Losing Me (21 page)

By now it was past ten, but for a Saturday night it was still early and the ER wasn’t too busy. A gang of teenagers—high on who knew what—had brought in their mate who had fallen out of a tree and appeared to have dislocated his shoulder. While the lad sobbed with pain, his mates assumed comedy poses and took larky selfies with him. A few feet away, a human-shaped bundle of filthy coats, jumpers and matted hair was sprawled across three metal seats. It was being asked to leave by a security guard. “I know it’s cold out, mate, but you can’t come in here to get warm, not stinking like that you can’t.”

The homeless man wiped his nose with the back of his hand. The skin was gray with muck, the overlong nails curled and ragged. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Well, you’d better get on yer bike, then. There’s a homeless shelter down the road.”

“It’s full.”

The security guard looked over at the two middle-aged women on reception. “No room at the inn apparently.”

The women looked at each other. “Don’t be too hard on him, Gordon,” one of them said. “He’ll freeze to death if you throw him out.”

“I’m too soft, that’s what I am,” Gordon grumbled. Then he offered to get the chap a cup of tea and a sandwich, so long as he promised to sit at the back of the waiting room and make no trouble.

“That man looks very poor,” Cleo said between coughs. “Doesn’t he have somebody to look after him?”

“It doesn’t look like it.” Barbara rearranged Cleo in her arms, but however she tried to hold her, the child didn’t get any lighter.

“That’s sad. Do you think he’d like Cyril for company?”

It occurred to Barbara that the man already had several Cyrils—or similar—about his person.

“If he’s not very well,” Barbara said, “I’m not sure he could cope with looking after a pet.”

They headed towards reception. An elderly woman was lying on a trolley next to the lift. “Is she dead?” Cleo asked.

“Of course she isn’t. Look, her eyes are open.”

“She could still be dead.”

“She’s not dead. She’s breathing. Can’t you see her chest going up and down?”

“Nope. Her chest isn’t moving. She’s definitely dead. Cool. Now I can tell everybody at school I saw a dead person.”

Cleo was taken into triage straightaway. A nurse took her temperature. A hundred and three. “And I don’t like the sound of that cough.” A doctor was brought in. He listened to Cleo’s chest.

“How long has she been coughing like this?” His tone was faintly accusatory. Barbara was vague. A few days maybe.

Jean’s diagnosis turned out to be right. Cleo’s chest infection had triggered asthma. “We’ll admit her and put her on a nebulizer overnight.”

“What’s that?” Cleo said.

The doctor explained that she would have a mask over her face and a machine would pump out a mist of medicine, which would clear her airways and make her cough go away.

“Am I going to die?”

“Absolutely not,” the doctor said. “In fact, if the medicine does its job tonight, you might even get to go home tomorrow.”

“Good. And if I can’t go home, can Cyril come and stay with me in the hospital?”

“Is Cyril a relative?”

“No, he’s a spider.”

•   •   •

They had to wait in the ER until a bed could be found on one of the wards. Barbara wondered what was keeping Jess and Matt. She called Jess. Her daughter picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, Mum, I was about to call you. Don’t worry—we’re on our way. Aunty Jean finally got me. She’d been trying for ages, but I couldn’t hear my phone in the restaurant. How’s Cleo?”

“It’s asthma. I don’t think it’s too bad, but they’re keeping her overnight.”

“Overnight? OK, tell her we’ll be five minutes.”

By the time Jess and Matt arrived, Cleo still hadn’t been taken up to the ward, but she had been hooked up to the nebulizer. Jess looked frantic, more so when she saw her pale, glassy-eyed daughter breathing through a mask. She shot over to hug her. Matt said nothing. His face was taut. He seemed more angry than anything.

“Sweetie,” Jess said, stroking Cleo’s hair. “I’m so sorry it’s taken us so long to get here. How are you feeling?”

Cleo pulled off her mask. “Fine. Everybody’s been really nice. And I saw a dead person.”

“She didn’t,” Barbara whispered.

“I heard that. I did see a dead person. So there.”

Matt told Cleo to put her mask back on because she was wasting the medicine.

“I need to talk to the doctor,” Jess said. “What is it they’re pumping into her? It’s steroids, isn’t it? I’m not having her filled up with steroids.” She turned to Matt. “Maybe I should call the homeopath.”

“Are you serious? I can’t believe you just said that. Sod the bloody homeopath. Our daughter has asthma. And if she needs steroids, she’s bloody having steroids. We should have taken her to the doctor like I said. If she’d had proper treatment for her chest, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“So it’s all my fault. As usual. Why didn’t you take her to the doctor?”

