Growing Up Twice (19 page)

And then on the Wednesday after Twickenham I found myself getting out of bed half an hour earlier than normal and brewing some of the fresh coffee that magically appeared in the cupboard. As I spooned in the coffee, Rosie, fresh from her turn in the shower, followed me into the kitchen, produced some fresh crusty bread for toast and scrambled some eggs. We sat together at the tiny kitchen table and ate breakfast in a comfortable silence, finishing by clearing the plates and mugs to the empty draining-board. Every evening we have lived here one of us has washed up. And it doesn’t even take very long if you do it every day.

Neither of us has said anything about it, we have just accepted it with relief, like two children who have been trapped in a funfair hall of mirrors and suddenly come across their true reflections.

And of course there is Rosie. Rosie changes every day. Twelve weeks gone, some of her changes only she can attest to, like needing to go and buy maternity tights even though her hips and tummy would still make the average woman reach for the Slim-Fast. Or her pilgrimage to Mothercare to buy some trousers that she insists fit her despite the fact that they bag around her middle like a kangaroo’s pouch, and slip halfway down her bottom when she walks.

And then there’s the crying. She stopped being sick just after we moved into the new flat. She still looks a little wan without the right amount of sleep or enough food but generally speaking we thought the worst was over. Instead she started crying. First off she cried at an RSPCA appeal on TV. Well, we’ve all done that without the aid of added hormones so we thought no more about it. But now she cries all the time. She cries at the news,
EastEnders
, trailers for films, the books she’s reading (she’s reading Harry Potter), the death of her first ever pot plant. Maybe that would merit some sentimental reaction but she had only bought it a few days earlier.

Underlying the arbitrary crying episodes, is something else. The Rosie I’ve always known has flitted from one day to the next, always restless and always searching. Somehow that Rosie seems to have settled down and now, beneath the tear stains and the baggy trousers, I can see she is fully centred on herself, happy to believe that she is enough to get her through.

Of course, some things never change. After reading about what can happen to your perineum during labour we both got so scared by the pregnancy book that Selin bought her that we have hidden it under a pile of hardbacks, a doorstop and the remains of Rosie’s pot plant.

‘I’d just rather not know that bit,’ Rosie said.

‘Neither would I,’ I concurred and we both shuddered as though someone had walked over our graves.

As for Selin, now Selin has started to – well, the only word I can think of is bloom. Always beautiful Selin, tall, raven-haired Selin. Normally elegant and reserved, she has suddenly acquired a little glow, a different smile has appeared in her repertoire and a new tone in her voice.

‘Selin, you’re different,’ I told her one day over two sneaky bottles of wine whilst Rosie was out at a function.

‘No, I’m not,’ she laughed, tossing her hair in a black glossy tidal wave, rejoicing in the very difference she denied.

‘Yes, you are. You’ve sort of become … ostentatious. Which is nice, by the way.’

She looked at me for a long moment and then reached over and gave me a hug. ‘I’m just happy. You and Rosie are nearby. The dreaded Owen has gone for good. I’m getting on really well with Dad. I’ve landed a couple of new clients. I feel as though I’m moving forward and, well, Jen there’s …’

‘Oh, God, everyone is moving forward but me!’ I cried with dramatic self-pity. ‘There’s what?’

‘Oh nothing, never mind. I’m just happy,’ she said, and we left it at that, although I did wonder for a moment what secret knowledge about how to live life Selin had secretly acquired, and if her new expression of pleasure at her never-changing daily life somehow meant she was leaving Rosie and me behind, still stuck in the same jumbled, disorganised, it-will-sort-itself-out-one-day rut. Maybe she has achieved that mythic nirvana of being happy with her lot and her single status that all the books and magazines tell us we need to achieve. If she has, and if the prophecy is true, she’ll be mobbed by hundreds of relationship-friendly men any day now.

Repeat after me, I am happy with my life, I am happy with my life, I am happy with my life. Honest I am.

Even Josh is different. For starters, he comes around all the time. I haven’t seen him this much since he and Selin still lived at home, back in the days when we used to root through his drawers looking for his meagre collection of porn. We’d spend hours giggling through our fingers on Selin’s bed before sending him a ransom note made out of letters clipped from the pages threatening to tell his mum. On three occasions that little enterprise had got us enough money to go down to McDonald’s in Wood Green and flirt with the sixth formers. But then he fitted a lock to his door and we had to go back to flat Diet Cokes in the café.

