State We're In (41 page)

‘It might have been until he told me that there was a particular bitch he left us for, and she's become the villain of the story. Now I find that even as a grown man, I'm still angry. Ever since my father mentioned this woman, I've been consumed with such hatred. I hate someone I've never met; someone I didn't know existed until this week. It's not civilised. It's—'

He broke off, unable to say the words ‘It's unfair' without sounding like a child. He allowed Jo to slowly kiss his shoulder, his neck and his jaw while he tried to barricade the memory of Zoe's hysterical screams as he scooped her up and carried her away from the back door; she'd kicked and sobbed, punched out, not at him but at the unreasonable cruelty. He let Jo gently, tenderly kiss his chest, his belly and his cock. He let her climb on top of him and make love to him as he tried to block out the vision of a fly settled on his mother's cold blue vomit-smeared lips.

And he let her see him cry.

Afterwards, when they were spent, they lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling, holding hands; they were too clammy with exertion to spoon. Dean's eyelids felt like lead as he started to drift into what promised to be a deep sleep. He was exhausted by his own memories and emotions, but in some ways he felt lighter, safer; more free than he had ever been before.

Jo wasn't as close to sleep. Her mind was racing. The more details she heard about Dean's childhood, the more respect and admiration she felt for him and the more grateful she felt for her own easy start in life. Of course she was still shocked and confused about her parents' revelations, but she'd put that part of her life on hold for now; their fairy tale falling apart didn't compare to the nightmare Dean had endured or, more importantly still, to the relationship she and Dean were forging. She was beginning to realise that the past wasn't what mattered; what was important was what would happen next.

She thought about his choice of favourite books. ‘The books you like, they're all about orphan boys who make good,' she murmured into the darkness. ‘Rudyard Kipling's
Kim
, Pip in
Great Expectations
,
Harry Potter
.'

‘That's right.'

She could hear the drowsiness in his voice. ‘Dean, you know I think I was right after all.'

‘Hmm.' He was on the very edge of consciousness.

‘I think it is all about dramatic moments, a quickening of the pulse, then knickers and sense being thrown to the wind. I thought love was like in the poems, songs and films, and it is. It's that and more.' She whispered into the blackness, ‘Dean, I think I am falling in love with you. In fact, I know I am. I love you, Dean Taylor.'

She waited to see what he'd make of that, but the only response was a solid silence. Minutes later, he started to snore. Jo couldn't be certain whether he'd heard her and chosen not to reply, or whether he'd already fallen asleep when she said it. It didn't matter; she'd have plenty of other opportunities to tell him, because what they had was good and honest and decent. What they had was a future.

D
ying has turned out to be more interesting than I anticipated. The pain has been crap, obviously. Every time they stop one thing aching, another starts up. But not now. It's gone now. These latest drugs they are giving me are the big guns. It's all drifting. It's fine. I'm nearly there.

At least there's been entertainment. I've had my memories to keep me company. And the real people too. The lad. Not all bad. Clara. Patient. Remembered me. It became clear that I was still something to her. Had always been. That's a comfort. A pleasure to think about. She has been coming here for days now, I think. Quiet. Elegant. Talking to me in her low voice. Even though I can no longer talk back. Asked if I remembered that weekend in Manchester. The one stopover that we ever managed to steal.

I do. I remember it all. The train on Friday afternoon. Full of loud northerners, who worked in London during the week, returning to their families, keen to get drunk before they had to hand over their wages. We shared a drink with them, bottles hidden in paper bags, fooling no one. Quaint. The station was bustling. We walked to the hotel. Sunlight bounced on the pavement. Shone up the back of her legs. I carried her bag. Then later we had pre-dinner cocktails; potent and unfamiliar. Not to her. She knew her cocktails, her wines, her French menus and the names of all those cold meats they served up at breakfast. Posh bird, I used to tease her. She had
it
. Class, and I liked it. Wanted it. I was going up to Manchester for work, researching a documentary I was penning; she told her husband that she was going away for a shopping spree with girlfriends. Documentary about the crisis in mass manufacturing affecting the north-west of England. Very bad. The inner city was haemorrhaging inhabitants. Unemployment was rife. Run-down houses everywhere. An industrial wasteland. Factories abandoned like frigid wives. Crawling with out-of-work residents. We didn't talk about it but I think she'd have preferred Paris.

