The Godmother (7 page)

“Definitely.”

“Excellent,” said Ben. “More booze.”

As I said, there are some subjects best avoided.

Awash in champagne, we finally called it a night. At my building Ben jumped out of the cab and opened my door. As he always has done. He asked the driver to wait a few moments so he could walk me to the door. He needn't have worried about my safety, Roman was on duty, but Ben has always walked me to my door. He hugged me.

“I missed you,” he said. “Please don't go off navel-gazing again. My life deteriorates.”

I smiled into his shirt. That cottony smell I knew so well. “Didn't you get the postcard of my long deserted beach?”

“You put a cross under a palm tree and wrote, ‘Send more supplies'—three words, Tessa King, three words in a month. Not impressed.”

“But funny.”

“Always that.” He kissed me on the lips. “Night, gorgeous,” he said.

“Night, Ben.” The door closed. I turned and walked to the lift, feeling an early comedown. Suddenly I remembered the Channel 4 party. I turned back. Ben was walking slowly to the cab. I yanked open the door.

“Hey, piss-head, you going to the launch of Neil's new comedy series?”

He turned around. A deep frown fading as he did so. “The party? Wasn't going to, but if you are…”

I nodded. “Helen has asked me. I think she wants someone to hold her hand. You know what Neil can be like.”

“Great, let's make a night of it,” he said, now smiling. “I'll see you there.”

I kept on nodding. “Will do. And Ben, thanks for my welcome-home party.”

He put his hand to his heart, bowed his head and climbed into the cab. My second walk to the lift wasn't so gloomy. I went to bed happy.

The next day I walked into Sticky Fingers restaurant on High Street Kensington at one o'clock. There was Caspar, slouched low in his chair, but present
and correct. I felt the iPod box in my bag, glad that I'd had faith enough to wrap it. Sixteen is a big age for a boy. I think it marks the birth of a man. I wouldn't like to be in his shoes for all the banoffi pie in the world.

There was another boy sitting next to him, taller and slimmer than Caspar. His name was Zac. He stood to shake my hand. His jeans hung so low I could see his boxers. I wanted to yank them up and tuck in his shirt. Shit, I was getting old. Caspar, on the other hand, mumbled something that could have been anything from a greeting to a veiled mafia death threat. I winked at Francesca to stop her laying into her son. I didn't think that would help matters. Caspar's two sisters, Poppy and Katie, were there, sucking on milkshakes that were bigger than them, and Nick and Francesca, and Nick's unmarried brother Paul, whom I liked but didn't fancy. This set-up has been going on for fourteen years; luckily, Paul and I have been in cahoots since the third attempt, so, it doesn't matter. To us, anyway. I think Francesca and Nick are still holding out, though.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Miss King?” said a sultry male voice to my right. “Or a Bloody Mary?”

“Please call me Tessa. In my head I'm your age; try to remember that when you talk to me.”

He smiled. “Coca-Cola, then?”

I smiled back. “Perhaps not that young.”

Zac leaned closer to me, his leg touched mine. “You're as young as the person you feel,” he said quietly.

Surely I had heard that wrong. This boy, this child, was flirting with me? I looked at him again; he lowered his eyelashes coyly. Well, I never…Was I set to become the Joan Collins of my friends? I saw an image of myself in a few years' time: convertible car, a jewelry-wearing, snake-hipped youth lounging in the passenger seat who looked uncannily like a young Robert Downey Jr. (he often pops up in my fantasies). I was beginning to enjoy the scene playing out in my head until I took a closer look and saw that the young stud in my passenger seat was filling out his college application. I quickly ordered a medium-rare cheeseburger with chips and onion rings and, as a nod to health, some coleslaw. But firstly, a bottle of Mexican beer with a lime in the top. Bliss. I was in a good mood. If there were family tensions, I bulldozed my way through them, resolutely cheerful.

“I'm glad you got my message,” I said, smiling, to Caspar while the rest of the table busied itself with a milkshake spill. Then I lowered my tone and leaned closer. “But perhaps you didn't read the subtext. Turning up was one thing, but a smile clinches the deal. And while we're on the subject, I'm adding another clause. Sit up straight right now or I'll return the iPod and buy myself the pair of shoes which your birthday gift just barely beat out.” It is what my mother did with me when I was a baby, apparently. She said it was all in the tone. Tone and expression, the words didn't mean a thing. It must have worked with Caspar because for a moment he looked afraid and sat up. Francesca looked over just as I moved away and her son joined his party.

