Somebody to Love: Sigh With Contentment, Scream With Frustration. At Time You Will Weep. (15 page)

‘Where?’ she asked, deciding on the latter — based on leopards and spots and the fact that Jeremy would never change.

‘Just to Ed’s to download some stuff. See you later.’

‘See you later. And thanks for all your hard work, Matt. It’s nice to have a son who rates me enough to care.’ Donna gave him a hug, a quick one lest he die of embarrassment.

Then almost fainted when Matt gave her a hard hug back. ‘You all right, Mum?’ he asked, having squished her to within an inch of her life.

‘Yes,’ Donna assured him. ‘Apart from the dead car, of course, and the decision what to wear when I advertise my body on e — ‘

‘Mum, I’m not daft. I’m talking about Mark and you.’

‘Ah, um, yes, well…’ Donna glanced away now.

‘So, have you definitely split?’

Donna sighed. Matt did have a right to know, she supposed. ‘I think so, yes.’

‘You should think again,’ Matt advised her manfully. ‘He was kind of all right, you know.’

‘Yes. And he’s into Star Trek and The Simpsons,’ Donna replied flippantly, because she didn’t know how else to. ‘In fact, I’d say you two were an ideal couple.’

‘Mum, be serious.’ Matt looked as serious as he could for a teenager in a
Homer Simpson Rub-My-Tummy
tee shirt.

Oh, dear. He obviously had bonded with Mark — in the absence of any other male role model, Donna supposed.

‘You should get out more. Give him a run for his money,’ Matt went on, apparently clued up on the subtleties of the dating game. ‘Come out with me and my mates to
Images
and have a good bop.’

Ye-es
. She had had Matt quite young, but Donna wasn’t sure she’d pass for his older sister nowadays. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she replied, flattered, nevertheless, that her son wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen out in public with his mad mother.

‘You’d have a great time,’ Matt assured her. ‘And the disc jockey’s a granddad, so it’s not like you’d have no one to talk to.’

‘Thank you, Matt. I feel so much better now.’ Donna’s temporarily bolstered self-esteem clanged to the floor.

‘Catchya lata.’ He laughed.

‘Not if I catch you first.’ Donna warned him as he nipped out of the door.

Right. She waited until he was out of sight, then dialled Jeremy’s number. He was bound to have some feeble excuse for letting Matt down, yet again, which by the very feebleness of it, she couldn’t impart to Matt, but Donna would feel a hell of lot better for imparting to Jeremy how she felt.

‘Hello, Natasha,’ she said, when the Twiglet picked up. ‘Oh, sorry. I’m going senile, I swear. She was the one
before
you, wasn’t she?’ Donna paused, effectively. ‘Can I speak to Jeremy, please?’

‘I’ll see if I can find him,’ Leticia informed her coolly. ‘He’s in the cellar checking his barrels.’

He’ll be checking his balls when I get hold of him, Donna thought furiously. ‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly, preferring Leticia to think her unperturbed by the obvious flaunting of her old-monied wealth.

The absolute nerve. It was pathetic. It really was. Donna drummed her fingers on the hall cupboard whilst she waited. And waited.

Totally pathetic. Oh, how well she knew the man. Even now he was playing power games. Well, Donna was
not
going to play.

‘Jeremy,’ she said, when he finally picked up, her anger carefully in check.

‘Donna,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

Chafing at the bit, you self-important twit. ‘Fine,’ Donna informed him shortly, then waited again, in the vague hope he might realise why she’d phoned.

‘Donna, did you want something?’ Jeremy finally asked impatiently.

‘Nothing you’ve got to offer, Jeremy, no,’ Donna assured him, ‘but I think Matt might quite like something.’

‘Oh? Such as?’ Jeremy asked, as if he hadn’t a clue.

Ooh, now then, let me see. A father who gives a damn perhaps. ‘An explanation, Jeremy,’ Donna said flatly.

‘A… What? Look, hang on a tic, will you?’

Donna waited, again, while Jeremy cooed to Leticia, ‘Yes, thank you, darling. I’ll have a red. I’ve opened a Merlot. It’s breathing in the dining room.’

Which is more than you will be if I get hold of you. Donna fumed steadily.

‘Right, now then,’ Jeremy deigned to address her again, ‘would you like to explain what you’re talking about, Donna? Your timing’s a bit off, you see. Leticia’s about to serve dinner.’

‘
Me
explain?’ Donna spluttered. ‘It’s
you
who should be explaining, Jeremy! About why your timing’s so off you missed meeting up with your son. Again!’

‘Missed? What? Oh, good God, Donna,’ Jeremy paused for an elongated and elaborate sigh, ‘why on earth didn’t you remind me?’

