Another factor is that she suffered a financial fright after his assets were frozen (my mother only afforded her lifestyle because my father topped up her account).

But most important, my mother realizes that Maurice Bradshaw entrusted the fruits of his working life to his special princess and, like a good royal, she takes her duties seriously. She scrutinizes the share prices each morning without fail. She has also become a devout fan of the
Sunday Times
Money section and plagues my father’s broker every Monday to ensure he’s investing in the latest tip stock. I’m not saying Cecelia Bradshaw has turned into Gordon Gekko. But she may have turned a corner. Her return to school last week—she spent the first half of the autumn term at home on sick leave on full pay—has also helped.

I think even she was impressed at the joy with which Mrs. Armstrong, the head teacher, welcomed her back. Even if her boss’s delight was financially related. Consequently, when probate was granted fourteen days ago, my mother shared a cab with Nana Flo to the freeze-dried offices of Messrs Pomp, Simpkinson & Circumstance and, as she told me proudly, “Alex went through everything again and I understood every word.”

She’d suggested we meet afterward for tea but her offer clashed with a features meeting. Anyhow, I didn’t dare ask Laetitia if I could leave work early because I sense she is bored to and beyond death of the bereavement saga and approximately one millimetre away from firing me. “But it was a matter of life and death!” squeaked Lizzy. I shrugged and misquoted some dead person Luke likes to rave about: “Features are more important than that.”

Anyway, it didn’t matter. I got a check in the post. As I opened the envelope, details of the will being read aloud on my father’s funeral day loomed into focus after months of blurred forgetfulness. Specifically the short paragraph, boomed out by Mr. Simpkinson, beginning: “I bequest the sum of £20,000 to my daughter Helen Gayle”—Dad knew I hate my middle name—“which I hope she will invest wisely, for instance, in property… .”

I held the check in my hand and grimaced: “Posthumous parental guidance!” Any other time I’d be straight down the shops, but right now I don’t have the life in me to spend spend spend. Nor the strength to beat off estate agents. So despite my words of bravado to Jasper, when I tell Luke I’m staying put, it’s the truth. I also find myself paralyzed by Nana Flo’s short verdict on the final account: “My son, reduced to a few bits of paper.” I wish she hadn’t said it in front of me. I act against my better judgment and tell Luke. He says “Oh, dear!” and tuts. Then adds, “I suppose it’s another nail in the coffin.”

Chapter 14

T
HE KEY TO MAINTAINING
a fabulous relationship with the one you love is, according to
GirlTime’s
Agony Aunt, to learn something new about them every day. So imagine my joy at discovering I possess a skill I didn’t know I had. I realized it this morning after breakfast.

I’d just kissed Fatboy goodbye and was bolting out of the door when Marcus stopped me with a loud crabby, “Hoi!” I paused for a cool second, turned on my heel, and said with forced born-again sunniness, “Good morning to you, too, Marcus.” I smiled patiently as he struggled—and failed—to control his temper.

“I’ve just about had it with you—” he began.

“Oh, I agree,” I exclaimed. “That’s how I’d describe it, too.” When Marcus got the insult his face turned scarlet.

He stepped closer and hissed, “Don’t push it, Helen.”

I played innocent: “What have I done?”

He glared. “What haven’t you done. You haven’t paid rent, you haven’t washed up, your sodding pasta pan has been soaking in the sink for two weeks, you haven’t—”

I interrupted. “Easy, Marcus, keep your hair on”—Marcus is paranoid about balding—“I’ll pay you and tidy up tonight. But hush. Puce doesn’t suit you.” I grin cheekily, skip down the path and out of sight.

Then I allow my expression to revert to its customary blank. But as I plod along, I think of Marcus and feel the shards of hate sharp inside me. How I ever fancied him, I do not know. To think I thought he was funny! He’s as funny as being mown down by a truck. Not only that, he’s as shallow as a puddle and about as thick. He’s full of smart remarks, yet lacks the wit to dump me with courtesy. And I live in the same flat as him! And his hair is receding, now I’ve been close enough to check. He should transplant some off his back. The loathing churns and shifts, and I realize. I have a gift. I am a genius! I am superb at needling Marcus. The remainder of my journey is altogether bouncier.

