Monday to Friday Man (17 page)

I stumble out of bed and head for the bathroom, open the door ...

‘Oh God! Sorry!’

There he is, lean and bare-chested, beautiful Jack, going to the loo. I shut the door and race to the downstairs loo, hearing him laugh.

I badly need a glass of water. As I open the glass doors leading into the kitchen, I press a finger to my lips to warn Ruskin to be quiet. ‘It’s only me, sweetheart.’ I jump when I feel a pair of arms around my waist. Ruskin barks now.

‘You scared me!’ I say, wondering exactly what Jack’s doing, but whatever it is, it’s exciting. Ruskin continues to bark at the late-night intrusion, jumping up against his stripy-blue pyjama bottoms with jealousy.

‘It’s three in the morning, Gilly,’ he murmurs. ‘Down, Ruskin!’

‘I know. But I can’t sleep.’

‘Nor can I,’ he says. Pause. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

Oh my God. ‘D’you want a cup of tea or something?’

He shakes his head. ‘Come to bed.’

Come to
bed
? 188

He takes my hand, guides me out of the kitchen, leaving a cross Ruskin glaring at us through the door.

I turn to him, nervous of what he’s going to do next. ‘No one’s turned me down for a cup of tea before,’ he grins.

Before I have time to say anything, Jack takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs. When we reach the landing, he turns to me and asks, ‘My bedroom or yours?’

Later, in bed, after glorious spine-tingling sex, Jack reaches over for his pack of cigarettes.

‘Oh,’ I say, without thinking. ‘Do you mind? It’s just . . . well, it makes the room, you know,
smell
,’ I whisper. Oh, listen to yourself, Gilly. Talk about ruining the moment. You’ve just had sex with a gorgeous man so you should be in a giving mood and not talking about room odours. ‘Go on, of course you can have one. Sorry, I’m a boring old bat sometimes.’

He puts the pack down and kisses me. ‘You weren’t very boring just now. Anyway, I happen to rather like this boring old bat lying next to me.’

I laugh, grabbing his arm and resting it over my stomach. ‘I’m funny about smoking. You see, when my mother was . . .’ But Jack’s not interested in hearing my childhood stories. Instead he climbs on top of me, and grabs my arse as he whispers into my ear, ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t smoke, it’s filthy.’

‘Disgusting,’ I add, kissing him.

‘I’ll do exactly as I’m told, just as long as you keep the talk dirty,’ he adds.

And I laugh, abandoning myself to Jack Baker all over again.

27

1988

I help Nick put on his tie. He brushes the back of my hair, the part I can’t reach, and says my hair is static, like electricity. We help each other pack our satchels and games bags. Mum always forgets to put the right things in. My sports teacher was cross when I turned up to swimming class without my goggles and costume. I had to wear my vest and knickers.

Dressed and ready for school we walk downstairs to the kitchen. Mum stands at the sink in a cloud of smoke. Nick looks cross.

Mum’s forgotten it’s a school day.

There’s a hole in our lives and it’s Megan. She follows us to bed, to sleep, to school and back, to the supper table; even in the car there’s a hole where she used to sit.

Mum stares at the photograph on the window ledge of Megan sitting in her blue-checked chair in the kitchen. Dad says Mum needs to get rid of her things in the house – her pram, chair, splints for her legs, her special little leather boots; Megan’s clothes are still hung in the wardrobe. I don’t know what to say to Mum most of the time. I’m scared of saying the wrong thing so instead I hug her.

Mum’s wearing her blue dressing gown, which looks too big on her now, and she drifts around the house in horrible dirty cream slippers. She asks us to sit down and eat some breakfast before school. Nick and I look at the messy table. I pick up a tin of spaghetti with bite-size frankfurters swimming around in the sauce. It smells. I open the bin and nearly choke. It stinks of rotten cabbages. I shove the tin inside and then slam the lid shut, noticing even Nick stagger back, curling his lips in horror. I look at Mum and then back to him. He shrugs his shoulders. Our house used to be clean all the time, Mum scrubbing everything obsessively. Now I can’t even invite Anna round. I’m embarrassed by the mess.

We don’t know what to do. Dad’s away. He’s working in New York. I wish he’d come home.