‘Me remind!? Why, in God’s name, should
I
remind
you
about a meeting with your own son?’

‘Because I have an accounting office to run, Donna; which means I’m extremely busy and can’t be expected to remember everything.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Donna tightened her white-knuckled grip on the phone. ‘And a Pekinese to take to the vet’s and a horse to put through its paces and a Twiglet to bed on a regular basis. You absolute bastard!’

Jeremy sighed. ‘Oh, dear, here we go, histrionics and tantrums.’

‘Histrionics!?’ Donna almost choked.

‘I’m going, Donna,’ Jeremy went on before she could catch her breath. ‘You’re obviously hormonal or something and my dinner’s getting cold. I can see I’ve messed up where Matt is concerned. I forgot. I’ll apologise to him when I see him. I’m sure
he’s
mature enough to understand I don’t have time to spend my day clock-watch…’

Donna banged the phone down, then stared at it dumbfounded. She’d fallen right into it. The blame game. And he’d played her for a fool.

Damn him! She paced up the hall, Sadie hopping worriedly behind her.

She would
never
ring him again, she decided, not unless major crisis demanded it. And she would get Matt the PS3, because, it occurred to her while Jeremy was wittering on about time and clocks and busily trying to blame everyone else for his shortcomings, she did have something worth selling on eBay. Two things, actually, stuffed up in her loft. Jeremy’s sixties Beatles collection picked up from a car boot sale, which he’d had valued and which was worth a bob or two, and the gold pocket watch he’d picked up at an auction.

Twice she’d told him he’d forgotten them, and he hadn’t bothered to collect them — probably because he was petrified he might have to collect something else when he did, like his son — so tough! In any case, he’d got more than his fair share of equity from the house when Evelyn had helped her buy him out, the pathetic little worm.

Angrier than she’d realised she could be, Donna headed determinedly upstairs to tug down the loft ladder.

Treasure located five minutes later, she tucked the pocket watch — a Robert Pybus of London from 1790 — in her own pocket and heaved up the box of LPs, which might go some way to buying the PS3. And she
wouldn’t
debate the ethics of it, because she didn’t care. Jeremy obviously didn’t have any ethics. Never had.

Standing tiptoe on the bed, she wedged the box into an overhead cupboard, dislodging stuff and paperwork of aeons ago as she did so. Damn. She bounced barefoot around the bed, retrieving leaflets from block-paving specialists and handymen, who might only ever be handy if she won the lottery, medical cards, birth certificates. Hers, Matt’s and… Donna stopped bouncing and plopped heavily down… little Callum’s. She smoothed the certificate out and re-read it, as if every detail of the two days he’d lived wasn’t already ingrained indelibly on her mind.

‘It’s okay, Sade,’ she said, squishing her close as Sadie sought to console her. ‘Mummy’s fine, hon,’ she assured her, planting a kiss on her head and sliding off the bed.

That shouldn’t have been up there getting crinkled and gathering dust. Donna padded over to her dressing table and pulled open her lingerie drawer. That’s where the certificate should be, together with the photographs, two not very well-focussed photographs in Perspex frames… She fingered them, allowing herself a second’s contemplation, then closed the drawer. She carried her baby’s image around in her heart anyway.

Donna pulled in a catchy breath and tugged up her shoulders. Kitchen, she instructed herself.

She needed to eat. She needed to study. She needed to dismiss from her mind anything to do with the idiot men in her life. And, more importantly, she needed to work out how one did actually sell things on eBay.

****

Mark had felt like driving home blue lights flashing. All afternoon, he’d sat in a holding cell, where he should have been with Karl, listening to some pissed-up idiot, insisting he’d “hardly touched the lying cow”, the “lying cow” being his girlfriend. Yeah, right. How
hardly touched
does her face look compared to your fist, you bastard, Mark had just refrained from commenting. Then, when the guy finally shuts up and slips into unconsciousness, he goes to check up on him, and the idiot rolls over and promptly pukes on his shoes.

Christ
, he could still smell it.

Disgusted, Mark pushed his key into his front door, slipped inside and prised off his offending footwear.

Hang on. He cocked an ear at the unusual, all-pervading silence. His stomach knotting inside him, he walked to the lounge door and pushed it open, his apprehension growing as he noted the TV was muted. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Karl wouldn’t be in bed. He was never in bed. His rituals barely allowed him two bloody hours in bed. And if he didn’t have
Fireman Sam
DVDs on there was more likely to be a riot than quiet. ‘Jody!?’

‘Shhhush,’ said a voice behind him from the stairs.

