State We're In (35 page)

The strange thing was that while he had not expected this complete and utter disintegration brought on by her parents disappointing her in such a raw and fundamental way, he had expected, predicted, foretold that this strange woman, who lived in a dream world, would wake up in a nightmare, and yet now he was stunned to find this was the last thing he wanted to witness. The erosion of Jo's faith was disastrous. Suddenly he realised, with a sickening certainty, that he'd wanted to be wrong.

Deep down, buried below any and all of the pain and disappointment he'd endured, he'd wanted to be proved wrong. That was why he was so happy his sister was married. Publicly he'd always appeared a little sceptical, a little satirical. He joked that her marriage was a matter of hope over experience, but secretly – so secretly, he hadn't known it himself – it thrilled him that Zoe had nurtured a little dot of hope that had blossomed into a fully functioning relationship.

Jo was an extreme. She believed in a better world that was so glossy and golden that it had hurt Dean's eyes to look at it. He'd laughed it off, dismissed it as a fantasy, and yet he'd been seduced by the idea. It was heartbreaking to watch her glossy golden world rust, then disintegrate. But disintegrate it must if Jo no longer believed in it, because only she could keep it alive. Dean thought it was a little like the Peter Pan story: every time a child said they didn't believe in fairies, one died. It seemed that if Jo didn't believe in the happily-ever-after, then no one could.

He couldn't be expected to pick up the mantle here. This particular responsibility could only be cultivated by those who cherished belief. He had no access. He couldn't help.

Jo's tears were flowing quite swiftly now; they slipped down her face and splashed on to the plate, making a puddle in among the discarded bones and silver fish skin. Her mascara, which had helped her to look so glamorous and appealing earlier, now served to make her look foolish and vulnerable as it ran in black tributaries down her face. She didn't seem aware, or if she was aware, she didn't care.

All at once Dean felt desolate. Her pain, unbelievably, was his pain. He
did
care. He cared about this woman who he had initially dismissed as whimsical and misguided, who he'd thought of as a novelty. Last night he'd admitted she was interesting, but perhaps only in the way an exotic zoo creature was interesting; he'd wanted to watch her to see what she'd do next. But now,
now
he wanted to rescue her, revive her. He didn't want her to be permanently ensconced in la la land – that would never do – but he wanted her to retain some belief in the good stuff, even if he had none. In fact, he needed her to. He didn't understand why it mattered quite so much, but he knew that it did. Mentally he stooped down, grasped the mantle and then with enormous effort held it aloft.

‘Do you wish that they had continued to live a lie?'

‘I wish they hadn't had to lie,' snapped Jo.

‘Your dad is gay, Jo, I don't think he has much choice in the matter. Things are what they are. Do you wish they hadn't told you? That they'd continued to treat you like a kid? Is that what you are saying?'

Jo glared at him, furious, because in truth, she was unsure what she wished for the most. Living a lie hadn't been too bad. Not too shabby at all. At least not for her and her siblings. Even thinking about it for a moment, she had to see that it must have been hard for her parents. Difficult.

The diner was practically deserted. Other than them, there was only one other customer: a skinny, heavily tattooed woman, who sat hunched over her coffee. She stood up to feed coins into the jukebox and a tune Dean didn't recognise sauntered into the room. It was a hopeless love song, not his cup of tea at the best of times. He glared at the tattooed lady but she was oblivious, no doubt drowning in her own personal drama. It shouldn't be this way, he thought. It was all unbearable. He wanted things to be better. Not just better for him, not the sort of better that could be achieved by regularly attending the gym, working hard at the office or filling your apartment with expensive gadgets, but a bigger better than that. He wanted the sort of better Jo had believed in. Feeling frustrated, he tried to soothe her.

‘I just mean if you'd never been told about your mother's ancient indiscretion or your dad's sexual preferences, would you still love them as much today as you did last week?'

‘Well, yes, of course, but I
do
know about them. That's the point.'

