State We're In (11 page)

‘I was not prepared to take that particular bullet, son.'

Dean jumped back a foot, nearly knocking over the catheter as his father rasped out his reply. He had thought Eddie was asleep.

‘What do you mean?'

‘This is a shit way to die, but it's better than dying through living an ordinary life. A slow death of just doing nothing, being nothing.'

Dean bristled with resentment. ‘You were a husband and a father. That's not nothing.'

Eddie winced and motioned weakly to the water on the bedside table. Dean reached for the beaker and helped him take a sip.

‘Are you a husband?' Eddie huffed. His chest was actually rattling; Dean had always thought that was a figure of speech, not a grim reality.

‘No,' Dean admitted.

‘Or a father?'

‘No.'

‘Well you're not in a very convincing position to argue from, are you?'

Fury flickered through Dean's body like a flame. He flung himself back into the plastic chair. ‘Thing is, I've always avoided becoming a husband or a dad. I'm pretty sure I'd be lousy at it. I didn't have a role model, you see,' he snapped sarcastically. Eddie's eyes met Dean's, just for a moment, but neither of them could stand the pain and they both looked away quickly.

‘I just wanted more,' whispered Eddie.

Dean was furious. With Eddie and with himself. Of course Eddie Taylor was not able to offer up anything healing and comforting. How had he allowed himself to be such an idiot to think he might? He was ‘not prepared to take that particular bullet'; just a poetic way of saying he'd decided to do what the fuck he liked. His father was a selfish bastard. It was as simple as that. Well, at least there was some comfort in the fact that Dean had been right all these years: people couldn't be trusted. They'd let you down. Over and over again.

So what had he done, this father of his? What had he achieved that was so extraordinary? Something, please God, something that could go some way to justifying all the hurt. Perhaps he'd written a great novel. A piece of literature that had changed the world; its beauty so sorrowfully exquisite that the words would be quoted for generations to come. But Dean knew this was not the case. He'd have heard. Nor did this man look like the type who had built hospitals in far-flung African villages. And it seemed unlikely that he'd made millions through business ventures because he was here, in an NHS hospital, wearing cheap nylon pyjamas. Dean would have read it in a newspaper if his father had become a politician or a leader of industry.

He dared not ask what it was exactly Eddie Taylor had been searching for, and whether he had found it. He did not want to face the fact that he might have been abandoned so that his father could pursue a life of indulgence and womanising, because whilst that was how Dean spent most of his time, hearing his father admit to as much would somehow seem so mediocre. Anything but that.

‘There was a woman,' Eddie said.

‘Oh fuck.' Dean wanted to howl.

‘Actually, there were loads of them. I wasn't designed for fidelity. I had appetites. I was young.'

‘Not that young. You were thirty-four when you left. My age. I don't feel young.' He never had. Eddie closed his eyes once more. His breathing slowed a fraction. Dean did not want him to lose consciousness again. Not before he had his answers. ‘Who was she?'

‘She was posh. Married. Different to the others. I thought we could live better.'

‘Because she was wealthy?'

‘No, because she was
her
.'

It seemed an oddly romantic thing for the most selfish man on the planet to say, and Dean found himself asking, ‘What happened?'

‘She didn't want me once I was free. She stayed with her husband.'

Dean froze. He used every iota of self-control to hold his body in place. If he moved, even a fraction, he might start to flay and spin, break and smash. He might upturn the vital medical equipment that was reducing Eddie's pain; he might rip down the curtains that were offering the last shred of privacy and dignity. He might let out the scream that he'd swallowed for so many years. All that agony. All that sorrow. For pussy that didn't want even want Eddie Taylor. He'd hated his father for so long and with such intensity, he'd never thought it was possible to hate anyone more, but now he found he did. He hated her, this woman, whoever she was, wherever she was. He hated her more.