‘
Shit
!’ Mark gulped back his racing heart as he turned around. ‘Where’s…’ He stopped as Jody pressed a finger to her lips and beckoned him upwards, urging him on past Karl’s room as he reached the landing.

Mark did as bid, confused.

Jody stepped aside as he reached his own room, a smile playing about her mouth.

Mark eyed her quizzically, then peered inside. Bloody
Hell!!
His heart almost stopped. Shaking his head, he stared in absolute awe — at Karl lying on his double bed, one arm and one leg draped over Starbuck.

Jody squeezed Mark’s arm as he glanced back to her, quite unable to believe what he was seeing. ‘Go on,’ she mouthed, motioning him on in and turning to slip back downstairs.

Raking his hand through his hair, Mark crept in, hardly daring to breathe, lest he should startle him. Not that he was likely to, if the steady rhythm of Karl’s breathing was anything to go by. The kid was asleep, his hair plastered to his forehead, his pyjamas on back-to-front, but fast asleep.

‘Stay, Starbuck,’ Mark whispered, as the dog lifted its head. ‘Clever boy.’ He patted the dog, brushed Karl’s forehead with the softest of kisses, eased the quilt over him, then headed quietly back down.

He hadn’t cleaned his teeth he’d be willing to bet. Mark tried to stay grounded as he went back to the kitchen.

‘Did he, er?’ Shakily, he started to ask Jody, then stopped, swallowed hard, pressed a thumb and forefinger to his eyes and turned away.

‘Yes, he’s brushed his teeth,’ Jody answered his unasked question, placing a comforting hand briefly on his shoulder.

‘And no, in case you were wondering, he didn’t insist on running up and down the stairs six times before he got into bed. Or touching his Fireman Sam Neeh-Nah curtains three times, turning the lights on and off, flushing the loo…’

She paused, to give him some space. Mark was grateful.

‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’ she chatted on, clinking the kettle and cups and saucers while Mark composed himself. ‘Sally was fantastic. She’d got the dog eating out of Karl’s hand… Or was that Karl eating out of the dog’s paw? Whatever, I think Karl might just be a little bit in love. He took the dog up himself, you know? The amazing thing was, they looked at Karl’s little bed… I swear they both did, then turned around and climbed right into your bed.’

Jesus. Karl had worked out that his bed was too small?
Un-bloody-believable
. Mark laughed, his heart swelling with pride of his son, yet breaking, all at once.

Chapter Ten

Fireman Sam and Starbuck to the rescue. A smile tugged at Mark’s mouth as he watched Karl from the lounge door, who was watching his favourite DVD, unblinking and still in his pyjamas. Nothing new there. The amazing thing was that Starbuck was lying right next to him, practically on top of him, his head resting in Karl’s lap. And Karl… Mark ran his hand over his neck. Karl wasn’t just stroking him, he was talking to him, communicating with him.

‘Good dog.’ Mark heard Karl say. ‘Dog good,’ he said, as the dog nuzzled closer. Utterly incredible. Karl wouldn’t know good from bad any more than he’d know love from hate. Mark felt like whooping.

‘Dusty-buck,’ Karl went on, his attention still on the TV.

‘What?’ Mark said, coming into the lounge proper.

‘Dusty-buck,’ Karl repeated. And now Mark was truly incredulous. He looked from his son, whose expression was much as it always was, devoid of any particular emotion, to the TV.

Mark shook his head, wondering if he was hearing quite right. ‘Karl, what did you say?’

‘Dusty-buck.’ Karl obliged.

Mark crouched down by him, careful not to obscure his vision. ‘Karl,’ he glanced at the TV, where Fireman Sam’s mascot dog, Dusty, was trying to avoid bath time, ‘this is Dusty,’ he pointed at the screen, ‘yes?’

Karl nodded. ‘Yes.’

Mark reached out to stroke the real dog in the lounge. ‘And this is Starbuck.’

Karl nodded.

‘And what are they, Karl, Starbuck and Dusty?’

‘They’re dogs.’ Karl said, with another resolute nod.

Mark dragged his hands over his face. ‘That’s right, Karl,’ he said throatily. ‘Good boy.’

‘Bone,’ said Karl.

Mark furrowed his brow. ‘Sorry?

‘Bone,’ Karl repeated. ‘Karl’s been a good boy, so Karl has a bone.’

He looked at Mark. And Mark smiled, then laughed out loud. He wanted a dog treat, a reward for good behaviour. How amazing was that? ‘I think you’ve been very good, Karl,’ he eventually managed. ‘Starbuck, too. How about we have some of your favourite jam soldiers for breakfast?’