One Step Closer to You (14 page)

‘It’s not too late to …’

‘What’s going on?’ Matt says, glancing from my mother to me.

‘Nothing,’ I reply, dusting down my dress. ‘Mum was just leaving, weren’t you?’

It’s the Easter holidays, spring is in the air and Louis, Emily, Ben and I are taking Nellie out for her first walk on Primrose Hill. Nellie is eleven weeks old now, vaccinated and ready to socialise.

‘She’s my dog!’ says Emily, snatching the lead from Louis.

Ben pulls them apart. ‘Now listen here, we’ll go home if you two carry on like two old fishwives. Take it in turns.’

‘You can hold her,’ says Louis, letting go of the lead.

‘You can have her.’ Emily gives Louis the lead.

Ben turns to me in disbelief. ‘I was expecting World War Three.’

‘Well done,’ I whisper. ‘I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of you.’

Nellie is sniffing every blade of grass and bounding up to every single dog. We pass weekend joggers, a dog walker with five Jack Russell terriers in a variety of fashion accessories scurrying in front of her. Nellie approaches a black-and- tan Rottweiler wearing a thick studded collar, off the lead. Ben
and I glance at one another. ‘Is he friendly?’ I burst out, unable to keep my cool when I see the dog licking his or her lips.

‘He’s fine.’ The owner shrugs. ‘Rocky doesn’t
normally
go for puppies.’

Nellie is rolling on to her back submissively as Rocky towers over her.

Emily must sense my fear as she jerks the lead to pull Nellie away and on we go. ‘
Normally
isn’t good enough,’ I mutter to Ben.

‘We were told at puppy school not to judge on size, Polly,’ he says.

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Size is always important.’

He smiles. ‘Is that right?’

Ben decides it’s time to let Nellie off the lead. He rattles the treats. ‘Remember our special call, Emily.’

‘I don’t want to let her go, Uncle Ben, not today.’

‘Trust me.’ Ben unclips the lead.

Unleashed, Nellie springs into action, racing up the hill, lots of dog walkers watching and admiring her and commenting on her large ears. ‘Uncle Ben!’ Emily says in distress as Nellie becomes a smaller and smaller black dot.

‘Let her play!’ Ben calls out, trying to sound calm, but when Nellie tears down another path, chasing the flight of a bird, Ben picks up pace and starts to sing ‘Nellie the Elephant’ as he rattles the fishy treats.

Emily is crying. Ben sprints like a madman but Nellie is hell bent on enjoying her freedom. Just as Ben’s about to
seize her collar she rockets off in another direction, towards a dog hopping along on three legs. It’s like some awful cartoon and if it weren’t Nellie, it would be funny.

*

‘We must have looked as if we’d been let out of the loony bin for the day,’ I say, later that afternoon when Louis and Emily are watching
Mary Poppins
. Nellie is fast asleep in her pen, conked out on her back with her paws suspended in the air, and Ben and I are still recovering.

‘The gentle stroll didn’t go quite the way I’d hoped,’ admits Ben, sitting down at the kitchen island and moving his paperwork to one side. Since we’ve met he’s taken on a couple of new clients, one a graphic designer, the other has just set up a kitchen company. I pull out a bar stool, and sit down next to him. He rests his elbows on the table, turns to me suggestively.

‘What?’ I say.

‘I need to get laid. Badly.’

‘Right. Where did that come from?’

‘A very frustrated man.’

‘Give Gabriella a call.’ I hop off the stool, push my chest towards him, ‘Benjamin,’ I say in a strong Italian accent, pretending to be carrying a dish. ‘I bring you my special spaghetti bolognese, just for you.’

Ben laughs as he digs into his back pocket, producing his wallet. He takes out a small scented card with a number on it.

‘She gave you her number?’ I’m shocked.

‘I met this woman.’

‘When? Who?’ I notice I’m a tiny bit put out that he hasn’t told me about her until now.

I discover he met this Naomi girl in the library when he was helping Emily choose a book. She’s a single mum, has two boys aged eight and six. She divorced a year ago. ‘I know I said I wasn’t going to have a fling but …’ He stares at the number.

‘Ben, it’s just sex. Call her.’

Ben sings James Brown’s ‘Sex Machine’.

