The A-Z of Us (9 page)

‘Shall I make some tea, then?'

We sit without exchanging more than single words until the teapot is empty. The large clock I found at a retro stall in Camden Market ticks inexorably towards 9 a.m. For a moment, I think about ripping it from the wall.

I can't go to work, even though we're approaching the project deadline. I feel helpless, empty, drained. It's as if I've been holding out, being strong, until Ian arrived. He has enabled me to let it all go. I wonder, not for the first time, why I've always needed the company of men more than women. My mother still chastises me for not having any real ‘girlfriends', as if this deficit is indicative of some shortcoming in the way Susan Cook raised her daughter. I know my mother was always a little jealous of my closeness to my father. But this doesn't stop me worrying, wondering whether my lack of female friends is due to an insecurity about myself that makes me unable to show the vulnerability which everyone tells me is the necessary bond for close female – female relationships.

I like Ian because he's uncomplicated. Even though I cried my eyes out in front of him last night, I know, as a man, he won't store up this knowledge of my weakness and use it against me at some point in the future. Not like some women would. Not like Sophie at the office.

I can't call. I think about asking Ian to call, but he would have to explain who he is and that would give the evil Sophie-monster too much ammunition. I just want to cover my head with the blanket and remain like that for a very long time. I hear my mother's voice, admonishing me, telling me there are people in the world far worse off than myself, but this only serves to expand and consolidate my misery.

‘I'm not going to work,' I say gruffly.

‘Definitely not,' Ian replies, cheerfully. ‘Take a mental health day.'

We sit in silence, whilst children pass by, screeching their way to school.

‘This is strange, isn't it, Gem?'

‘What? That kids around here sound like they've had speedballs for breakfast?'

He smiles at my poor joke. I know ‘what'. The strange thing is, it doesn't feel strange. It's like being back at college, that mixture of cheerful apathy and vague anxiousness, knowing there are things to be done, but coming up with no pressing reason to do them.

The clock ticks. I glance at him, noticing a couple of grey hairs at his temples. He hasn't shaved recently. He looks older than I remember – Brosnan in
Remington Steele
. I don't want Ian to get too old (
Die Another Day
Brosnan). It means I'm next.

‘What are you going to do about your career?' I ask suddenly, my tone deeper and more strict.

‘Jesus, Gem, it's only nine o'clock.'

‘You love your travel writing.'

He shifts slightly, sliding his bare feet under the sofa cushions, for warmth or security.

‘When the ankle's better…'

‘How did you fall off the bus?'

‘I slipped. I didn't exactly plan it. It was an accident.' He looks pained. I nod slowly, realizing I've confronted him with his failure because it makes me feel less of one.

I call work from the bedroom. To my dismay, Sophie answers. As quickly and efficiently as I can, I inform her that I'm not feeling well and won't be coming in today.

‘Flu, I think,' I add, matter-of-factly.

‘Really? I didn't know there was anything going around.'

‘Summer flu. It's quite common.'

‘Well… I'll tell Duncan.'

‘I'll know more when I've been to the doctor's.'

‘I hope you feel better soon.'

‘I'm not pregnant, Sophie,' I say crossly, and put down the phone. I lie down on the bed, pulling handfuls of sheets around me, tucking my feet behind me, making myself as tiny as I can. It's my cave, my nest. I pull the Frette sheets tighter still, as I used to as a little girl, for my protection and punishment.

All is quiet, except the angry pump of my pulse. I haven't washed the sheets since Raj departed; not for any emotional reasons, I tell myself, but because I couldn't be bothered. In the midst of my expensive cotton cocoon, I try to locate his smell, his musty masculine scent with the faintest hint of his father's sandalwood. But all I can smell is myself, the sweet whiff of the Gucci Envy that Raj gave me last birthday, which I've been wearing recently, even though it seems too grown up and wanton compared to
the gentle Ralph Lauren scent I've been wearing since I was fifteen.

I feel my tears damp and warm against my cheek. I just want to be alone, cut off from everything and everyone.

‘Are you okay?'

Ian's voice. Words he's spoken so many times in the past, my guardian angel. Yet this morning, for some reason, his solicitous tone irritates me. It's as if he's hoping I'm not okay.