She'd said she wanted the works, not just the bedroom. So I'd booked us into the Palace. Took a suite. On expenses. Dinner reservations at the, oh, I forget its name. An Italian. Authentic. Decent. We were quickly drunk, couldn't finish our food. Giddy with the excitement of just
being
with each other without having to look over our shoulders all the time, without having to check the time. Couldn't wait to get back to the hotel. Didn't wait. Had her in an alleyway. There weren't cameras everywhere in those days. Ruin a man's fun, CCTV can. I'm glad I was young then.

Wasn't a weekend, though, not in the end. Just one night. She missed her kids too much. Felt too guilty. Turned moody and funny on the Saturday morning. We shared breakfast. She said the coffee was too weak. She insisted we got an earlier train back to London. I should have known then.

Still, it was good of her to come here. To throw me back in amongst the tangled sheets rather than let me wilt in these hospital ones.

C
lara knew that she had to ring Joanna. She'd spoken to her other children and their reactions to her leaving their father were largely as she'd expected: they were both horrified and hurt. It was obvious that Lisa agreed with Tim; she'd suggested that Clara must be suffering from some sort of nervous breakdown. She'd muttered about the power of stress but then added that she couldn't imagine what Clara might have to be stressed about. Lisa had barely acknowledged the fact that Tim was gay. Clara could not decide whether her daughter had long ago guessed as much and had been quite comfortable with the in-closet situation, or whether she was blanking the uncomfortable truth. Clara couldn't blame her if this was the case; after all, wasn't that exactly what she herself had done for years? Lisa repeatedly asked, ‘But how will you manage?' then explained that with three children, a demanding career and her sister sleeping on her sofa, she really couldn't be expected to do much to help. Clara accepted this as being at once very true and a little selfish. Lisa was the type to assess a situation from an entirely practical point of view.

Mark had been still less sympathetic; he obviously found the whole situation extremely embarrassing and made it clear that he just wanted the status quo re-established as swiftly as possible. He'd comforted himself by continually repeating to Clara that she would no doubt change her mind soon and go home, thus saving his father and the entire family from ‘a huge amount of unnecessary difficulty'. Clara disagreed with him – it had been such an enormous effort to leave, she couldn't imagine summing up the energy to return – but she didn't contradict him. Despite their lack of sympathy, she understood Lisa and Mark's reactions; they were frustrated and fearful. They each loved both of their parents and naturally wanted them to be happy, but they had not been brought up to expect that their own happiness might in any way be compromised by their parents' pursuit of contentment or cheer. Hadn't that been what she'd hoped to achieve all these years? She'd wanted to give her children a sense of entitlement to bliss. She knew her bid for happiness, or at least independence, was a great inconvenience to them. It crossed her mind that when they were children she should perhaps have focused more on them taking turns.

But how much worse would Joanna's reaction be? Lisa had called her and given a succinct update, even though Clara had begged her not to. She would have much preferred it if Joanna had been left to enjoy her little break in Chicago, and then on her return Clara could have explained things face to face. Joanna wasn't a clear thinker at the best of times, far too idealistic and romantic, and Clara hated the idea of her dealing with this extraordinary situation all alone in a strange city. Lisa had reported that Joanna was devastated. The word had ripped at Clara's heart and conscience, just as Lisa had intended it to. Clara knew her eldest daughter well enough to know that it hadn't been spite that had motivated Lisa to call Joanna in Chicago; it was Lisa's belief that her sister had a
right
to know what was going on, that she
ought
to know what was going on. Lisa had never agreed with Clara's policy of protecting Joanna from the harsh realities of the world.