‘Call her,’ I repeat watching him dance now. ‘What have you got to lose? Besides, how can she resist your moves?’

He sits down. ‘Maybe. How about you, Polly? Are you into anyone right now?

‘Being a single mum is a great contraceptive, although clearly not for Naomi. Is she pretty?’

‘Yeah. Very. When was your last relationship?’

‘Over a year ago.’ I tell Ben briefly about David the lawyer. ‘He loved the theatre, the opera, ballet.’ I picture us walking hand in hand around museums. ‘He treated me to all the good things in life.’

‘So what was the problem?’

‘There wasn’t enough snap, crackle and pop.’

I can tell Ben is amused by me. ‘You can’t make yourself fall in love with someone,’ I continue. ‘There has to be passion, at least to begin with. He was lovely, but I think I went
out with him because he felt safe,’ I say quietly. ‘He was the opposite to Matthew. Does that make sense?’

Ben nods.

‘How about you?’ I ask.

‘I fell in love in my early twenties. Juliette. She was half French. Beautiful. She had long dark hair like yours and she was a bright, ‘seize the moment’ kind of girl. She worked for a Swiss airline, ran the office, thrived on stress. We lived together while I worked in the City and it was amazing for the first few years, we were a good match, but … she didn’t like the man I was becoming,’ he admits. ‘The truth is the City sucks. There’s a lack of culture, there’s greed, sharp elbows, people earning a lot of money but with no imagination about how to spend it. She became bored with me. I became bored with me.’

‘If you could have anything you wanted, Ben, what would it be?’

‘Emily to be happy.’

‘That’s lovely, but what do you want for you?’

‘Live on a tropical island with a nice normal woman. You?’

‘Wow, the same, please.’

‘Ah, you’re a lesbian.’

I nudge him playfully.

‘There’s really no one on the scene?’ he asks again.

‘It’s complicated with Louis. I don’t want him to meet someone, get attached and then we break up.’ I glance at
my little boy on the sofa, begin to sing ‘Meet me in St Louis, Louis.’ It was my favourite song when I was little. Dad used to sing it to Hugo and me on long car journeys or we’d sing it as we rowed towards the sunken boat. I stop, aware of Ben’s gaze.

‘I like this,’ he says with a smile. ‘Us hanging out and singing songs. It’s funny. I haven’t had a girl “friend”,’ he uses his fingers to make speech-marks, ‘before. I’ve never had someone like you in my life, Polly, someone I can talk to.’

‘Me neither.’

‘I love spending time with you.’

‘Me too.’

‘Great. So maybe we can be friends with benefits?’

Ben laughs when I hit him. But then for a split second I do imagine us together. Of course it’s crossed my mind, just as it’s crossed Janey’s, Aunt Viv’s and Hugo’s. Do I fancy him? Maybe I do, just a little, but am I confusing it with enjoying his attention? I’d never forgive myself if it all went wrong and I lost this friendship, which has become one of the most important things in both Louis’s and my life.

‘Worth a try,’ he shrugs. ‘Guess I’ll have to make do with a mint tea.’ As he switches on the kettle he says more seriously, ‘You hardly ever talk about Matthew. What was he like?’

‘He was …’ I chew my lip, ‘messed up. He had problems.
What hurts me most is Louis is the one who suffers.’

‘What was he like when you first met him?’ His tone is surprisingly gentle.

‘Exciting. Different. I thought I was in love with him. Things began to fall apart when I fell pregnant. I made the classic mistake of thinking a child would change him. I regret so much.’

‘Don’t regret, Polly, just learn. It’s what my shrink says.’

‘Mine too. What a pair we are.’

We remain quiet for a minute. ‘Whatever this Matthew guy did to you, you have Louis and he’s a great boy and I …’ He hands me my cup of tea. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have met you both.’

Ben is right. Matthew gave me nothing and everything.

It’s six o’clock on Monday morning when Louis wakes me up. Foggy-headed, I heave myself out of bed, leaving Matthew snoring, and tiptoe out of the room.