‘Jo, the thing to focus on is that they are no less as parents just because you know a bit more about them as people. She's still the same woman who held your hand when you cried, picked you up when you fell over, changed your sheets, cooked your food, mopped your brow, fought with other mums at the school gate on your behalf. All that mum stuff.' Dean paused and waited for Jo to respond; she didn't. ‘You can't be angry with her,' he pleaded. ‘And your dad, he's still the guy who has worked his arse off so you could have a private education and tennis lessons. The guy who read to you every night, who ferried you to and from parties and loathed spotty boyfriends because they let you down. All that stuff you told me about your childhood, the jewel-coloured fruit, the itchy picnic rug, it all still happened.'

‘And I'm just supposed to forgive them.'

‘There's nothing to forgive. They haven't done this to
you
.'

‘You hate your dad.' Jo spat out the accusation, like venom. ‘And you never even talk about your mum. Why do you get to hate, if I'm not allowed?'

‘It's different for me.' Dean turned away from Jo; he picked up the laminated menu with faded, dated pictures of knickerbocker glories and waffles laden with whirls of artificial cream.

‘Is it. How so?' Jo demanded, irrational and angry. Unexpectedly, she was sick of being the one who shared all her secrets and thoughts without getting anything in return. She had thought she'd enjoyed being listened to, but now she felt as though she was in a hot seat and she resented the one-way interrogation.

‘I don't like talking about it,' replied Dean evenly.

‘I got that,' Jo snarled. She reached for her red wine and took an enormous glug.

Dean suddenly snatched the glass off her and slammed it down on the table. Some of the wine splashed out over the rim and landed on his hand. He sucked it clean, then rooted urgently in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and threw a bunch of notes on the table. Even in Jo's distressed state, she could see he'd overpaid by about a hundred per cent.

‘Come on. Let's get out of here. Enough wallowing underground. We're going for a walk.'

D
ean grabs hold of my arm and yanks me out of the booth. He was holding my hand, which was comforting and even a bit erotic – well, more than a bit, if the truth be known. Despite my trauma, I couldn't help but notice how good it felt when he squeezed my hand, gently caressing me with his thumb. I'm not getting the same vibe now as he strides across the road, his grasp firm to the point of painful. I totter after him in my high heels, the tight skirt of my dress not allowing me to match his long, determined strides.

He marches down the crowded streets, oblivious to the colourful graffiti and the other rushing pedestrians. He dashes across the hectic roads, not noticing that cars have to honk and swerve to avoid hitting us. He is resolutely unaware that he's causing any commotion; he's a man on a mission who obviously has a destination in mind. I follow, too stuffed with self-pity to really care if we do get mowed down. He races through Millennium Park, seemingly insensible of the couples lolling on the lawns, kissing and laughing in the evening sunshine. He does not notice frenetic bladers and skaters who narrowly miss colliding with us on at least half a dozen occasions as we charge along the promenades, and he's blind to the exhausted-looking young parents who are battling with wilful toddlers who seem to continually run into our path like out-of-control missiles. He does not slacken his pace until we reach a part of the park that is signposted the Lurie Garden.

Unlike the rest of the park – which is kept cropped and clean, oozes modernity and throws up surprising urban art sculptures that please and puzzle in equal proportions – the Lurie Garden is a wilderness. I'm stunned by the oasis of colour, which offers instant respite from the surrounding hurly-burly. Purple lovegrass and coral bells teem with the flutter of butterflies and birds, the scent of mountain mint and giant hyssop drifts on the air and instantly soothes. It is living art; a moving, breathing palette of texture and colour. I feel a smidgen better. I turn to Dean. He looks worse. Agitated. Torn. Distressed.

‘OK, so you want to know my story?'

I settle on a park bench, but Dean continues to pace backwards and forwards in front of me.

‘Yes.'

‘OK, princess, you asked for it.' It is the first time he has called me anything other than Jo. I get the distinct feeling that princess isn't a cosy little pet name, indicating we've reached a new level of intimacy – it's not meant as a compliment. ‘Where shall I start?' For a moment he looks genuinely at a loss. He's been so eternally in control since the moment we met that I'm unsure how to respond. I realise that he needs me to give him something. A launch pad.

‘Well, tell me where you're from. When we were talking about ambitions, you said you wanted to be footballer, a fireman, a cowboy. But you said your overriding ambition was to be rich and certainly to get away. Away from where?'

