State We're In (23 page)

His eyes were unreasonable. The Ministry of War ought to have commandeered them as a weapon, because every woman he ever met was left defenceless under his gaze. Blue, sky blue, sparkling with possibility, irresponsibility and lust. No girl had so much as a moderate chance at apathy. He was physically magnificent. He had dark, brooding looks, like a hero in a gothic novel. He was big and brutal. He was raw and rude. Far too attractive for his own good, or anyone else's come to that. He was broad, muscular, athletic. Clara didn't understand at first; she couldn't explain why her body leant towards his when he walked into a room, why she sagged when he walked out of it. She had never experienced sexual attraction before. She had no idea of the benefits. She had no idea how it would feel to be the recipient of his attentions, and then to be bereft.

She resisted him for three months. He told her no woman had ever held out so long. Once they had slept together, it seemed to her that she'd never resist anything ever again. He crawled up under her skin, he consumed her. She was at his mercy.

But he had none.

Clara sighed at the too raw memory and glanced at the clock again. Eleven thirty-nine. The minutes crept by. She watched the gaudy digits for an eternity, until the clock reported that it was eleven forty. She sighed deeply and summoned every scrap of energy she had hidden in the depths of her body to push herself to her feet. She wandered to the window and glanced out; she could see one or two of the keener guests gathering near the lawn for the walk. They had sticks and water bottles, although Clara knew from experience that such aids were unnecessary; it wasn't a hike, just an hour's stroll to enhance appetites. Still, she envied the walkers as they exuded purpose. Clara had her walking shoes with her, but where would she find the energy to change into them and then participate? She wanted to cry. The window was surprisingly grimy, and the dirt seemed to create a barrier between Clara and the energetic, outdoorsy types. She felt she was drowning in a damp mist. She could not focus or concentrate. It was probably shock. She ought to eat something. She should ring for some room service. But she couldn't remember how to do that exactly. She didn't know what words she would use.

Clara regretted coming to the familiar surroundings. She'd thought that the stylish hotel might cheer her up, prop her up; it didn't. Every expensive mosaic tile, each tropical plant and all the lotions and potions were intrinsically linked with her old life, a life she was trying to throw over. Past pleasant memories haunted her. This time round, her visit to the spa was anything other than cosy and indulgent. She wondered what she would do to fill her hours, her days, weeks, months and years. What had she done? Who would she go antique shopping with now? Who would she holiday with? Who would she grow old with? She was so alone.

Then she remembered the letter, and she remembered who else was alone.

D
ean had to admit to himself that he was grateful he'd stumbled upon this romantic inactive feminist who was prepared to lay bare her chaotic apology of a life, even though she had not managed to divert him away from thoughts of Eddie Taylor as he'd hoped. Instead, she'd created an atmosphere that was somewhat akin to a late-night lock-in in a grungy but welcoming bar. Like people who met at such places, they could freely share confidences and stumble through reminiscences that might usually be left undisturbed. They could do so safe in the knowledge that when the plane touched down and the doors were switched to manual and heaved open – allowing fresh air to explode into the cabin – they'd go their separate ways and never see one another again.

He had no favourite childhood memories to share with her, but he told her about his ferocious desire to win the confectionery pitch and she commented that it sounded as though he had a good chance.

‘You think?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You like the sound of the ads, then?' The strategy was supposed to be top secret, but Dean in a rare moment of unprofessionalism had told her something about the concepts. As he did so, he was vaguely aware that he was showing off to her, strutting a little. He didn't dwell on why this might be the case.

‘Yes, but besides that, the marketing guy won't dare risk you telling anyone about the visit to the strip bar.'

‘Plus he'll want to go back.'

‘Exactly. It's in the bag.'

He elicited her opinion as to whether she thought men looked attractive in pink shirts. He had a purple one but hadn't risked anything more. Did she think he should?

‘Definitely.'

He chatted about his mates and colleagues. He told her that his friend was having an affair with his own sister-in-law and that he was fed up of covering for him. ‘But I can't blow the whistle, can I?'

‘No, you can't, but you can tell him you are no longer prepared to lie for him.'