My little boy is almost nine months old. I haven’t returned to work. I’m not ready. Besides, when I looked into childcare costs it made little financial sense to rush back to my job. I settle him down in the sitting room with a bottle of formula and sing our song quietly, ‘Meet me in St Louis, Louis’. I gave up breastfeeding after a few weeks. I tried, but Louis cried so much, and then I became frantic with worry that either I didn’t have enough for him or that my milk wasn’t good enough. Was the alcohol in my blood affecting him? I had to stop; it was causing too much stress for both of us. I’m much happier now feeding him from a bottle. That way I’m in control and know how much milk he’s taking. I’m a good mother, I tell myself. There’s no need to feel guilty;
lots of mothers don’t breastfeed. I love him, deeply. That’s what counts.

His birth is a blur.

I don’t remember getting to the hospital, but I do recall the relief of seeing Hugo. Aunt Viv had flown back from LA to visit the family a month before for Christmas, and had forced the two of us to meet. ‘What do I have to do? Knock your heads together! I
lost
my brother, Polly. You have a chance to make things right with Hugo.’

As Louis gulps down the bottled milk, I remember the pain, the agony of pushing and nothing happening. I hated Matthew with a passion. He had done this to my body and the miserable sod couldn’t even be bothered to show up! He’s more interested in doing up houses than me. When I’d called Matt to say the baby was on its way, his phone went to voicemail. He was in Brighton, visiting some rundown warehouse that was up for sale. Immediately I’d called Hugo. He was the only person I wanted to see.

Hours later and still no baby, I was wheeled down to theatre, papers flung in my face. I couldn’t focus on the small type; it was some three to four sides of single lines, way too much information for someone half-drunk and about to give birth. Hugo told me to sign it; it’s a consent form. I didn’t really care if I died; just get me out of this pain. I’d managed to laugh at chubby Hugo alongside me, dressed in his scrubs and plastic blue shoes. ‘I could give George Clooney a run for his money,’ he was saying, feeling
for my hand. He knew I’d been drinking, I could tell, but he didn’t say a word. I’d murmured to one of the nurses that I’d been out for an early Christmas drink, that’s all.

Nine months after the birth, Hugo is renting a flat off Baker Street, close to the BBC and is still dating Rosie. ‘We love Uncle Hugo, don’t we?’ I say to Louis, rocking him in my arms. In his free time he’s been writing a blog about being blind. He’s decided he wants to raise awareness. ‘Not every blind person needs a white stick or a guide dog. I want people to understand what it means.’ It made me think back to Matt saying, ‘You can’t even see the action!’ Why didn’t I break up from him there and then?

Janey is still working at her film location company and is single again. She and I have become even closer than before. I could not have done without her support. Often she comes round in the evenings, where inevitably we stay up too late drinking and putting the world to rights. ‘Why did we open another bottle?’ she groans the following morning. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Polly. At least I only have myself to look after.’

Aunt Viv has left her American film-making boyfriend. She has moved back to London for good. The news came as a shock to me. She’d seemed, on email, so happy in LA, but now she claims the relationship had run its course. She was tired of being an extension of his life and besides none of Gareth’s films were being made. ‘I miss tea and scones. I even miss the rain and snow in spring. My travelling days
are over. I want to settle down close to my family, to you and Hugo. I want to get to know Louis.’

She rents a tiny flat close to Primrose Hill. She’s met a Frenchman called Jean.

My mother visits occasionally. She’s enjoying spending time with Louis, but our relationship is strained. She tolerates Matthew, just as Hugo does, but every now and then she can’t help herself. ‘I’ve never seen
that man
wash up or change a nappy,’ she says. ‘What does
that man
do all day? When is he going to sell this wretched house in Wandsworth so the two of you can buy your own place? I’m worried he’s going to end up saddled with debt. You are going to buy somewhere soon, aren’t you, Polly? Or at least rent somewhere with more space,’ she says, gesturing to the washing drying on plastic racks in the cramped sitting room.

The Wandsworth project is finally on the market. It has taken a lot longer than predicted to finish. Six to nine months stretched to almost a year. During that time Mum and Dad were ringing regularly, banging on about the credit crunch. When I tentatively questioned him about why it was taking so long he became aggressive. He told me they’d discovered dry rot under the bath. It had spread like a virus and this setback had cost him a fortune. When I mentioned Mum’s concerns he dismissed her as a boring old nag and became defensive about the economy. Even though it’s on the market now, I’m nervous about how much cash he has
haemorrhaged into this one property when we need the money ourselves, but he’s convinced he’ll get the money back with interest. ‘There are plenty of rich people out there with cash to splash: this place will be snapped up.’

