The Last Time I Saw You (15 page)
“God I’m really sorry, Livvy, he was just really colicky and grumpy. And I’ve got to be back by ten.”
“It’s not that,” I say, a solitary tear trickling down my icy cold cheek.
“Oh, little one!” says Jules. It was her hated childhood nickname for me, but right now it’s music to my ears. “Tell me!”
And I give her a brief synopsis of last night, while simultaneously urging her to drive. Dad hates lateness, it makes him go all hurt and huffy, and I’m not in the mood for humoring him.
“Listen, we’ll talk about it properly later,” she says, turning left into Dad’s road, “but I seriously think it’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be such a Pollyanna mentalist. To recap—‘best, William,’ and he hasn’t replied to my text. I just feel like such an idiot.”
She pulls up, switches off the engine and turns to me.
“Livvy, he’s a mess. Of course he’s a mess—he’s just found out his wife would most probably rather kill herself than live her life with him. In the nicest possible way it’s not about you.”
“No, I know that . . .”
She studies my face, her expression gradually registering that my stupid, slavish heart has caught up with her prediction.
“Oh, Livvy.”
“Yeah, cheers for that.” I smile at her, telling her I’m not blaming her. “There’s no future in it. It’s ridiculous that I’m even giving it house room. It’s done, over. Didn’t even begin.”
“Just don’t jump to any conclusions,” she says. “Let’s just see what happens.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, blood surging through me. “I’m not doing that to Sally.” I pause. “I’m not doing that to myself.”
Jules grabs my hand as we walk up the path to Dad’s terraced house, telling me with a squeeze that she didn’t mean to be crass, and I squeeze back. We ring the doorbell and eventually the energy-saving lightbulb in the hallway springs into feeble life. Dad opens the door, a look of controlled disappointment surfing his face. He’s wearing a striped butcher’s apron and a pair of unpleasant beige Crocs, and is brandishing a spatula.
“Sorry—” starts Jules, about to fess up, but before she does, I jump in.
“I was moaning on to Jules, and we just got held up,” I say, leaning in to kiss him, and handing him the bottle
of decent but unflashy red wine I picked up from M&S en route.
“Can’t be helped,” says Dad, still slightly Eeyore-ish. “It’s just that I’m trying out a nut roast that I downloaded from the Internet and it specifically asks for forty minutes. Let’s all just keep our fingers crossed it’s still edible.”
We grimace at each other as we follow his Crocs down the dingy hallway that leads to the tiny kitchen. We started out with a distinctly ordinary family home in Northwood, which melted down into two modest parental apartments in the molten fire of the divorce. Mom bought wisely in an up-and-coming area, did it up, and sold it for a healthy profit a few years later, while Dad bought this unprepossessing rat run in order to minimize his mortgage. I worry he’ll be carted out of it in a box, as I can’t see anyone ever taking it off his hands. Not that he’d even want them to—he’s most definitely a creature of habit.
The nut roast looks more like a brick than dinner: it thuds onto the serving dish and sits there, menacingly, while Dad prods at it inquisitively with his spatula.
“Right then, girls, pull up a pew,” he says, tucking my wine into the wine rack and pulling out a dodgy-looking bottle of cabernet that he’s already opened. We squeeze ourselves along the bench that runs down the side of the ancient pine table, and sit there, pinioned, waiting for him to carpet-bomb our plates. “We’ll need to tuck in, as the concert starts in, let’s see,” he peers at his watch, “fifty-seven minutes.”
“Concert?” I say, trying to keep the horror out of my voice. I know where this train is headed.
“Did you forget to tell her?” says Dad, admonishingly, to Jules.
“She’s run off her feet with Nathaniel,” I say, taking a slug of my wine. Big mistake. It tastes more like mouthwash than anything a person might drink for pleasure.
“Oh Livvy, don’t be so melodramatic! I’m fine.” I wasn’t being melodramatic, I was defending her: why is it that we automatically revert to bickering adolescents the minute we enter our parents’ airspace?
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” says Dad proudly. “It was on special at the cash and carry, so I thought bugger it, I’ll invest in a case.”