Lizzy, who has just been promoted to Beauty Editor, is not impressed when I tell her about it. “It’s not a very positive way to live,” she says.

“But I feel deceived by Marcus,” I bleat.

“How?” demands Lizzy.

I sigh. “All his sharking about, for a start,” I say. “I assumed it reflected his prowess, when in fact, it reflected his lack of it.”

Lizzy giggles and says soothingly, “Well, you weren’t to know.”

I add, “And he’s such a gossip—which is all very amusing when he’s yakking about someone else, but less amusing when he’s yakking about you. My tiny bosoms are going to be all over Swiss Cottage. If they aren’t already. So to speak.” I glare at Lizzy so she doesn’t laugh.

Lizzy makes a sympathetic face, so I say grumpily, “And there were other things.”

“Oh?” says Lizzy politely.

“His neatness, for one,” I blurt. “I thought it was sweet. Proof he didn’t expect a woman to tidy up for him. Now I think it’s grotesque.”

Lizzy is silent. Then she says, “But Helen, why does that matter?”

“Oh, Lizzy,” I say, foiled by her generous nature and trying to sound jolly rather than spiteful, “you’re such a”—I want to say Pollyanna but I know it will seem bitter—“so sensible,” I finish lamely.

She shoots me a look. She knows. “I hope you’re not upset about my new job,” she says mildly. “I worked hard for it.”

I feel small. “And you deserve your promotion,” I say with real warmth. “I’m delighted for you. I really am. Sorry to be such a grouch. The truth is, I suppose, I’m jealous. But I have no right.”

Lizzy pats my arm. “It’s been difficult for you, Helen,” she says. “You’ve had too much on your mind to, to focus on your career. You’re practically a full-time carer! And, ah, I’m a year older than you. It’s about time I was made a deputy!”

This, as we both know, is an irrelevence. Lizzy has been promoted because beneath that soft shimmering exterior is a determined, ambitious woman who is great at her job. I make a mental note to send her a congratulatory card. When Lizzy joined
GirlTime
fourteen months ago, my first impression was that she was weak, silly. She’s neither, although I still think she’s naive because she doesn’t understand people who are nasty for fun, like Marcus. She doesn’t expect deviousness because she would never behave cruelly herself. I used to look down on her for it.

And then, one night, she came round to help me dye my hair red and afterward we chatted with Luke. The next morning Luke said, “She’s cool. I like her.”

I pounced like Fatboy on a shoelace. “Oh, ho!” I crowed, “Luke fancies Lizzy! Join the queue!”

He shook his head. “No,” he said—and from the way he said it I believed him—“she’s gorgeous but she’s too confident for me.” He grinned and added, “I like my women damaged.”

I beamed back, “You mean,” I said teasingly, “you need to be needed. You big sap!” Then his verdict on Lizzy sank in. “You think she’s confident?” I squeaked in surprise. “But she’s so quiet!”

He shrugged. “If you’re happy inside you don’t have to convince everyone else.” From that day my regard for Lizzy and Luke blossomed. Despite the fact that when I pressed him for a compliment on my newly auburn locks, he fidgeted for a picosecond, then blurted, “You look like a mangy old cat!”

So, while I have intrinsic respect for Lizzy’s opinions, I vow to continue my anti-Marcus crusade. After all, in the absence of Jasper, I lack focus. Apart from pandering to my mother’s every whim—I’m beginning to admire my father for what he put up with—I have no life. Occasionally I go flat-hunting with Lizzy, who is determined to buy before Christmas. That’s it.

And anyway, it’s a pleasure to irk someone who’s as catty as it’s possible to be without actually being a cat. Which reminds me. Fatboy is due to return to Megavet for another worming session this week. Actually, it doesn’t remind me at all. I’ve been thinking about it all day and trying, without success, to picture Tom’s face. (Of course, I can picture oily Alan’s in spotless—sorry—spotted detail.)