Matt interrupts my thoughts when he enters the room. ‘You look pretty awful,’ is the first thing he says to me, turning on the television.

‘You wouldn’t look so great if you had to get up three times in the night.’

Matt opens the fridge, takes out the milk and drinks it straight out of the bottle. He spits it into the sink. ‘Bloody hell, Polly, it’s off.’

‘Well, I asked you to get some more on your way home last night.’

‘I’ve got a full-on day today, I’m trying to get this house sold for us and …’

‘We’re live from Canary Wharf on a dramatic day for the financial markets,’ says the news reporter.

‘You say full-on, but what are you
actually
doing, Matt? It’s up for sale, there’s nothing …’

‘Quiet,’ he snaps.

‘The financial news overnight was grim,’ the reporter continues. ‘Lehman Brothers, the fourth-largest US investment bank, has filed for bankruptcy.’

‘My day is pretty full-on too,’ I continue. ‘Having a baby to look after isn’t exactly a picnic.’

‘Shut up, Polly!’

‘… Merrill Lynch has agreed to be taken over by Bank of America …’

‘I mean, you could at least come home to bath Louis. You don’t have to go to the gym every night …’

‘POLLY!’ Matt is closer to the television now, waving his arm aggressively in my direction.

‘… Insurer AIG is trying to raise funds to save itself from collapse … the effect on the markets has been predictable: stocks have tumbled in value, and banking shares have been hardest hit.’

‘Oh,’ I say, finally shutting up and looking at Matt. He’s staring at the screen, the colour draining from his face.

‘The big question is,’ the reporter asks, ‘what went wrong and, crucially, who might be next?’

I jiggle Louis in my arms. ‘Matt, what does this mean?’

‘This is unbelievable,’ he mutters.

‘We can still sell the house, can’t we?’ I ask, fear lodging in my stomach. Louis wrestles in my arms. ‘It won’t affect your deal, will it?’

Matt turns the television off. ‘Of course it will! If we’re about to enter a recession people are going to be cautious, aren’t they! I’ve borrowed up to my eyeballs and if I can’t get even close to the asking price I’m screwed, Polly!’

Louis starts to cry.

‘I swear,’ he says, walking past us, ‘I don’t want to see you or hear that baby cry until I have my fucking coffee.’ He storms out of the kitchen. I shudder when I hear the door
slam. I have no idea if he’s coming back. I stare at the headline band at the bottom of the television screen. ‘BREAKING NEWS,’ it flashes. ‘Lehman Brothers has crashed.’

*

Three weeks later, and I’m drying Louis after a bath. I’m so relieved to get to 6 p.m. because it’s bath-time and bed. After a quick dunk, I dress Louis in his pyjamas and read him a story, rushing to get to the end, before retreating as fast as I can into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. Our landlord called today. Matt promised he’d paid this month’s rent, but he hasn’t. He wants to be paid by the end of the week. Mum keeps on calling too, sounding increasingly desperate as she asks what the news is on the house. I stare blankly ahead. Janey is coming over later. What am I going to cook her? I open the fridge and stare at the empty shelves. I could give her … I pick up the jar … Louis’s pureed parsnip. Takeaway it is.

Janey arrives an hour later, with a bottle of wine. ‘I’ve had a shit day,’ she says on my doorstep. ‘What’s happened?’ I ask, inviting her inside.

She gestures that her head’s been cut off. ‘Given the axe. Made redundant.’

‘Oh, Janey. Oh, I’m so sorry. Let’s open this.’ I shake the bottle at her. ‘Quick.’

She follows me into the kitchen, the sink filled with pots and pans. She notices me chucking the empty bottle that
I’d polished off earlier, into the black binliner. Sensing she’s shocked by the mess, I say, ‘Sorry, hectic day.’

‘Here, let me help.’

‘No! Honestly it’s not normally like this,’ I lie, pushing her away from the sink. ‘Anyway, tell me about your job.’