‘Fine.'

I try quickly to unravel myself from the ball of sheets, but my legs are caught somehow, and I feel immediately claustrophobic. I breathe in quickly, but it's too hot, too tight. I panic, tearing at the material as if it's on fire, rolling forwards, kicking, cloth in my mouth and eyes. Rage rushes through me and I rip at the sheets, the expensive cloth tearing surprisingly easily and I'm jettisoned from the cocoon like a cannonball, falling heavily onto the floor.

‘Ouch.'

So much for our wedding sheets. I look up at Ian. He grins.

‘Nice move. Been practising that one?'

‘Shut up.'

‘Sorry.'

I hear the sound of my small breathing, which curiously reminds my of my panting during sex. I pull myself up.

‘I think I could use a glass of wine.'

‘At ten in the morning?'

‘Who's counting?'

I feel a little better after the first bottle. We watch
Die Another Day
(my choice, due to the Brosnan connection)
and I enjoy the sound of explosions and gunfire that remind me of childhood Sunday evenings watching television with my father. Next it's Ian's choice, and he thumbs along a line of Raj's DVDs like a tailor fingering silk.

‘
When Harry Met Sally
?!' Ian roars in disgust.

‘I like it. It made me cry when I was fifteen.'

‘No wonder Raj hates me,' Ian says with a chuckle.

‘What? He doesn't hate you…'

‘Of course he does. He thinks I'm Billy Crystal.'

‘What?'

‘The film, Gem. They spend two hours saying they're just friends and then they end up together.'

‘No they don't. They stay just friends, that's the point of the film. It proves a man and a woman can overcome the whole sex thing.'

‘No, that's what everyone remembers, but actually they end up married. It's a romantic comedy.'

‘Just choose something else then, Ian!'

I sense my anger bristling. I want to forget about Raj, about relationships, about everything.

‘
The Life of Brian
!'

‘Oh please, no.' Raj loves Monty Python, as do his few Oxford friends. I hate it, the comedy seems so old-fashioned and laboured.

‘It's my choice, it's my choice!' chimes Ian, enthusiastically.

‘All right, Tigger.'

‘It was the first time I saw a grown woman naked,' he offers, by way of explanation.

‘What?'

‘I was twelve and me and Brian Pugh snuck into the Victoria Cinema in Cambridge. It was a ‘Double A' certificate, you had to be fourteen, and there was a naked woman in one of the scenes.'

‘How artistic.'

‘We thought so. Hey, are you hungry?'

‘Not really.'

‘I'm starving. There's all this pizza left.'

‘No thanks.'

We watch the film. As usual, I find the humour puerile and leaden. As I pretend to watch, a memory steals into my head. I wonder about sharing it with Ian – Raj has long since stopped pretending to listen to my ramblings about my childhood. But Ian's my best friend, isn't he?

‘What was your worst holiday when you were little?' I ask, by way of introduction.

‘Easy. Scotland, er, nineteen eighty… three. Rained every day and the car broke down. Yours?'

‘This one Easter when we went to the Lake District, I must have been about ten. It rained all the time too. We ended up getting lost up some mountain or other, it felt like the bloody Alps…'

I pull my knees into my chest.

‘So my dad gets his map out – he always had a map – and as he and Mum are arguing about which way to go, and Molly's whining, I see this path…'

‘To true enlightenment?'

‘Shut up. I remember having this sudden overwhelming feeling that this path was the right way to go. So I said we should go that way…'

‘Gemma, Queen of the Mountains…'

‘But it wasn't on the map, so Dad said we couldn't go that way, we'd get lost, but I stamped my feet and insisted; I said I knew it was the right way, I felt it, and Mum ended up humouring me, I think to piss Dad off, she said she was going with me, so they all followed me up this path…'

‘This story's going one of two ways…'

‘And it was a dead end. We ended up at this ravine, it was really steep and dangerous, Molly almost fell. We couldn't go on, Dad was hopping mad, he shouted at me. I was devastated, I really wanted to impress him, but I was completely wrong.'

‘Did you get to the top of the mountain?'

‘No. We had to go back to the car. Dad didn't speak to me for the rest of the day. Molly just laughed at me.'