In her turn Jo recounted the details of the last three occasions that she'd been a bridesmaid, and all the accompanying horrors: unflattering dresses, frantic brides and patronising groomsmen. She recounted the stories with humour and grace, even though they were both aware that living through the actual events had been devoid of either thing. Dean wondered if one of the biggest motivators for her getting married was so she could avenge herself on her friends by insisting they wore three-tier meringues in pistachio green. She asked him his advice about what she should buy for her parents for their anniversary. ‘They are a nightmare to buy for. They have everything.' They flicked through the in-flight shopping catalogue for inspiration. Jo liked the idea of buying a silk scarf for her mother and Dunhill cufflinks for her father. ‘But look at the prices,' she gasped.

‘You don't want to buy those,' argued Dean, although it was clear from the look of longing that Jo would very much like to buy the expensive products.

‘Don't I?'

‘No, far too predictable. I bet your mum has a million scarves and your dad will still be wading through the cufflinks people bought him for his last birthday. But that, that is an original gift.' He pointed to another page.

Jo admitted that they didn't have a teddy bear dressed as a pilot, and although it was very unlikely that they'd want one, Dean insisted on buying it for her to give them. She accepted the toy with a giggle. ‘Thanks. I guess you've worked out that I'm a bit strapped for cash right now,' she confessed, with a shy smile.

The flight forged an intimacy which Dean valued all the more because he knew it was tenuous and finite. This woman was not part of his real life, and that was probably the reason why he suddenly blurted, ‘Yesterday I left my father dying in a hospital. He has pancreatic cancer. It's spread throughout his body. He's riddled with it.'

She gasped, as he knew she would. ‘My God,' she muttered. They both knew that death was big. Bigger than a wedding, even the hijacking of a wedding. ‘I'm sorry,' she added; she sounded sincere.

‘There's no need for you to be. I could have stayed with him to the end, but I decided not to.'

Did she understand he was offering up a mess? That he had the decency to try to tell her his brain was riddled with thorny ‘what if' scenarios too? She'd said she'd bet he'd never made a mistake in his life. She, like practically everyone he met, was labouring under the false impression that he was perfect. Normally he was very happy for people to buy into his carefully constructed veneer of perfection, especially women, but for reasons he didn't entirely understand, he wanted to put her right. It was probably because she'd made no attempt to hide any of her many imperfections; in fact she'd gone to some lengths to detail her catastrophic apology of a life. Things were too uneven. ‘My relationship with my father is …' He broke off. Having opened Pandora's box, he was almost immediately unsure as to what extent he really wanted to share the experience of the last few days. How could he finish that sentence?
My relationship with my father is non-existent
was truthful but perhaps too bleak for Jo to handle. All he could think of to say, even though it didn't so much as scratch the surface, was ‘Well. It's complicated.'

‘I suppose you had to get back to Chicago. Obviously you couldn't stay in the UK indefinitely. You know, waiting. You had no choice.' Of course she was bound to think the best. ‘How long do they think he has?' Her voice oozed gentle concern, like buttercream icing emerging in generous folds from an icing bag.

‘Days.'

‘My God, what were you thinking?' The buttercream curdled.

Dean didn't know whether to be offended or amused by her condemnation. He thought it was some sort of consolation that she wasn't feigning anything; she obviously was genuinely shocked that he hadn't found time in his busy schedule to devote to a dying father. He shook his head a fraction and met her honesty with his own. ‘I wasn't thinking at all.'

He hadn't thought about the dying man. He'd stormed angrily out of the hospital, concentrating only on his own pain, his own shame and anger and disappointment. Truthfully, that was all he was thinking about still. Why should he think of his father? His father had never thought of him. He looked right at Jo. Seeing her clearly. Wanting her – this odd stranger – to see him just as truly. He suddenly became aware that they were tilting their heads towards one another. It felt like they were cocooned. Alone.

‘Well, at least you got to say your goodbyes. That must be some comfort,' whispered Jo.

Dean shook his head as though he was trying to dislodge an annoying buzz. He wasn't going to lie to her. It would be very easy to go along with her imagined sugar-coated version of his past. There would be no harm in allowing her to think that things were better than they were, but he didn't want to mislead her. ‘We didn't say our goodbyes. We fought.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Right,' he muttered.