It’s not that I mind him being there when I get in, it’s nice to see him, I even look forward to it. It’s nice that he’ll drop round with a video or a pizza and the three of us will veg out in front of the TV. But the thing is, I can’t quite work out his motivation. I mean, OK so we’re new neighbours, we’re all between official partners, but he’s got loads of mates in Stokey and it’s not as if he has a ton of time on his hands. Even though we’re used to seeing him pretty often, it’s usually with Selin, some social occasion we all attend, not just because he fancies a visit with his little sister’s mates. In fact, we’re beginning to see him more than Selin, who seems to be constantly busy with something else these days.

I occasionally wonder if it might be that he fancies Rosie. Most people do. And Josh always talked about wanting kids one day. If he does fancy her I don’t think Rosie has cottoned on yet, which is probably for the best. I love Rosie and I’m very fond of Josh, but although I can’t quite put my finger on why, I just really can’t see them together.

Now me. The usual routine of work trundles on. Nine days since Twickenham and not a word from Michael. I turned my phone off for three days because I didn’t want to speak to him, but when I switched it back on there were no messages waiting. I’m not really sure why I got so cross, I’m not really sure why he hasn’t phoned and I’m not sure if I should phone him. But a memory of his touch, the way he holds his head or his redundant aftershave lotion suddenly creeps up on me and I’m surprised by how much I miss him.

Something has happened to make my workplace more interesting – OK, to make it interesting at all. There’s a new addition to the office. Jackson from New York City. I have to say New York City, because whenever any one of us says something like, ‘Wow, New York, living there must be
so
cool,’ he says things like, ‘Well yes, New York State is very pleasant. New York
City
is way cool.’

I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt because he’s new and I sometimes behave like a twat when I’m nervous.

Apparently he is Georgie’s opposite number in NYC, which gets her back up, because he’s probably about twenty-five and worse, he’s a vice-president or vice-something. Georgie tells me they are all vice-presidents over there, post room up. I’m not sure she’s giving him the benefit of the doubt.

He is far too strait-laced and serious to be her type of person, despite the fact that he is totally gorgeous in that kind of 1980s longish-hair and sleeves-rolled-up kind of way. In that kind of Rob Lowe, piercing-blue-eyes, with-a-Texan-drawl, St-Elmo’s-Fire kind of way.

He’s here on an ideas exchange. They are going to cross-fertilise creatively and are striving to push the envelope in order to concretise a more dynamic transatlantic symbiosis and become more successful rainmakers.

Your guess is as good as mine.

All I know is that he is here for a month and that Georgie’s PA, the long-suffering Alice, has brought her more cups of herbal tea in one morning than she usually consumes in two days. Alice flashes me the packet as she walks past on her fourth trip of the morning. ‘Tolerance Tea.’ Figures.

Ten days and counting and I still haven’t spoken to Michael, but I think he might be working up to talking to me. He’s called me a few times at work, I’m pretty sure. I’ve picked up the phone but as soon as I speak he hangs up. Either that or I’ve been unlucky enough to have my direct line input on to the auto dial of a fax on Repeat to Sender mode. This happened to me a couple of years ago, so I wouldn’t be that surprised. It was a girl from accounts called Lizette, who had taken exception to my Owen-related rebound fling with her boyfriend (break-up number two). Well, OK, he
was
her fiancé at the time but I was a crazy mixed-up kid back then, I have a much more responsible attitude to other people’s relationships nowadays. Lizette is still here, but shortly after our ‘episode’ her fiancé went to Mexico to find himself and found a beach-bar job in Cancún instead and then married a local girl. Lizette has never forgiven me.

After the acute embarrassment of Twickenham has died down I just keep thinking of Michael, asleep beside me in his attic room. I never expected him to have reservations about what we were doing. I never expected that he would want to keep
me
a secret. He seemed so keen that I went to his party, meet his friends in the pub. Maybe I read it wrong, maybe he was just trying to protect me, respect my feelings. When it comes right down to it, if he hadn’t mentioned this Holly person I’d probably have laughed all the way home.