As far as conversation went, it felt like I was in sole charge of the ball. I dribbled and sashayed, passed and quickly retrieved, but if I dropped the ball, the table went quiet again. By the end of lunch I was exhausted. The monkey was all performed out. The only reward for my dazzling verbal dexterity was the attention I received from Zac, who, it turned out, was unquestionably flirting with me—terrifyingly successfully, at that. He was good with Francesca too, polite and charming, but always deferring to Nick. But I had no Nick to defer to, so he could let rip on me. The sly innuendoes were always delivered solely in my earshot, the personal questions disguised as polite conversation—it was impressive, to say the least. I thought it best to return to “batty aunt”–style conversation before I crossed a line, so I put a questionnaire to the table, hoping that the family bond I knew so well would return.

“To the table, in no particular order: who was the last person you kissed?” I looked at Nick.

He turned to Francesca and kissed her on the mouth. “My wife,” he said.

“Quick thinking,” I replied.

“Caspar?”

“This is a stupid game.”

“Oh dear, I don't think Caspar has kissed anyone,” said Nick.

The girls giggled. I pointed at the youngest. “Snoopy,” Poppy replied, without a moment's hesitation.

“Francesca?”

“The gardener, but don't tell Nick.”

“We haven't got a gardener,” said Poppy.

“Dad is the gardener,” said her elder sister. “Derr.”

“Zac?”

“In real life, or in my imagination?”

I had a horrible feeling I was blushing. “Real life.”

“Jen Packer.”

Caspar sat up. “You said you hadn't.”

Zac shrugged. “What can I do, mate? She threw herself at me.”

“Paul?” I asked quickly. “What about you?”

He took a deep breath. We waited. “Gary.”

Nick and Francesca swung round to face him. Paul shrugged. There was a nervous silence.

“Ice cream anybody?” I asked and winked at Paul.

As we walked down High Street Kensington, Zac caught up with me. “You didn't answer your own question.” Although only sixteen years old, he was taller than me, and I'm not short. His legs were so long and his jeans hung loose over jutting hipbones. I had a crazy desire to clench his belt hooks between my teeth and rip the jeans off. I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. So I said nothing.

“I know who I'd like it to be.”

“And who would that be?” I asked before I got control of my tongue.

“I think you know, Mizz King.”

The laughter exploded out of me. “Sorry,” I said, and held my breath. It didn't help. The laughter erupted again. I couldn't speak. He looked so crestfallen, but I had terrible schoolgirl giggles and they would not stop. I tried to apologize, but the earnest look on the boy's face kept returning to me, the lick of his lips. I imagined him practicing in front of the mirror in the privacy of his own home, working on his lines, his long, languid looks, and the laughter would not stop. I tried to take his arm to offer some sort of physical apology, but he shook it off. I was in trouble now, and that made it even funnier. Just when I thought I'd got control of myself, the explosion came again, sending spittle flying into the pedestrian in front of me. Zac stopped walking. I continued, absorbed in my own mirth. Perhaps that was why I never had a boyfriend when I was that age. Perhaps that was the reason I still didn't. I guffawed all the way home, intermittently over the afternoon and many times in front of the mirror as I got ready to go out that night.

I opened a bottle of wine and treated myself to a long bath. Every person needs a constant in their lives, this was mine: lying in hot, oily water with wine.

I rang Billy. “Hey, Billy, it's me.”

“At last. How are you? When am I going to see you? Was it great?”

“Seems like years ago already. What about one evening next week? Are you busy?”

“Ha, ha.”

Billy was a single mother with no money to go out with and even less inclination. I should have known.

“I've got a movie out if you want to come over tonight?” asked Billy.

“Thanks but I'm…”

“Course you are, being stupid. Um…” Billy paused. “So, was it great?”

“You could come if you want, tonight?”

“Thanks but I can't. Madga is out, so…But have a good time.”