“Because you wouldn’t let me.”

“What? Like I could have stopped you.”

“OK, you two,” Barbara said. “Do you think you could have this argument outside? You’re upsetting Cleo.”

“No, they’re not. They’re always arguing. Me and Atticus are used to it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jess singsonged. “Of course we’re not always arguing.”

“Yes, you are.”

“She’s right,” Matt said. “And since Cleo’s been ill, it’s been about effing homeopathy.”

“What’s
effing
mean?”

“What I don’t get,” Matt went on, “is why you allow yourself to be bullied by that ignorant mummy mafia you hang out with. When the kids were teething, you put them in those ridiculous amber bead necklaces. If they had a cold, you’d treat it with breast milk—like it was some magic cure-all. Now Cleo has ended up in hospital. See what you’ve bloody done.”

“Stop it. This isn’t just about me. You were in favor of homeopathy, too.”

“Well, I’ve done some reading and I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, thanks for telling me.”

“I have been telling you. I keep on about all the studies that prove what bollocks it is, but you refuse to listen.”

Jess burst into tears and shot out of the cubicle. Barbara went after her. She caught up with her after a couple paces. “Come on,” she said, putting her arm around Jess’s shoulders. “You’ve both had a shock. Matt’s taking it out on you, that’s all.” She led her daughter over to a line of empty seats. The homeless man had finished his tea and sandwich and had fallen asleep. He was snoring loudly while emitting a strong smell of stale urine.

“He might be taking it out on me,” Jess said, sitting down, “but he’s right. I’m just a gullible idiot. He’s been on me all week to take Cleo to the doctor and I refused. I could have killed her.”

“I think maybe that’s taking it a bit far.”

“I was just doing what I thought best. Drugs can have such terrible side effects.”

“I know, darling, but doing nothing can have side effects, too.”

“So you think that I put my own agenda before my child’s health?”

Barbara knew she had to tread carefully. “You made a mistake. But all parents make mistakes. Remind me to make a list of mine. And Matt is just as responsible as you are. He should have forced the issue.”

“He didn’t have the energy.”

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in weeks.”

“This is about money, isn’t it?”

“We’re in so much debt. The bank refuses to extend our credit. That’s part of the reason Matt’s in such a state.”

Barbara took Jess in her arms and rocked her. “Shh . . . It’s going to be all right. Stop worrying. We’ll sort something out.”

But she didn’t have the foggiest idea what.

•   •   •

Once Cleo had been moved to the children’s ward, Matt went home to relieve Jean. The head nurse told Jess it would be fine for her to stay the night and went to find her a camp bed.

It was almost one when Barbara got home. Ben was just leaving. “Good Lord, where on earth are you going at this hour?”

“I’m meeting some friends at a club in Shoreditch. It never gets going before two. And anyway, you should talk. Where have you been? I was really worried. I must have sent you half a dozen texts.”

Barbara explained about Cleo. “Sorry. I wasn’t checking my phone. I did think about going outside to call you, but I assumed as it’s a Saturday night that you’d be out and you wouldn’t hear the phone.”

“So is Cleo OK?”

“She’ll be fine. The doctor said she’ll need to use an inhaler from time to time, but the chances are she’ll grow out of it.”

“I bet you anything Jess was trying to treat her with sugar pills.”

“Ben, please don’t start. I’m too tired.”

“Well, I hope you told her what an idiot she is.”

“No, Matt did. They had a fight.”

“Jess is such a bloody flake. She needs to sort herself out.”

“You’re probably right. But please don’t say anything to her. You’ll only make her feel worse. She knows she made a mistake.”

“Whatever.”

“Right, I’m off to bed.”

She said good night. Ben opened the front door.

It was then that she noticed the leather jacket he was wearing. Tan. Brand-new. Expensive-looking.

“Ben, hang on. . . . Where did . . . ?”

But he was gone. Barbara began climbing the stairs. So what did a leather jacket cost these days? Two hundred quid minimum. A few weeks ago Ben didn’t have the money to buy a pair of Converse. Suddenly he owned a leather jacket.

Weary as she was, she decided to call Frank. He would want to know about Cleo. She did a quick calculation. Mexico was eight hours behind. Frank would probably be having a drink or dinner in some noisy restaurant. The call was bound to go straight to voice mail. But it didn’t. Frank picked up almost immediately. He was in his hotel room viewing film footage. After she’d reassured him that Cleo was going to be OK and promised to call the next day to let him know how she was doing, she brought up the subject of Ben’s new leather jacket.