I sigh and look blankly at the Excel spreadsheet in front of me, trying to muster up the energy to take it seriously. This is another legacy from Owen. So many names thrown in my face so many times. So many other women that every time another woman came up in conversation I had to brace myself for the worst. At some time in my life all the anger and bitterness I feel will fall away and I’ll see this as another hour that turned the clock. It’s just that I can’t imagine when.

All at once my mobile springs into life with its tinny version of ‘Disco Inferno’ just at the exact moment that my work phone starts beeping for attention. Professional to the last, I dive for my bag and spend a frantic few seconds rooting my phone out. Pulling it out, I can see Michael’s name on the display. The moment I press ‘OK’ to answer it both phones go silent. My mobile must have gone to messages and the work call must have gone off into the mysterious world of my ‘hunt group’, in other words it will be directed to someone else in the office to pick up.

My work phone chirrups into life again.

‘Hello, UK Sales, may I help you?’

Silence, but I get the feeling that someone is there. If I press my headset against my ear I think I can hear the passing rush of traffic.

‘Helloooo,’ I call moronically. ‘If this is your fax machine this is not a fax number!’ I press the Release button, wondering if in the unlikely event that people should happen to congregate around the fax area they can actually hear me shouting down a fax machine.

I’m still trying to figure it out when Jackson slides, yes, slides in the manner of Michael Jackson, into my office singing the tune to my mobile phone ring.

He smiles at me with exceptionally white teeth and sits down.

‘Hey!’ he says brightly. I have watched enough TV to know this is American for hello.

‘Hello,’ I say in my best Lady Di voice. He leans back in the chair as far as it will go and with his arms folded across his chest focuses his blue eyes on me from under a floppy fringe. There is something about a floppy fringe on a bloke.

‘Man, I love that number,’ he says with a twinkle. I think his teeth really do do that advert thing and gleam; it could be the strip lighting but I’m pretty sure they are gleaming. Now I know not all Americans look like extras from
Ally McBeal
, because I’ve seen Jerry Springer, I’ve seen Mr and Mrs Tourist, ‘fanny packs’ slung high, matching anoraks zipped up tight, laughing on the tube at 8.15 in the morning. But this one really does.

I want to ask him what he does to his teeth and if he is wearing tinted contacts but instead I say, ‘“Disco Inferno”? Really? Do you love disco or just “Disco Inferno”?’

You have to be cautious in the early stages of finding a kindred disco spirit. These days many hopefuls turn out to be people who bought an afro wig for someone’s stag do and when they talk about the Bee Gees’ ‘More Than a Woman’ they mean Westlife’s version. At least I think it was Westlife, it could have been A1.

‘Disco? I
love
it. Where can a guy go to get down to some decent disco in this town?’ He’s probably gay but given that I’m the only person in the world who was surprised about George Michael I don’t think I’m the best one to judge. A straight good-looking rich American man who loves disco? There hasn’t been one of those since John Travolta, surely?

‘Well, mmm, I know a few clubs, we could go one night if you like?’ I say casually. I don’t want him to think I fancy him, just in case. Well, I don’t want him to think I fancy him at all, because I don’t. Much.

‘Really? Thanks, that would be really good. It looks like I might be here quite a while, it would be nice to meet some people.’

‘My pleasure,’ I say, my smile spreading faster than a charm tsunami.

‘And listen.’ He leans in a bit closer and beckons me to within inches of his chiselled nose. Here we go, he’s going to ask me about gay clubs. ‘I just wanted to say, sorry about acting like a prick when I first arrived. Nerves.’

‘A prick!’ I cry, just loudly enough for Kevin to look over and giggle. ‘Nonsense. No one thought you acted like a prick!’ I say with sincerity. No, we thought you acted like a
twat.

‘I’ll see if I can arrange something for this Friday, shall I?’ It’s not that all thoughts of Michael have just gone instantly out of my head. It’s just I want to show Rosie and Selin my pretty new friend.

‘That’s really kind of you.’ He gets out of his chair and heads for the door.

‘Not at all,’ I say, ‘it’s nice to have a new disco friend.’ I sit for a moment, caught up in a nostalgic fusion of seventies music and my 3D-effect Rob Lowe poster that I used to snog so inexpertly but intensely. Gradually the moment fades and I think of Michael. I pick up his message.