So now Clara had to call Joanna. She left Eddie's bedside and went to the day room, which was open to visitors as well as those patients who were well enough to move around. The room was painted in a beige colour that Clara thought had been wiped from the face of the earth at least a decade ago. The pine chairs were scuffed and covered with thin school-uniform-green cushions; they didn't look comfortable. Not that Clara would sit in them, as she felt squeamish about how many sick people must have done so before her; could chairs carry diseases? Whilst it was impossible to believe that anyone could have smoked inside a hospital for at least twenty years, the room was haunted with the smell of ancient cigarettes; specifically cigarettes hungrily smoked in desperation, boredom or fear. The TV was permanently on, the volume turned up quite high for the benefit of the elderly, hard-of-hearing patients. Clara hated the room and so went outside and made the call from the busy London street.

She pressed the number on her mobile phone and after just three rings Joanna picked up. Clara was relieved; she'd feared her daughter might have refused to speak to her.

‘Hello, darling, how are you?' asked Clara in a rush.

‘Fine,' replied Joanna, and although she was whispering, Clara could hear a distinct smile in her voice. It was the last response she was expecting. ‘Hang on, I have to take this in the kitchen.'

Clara waited and puzzled as to where her daughter could be. Whose kitchen? She'd assumed Joanna would be staying in a hotel. She didn't have any friends in Chicago, other than Martin, and no matter how accommodating and welcoming Martin's new bride was, Clara couldn't imagine her opening her home to an ex-girlfriend while they went on their honeymoon. ‘Where are you?' she asked with a mix of anxiety and curiosity. Even though her daughter was a fully fledged adult, and Clara had called to talk through her own emotional situation, she sensed that Joanna might have embarked on some sort of dalliance as she invariably did, and so she braced herself for another complication and yet more problems.

‘I'm in a friend's kitchen.'

‘Friend? What sort of friend? A man friend?'

‘Yes, I'm in a man's kitchen,' laughed Joanna, acknowledging her mother's shock and indignation. ‘But there's nothing to worry about, he's very clean. It's a very clean kitchen.'

‘Are there knives, guns? Who is he, Joanna?' Clara's anxiety rose. ‘You can't just latch on to some stranger. Some American stranger.'

‘He's British, actually, not that I see what his nationality has to do with anything.'

‘Did you read
American Psycho
?'

‘No, I didn't. Did you?'

‘Yes. It was extremely frightening. Hideous. It's about a wealthy New York investment banker who hides his alternative psychopathic ego from his colleagues and friends. All I need tell you is that there are a lot of dead women by the end.'

‘Well, my guy is a lovely man, and we're in Chicago not New York and he's an advertising executive not an investment banker and I don't think he's hiding anything from me.' Again Clara could hear a definite smile in her daughter's voice. ‘Besides, you're talking about fiction; what I'm talking about is real.'

Real? Joanna didn't normally place much emphasis on what was real.

‘Be careful, darling.' Clara lived in terror of one of Joanna's casual dalliances ending up in something far more fatal than a broken heart.

‘You know, Mum, it's OK. I met him on the plane coming over here. He's been a big help. He stopped me doing anything stupid at Martin's wedding.'

‘For the record, I never intended you to stop their wedding. I don't think you were listening to me. I just wanted you to have a break. Find closure.'

‘Well, I have, thanks to my new friend.'

‘Oh Joanna, are you in love again?' Clara could not keep the fretful apprehension out of her voice.

‘I'm having a really wonderful time. He's the most interesting, courageous man I've ever met. We're having a lot of fun.'

Clara was stunned. She had expected Joanna to be a vulnerable, weeping wreck (at best) or a furious, resentful accuser (at worst), but she seemed to be brimming with confidence and oozing satisfaction. Clara wondered whether she was doing drugs; it was a possibility. She was certainly behaving out of character. Clara had never heard Joanna describe any man solely in terms of his mental attributes before. She could only think of one reason why her daughter might be sounding so sanguine. ‘Joanna, darling, don't tell me you've done something ridiculous, like eloping. You're not in Vegas, are you?'