I
head back to my parents'. I can't think of anywhere else to go, which says it all really. As I sit on the tube, travelling towards Wimbledon, I think that I might as well be carrying a placard declaring
‘THIRTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD SCREW-UP'
. I'm sure my failure is obvious to everyone; it pools around my feet like rainwater around an umbrella. How have I become this homeless, jobless, loveless woman? What will my parents think? They're the opposite. They don't have a hint of failure about them. They own
two
beautiful homes: the family home in Wimbledon and a ski lodge in the Alps. My father is an incredibly successful City analyst, and although Mum doesn't have a paid job, she's a faultless homemaker and she's also enthusiastically involved in raising funds for a number of worthy causes. In addition, they are the most loved-up couple you could hope to encounter. Even after all these years they still hold hands in public.

It's sickening, really.

My parents live in a prestigious four-storey detached house close to Wimbledon Common. My father's income and my mother's dedication to home decor has ensured that it's one of the most impressive and stylish homes most people could imagine stepping into, let alone living in. Floor-to-ceiling windows guarantee that light spreads throughout the house, allowing Mum to be bold with the colour scheme; the ground floor is awash with muted taupe and mushroom, but the tones deepen with each floor, culminating in the pewter and purple master bedroom at the top of the house. The entire place is elegantly fitted out. Carefully selected antique bureaus and writing desks nestle against daring Designer Guild wallpapers, while restored high-backed Queen Anne fireside chairs and slouchy retro leather sofas welcome guests. There are a large number of bookshelves that house early-edition classics as well as impressive contemporary literature. Original artwork hangs on the walls and magazines about antiques are placed carefully on occasional tables. It always smells as though the windows have been open and the summer wind has just drifted through, even in the winter.

We moved to Wimbledon when I was a toddler. We initially lived in a pretty two-up, two-down Victorian cottage in the village on top of the hill, which Dad shrewdly sold when the market was buoyant, and then they rented and only bought when the market was flat again. With a cash offer and no chain they were able to move up by driving a hard bargain. This technique was repeated three times in total, and that strategy, combined with a healthy banker's bonus, allowed us to move into the current much bigger and more prestigious home just after I turned fourteen.

I love my parents' house. I think it's the epitome of success, order, elegance and romance. It's the sort of home every woman admires but few dare to aspire to. Every room is thoughtfully compiled and there's rarely a thing out of place. Yet despite the tidiness and sophistication, it's a comfortable home and people love to receive an invite to visit. My family has thrown numerous parties and countless dinners here; they're generous and impeccable hosts.

The only place in the entire house that ever causes me a moment's discomfort is the master bedroom. The damson-coloured room at the top of the house is pure decadence. It spreads over an entire floor; there's an ornate superking-size bed slapped in the centre and a stunning freestanding rolltop bath in the corner. There's an antique crystal chandelier, an abundance of scented candles and numerous aged mirrors that Mum picked up at Portobello Market. It's the most romantic, sensuous, dreamy, intoxicating room imaginable, which is why it makes me feel uncomfortable. Even as a grown woman, I don't really like to associate my parents too closely with any of those adjectives. It's all a bit embarrassing.

I ring the bell, but there's no answer. Mum's car is on the drive but it's possible that she has ambled into town on foot; possible but unlikely. Mum's a creature of habit and she likes to walk to the shops on a Monday. Tuesday is art class, Wednesday is yoga, Thursday Pilates, but that finishes by 11.15, and Friday is a visit to her hairdresser's in Covent Garden. She should be at home. My parents' house also boasts a long garden full of mature trees. They make the most of it and often enjoy a morning coffee, lunch or an early evening cocktail out there. There's a chance that she's doing a spot of weeding, or simply admiring the majestic trees; they have endured a cold winter, but now their tight buds are unfurling and will soon develop into fleshy leaves. I check; she's not there. The house and garden are both serene and peaceful. Normally I take on their dignity and idealism by osmosis, but today, when I find the back garden empty, I return to the front, hammer impatiently on the door and yell through the letter box, ‘Let me in!'

A couple of moments later, the door swings wide.