I think about telling him the truth but it will just feed his conviction that I’m a profligate wastrel, permanently channeling my inner Marie Antoinette. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad with the kind of boundless affection that makes my heart almost curdle with the need to protect him from a world he always feels out of step with, but he also drives me stark raving mad.
“Mmm,” I say, my “mmm” dragging on slightly too long to be convincing. “Tell us about the concert.”
“What you’ll be enjoying tonight is a soupçon of modern jazz, played by the very finest musicians of the Ealing music society. You girls are in for an aural treat.”
Looking at Jules is too great a risk. Instead I take another gulp of mouthwash and try to look on the bright side: while modern jazz is surely one of the most heinous inventions of the modern age—right up there with novelty ringtones and Quorn—it at least saves us from too much conversation. If Dad asks me if I’ve met anyone I seriously think I might cry, and romantic advice from a parent who hasn’t had a relationship since John Major was leading the country is not what I need right now. Instead we pass round Jules’s iPhone, looking at the footage she’s shot of
Nathaniel, Dad marveling at the technology. A video camera would have been far too extravagant a purchase for the Berrington family, so all that exists of me and Jules are such photographic delights as the school picture he has framed on the kitchen wall, my gappy, protruding teeth offset by Jules’s shaggy blond pudding bowl. Poor Madeline, I think, my eyes fixed on it. How much easier it is, even if you don’t know it when you’re pulling out each other’s hair and barricading yourselves in your bedrooms, if there’s someone else roughly the same size to negotiate your family with.
We try and gnaw our way through a respectable amount of the brick, Dad’s eyes constantly darting to the clock.
“We really ought to get on the road,” he says eventually, casting that permanent look of disappointment at our unclean plates.
“It was lovely,” I say, wanting to walk around the table and hug him back to happiness. Since he retired, I feel like the little intricacies of his days have taken on even more importance than ever. He was a manager for the council’s education department, which gave him the perfect outlet for his fussy precision and a decent gang of people to boss around—now he’s just got us.
“You haven’t finished your wine, Julia.”
“Oh, you know, breast feeding! Don’t want Nathaniel getting a taste for it.”
He bustles off to get our coats, handing them to us as he pulls on his windcheater.
“How’s your mother?” he asks, faux casually, his gaze trained on the zip.
“Fine,” we chorus, a little too fast.
“Good, good.”
“She’s been getting into Zumba,” says Jules. He looks blank. “It’s a kind of dance exercise thing.”
Is it better or worse to give him detail? He looks even more crestfallen now, but simply saying “fine” makes it sound like she’s run away with a multimillionaire Italian count and we can’t bear to tell him.
“She always was a bit of a mover,” he says, doing a peculiar wiggle of his hips.
The concert venue is a good fifteen minutes away, but Dad insists we walk, despite our protests about the drizzly weather (“don’t be so lily-livered!”). We arrive in the drafty community hall with only a couple of minutes to spare, the foyer empty but for a ruddy-faced woman frantically waving a handful of tickets at us. Gray frizzy hair erupts from her scalp, untamed by any kind of styling product, and she’s clad in a tent-like dress, offset by a pair of flat, red Jesus sandals that might give Dad’s Crocs a run for their money. It’s funny, I’m surrounded by women fighting aging as if it’s as lethal as nerve gas. There’s something refreshing about someone who’s sinking into it like it’s a warm bath.
“Thank you, Margery” says Dad, snatching them from her. “I do apologize: the girls were late.”
If it were Stone Age times and the car was yet to be invented I’d have some sympathy—I start saying as much, before Jules nudges me to shut up. She’s right: I shouldn’t be taking my bad mood out on him.
“Hello!” says Margery, casting a darting look between the two of us, radiating nervous energy from every pore. “We can’t chat, it’s starting.” She bodily chases us into the hall like a great big flapping bird. A ragtag group of amateur
musicians are “tuning up”: either that or a squadron of cats are being strangled. She plunks herself down next to me and leans in uncomfortably close.