‘Away from wherever they put me.'

‘Who put you?' I ask carefully.

‘The social workers. I spent a lot of time in care. Don't pin too much on the name. There wasn't anything careful about my childhood.' Dean snaps out his reply. He's stopped pacing but he keeps his back to me.

‘I'm sorry.' I am. I'm so utterly, utterly sorry and I don't know what else to say. Words are always pitiless and inadequate in the face of a real calamity. Sorry has been used by too many bad-assed footballers talking to their wives and fans after some tawdry sex scandal, or by politicians after a couple of billion has been cut from a health-care programme; as a word, it has lost its potency. I wish I could think of something bigger to say.

‘So my dad left. You got that much, right?'

‘Yes, when you were very young.'

‘I was five. He left and then vanished. We heard nothing from him ever again. Nothing.' The word has never sounded so bleak or so powerful to me. ‘At first we managed. We didn't thrive, but you know, we managed.' Dean comes to sit next to me on the bench but he still doesn't look at me; he stares straight ahead, avoiding my gaze. ‘Sometimes my mother held it together. There were weeks in a row when she washed and ironed our clothes, remembered to buy and even cook food, and we were OK. Never happy. We were never relaxed enough to just be happy because things never stayed the same for long, but we were OK. Like I said, we … managed.' He rolls the word around his mouth before he is able to spit it out. I begin to get a sense of how hard it is for him to tell me his story. This is not a matter of pride or a penchant for secrecy; this is a personal hell. He carries on. ‘However, inevitably something would happen. A friend of hers would get married or have another baby, her latest boyfriend would ditch her or she'd hit a birthday, and it would trigger a crisis. She'd remember that there was a great yawning gap between what she'd hoped her life would be and what it was. So she'd hit the bottle.'

He shrugs. A tiny, defeated gesture that hints he has accepted the facts and at the same time has been defined by them.

‘What she forgot to do we mopped up. We learnt how to put clothes in the washing machine and to hang them on the line. And on Tuesdays we'd walk her to the post office to cash the Child Allowance cheque, no matter if she was hungover or smelt of booze. Often she bought a bottle or two and then we'd head home. On Tuesday nights, when she was getting drunk, I'd sneak into her bag and take back what was left of the Child Allowance. It wasn't stealing from her. It was ours.' He sounds defensive and I want to tell him it's OK, but I daren't interrupt. I fear that if I do, he might never be able to finish what he's trying to tell me. ‘The first time Zoe and I went shopping alone, we bought crap. Four cans of Tab, Cherry Lips, Kola Kubes and countless packets of Space Dust and Doritos, if I remember correctly.'

Dean counts off the shopping list on his fingers. He clearly does remember correctly. He smiles gently, the memory of the illicit feast somehow breaking through the terrible anguish. ‘Obviously we made ourselves sick, so the next week we bought fish fingers, Findus pancakes and Arctic roll. Not exactly the most nutritious meal ever, but an improvement. Over time, the guy in the corner shop started to pick things out for us to try, good value, reasonably healthy stuff. He gave us discounts on food that was nearing its sell-by date. People saw what was going on but they didn't get too involved. People didn't in those days. Thank God. That was how we wanted it.'

I want to reach out and hold his hand as he held mine in the diner, but as I inch towards him, he senses what I'm going to do and he folds his arms across his chest. I freeze. Locked out. ‘Going to school in clothes that hadn't been ironed wasn't the end of the world. Of course she missed stuff, school plays, sports day, even parents' evenings, but no one cared about that much. Well, no one other than me and Zoe. Sometimes a teacher with a leaning towards efficiency might grumble that our parent consent forms weren't signed for a school trip, but after a particularly officious cow made Zoe miss out on going to a City Petting Zoo trip, we quickly learnt the value of forging Mum's signature if she was too blind drunk or had passed out and was incapable of doing it herself.' Dean sighs. I'm not sure if it's at the memory he's just relayed or in anticipation of something he has yet to reveal. ‘But it became more difficult when it was no longer just about the neglect; when that pushed over to what they call abuse.'