I knew the answer would be no. It always is. Probably a good thing in this case since I didn't think Billy and Samira were a good mix. Billy wasn't robust enough for the likes of Samira and, if I was being truly honest with myself, I didn't feel like carrying Billy that night. I had a hard enough time holding my own against Samira's exceedingly forceful gravitational pull.

“How's my baby girl?” I asked.

“Wonderful.” Billy's voice softened as it always did when she was talking about her child. We chatted about Cora, how school was, her health, her latest favorite teacher.

“I'm sorry,” said Billy. “This is boring. You've got a party to go to.”

“Nonsense,” I replied in jest. “Knowing this stuff makes me feel part of the human race.” I didn't realize the accidental truth of my words. “But I am beginning to wrinkle, which will not help my ever-diminishing ability to pull.”

“You're gorgeous—stop it.”

“I'll see you next week.”

“Love to. Bye, Tessa. Thank you so much for calling.”

I made a real effort with my clothes and make-up for one reason and one reason only: I imagined there was a slim chance Sebastian would be at the party. One friend of Samira's was likely to know another, right? The hair was
straight, the boobs were out, the legs were on show. Normally I don't do legs and boobs, it's a little over the top and I'm the wrong side of thirty-five, but I was feeling daring. No, not daring. Hopeful. I would not use the word desperate. Earlier in the week, I had sat in front of my laptop and flicked at Sebastian's card. The one he gave me before we shagged. The one he probably wouldn't have given me after we shagged. But I wasn't thinking like that. I was hopeful. He'd reawakened my taste for lust. Fuel for the soul, which I feared I would never have an appetite for again.

I don't want to go over and over what happened with my boss. I'm bored of it. But there were times when I thought I was wholly responsible, just for being the way I was. It was noted that I had been out to drinks with him. I had, that was true, but only ever with the rest of our department. It was said that I sometimes dressed provocatively in the office. Every working girl has an outfit that transforms itself into evening attire. The hours I kept didn't make room for time to go home and change. With a different top and fabulous shoes I often tottered out of the ladies to meet friends. I knew I had not done anything to lead the man on, but sometimes I doubted myself.

In the fallout of the whole debacle, there was rage. Pity. Sadness. Guilt. Disbelief. Meeting anyone during that time was not going to be successful because I wouldn't have let it. But then that thing with Sebastian had happened. And now my taste buds were alive again, I wanted more. One sweet wasn't enough. I wanted the whole damn factory. I had “recovered” so well that I could even see the fuzzy outline of a fairy-tale ending to a story that hadn't yet made it to print.

Eventually I had succumbed and typed in his email address and started writing a jaunty “don't worry I'm not crackers, I'm a perfectly well-adjusted, independent (but not aggressively so) woman.” It didn't work. Even the “Hi” looked suspicious. I deleted it and threw the card in the bin. It was not a particularly rash act as I knew I could get his number from Samira at any time. But perhaps I wouldn't have to. Perhaps he'd see me, looking fabulous, at the party, come marching up to me and tell me he couldn't get me out of his mind, and how did I feel about the suburbs, since his salary wouldn't be able to buy a place big enough for the kids…

The taxi pulled up outside the address given to me by Samira. I glanced up at the illuminated five-storey house in Belgravia, and wondered if the driver had got it right. Excited, I opened up my wallet to pay when I remembered I had completely forgotten to get cash out. It didn't matter. I always had a £50 note stashed away for emergencies. And for times when I forget to go to the ATM. It had been there for ages. I looked but the fifty quid wasn't there. I checked again in case I'd missed it the first time, but it was not there. Was I going mad? Had I spent it and forgotten?

I offered the driver a card; he told me his machine was broken, and drove around for another £3.80, locating a machine. The red lights on the way back put on another couple of quid, and when I paid I noticed that the light on the card machine was on. I think someone was taking the piss. Did I complain? Make a fuss? No. I handed over the fee, and because I am an idiot who wants to be liked, I tipped him too. As the taxi pulled off I wanted to run after it and demand my hard-earned money back, but, as if by magic, all the lights went green, and anyway, I was in heels. I had hoped that India would stop these silly setbacks affecting me so; that I would see them for the city-life trifles they were and not take them as proof that the world was conspiring against me. But watching the tail lights fade into the night, like watching Helen being pulled back home by her loving husband, just made me feel alone.