“Frank, have you been giving him money?”

“Not recently, no.”

“So where did it come from?”

“I dunno.” Frank sounded pretty unconcerned. “Maybe he borrowed some cash.”

“He wouldn’t do that. How would he pay it back?”

“So what are you suggesting? That he stole it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on . . . This is Ben we’re talking about. If he gets undercharged in a shop, he points it out. I’ve seen him do it.”

“So have I, but that doesn’t mean he’d never give in to temptation.”

“Bar, you’re exhausted. You’re not thinking straight. Ben would never shoplift. . . . I bet he borrowed the jacket off a mate.”

“Boys don’t borrow each other’s clothes.”

“OK. So somebody might have given it to him.”

“Who gives away a brand-new leather jacket?”

“I don’t know. You don’t suppose it’s got something to do with this secret
thing
he’s been working on? Maybe we’re ignoring the obvious. Perhaps he earned the money.”

“Uh-uh. He would have said. You know how he likes to show off when he sells an article for actual money.”

“In which case there’s only one way of getting to the bottom of this. You’ll have to ask him where he got it.”

“Don’t worry. I intend to.”

Chapter 8

J
ess called Barbara first thing the next morning to say that Cleo’s cough had improved overnight and the doctors had said she could go home. “The hospital is lending us a nebulizer for a few days, and she’s been given an inhaler to use when necessary.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Give her a big hug from me and her granddad and tell her I’ll pop over later.”

“By the way, I forgot to say thank you for everything you did last night. Cleo said you were brilliant. And she still can’t get over seeing the dead woman.”

Barbara laughed. “What are grandmas for, if not for letting their grandchildren ogle cadavers? But I promise you she wasn’t dead.”

“Well, Cleo’s full of it. She even asked one of the nurses how long it would be before the woman’s body started rotting.”

“You know what I love about Cleo? She’s such a girlie girl.”

“Isn’t she?. . . By the way, Matt’s barely speaking to me.”

“Give him time. Now that Cleo’s on the mend, he’ll come round.”

“I hope so. Plus it’s the money thing. He just spends all his time worrying.”

“I’ve had an idea,” Barbara said. It had occurred to her last night, as she’d been falling asleep. “Your dad has a life insurance policy. I don’t know what it’s worth—probably not much. But I could find out. Maybe we could cash it in.”

Jess wouldn’t hear of it. “We’ll go bust if we have to, but there’s no way I’m letting you and Dad give us the little money you’ve got. It’s a wonderful, kind thought and I appreciate it, but the answer’s no.”

“Well, the offer’s there if you change your mind.”

Jess said she wasn’t going to change her mind and moved the conversation on. She said she’d just been on the phone to Martha. “She said I should try Cleo on licorice and bamboo. She doesn’t approve of me letting her have an inhaler.”

“And where did Martha get her medical degree? The Hermann von Quack Institute, Charlatanville? I suggest you tell her to stick her licorice and bamboo where the sun don’t shine.”

“I love it when you make me laugh,” Jess said. “When we were growing up, none of the other kids’ mums were as funny as you.”

She reminded Barbara how every week she would collect her and all her friends from their swimming lesson and sing along to “Crazy Horses” at the top of her voice all the way home.

“They all thought you were weird, but in a good way.”

“I can live with
weird
,” Barbara said. “It’s
normal
I can’t stand. . . . So what are you going to do about Martha?”

“I shall politely ignore her. Don’t get me wrong—she’s my best friend and I love her to bits, but Matt’s right. I need to take a step back from the Martha mafia.” She paused. “I think maybe I’ll go back to regular loo paper, too. I don’t want to risk any more illness in this family.”

Barbara said that, on balance, that might be a good idea.

Jess said she had to go. A nurse was hovering with Cleo’s discharge form, which needed to be signed.

No sooner had Barbara put down the phone than Ben appeared. He was wearing boxers and a tee. His hair looked even more confused than usual. He was also letting out soft moaning sounds.

“I’ve got such a hangover.” Moan. “We were drinking Negronis until five in the morning.” He practically fell onto a kitchen chair.

“Really?” Barbara said, filling the kettle for coffee. “And I bet they don’t come cheap? Clubs charge a fortune for drinks.”

“I had some money,” Ben mumbled before moaning again.

“Where from?”

“Why are you interrogating me? I had some money, that’s all.”

“But you don’t earn anything. So maybe you’d also like to tell me where you got the cash to buy a leather jacket?”