I shake my head as if trying to rid myself of the image. As I move, the sun cuts my eyes, a quick sharp slice.

‘That's how I feel now.'

‘What's that?'

‘I feel like I've followed my instinct and taken the wrong path. I should have looked at the map. But now it's too late.'

We watch the film in silence for a while, as Ian munches pizza. The wine is helping, I think, numbing me to time and emotion. I feel more tired than ever. I wonder if I should go and sleep.

Ian fills my glass again and smiles.

‘If it's any consolation, I'm sort of enjoying myself.'

He hands me the glass.

‘I mean, I know it's a bad time and everything, but I
guess I'm just enjoying hanging out like this. We haven't done this in a while.'

I nod slowly. He's right. There is something reassuring about sitting here, getting drunk watching movies, while the rest of the world strives for advancement. Perhaps I have a choice – I can decide to wallow in it, or decide to break free.

On the screen, the scene changes, and a naked woman appears, fleetingly.

‘See! Full frontal. Fantastic!'

‘That's the highlight of your pornographic youth?'

‘'Fraid so.'

‘Wow. That's pretty sad.'

Ian nods again, and stands up from the sofa, picking up the oil-stained pizza box.

‘Leave it!' I bark, with a sudden vehemence that surprises even me. He puts down the box. I kick out, sending the box zipping across the floor, the lid leaping open in shock. Ian looks at me. I smile, mischievously, aware that this is a smirk from my under-ten past.

‘Okay…' he says, quizzically. I pick up a cushion and throw it towards the pizza box. Then I throw one at Ian. He catches it and tosses it back at me. I look at him, seize the cushion by the corner and swing it. Ian ducks to his left, snatches up another cushion, and swings it at me, slapping me on the back. I shriek, a childish squeal, snatch my cushion in both hands and smack it hard against his arm.

‘Hey!'

Ian hobbles backwards, and I advance, raising the cushion once more.

‘Prepare to die!'

He starts to laugh, unable to move quickly enough to avoid my blows, while I pound him with my cushion, laughing too. I thump him, six times, in quick succession, on the last swing catching the vase of lilies I bought two weeks ago to brighten up the half-finished house, now dead. In what seems like slow motion, the vase sweeps majestically off the mantelpiece, crashing to the floor and smashing in to shards. Ian stops, tottering on his single crutch.

‘Whoops!' I cry.

I feel joyous. The smashing of the vase has released something in me and I want more. I look around, locate a glass of water on the coffee table, reach down and in one movement throw it over Ian. Water shoots everywhere, soaking the sofa, splattering the worn wooden floorboards.

‘Right!' he cries, and lumbers towards the kitchen.

‘No!' I scream in delighted fear as he whips on the tap to fill a saucepan he's plucked from the drying rack. I throw myself at him, attempting to wrestle his hand away. He holds firm, beating me away with his crutch. He's stronger than I am and therefore fair game, so I bend down quickly and sink my teeth into his wrist. This is gratifyingly effective. He yelps ‘Arrgghhh!' and pulls away rapidly, leaving the tap open, and I wrench the saucepan out, half full of water and in one fluid movement I turn and toss its contents towards Ian's limping retreat. The airborne wave creates a beautiful arc in the air before it crashes in to his haunch, just as he turns to avoid it. As water sprays everywhere, the laugh bubbling from my throat, another voice rings out.

‘What the hell is going on?'

I freeze. A last slip of water dribbles from the saucepan to the floor. Ian stands, dripping wet, his plastered leg raised, crutch in the air like a flag pole. He swivels, swiftly. He looks scared.

Raj stands by the sofa. He's wearing his black Armani suit, carrying the small, expensive tan briefcase I bought him in Milan. I see his eyes flick quickly around the room – the open pizza box, the broken shards of glass vase and strewn dead flowers, the wine bottles, the cushions flung here and there as if by some demented bowling machine, his favourite DVD still playing on the television.

I cannot speak. The clock ticks. We remain immobile, the three of us, hardly a muscle moving, as if playing some children's game in which the first to tremble will lose. Then Ian coughs quickly and raises his hand, smoothing down his drenched hair.