Growing Up Twice (34 page)

‘Yes, that’s it,’ I say, already sounding cold and distant.

‘It’s not about how great we get on? How good we are together? How we make each other laugh? It’s about how
respectable
we are?’

I can’t think of a better way to explain something that I am only just beginning to understand myself. I find I don’t want to have to explain it any more. The pain and complication, the inevitable consequences of my actions, weigh down too heavily on my tongue.

‘I think you should go,’ I say, avoiding his eye, climbing out of bed and getting dressed.

‘But, wait. I can fix that!’ he cries, scrambling out of bed and back into his clothes. ‘I can make that better. I can make it so that I can be a whole part of your life. I can!’

I look at him and throw him his trainers.

‘I don’t think you can,’ I say with a deliberately cold voice. ‘We are just too far apart.’ I walk to the front door and hold it open. Filled with justifiable anger, he hurtles towards me stopping short a few inches from me.

‘You’re wrong. I’ll show you how much you mean to me,’ he says. ‘Then you’ll see.’ And he is gone, slamming into walls as he rushes down the stairs.

I don’t go to the window to watch him walk away, I go into the living-room and look at the sofa which still holds the impression of Josh’s head and neck in its cushions. I sink into his familiar dents and close my eyes, rubbing my pounding temples.

Have I treated Michael badly? Did I make that more painful than it had to be? Was I more cruel and cold than I had to be? Saying all that just after sex, that would hurt him. Would waiting any longer have hurt him more? Would an uncomfortable day of distances and silences have been better for him? I do feel bad, I feel wretched, but as is always the way if you’re the person who ends it I feel relieved. At least I didn’t leave him a Post-it note.

So, where do I go from here?

When Rosie comes through the door later that evening I have barely moved off the sofa all day. I spend a lot of time on the sofa these days.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Seen Selin?’ I hear her bustle in and out of her room, haul myself into an upright position and shake my head.

‘No. I keep calling but no. I saw Josh. He said she was at their mum and dad’s and not to worry but, well, I keep thinking there’s something he’s not telling me. How was your mum?’

Rosie comes into the living-room with a waxed Sephora paper bag.

‘She seems to have become even more American. Except that she’s still thin. Good genes, you see. Hubby is fine. She told me I should have an elective caesarean so I didn’t have to bother with the fuss and worry about my vagina stretching. She said, and I quote, “Well, honey, you’re still not married, you know. I think you should at least get a ring on that finger before you let your vagina get slack.” Said it right in front of Hubby and his niece. Mortified.’

I let my jaw drop before bursting out in giggles.

‘Your mum, she always was a one,’ I say. ‘Can you imagine my mum saying that? Can you imagine my mum saying “vagina”!’ We laugh. Rosie’s mum has always been the glamorous, skinny, dressing-young, roots-always-touched-up mum. When Rosie’s dad left she picked herself up and got right back out there, remarried within two years and relocated to the States as soon as Rosie left home.

My mum met my dad when she was fourteen. She married him at a time when being a wife and mother was what marriage was all about, and she did that better than anyone for nearly quarter of a century before the secretary came along. When my dad left my mum was hurt and bewildered, punch drunk from a blow she didn’t see coming. Suddenly forced into a world of work she didn’t want or understand, just to keep a roof over our heads. She did it, she held down one job and then another until gradually she began to make friends and enjoy her working life, right up until the time she retired. But I’ll never forget those first years after we had the rug pulled out from under our feet. Coming home from school to an empty house for the first time ever, to find the electricity had been cut off or the phone bill hadn’t been paid. Going to bed before eight so that I didn’t have to hear my mum cry. I’ll never forgive him for abandoning us like that. If he had to leave us, why did he have to be so unkind?

I pull myself out of my reverie and admire the array of cosmetics Rosie has begun to set out on the floor.

‘Say what you like about your mum but she gives good gifts.’

‘I know!’ And for a few minutes we sniff newly opened pots of face cream, test lipsticks and spray perfume just as we used to in our old bedrooms all those years ago with ‘borrowed’ or discarded Avon products.