“Selling drugs . . . Shit, my head hurts.”

Barbara switched on the kettle. “Very droll. But don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me.”

“What? You honestly think I’d start pushing drugs? Or maybe you think I stole the money.”

Barbara sat down opposite him. “People do all sorts of things when they’re hard up.”

“I get that,” he said, looking up at her. “But just for the record, I’m not a shoplifting drug dealer.”

“Fine. So how did you pay for the jacket?”

“This really is none of your business, but since you’re clearly not going to let it rest, I sold my guitar.”

“You sold the Gibson? Why on earth would you do that? It was meant to be an investment.”

The limited-edition Gibson had been Ben’s nineteenth birthday present to himself. During his gap year, he got a job as a runner with a record company. The pay was lousy, but Ben lived at home rent free (the quid pro quo being that he would put money aside to help pay his university fees) and was able to save a great pile of cash. When he left the job almost a year later, he had fifteen grand in the bank. He set ten aside for university, but he wasn’t sure what to do with the rest. The choice was either to go traveling with his mates and spend the weeks leading up to his first term at uni getting loaded in the Andes—or buy his dream guitar. In the end he chose the guitar—a 1954 Fender Telecaster, the same model that Keith Richards had played. He was positively heady with excitement at owning a classic guitar. For the first few days he couldn’t stop caressing the scuffed grazed wood. He practiced for hours. He invited friends to come and admire it. It was like he’d just given birth. “You have to come over and see the guitar.” Even Frank couldn’t resist picking it up and giving it a bit of Dire Straits.

Then Ben had gone to university and formed Grandma and the Junkies. The band, which had come into the world riding on this giant—if a bit green—wave of optimism and hope, went down. That was another reason Barbara felt she had to go easy with him. That said, she was still cross with him for selling the guitar.

“I’m skint,” Ben was saying now. “I can’t keep taking money from you and Dad. I had no choice.”

“But in a few years it would have been worth a lot of money.”

“I know, but since the band broke up, I’ve hardly played the thing. If you must know, I couldn’t face looking at it.”

She asked him how much he got for it.

“Just over six thousand. So I made a bit of profit.”

“And now you’re just going to fritter the money away on leather jackets.”

“No. I only need one.”

“You know what I mean. You’ll squander it—spend it on rubbish.”

“Why would I do that? I’ll spend it on living and hope it tides me over until I start earning some proper money.”

“Well, I’m not happy.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be. That’s why I didn’t tell you. But, actually, you should be happy because for the time being the pressure’s off you and Dad. Plus I’ve gained a bit of self-respect. It’s win-win.”

When Barbara called Frank to tell him about Ben selling his guitar, he pretty much took Ben’s side. “He’s right. It will give him a bit of self-respect, and in the meantime we’re saving money.”

Barbara was frustrated that neither of them cared about the long game—the fact that the guitar might have been worth a great deal of money one day.

“So how are you feeling?” Frank asked Barbara.

“I’m OK.”

“No more panic attacks?”

“Uh-uh.”

“So you still angry with me?”

“Of course I am. What do you want from me?”

“What I want is for you to look at things from my perspective.”

“Frank, how many more times do I need to say this? I’ve spent a lifetime looking at things from your perspective. That’s the problem.”

As usual, they ended the conversation before they got into a fight.

•   •   •

Barbara’s medication had put a stop to her panic attacks, but it hadn’t stopped her stewing and ruminating about the state of her marriage and whether or not she and Frank had a future. On top of that there was a pile of other worries: Ben’s future, Jess and Matt’s financial problems. Was Troy OK? How would Freddie do in his assessment and how would his parents cope if it were confirmed that he was dyslexic? The only not-quite-so-gloomy prospect—she hesitated to use the word “bright”—concerned her relationship with her mother. She was convinced that she hadn’t been imagining things the other day. For a second or two they really had connected. With her defenses down, Rose had demonstrated something verging on affection.

Over poached salmon and pinot grigio at the Conran Shop—Barbara and Jean had gone there to spend the gift voucher that Barbara had been presented with when she left her job—Barbara told Jean about her “moment” with Rose. “It struck me that maybe it is possible to reach her and that the time has come to confront her about the past.”

“Absolutely. Go for it. . . . And while you’re at it, you can confront Terence Conran about his prices. You do realize you could have got that light for twenty quid in Ikea.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Barbara said, leaning over to pat the bag containing her tripod table lamp. “The stand is solid beech. You saw how beautifully made it is.”

Jean sniffed. “I still think he’s taking the piss.”