Mum starts to clear yesterday’s supper plates off the table. She says we’re wasting away, but it’s only because the food she puts in front of us is worse than school dinners. I try to force it down, telling myself to think of the starving children across the world that I see on the news, their stomachs swollen and their legs so thin. I must not complain. I’m not cross with her. Dad tells us that in time things will go back to normal, that right now Nick and I have to be patient.

Nick sulkily asks Mum if she’s remembered to make our packed lunches. ‘Of course,’ she replies vacantly as she fishes out some squishy bread rolls from the breadbin. I don’t tell her I can see mould on them. ‘What do you want in your rolls?’ she asks with dead eyes.

‘Cheese and ham,’ he replies.

‘Can I have that too?’

Mum opens the fridge, blows smoke into it. I don’t like her smoking. It makes my uniform smell; the whole house smell.

‘We’ve run out of cheese. Oh dear, no ham either.’ She picks out a few jars, examining the labels on them. ‘You can have honey, OK?’

‘I hate honey,’ states Nick.

‘Honey’s fine,’ I say, staring at my brother.

Mum spreads the honey into the rolls, slaps the two halves together and shoves them into plastic bags. She used to make us cucumber and tuna sandwiches cut neatly into four squares. She puts an apple into each sandwich box and a digestive biscuit, and clamps the lids shut. She looks at her watch, tells us we just have time for breakfast if she runs us to the bus stop in the car. We used to walk all the time, with Megan. If my sister could see us now, she’d be angry, saying that we don’t sing or have fun any more.

I pick up the cereal box and tip some flakes into a bowl. Mum ruffles my hair, which makes me happy. ‘What lessons have you got today, Nick?’

‘Maths, boring.’ He eats another spoonful of cereal without looking at her and then takes the bowl to the sink.

‘How about you, Gilly? Mrs Curtis says you’re really coming on.’

I can hear the strain in Mum’s voice, the effort it takes to talk to us – the equivalent to climbing a mountain in high heels.

I now spend all my time writing my diary. Mrs Curtis told me writing was a good way to cope with a death; that when she feels anxious about something her husband often finds scraps of paper with her scribbles all around the house.

Sometimes the only thing I write is that I’m scared because Mum’s always buried under the covers in bed. Is she sick? I write that I don’t think she wants Nick and me around any more, that she must have loved Megan more than us. I really worry about Mum smoking. The cigarette packets say smoking can kill. I imagine Mum dying of lung cancer because she doesn’t read the warnings on the side of the packets. Mum smokes about forty a day. Will she die, just like Megan? Then what? Dad can’t look after us.

I wonder if I should ask Mum if she wants me to clean and do the shopping. I worry that we don’t have food in the house. I could never
say
this to her, so it helps me to write it down. I sit propped up in bed writing while Nick reads his comics. Dad used to read to us at night, but he said we were getting too old for that now. When Dad’s at home he’s very tired after a long day in London. He has great big circles under his eyes. He gets up at 6 a.m. and is out of the house until suppertime. The first thing he does when he comes in is open the drinks cupboard to pour himself a gin.

My writing helps me at night, otherwise I go to bed feeling so sad that I can’t sleep.

28

It’s Friday night and the Olympians have just been for an early evening swim. I tell Gloria that I might go again tomorrow, in fact I might even have some front crawl lessons as it’s about time I stopped being overtaken by perky pensioners. ‘No offence,’ I say, drying my hair in the changing room.

‘None taken,’ she says, before asking me if I’d like to have some supper with her. She’s going to make one of her special vegetable roasts. I ask her if she wants red or white to go with it.

As I chop the herbs for Gloria, she tells me in detail about her week. I’m glad to have her company this evening because I need distraction. All day long I haven’t been able to think straight. I sat in the shop dreaming about Jack like some lovesick puppy. I smile to myself, thinking how strategically planned our night was, in that going out on a Thursday meant we didn’t have any awkwardness the following day because Jack was going home. I am relieved to have the weekend to recover and also I can enjoy the anticipation of seeing him next week. This Monday to Friday arrangement is wonderful. In fact, every relationship should be Monday to Friday. That way, they might stand a chance.

Gloria has been away so she doesn’t even know I’ve had a date with Jack yet, let alone slept with him. Wait till I tell her! When I woke up this morning, Jack had left for work, but had written a note on his side of the bed. I grabbed it, fearing he was going to say we shouldn’t have done that and please could we forget it ever happened?