‘My ex-job you mean. We were all warned. Every single one of us was holding on to our chairs. It was like the gallows, Polly. In some ways it’s a relief, but what am I going to do? Oh, God,’ she groans, taking the wine gratefully.

‘You’ll find another job. Something better will turn up.’

She shrugs. ‘How’s your day been? I hope better than mine.’

I want to scream, ‘The same as the day before! Louis and I went to the park. We fed the ducks. I called a few friends to see if they were around for lunch, but everyone was busy so I came home, opened a bottle of wine and fell asleep in front of the television. ‘OK,’ is what I end up saying, not able to own up to the loneliness. ‘We went to the park.’

‘Any news on you know what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘It’s a disaster,’ I tell Janey. ‘I don’t have much left in my savings now. I don’t know how we’re going to pay the bills and the rent.’

‘Could you go back to work? I thought that was always the plan?’ she says tentatively.

‘Have you seen how much childcare costs?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘I’ll get a new job,’ I say, ‘when he goes to nursery.’

‘What about Matthew? Where is he?’

‘Who knows? He won’t answer my calls; he’s not interested in Louis.’

It’s a relief I can talk to Janey about Matt. I can’t be honest with anyone else, but with my best friend I don’t need to wear a mask all the time.

‘That’s not good enough. What happens if you can’t sell the bloody house?’

I refill our glasses. ‘I don’t want to think about it.’ I pick up the takeaway menus. ‘What do you fancy? Thai or Indian?’

*

‘Oh come on, stay,’ I plead with Janey after supper, opening another bottle of wine. ‘It’s only 10.30.’ I plonk myself back down on the sofa and refill our glasses.

‘I’m shattered, need an early night.’ She gets up. I push her back down.

‘Just one more! Come on, you can’t go yet.’

‘I don’t want any more. And you need to stop too,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘I’ve lost my job, Polly, and you’re … well you’re in a mess. This …’ she picks up the bottle of wine, shakes it at me, ‘isn’t always the answer.’

‘Yes it is. It solves everything,’ I slur.

‘I’m tired. I don’t want a hangover tomorrow. I need to work out what I’m going to do next and how I’m going to pay my bills, and so do you.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say.

‘You don’t get it, do you? You don’t listen. Nothing is fine,’ she says. ‘You and Matt can’t carry on like this. He’s
useless
, Polly, and you’re not coping and … look at this place. It’s a tip.’

The words are whirring around me.

‘I love going out, I love partying,’ she says, ‘you know that, but sometimes we have to take some responsibility for ourselves …’ She gets up, gathers her coat. ‘You’re drinking way too much.’ She stares at me, waiting for a response.

‘It’s all I’ve got.’

We hear Louis cry.

‘No, it’s not,’ she snaps back.

Slowly I stir myself off the sofa and stagger across the room. ‘Go then, I’ll see to him. Enjoy your early night.’

Janey grabs me by the arm. ‘Polly, where are you?’ She shakes me. ‘Where’s the old Polly? I know how hard things are but you’re seriously worrying me.’

She follows me into Louis’s bedroom. Clumsily I lift my son out of his cot and rock him from side to side. ‘Is Matt treating you OK? If things are really bad you need to talk to him. Is this why you’re drinking so much?’

I shrug. ‘I wanted one more, no big deal. If you need to go, just go.’

‘Fine.’ Janey kisses Louis goodbye. When I hear the front door shut I begin to cry, holding Louis close.

*

I hear noise. Half-asleep I feel for the light switch and see Matt, crashed out beside me, fully dressed. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Out,’ he murmurs.

‘Clearly. Where?’

‘Just out.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘Well it’s all you’re getting.’

‘I’ve been trying to call you all day.’

Matt rolls on to his other side, his back facing me. ‘Not now, Polly.’

‘Yes, now. I’m worried.’

He stands up, walks out of the room. Next I hear the bathroom tap water running.

I stand at the door, watching him splash his face with water.

‘Go back to bed,’ he says.

‘Is there any news on the house?’

‘You know there isn’t.’ He grips the edge of the sink, his head bowed.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything because you don’t talk to me. If we’re in trouble …’

‘Don’t push me, Polly.’

‘I have to know! We have a son! Why can’t you sell that house? What’s going on?’ Why, why, why?