Tom’s rudeness last time we met deeply offended me, but in retrospect I’ll grudgingly admit I deserved it. Although I partly blame Marcus. What I cannot blame Marcus for, however, though I’d like to, is Fatboy’s stern refusal to lose a single pound on Tom’s diet. When I went to collect the worming pills, Tom inquired how many times a day I was feeding Fatboy. “Er, five,” I said, cringing in anticipation of yet another reprimand. He saw me off with a snide lecture and some Puritan low-fun cat food.

Now, Fatboy eats two and a half, maybe three times a day, but bigger portions. I also suspect he sneaks through other peoples’ catflaps and pilfers. “Poor angel!” I croon later, forking a large chunk of lamb and rabbit pate into his blue bowl. “It’s not your fault you’re big boned.” He snarfs the lot in twenty seconds flat and stretches, elongating his torso and dragging his back legs. He looks like a warped reflection in a fairground mirror. I brim with pride. Fatboy is, at the risk of sounding like a big sad loser, the cheeriest part of my existence. And when the cheeriest part of your existence pukes a great lake of brown puree onto your carpet just as you drop into bed, your existence isn’t terribly cheery.

Fatboy’s appointment with the doctor is at the ungodly time of 9:45
A.M.
on Saturday. As I do not wish to arise one moment earlier than 8:45—and even that’s cutting it fine—I plan my wardrobe in advance. Towering black boots, black trousers, plain white scoop-neck t-shirt, and black cardigan. Minimalist, classical, elegant. Especially as I intend to trowel on a good thick inch of subtle makeup. Tina would be proud. If, that is, she could stop dribbling and mooning over Adrian long enough to notice. She is shameful! A lesson to us all. Well, to me anyway. I pray I was never, ever like that. Even with Jasper. She rarely sees us outside work, and when Lizzy suggests a girls’ night out, she looks uncomfortable and makes a weak excuse, such as “I promised Adrian I’d make him dinner that night.”

To think I used to admire her untameable free spirit. Envy her level-headed approach to romance. Wish for a whisp of her immunity to infatuation. Initially I put it down to her growing up with three brothers. She put it down to her growing up with three brothers. She never said so, of course, as she was too busy masquerading as Mae West. But now and again—usually after an alcohol glut—unguarded comments would slip out. Such as “They’re not another species, for chrissake!” All highly impressive at the time.

However, in regretful hindsight, I am forced to conclude that her brothers had diddly-squat to do with her bold invulnerability. Not that they didn’t help her learn to understand men, to get along with men, to get along on her own. Doubtless they did. Yet I think the simple truth is, that until she met Adrian, she had never fallen in love. Not even for one mad minute, blissful hour, or whirlwind day. So my admiration is canceled out.

I awake on Saturday at 8:45
A.M.
feeling groggy. Is there no justice?! I went to bed at ten! I bolt to the mirror and my worst fears are confirmed. I’m piggy-eyed. My peepers are as puffy and bloated as if the five Dime Bars I ate this week—tiny little things, can’t possibly be fattening—went straight to my eyelids. I snatch up the phone to call Lizzy, then remember it’s practically the middle of the night. I’m sure she’s up, all shiny hair and glowing face, running round a meadow or something, but if she is living dangerously and lying in till half past nine, I’d hate to disturb her.

So instead I creep to the fridge and steal two slices of Marcus’s cucumber, replacing it in an upright position to give him an inferiority complex. If I was him I’d stick with baby sweet corn. Then I lie on my bed, with cucumber eyes, for five tedious minutes. When I can bear it no longer, I jump up and rush to the mirror. As puffy as Puff the Magic Dragon after a birthday blow-out. And my skin is as scaly. Bugger. I slap on about twenty quid’s worth of moisturizer, use eyelash curlers to disguise the eyelid bloat, then spend a full fifteen minutes tweaking and fluffing my hair in a vain attempt to stop it lying flat on my head. I end up looking like David Bowie circa 1972. Let’s hope Tom is a fan of Space Oddity.