‘Got another antenatal next week,’ Rosie says, admiring the rainbow of Tuscan Spice through to Glacier Cherry Gloss that she has created on the back of her hand.

‘Yeah? Routine one? Do you want me to come?’ She ignores my question.

‘You know I woke up last night in Mum and Hubby’s guest room in total panic, literally gasping for air. Finally I calmed down and I thought, what is it? And then I suddenly realised that I am going to be responsible for another human life, like,
really responsible
. To the extent of keeping him or her alive. I’m going to have to remember to feed them and clothe them and not drop them or leave them in the bath or on the bus. I mean, I’ve thought about it before now, of course I have, I thought about nothing else when I decided to keep my baby. But the closer it gets the more I realise how much my life is going to change. It’s not just going to be
my
life any more.’ I listen quietly to her outburst and have begun to formulate a reassuring response when she continues, ‘The thing is, I don’t know if I can face it alone. I don’t know if I want to.’

I close my mouth and swallow. Chris.

‘What does your mum say?’ I ask through tight lips.

‘She says that when it comes to marriage and children you have to give it every possible chance before giving up. But then she does watch a lot of Oprah Winfrey.’ She smiles at me hopefully.

‘Well maybe, but you’re not married, are you, Rosie, and why is that?’ Her face falls and she silently packs her cosmetics back into her bag.

‘You just don’t want to understand, do you?’ she says, as she goes to her room. ‘And I don’t need you to come to the clinic with me, Chris is.’

I pad wearily to my bedroom, wondering how many more hits our friendship can take and how many more bridges we can build. I can’t see past how wrong it would be for her to go back to Chris and she can’t see why I’m right. My neck and shoulders hurt from too much time spent on the sofa over the last twenty-four hours but despite spending most of it asleep I find I’m shattered. I am grateful to go to sleep again.

I’m standing in a field full of tall flowers, with stems that reach over my head and heavy scent-laden flowers that act like parasols to shade me from the heat of a mid-summer, midday sun. Somewhere ahead of me I can hear a happy child, laughing and calling my name. I think I am lost.

‘Jenny! Jenny!’ The cries seem to get further away each time I hear them and each time I look around me I have become even smaller and smaller in a never-ending summer.

‘Jenny, mate, wake up, for Christ’s sake.’

I sit bolt upright and rub my eyes, blinking. The clock reads 9.30 a.m. Rosie is leaning over me. ‘Rosie, I was dreaming …’ I say, slightly befuddled, pushing my hair out of my eyes and smoothing sleep creases from my skin. ‘It is Sunday isn’t it?’

‘Oh yeah? Well, I thought
I
was dreaming but it turns out that there really
is
a mad woman downstairs demanding that you let her in now!’ Her tone is not a happy one, and I wince as I remember last night’s conversation.

‘A what?’ I can’t seem to get my act together

‘This woman, a Frances Parrott. She was ringing the bell for bloody ages. I was in the bath, but anyway as you clearly weren’t going to wake up I got out of the bath and answered it for you. Who is she? She is most insistent that she talks to you. And frankly, she sounds mightily pissed off.’

Frances Parrott? Fran. “Call me Fran, dear.” Oh fuck. Michael’s mother. I can think of only one reason why Michael’s mother is here.

‘I can fix that,’ he had said, or something like it, when I told him that the reason we couldn’t be together was because I wanted a proper relationship that I could have in public. He’s gone public. He’s told his mother.

‘She’s … um, tell her I’m not here?’ I ask Rosie hopefully as I climb out of bed and into the same jeans and jumper I put on for Michael yesterday. The jumper looks too tight across my chest so I change it for a baggy one, fully aware that it is probably too late to make a good impression.

‘Too late, she knows you’re here. She demands they come up here now before she calls the police. That’s the
police
, Jenny?’ Rosie tells me with furious precision, just in case the situation hasn’t quite sunk in yet.

I pace up and down by my bed a couple of times, trying to think of a way out of the flat without using the stairs.

‘Jenny! Snap out of it! Talk to her yourself, will you? What’s the problem anyway, do you owe her money or something?’ If only I could write a cheque to get out of this one.