“So, Libby, your dad tells me you do something very exciting!” she says. I try to explain my job in a hoarse whisper but it ends up sounding faintly ridiculous, even to me. Then the “music” begins. Saxophones screech, snare drums bang without any discernible rhythm, and Dad, sitting the other side of Margery, jerks and bobs his head around like a demented sunflower. Honestly, the people sitting behind him must be seasick by the time it finally, mercifully, stops. Margery has a beatific smile on her face when the lights come up. She swivels her head to him, and then to me.
“It’s so transporting!” she says, face pinker than ever.
“Isn’t it?” agrees Dad, equally blissful.
“I need to get going,” says Jules, before realizing her mistake. “I mean it was brilliant, utterly brilliant. But I have to be back for Nat’s night feed.”
“And the car
is
about ten miles away,” I say, unable to stop myself. I am literally thirteen years old.
Once we’re ensconced in the car, goodbyes said, I suddenly don’t want to leave Dad. I look at the closed door, the patchy glow of the energy-saving light bulb feebly shining, and feel a surge of that illogical desire to save him from something.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I say, wistful.
Jules is already turning the key in the ignition. I put my hand on her arm, make her pause.
“William?” She turns to look at me. “How could he be?”
“No, Dad.” Jules looks at me, mildly exasperated. “Go on, drive,” I say, sensing her impatience: this is a well-worn conversation. “He just seemed a bit sad, the way he talks about Mom . . .”
“They were married for twenty-five years. Course he wants to know what she’s up to.”
“He’s not just asking, though, is he, he’s pining. What if he’s a swan?”
“I can’t think of anyone less like a swan, Livvy.”
“They mate for life, swans. If a swan loses his wife, that’s it. It’s game over.”
“He’s fine, he’s just Dad, don’t overthink it.” We’ve stopped at the light, and she turns to look at me, gives me that big sister look that brooks no argument. “Think about William instead. If you do have feelings, you shouldn’t just write it off.”
“I’ve got to, Jules.” I look at her, trying to turn a raging torrent of emotion into a logical, coherent thought. “I can’t not.”
She shifts into gear, slides off. Is it selfish or entirely human that I feel a stab of longing for the days when we’d have snuck off somewhere for last call and a proper, unhurried conversation, which wasn’t dictated by traffic signals?
“But given a bit of time he will move on, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be you. I hate to say it, but the fact he kissed you kind of proves it.”
I can’t deny the logic of what she’s saying, but nor can I buy into it. It makes love sound like bond trading: stock seized at an all-time low with the expectation of a healthy return. Again, I feel that sense of Sally, so strong that it’s almost as if she’s here in the car. My heart starts to pound
and I grip the seat, trying to slow it down, trying to breathe my way back to reality.
“Doesn’t prove anything. He was drunk, people do stupid things when they hit rock bottom. Besides, I’m the absolute last person he should move on to. The last.”
Do you hear me, Sally? If I say it loudly enough will you believe me?
“Close your eyes and make a wish,” said Sally, bursting into my room, a burning candle stuck lopsidedly into the top of a boiled egg.
I struggled to wake up, disoriented. She was standing at the end of my single bed struggling with a laden tray. In addition to the eggs, there was a posy of flowers, a round of toast, a cafetière of coffee, and a beautifully wrapped present.
“No Bagpuss?”
I should’ve been loyal enough to remind her of his real name, but I’d learned by now it was a waste of breath. I used it to blow out my candle instead.
“I’m meeting him at ten in the library cafeteria.” Did she know he wasn’t here? If she didn’t then the ambush was quite a risk. But then, I thought guiltily, I’d shared enough for her to know he wasn’t a great one for morning nookie. “Thanks,
Sally.” I felt warm and toasty inside at the thought of her going to all that trouble.
“It’s only the beginning,” she said excitedly. “Go on, open your present.”
I sat up, ripping open the paper to reveal a silky teddy, with soft cups and poppers at the bottom. It was only from Marks and Spencer, but to me it felt like it had tumbled straight out of a Jackie Collins book.
“Thanks!” I said, trying to imagine how Matt would react to it. He’d have to keep the light on to get the full effect. I held it against myself, enjoying the feeling of the slinky fabric. This was the new me, nineteen years old and ready for anything.