‘Hello, darling.' My mother holds the door open but keeps one hand on the handle and the other stretched to the door frame, effectively creating a barrier.

‘Aren't you going to invite me in?' I ask frantically.

‘Well, actually, this isn't a good time. I was just—' I push past and stride into the hallway. ‘It's so lovely of you to pop by and say happy anniversary, but Joanna, darling, it would have been better if you'd called. This is not a great time, because—'

‘It's your anniversary?' I stop and turn to my mother. She nods. I shrug an embarrassed apology. ‘Oh, happy anniversary. I'd forgotten.'

‘So that isn't why you are here, then?'

‘No.'

My mum clocks my clothes (crumpled black dress, no tights, unsuitable, dangerously high evening shoes) and my face (bleached white, evidence of crying, no make-up). ‘I'll put the kettle on,' she says.

I follow her into the kitchen.

‘Wow, you've redecorated,
again
,' I say, trying to take a polite interest, since I'd forgotten about their anniversary.

‘Yes, we've just finished it.' Mum glances impassively around the blue-gloss, high-tech, minimalist kitchen. It isn't clear from her expression whether she prefers this experiment with modernity to the four-year-old ribbed-wood country kitchen that it has replaced. I think the change is a mistake but don't say so. Sometimes Mum's passion for interior decorating gets out of hand; she regularly guts a seemingly perfect room and redecorates. But then, what's the harm? Dad earns enough to indulge her hobby; indeed, he's also interested and they often spend an evening together happily poring over interior decorating magazines. I've read enough dating self-help books to know that all couples need a shared interest.

I take the white mug Mum's proffering and hoist myself up on to a high black leather bar stool, then immediately begin to tell my mother about the disastrous twenty-four hours I've just endured. I confess to getting ‘close' to Jeff. Mum is astute enough to not only comprehend exactly what that means but also to refrain from commenting on either the idiocy or the repetitive nature of this particular sort of bad judgement call. Instead she offers up a large plate of home-made chocolate biscuits and makes reasonably sympathetic clucking sounds whenever I pause in my recounting.

I admit that I've been fired, which gets her attention.

‘Oh Joanna! No.'

‘In many offices, worldwide, there's a phenomenon whereby the golden girl – or boy – slowly but surely transforms into something much more lacklustre in the eyes of their employers.'

‘I suppose.'

‘And sometimes it is not their fault; they're victims of their circumstances. A change of personnel or a change of policy might bring about someone's downfall.'

‘Right.'

I sigh and realise there's no point in lying to her. Or myself. I come clean. ‘But in my case, I think I'm at least partially responsible. The truth is, my dream job has silently yet insidiously transformed into a bit of a nightmare. Month after month of documenting my disappointment as I've failed to meet Mr Right has taken its toll.'

‘Well, yes. That's understandable, although you must have known that the column was finite,' she adds. ‘You were no longer in a position to write with any authority.'

‘Why?'

‘You were writing a young woman's advice column about the opportunities and pitfalls of being single.'

‘Well, I'm perfectly placed. I
am
single.'

‘Yes, but darling, you're no longer actually …' Mum pauses, then clearly decides I need to hear it and adds, ‘You're no longer
young.
It was becoming silly. Some of the women who read your early columns are not only wives themselves now but possibly mothers. What were you planning to do? Rebrand and keep writing it as a cougar column? “Snaring Mr Right”? Would you still be writing it as an OAP? A column on geriatric sex?'

‘Mother!'

‘I'm sorry, Joanna. I don't want to sound cruel, but working for this bridal magazine was never supposed to be
it
. It was supposed to be a spring board. That's what you always said.'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes.'

I can't remember ever saying any such thing. What could I have meant? ‘I probably meant until I went to Chicago with Martin.'

‘Well, until you found something else you were passionate about, other than planning weddings, at least,' says Mum. She pushes the plate of biscuits an inch closer to me. I've already eaten four. Mum never eats biscuits, or any snacks between meals, come to that. She's horribly disciplined.