I arrive at Megavet—Fatboy wailing and clawing inside his Pet Voyager—in bad humor. It is not improved when I see Celine. She ignores me. I return the compliment and assume the expression of one who has just smelled a decaying corpse. I pretend to be engrossed in
Dogs Today
and am wading through a three-page feature on mange when the surgery door swings open and a deep resonant voice shouts, “Next!” I nearly faint with nervous tension and look hesitantly into those blue eyes. “Hi,” says Tom, not quite smiling. “Won’t you come into my parlour?”

“Delighted,” I whisper, trundling into the surgery. I spend a full minute coaxing Fatboy out of his Voyager in order to compose myself. Then I lift my wriggling cat onto the table and mutter—in a preemptive strike—“He hasn’t lost much weight, but he seems happy. It must be his metabolism. I don’t want to give him a complex.” Tom looks sceptical and declares, “I’m going to have to pull you in on that one. Madam! Please blow into this bag of shit!” But his tone is friendly.

“Tom,” I blurt before I can stop myself, “I just wanted to say, I mean, I’ve been wanting to say for ages, I”—Fatboy chooses this delicate moment to emit a silent but poisonous fart—“I, that wasn’t me, by the way, I swear, he always does that when he’s nervous, but the point is, well, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. You know? I’m sorry that I was so rude to you on the phone and I still cringe about it.” As the words jumble-tumble out, it hits me that they sound arrogant. As if I assume Tom has spent the past three months withering away in his room because of my childish telephone snub.

So I blather on, “Not that, I’m sure, you care or you’ve thought about it much or anything but”—I am about to explain I was under stress because of Marcus, my mother, my father, oily Alan, the Toyota, but realize they are all monstrous excuses so I finish with—“but I have thought about it and”—Jesus, I’m making a hash of this—“I wouldn’t want you to think badly of me.” I stop. Oh, god, that sounds self-centered! I add in a rush, “I didn’t want to hurt you.” So presumptuous!

“I mean, not that you were hurt, but it wasn’t nice and I really regret my behavior. I still feel terrible.” I dig my nails viciously into my palms to prevent myself bleating out even one more brain-dead syllable. Why doesn’t Tom speak instead of gazing at me like that?

Finally, he grins, “Apology accepted. And I don’t think badly of you. Not that badly.” He grins again to indicate that this is a joke. Fatboy lets out another evil fart. I’ll kill him, the spiteful orange gremlin.

Tom gives the windbag the once over, skims his medical notes, and says casually, “And I’m sorry if I scared you about Fatboy’s health. I went a bit over the top.”

I shake my head, jumping at the chance to be magnanimous. “I deserved it,” I say.

If Fatboy could find it in his heart and bowels to withold any further farts, I’ll play the coat game every day for a week, I pray silently.

“He’s got a good color”—it takes me a second to realize Tom is refering to Fatboy’s gums and eyeballs rather than his fur—“and a nice shiny coat. He’s still a pudge but otherwise healthy. I’m just going to give him his worming pill. If you hold him like that, while I pry open his jaw. Good. All right, big chap…”
Grraowwww
! “There! That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

As Tom strokes a glowering Fatboy, I think to myself,
No. It wasn’t bad at all. We were standing so close I could breathe in the clean smell of your hair and it’s having an extraordinary effect on my knees. And, if I’m being crude, higher up, as well.
I force my face into a non-leery expression.

“Thank you,” I say, lifting Fatboy into the Voyager. I am reluctant to leave, but I don’t want to loiter foolishly like an infatuated schoolgirl. My thoughts bypass my brain and whirr into speech without permission. “You probably won’t but—” I begin.

“Don’t if you—” Tom starts. We both stop.

“You first,” I say.

He rakes a hand through his dishmop hair. “Do you want to go for a drink sometime? Orange juice even?”