“You’re going to look a right minx in that,” she said, flopping down on the end of the bed and pouring the coffee. I looked to the small stack of cards on my desk that I’d diligently saved to open on the day.
“Want me to chuck them over?” said Sally. There was a $40 gift card from my dad, a brooch from my mom that I knew I’d never wear, and a large, pastel pink number from Jules, with two small girls sitting on a swing.
FOR
THE
WORLD’S
MOST
SPECIAL
SISTER
it said.
“What’s that?” said Sally, picking it up by the tip of her red painted fingernails like it was radioactive.
“Oh, me and Jules have this thing where we always try and get each other the most schmaltzy card we can find.” I was reading the appalling poem inside by now, which clunkily rhymed “sister” with “miss you,” but I felt too self-conscious to laugh. I’d got to the bottom of the pile now. There was one more from home, sent by my—I could no longer call her my best friend I realized, it wouldn’t be true—my old best friend Sara who was studying biology at Cambridge. The sight of her neat, rounded vowels, so familiar from the endless studying
we’d done together, made me feel immediately guilty about my neglect, my broken promises to visit. Cambridge seemed so far away, so irrelevant. I felt a little winded, looking at the scattered cards. Nothing from James. He’s a boy, I reasoned, boys never remember things like this, even though last year he’d remembered enough to plan a day trip to Brighton.
“What’s up?” said Sally, noticing my pensive expression. I teetered on the brink of telling her, then thought of Matt and stopped myself.
“Nothing.” I hugged her. “Thank you!”
“So I’m gonna take you for lunch in town,” she said, grinning back excitedly. “Browns or something. You need to be properly spoiled on your birthday.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” I cried. I loved that sentiment, so far from the loving briskness with which birthdays were treated in my family. “But you’ve given me this lovely breakfast, and I’m meeting Matt at ten. I won’t have room.”
“Liquid lunch!”
I grinned back, her glee utterly infectious. I felt torn, as I often did. I wanted nothing more than to be swept up in her whirlwind of sparkly plans, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that I had a doggedly loyal boyfriend who might have his own ideas about how today should be spent.
“I might have to play it by ear,” I said, then saw a flash of anger erupt across Sally’s face. What I’d learned by now was that she hated to feel thwarted: you had to disguise any refusal in something more appealing, like burying a toddler’s zucchinis in a spoonful of mash. “I’m sure it’ll be totally fine! You know Matt,” I said, rolling my eyes disloyally. “He’s always got some kind of extra-curricular activity that can’t wait.”
“Doesn’t he just,” said Sally, warming up again. “You’ve gotta tell him he’s got to share you tonight.”
“Why?”
She tapped her nose with a knowing smirk, refused to say more.
Matt’s card was one of those Monet pictures you’ve seen a hundred times, bought from the Student Union bookshop.
To Livvy, happy birthday, wishing you a really great year! Much love, Matt.
I looked at it, faintly disappointed, even though I’d done nothing to merit a more extravagant declaration. But perhaps it was exactly that, if I’d only had the humility to see it. I was becoming addicted to a life lived as a rollercoaster ride, the swooping highs and lows where everything upended and then spun back in a dizzying twist, and in the process become immune to any pleasures that were more subtle and finely wrought. He’d look at me with such vulnerability at times when he thought I wasn’t watching, but I wouldn’t acknowledge it, wouldn’t give him the courage to bring his feelings out into the light, even though I liked knowing they were there. I guess in this relationship he was the one who had to hide the zucchinis.
“Thanks,” I said, turning my attention to the small package that accompanied it, neatly taped, edges perfectly lined up. It was a black cotton V-neck jumper that I’d seen when we’d been shopping for a pair of pants for him in House of Fraser.
“You said you liked it, so I went back and got it,” he said, his happy smile telling me how pleased he was to have pulled off this daring act of subterfuge.