“Maybe. But it hasn’t cost me anything, so I don’t really care. Anyway . . . back to my mum. You really think I should talk to her?”

Jean didn’t reply. She was half out of her chair, staring out of the window.

“What?” Barbara said, putting down her knife and fork.

“That’s Jenson.”

“Where?” Barbara attempted to follow Jean’s line of sight. She spotted a tall guy in a black Fedora and emerald-green overcoat. Ben would have taken one look at him and called him a tool. She couldn’t see his face. It was being obscured by a blond girl in a beanie hat who was kissing him. They were both carrying Marks & Spencer grocery bags.

Barbara didn’t know what to say. The kiss on its own might have suggested that Jenson was on a gigolo assignment. The grocery bags were the giveaway.

The two women sat in silence as they watched the pair walk away arm in arm. Jean’s eyes were glassy with tears. She wiped them with the heel of her palm.

“Do you think that was his girlfriend?” she said. “I mean his proper girlfriend, not just a client.”

“I don’t know. Does he usually go food shopping with clients?”

“Probably not.” Jean was gazing out of the window again. “Wow . . . I haven’t felt this jealous since I was in high school.”

“Jean, look at me.”

It took her a moment or two, but eventually Jean turned away from the window. “I know what you’re going to say—that I’m just a stupid old woman who got carried away and I have to end it.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid or old, but yes, I do think you have to end it.”

Jean drained her wineglass. “You’re right, of course. I can’t think what I was hoping for. He’s got a life. I will never be more than a client to him.” She paused. “Or maybe just a dirty secret that he will always keep from the girl he loves.”

“Come on,” Barbara said, placing her hand on top of Jean’s. “After you’ve finished with all this, we’ll look for another way out of this mess.”

But for the life of her, Barbara couldn’t imagine what that might be. Meanwhile, Jean suggested they order another bottle of pinot grig.

“So, back to your mother.”

“You sure you feel up to discussing my problems?”

“It’ll take my mind off Jenson.”

“So you really think I should confront her?”

“I do.” She said she was amazed that Barbara hadn’t done it sooner. “I mean, you’re not exactly a shrinking violet. What’s stopped you?”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, but the last thing I want to do is rock the boat. If I upset her, she’ll think even worse of me.”

“So instead you keep on trying to get her to love you.”

“I’ve been trying all my life. You know when I go round there, I still take her little presents—just like I did when I was a kid—but inevitably, I always get the wrong thing.”

“Of course you do. She wouldn’t have it any other way. That’s her problem, not yours. Come on, Bar—you know you’re not a bad person.”

“I know it in my head, but I don’t
feel
it. Frank doesn’t help. When he left, it felt like he was punishing me, and what’s more, part of me was convinced I deserved it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I know. What can I tell you?”

“It’s time. You need to have the conversation with your mum.”

“But I’m struggling with my marriage right now. I don’t know if this is the right time. Plus Mum’s old. She’s getting frail. Surely it would be cruel to confront her this late in the day.”

Jean said she took the point about Rose’s age. “But it depends how you do it. Be gentle. Don’t go on the attack. All you’re asking her to do is listen.”

Barbara said she still wasn’t sure. “I think you’re being a bit gung ho. The woman’s well over eighty.”

“She is, but mentally she’s anything but feeble. Look, it’s up to you, but it occurs to me that getting some kind of closure with your mother might free you up to think about your relationship with Frank.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve got so much going on in my head right now. Heaven knows where I’d be without the meds.”

“Tell me . . . What is it you need to hear from your mother?”

“I know she had a miserable time with my dad, but I just want her to tell me that she’s sorry she wasn’t able to do her best for me and that she loves me.”

“That’s not a lot to ask.”

Barbara still wasn’t sure.

•   •   •

Barbara’s wedding day. Her dad is pacing in the living room. They’re all waiting for the wedding cars to arrive. Barbara will travel to the church with Stan (if he can get himself out of the house. But the Valium does seem to be working). Rose will share a car with Frank’s widowed mother, Betty, who is on her way over in a taxi.

Rose is wearing a cream-and-navy silk two-piece with matching clutch, shoes and wide-brimmed hat. She’s standing in front of the hall mirror adjusting it and fussing over the angle. Taking care not to trip, Barbara comes down the stairs in her wedding dress—full chiffon skirt, crocheted bodice, long, billowing sleeves with deep crocheted cuffs. Earlier a hairdresser friend of her mother’s came to the house to do her hair. Heavily lacquered seventies flick-ups lap at her beaded Juliette cap.