‘But he'll know how you really feel about him. All your years together will have built up some confidence. This last spat doesn't have to mean anything, not unless you let it,' she urged.

Dean thought that talking to Jo was a bit like having a sick pet. At what point did you decide to put it out of its misery? ‘We didn't have years together. I spent less than twenty-four hours with him after a twenty-nine-year separation. There is no bank of shared experience or memories. Nothing fond was said at the end. He is a shit. Lived his life as one and can now die as one.'

‘Oh.'

‘If he knows how I feel about him, that's great. But all I feel is hate.'

‘I doubt you really hate your father. I just cannot imagine that. People have rows, but hate? Hating is so big.'

‘I hate him.' Dean felt like a stupid kid for using such a raw and unsophisticated word. But he considered that he was without choice. He knew he'd upset her. Her face collapsed in on itself. This wasn't the way this woman wanted to see the world. She believed in happily-ever-afters, fairies and magic dust too, probably. They fell silent for a moment. He could almost hear her thoughts; she was scrambling around for platitudes and positive spins, hope and twee comments, the sort you saw written up on posters in people's downstairs loos.
Smile and the whole world smiles back at you
. Like hell they do.

She surprised him. ‘You must be exhausted,' she said finally. The words somehow released him, and he felt the tension slip out of his neck and shoulders, slide down his back and disappear, at least for a while. He was suddenly swamped by a desperate need for sleep. It was as though her articulating the fact that he must be exhausted had given him permission to be so. Then she stretched across the wide plush seat and patted his arm. Her fingertips lingered and the gesture didn't feel intrusive; it offered some level of consolation and understanding. Her touch seared through his sleeve and he had an urge to rip off his shirt or at least roll up his sleeves because he wanted to feel her fingers on his skin. He was beginning to like her. He thought he possibly might be able to forgive her for being an idiot and wanting to spoil her ex's wedding, but then she broke the mood when she added, ‘It might have made more sense if you'd stayed in the UK. No sooner will you be home than, well, if everything goes as you expect it to, you'll have to go back for the funeral.'

The exhaustion was immediately spiked with irritation. Hadn't she been listening after all? ‘I won't be going to the funeral.'

‘Oh. So who will organise it?'

‘I don't care. I know he's made a will. He mentioned that. It's probably all taken care of.'

‘But who will pick the music and the prayers?'

Dean stared at Jo as though she'd lost her mind. ‘Maybe there won't be any.'

‘There has to be music and prayers.'

Dean doubted there did actually; still, he found himself in the strange position of wanting to again protect her from harsh truths, even while she was irritating him. It was surreal. ‘The undertakers are most likely to do that sort of thing, I imagine, if there are no relatives.'

‘But there
are
relatives,' she insisted.

‘Yes, that's true. But I can't imagine anyone will be keen to pick out prayers for him and I, for one, have no idea what music he likes. That says it all really. Jo, he hasn't led a good life. He isn't a good man,' Dean stated firmly.

Still she wouldn't let it go. ‘Maybe not entirely.'

‘Not at all.'

‘No one is one hundred per cent evil.'

‘I disagree. Think Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot.'

‘But your father hasn't committed genocide.'

‘No, but he is a weapon of mass destruction. Everything he touches turns to crap.'

‘Not everything. You're lovely and he made you.'

Dean wanted to laugh. He'd only met her a few hours ago, and yet she said things like ‘You're lovely'. Who did that? She was wrong, of course. He didn't think of himself as especially lovely. Most of the time it was all he could do to hold down the bile and anger. He sighed, expelling exhaustion, irritation and confusion. He rarely revealed what he was thinking. He'd learnt the importance of not doing so during childhood, so he wondered why he was taking so much effort to explain what he was feeling to this stranger. He shouldn't have bothered. All he could think to say was ‘Look, Jo, you didn't know him.' He wanted to bring this discussion to an end. He now deeply regretted mentioning his father at all. He wasn't sure why he had. To shock her? To give her some perspective? The man had been dead to him for years; what did it matter if he was now actually dying?