“Thanks, Matt, that’s really sweet.” I’d glanced at it, thinking it would be a good layer of extra insulation against the Yorkshire winter, then decided it was too dull to waste my
puny clothing budget on—I was more interested in shiny scraps of fabric from Topshop nowadays. I felt myself blush at the thought of Sally’s gift, which came from a different present-giving universe. Would it repel him, make him recoil in disgust at me trying to be something he didn’t want me to be? I felt a stab of irritation as I looked down at the drab pool of black fabric. Why wasn’t he the one with the imagination to buy me sexy underwear?
“I’ve got to finish my Keats essay today,” he said, and I gave a little internal cheer at the bright colors flooding back into my afternoon, “but we’re going out for dinner tonight, my treat. Thought we could try out that new pasta place.”
“That’d be great,” I said, reaching for his hand across the plastic table, “but . . .”
He looked at me, deflating. He knew what was coming.
Sally and I got ready together, makeup passed back and forth,
Take That
blasting out between our two bedrooms. We sung
“Pray”
at the top of our voices, Sally clutching her heart melodramatically at the chorus. Lola was dressing too, but she soon worked out it was too much hassle to run up and down from her room on the second floor—I don’t know why we didn’t just bring all her outfit options upstairs and make space for her. That’s not true—I know exactly why we didn’t.
Sally took a critical look at me when I thought I was ready, all dolled up in a dress from Oasis that cost more than I’d ever spent on one item. She’d told me I had to have it, that it was a “no-brainer.” I felt myself wither under the weight of her gaze.
“Yeah,” she said, head tilted to one side, makeup thick and professional-looking. “Almost.”
I felt a surge of anger. If it was only an “almost” why had she persuaded me to spend so much on it that I’d had to live on pasta and Dolmio for a fortnight? But my anger disappeared in a puff of smoke when she offered me a red dress that I’d never seen before, with an expensive-looking label that I couldn’t even identify. I had to slither into it, the fabric clinging like a second skin.
“Perfect, apart from the VPL,” she cried, a delighted look on her face. “Get your new slinkies on, Livvy-toilet.”
She didn’t leave the room, simply waited. I turned away, trying to reveal the minimum amount of naked flesh, but I could feel her eyes tracking me, knew on one level that she was enjoying my discomfort. I ignored the fact, concentrated on the difference that the smooth lines of the teddy made to the look of the dress. Sally added a pair of her high heels, the toes stuffed with tissue paper, and there I was, good to go. I barely recognized myself, something I felt with increasing regularity.
“Gorgeous,” she said, standing behind me in the mirror, our eyes meeting in the reflection. I remember that image as clearly as if we’d snapped it for posterity.
Sally instructed the cab driver in a whisper. Every time I asked where we were going she’d say “It’s a surprise!” and I’d feel that addictive, heady sensation of being celebrated just for being me. The three of us girls squashed up in the back, sharing a wine cooler that Sally had stowed in her handbag, increasingly loud and giggly.
“Will Matt know how to find us?” I asked, responsibility temporarily puncturing my euphoria.
“Yeah it’s fine. I called Bagpuss mission control,” said Sally, taking another swig, her tone telling me how low it was on her list of priorities.
We pulled up at a bar right in the city center, too upscale to be frequented by students. “We’re on the list,” said Sally, sweeping past the meaty bouncer without a backward glance. She led me through the bar to a back room, a happy birthday banner strung across the back wall, a bottle of cava already chilling in an ice bucket. There was a crowd of people there, most of whom I knew. The fact that many of them were only sort of friends made me realize, just for a second, how much oxygen Sally took up. “Surprise!” she shouted, bubbles cascading into my glass, leading everyone in a chorus of “Happy Birthday.” Matt was there in the crowd, smiling shyly, relegated to a bit part. She must have been planning this for at least a week, I thought, but unless it was a double bluff he didn’t know this morning. I pushed that thought away too, irritated by the fat bluebottles of negativity that were buzzing around my mind, marring this amazing moment.
“Thanks, everyone,” I said, raising my glass as they toasted me.
“Shit, have I missed the toast?” said a familiar voice. I turned slowly, my legs shaking at the shock of worlds colliding.
There, present in hand, stood James.