Gilly, I didn’t want to wake you, you were sound asleep – and by the way, you talk in your sleep too. You said something about how great Jack Baker was and how much you’d like to have another date with him next week. PS You mentioned something about putting on your best dress, dancing shoes and no knickers. PPS You’re hot for thirty-five
.

I’d rolled back over onto my side of the bed, kicked my legs up and down against the mattress and screamed with delight at the wickedness of the man. I was also relieved because last night I’d also been brave enough to tell him my real age. ‘Thirty-five. I love an older woman,’ he’d said.

‘I’m not thirty-five yet,’ I’d replied, laughing, ‘and I’m not that much older than you.’

I sang ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?’ from
High Society
at the top of my voice in the shower; I couldn’t eat any breakfast and Ruskin and I skipped to the park, my feet barely touching the ground. And then, of course, under the oak tree I reported my evening, slightly censored for some.

‘Oh, how I wish I was your age again,’ Walter had said, taking my hand and dancing the waltz with me. ‘I’d have whisked you off your feet, Gilly.’

Sam pulled me to one side and told me she had a good feeling about Jack Baker.

Brigitte wanted to hear about the restaurant and if I’d enjoyed my sea bass.

Ariel wasn’t in the park that day. I know he’ll be furious to miss out on the gossip.

Mari inhaled deeply on her menthol cigarette, unusually quiet.

There was just one person I missed. I wanted to tell Guy.

‘Chop some garlic too,’ says Gloria.

Gloria is an adventurous cook who doesn’t need to follow recipes. Like me, she enjoys food, and tonight she’s baking me my favourite pudding, lemon meringue pie. I often think of Gloria as the mother I lost when Megan died.

I enjoy my evenings with Gloria. Her sitting room never fails to have a vase of purple tulips. Paintings and illustrations of Guinness, her cat, are mounted on every wall. Each object has a story. She has pieces she’s collected from all over the world: Moroccan rugs and lights that she bought from Marrakesh, linen cushions that she found in a French market. She sleeps on a thin mattress on the floor; she’s never enjoyed a soft double bed. Her favourite object in the house is a glass ornament that her old boss gave her, engraved with an image of St Thérèse.

Pictures of her parents, both dead, are displayed in photograph frames. Her mother died of cancer in her fifties; her father died only two years ago, aged eighty-six. Gloria couldn’t leave the house for months; his death hit her like a freight train. I used to drag her round the park with Ruskin and me to get some fresh air. I took over meals: hot soups and stews. Sometimes I’d just sit with her on a Sunday evening to make sure she wasn’t alone. You see, her father had visited her every Sunday; he’d helped her in the garden, and in the evening they’d go to the pub together. When he died, I was with Ed at the time, and I sometimes wondered if she’d ever be able to pick herself up again. But she did – that’s the remarkable thing about the human spirit.

Beneath Gloria’s sunny facade, she’s carried a lot of burdens. Over the years I discovered that she had lost a brother, Laurie, when she was five years old. Laurie died from cot death. Gloria couldn’t eat afterwards, she felt sick all the time, believing it was her fault. She recalled how her mother had to cram porridge into her. After his death she didn’t enjoy being an only child. She told me it had made her grow up too quickly and, just like me, she knew what it was like living in an atmosphere of sadness.

With supper plates on our laps, Gloria switches over to some of the digital channels and pauses on a repeat show of
Stargazer
.

‘It means the world to me,’ the contestant says emotionally. ‘I’ll be devastated if I don’t get through.’

‘For pity’s sake, she can’t be more than fourteen,’ Gloria huffs, tucking her chin in, before going on, ‘they don’t know what devastation means. Devastation is losing a loved one or your house burning down without insurance, or being diagnosed with some awful incurable illness.’

I smile, picturing Jack and me dancing last night. We must have been drunk.

‘I don’t want to go back to school and be ordinary,’ the contestant continues. ‘All me life I’ve wanted to be famous.’

‘Fame,’ Gloria berates. ‘What happened to good old-fashioned work? I tell you, we’re losing tradesmen like plumbers, electricians, builders like my dad, school-dinner ladies like my mum, because all children want now are jobs that don’t require hard work.’

‘Switch over then.’

‘No. I love this show. I really want little Hal to win. What about you? Who do you think should win?’