‘Or something,’ I say, taking a deep breath and preparing to bite the bullet. I walk to the door and pick up the intercom phone.

‘Hello?’ I say banally.

‘Miss Greenway, it’s Michael’s mother here. I demand you let us in right now.’ Oh fuck, she’s brought him with her. This gets better and better.

‘Come up,’ I say briefly. I turn and look at Rosie, who is eyeing me speculatively from the kitchen doorway.

‘Rose, you are about to hear some things that you may find … surprising. Please would you just remember that I meant to tell you everything, and promise me that you will wait until you’ve heard my side of the story.’ She raises her eyebrows in a way that clearly says, ‘Why should I?’ and the front door shudders behind me as Mrs Parrott bangs on it with the full fury of a mother scorned.

I open the door.

‘You manipulative hussy,’ she says, pushing past me and marching down the hallway. Hussy? If this wasn’t so serious I’d be tempted to laugh. ‘What kind of a woman are you to lure an innocent boy into sex. You disgust me, you pervert, you’re nothing but a … but a filthy disgusting paedophile.’

Now I take offence. Rosie watches in silent horror as a tear-stained Michael files past her into the living-room and stands behind his seething mother.

‘Mrs Parrott, Michael is eighteen. He’s old enough to vote, old enough to die for his country. And he’s more than old enough and ready to have sex with whomever he chooses, believe me,’ I say, instantly regretting the implication of my last words. I sink on to a chair. Mrs Parrott bubbles over with wrath.

‘He only turned eighteen a few days ago, he is still a child no matter what he may think. You know that and I know that. You come into my home, abuse my hospitality, lie to my face; although how I could ever have been fooled into thinking you aren’t every single one of your thirty years I
don’t
know. You lead him on, you corrupt him and then finally,
finally
demand that he tells us about you or you’ll finish with him! What did you expect, Miss Greenway? What did you expect? An invitation to dinner? Perhaps we should ask you along to his next parents’ evening, maybe
you
will be able to explain to his teachers why his grades have slipped? Can you? I bet you’ve got a pretty good idea what he’s been up to when he should have been studying, haven’t you? You filthy …’ Apparently she can’t think of a word low enough to describe me and at last her tirade runs out of steam and she just stares at me red faced and open mouthed. I can’t find the words to defend myself, I just raise my hands, palm towards her, and then let them drop into my lap. I remain speechless. What can I say?

‘Mum.’ Michael reaches a hand out to her but she slaps him away. I can see from the blotches on his stricken face and the shadows under his eyes what a dreadful night he has had, and my heart goes out to him. Patiently, he begins again.

‘I’ve told you, it wasn’t like that, Mum, Jenny wanted to end it. I was the one who didn’t want it to end, I was the one who wanted to tell you. I wanted to show her I wasn’t ashamed of us, of what we have. Had.’

She shakes her head at him with pity and turns to look at me again.

‘Oh, so you’d had your fun with him, had you? Novelty worn off, had it?’

I catch Rosie’s eye. She shakes her head at me, turns and retreats into her room.

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Mrs Parrott,’ I say. ‘I can see how it looks to you, but really it wasn’t like that.’ I’m not sure that is exactly the truth but I’m certain that it is what Michael needs to hear. ‘Michael and I cared about, care about, each other. We really do. But I could see that the practicalities were never going to go away. I just wanted to end things before they got out of hand, before anyone got too hurt. I never meant to take advantage of your son, I don’t think that I did. We had a relationship that wasn’t going to work out, that’s all.’

She shakes her head at me this time and picks up her bag.

‘If you never wanted anyone to get hurt or damaged, “young” woman, you should never have let this farce begin. You were the adult here, not a teenager. Now I am warning you, it might be technically legal, but if you ever,
ever
go near my son again I will have an injunction out against you faster than you can say your own name, and believe me I’ll make sure that everyone you know knows about this. Do you understand me?’

‘I understand you,’ I say to my hand, feeling powerless to defend myself.

‘Right, Michael, come on. We’re not spending one second longer in this place than we have to.’

Michael stands and looks at me for a moment.

‘
Come on
, I said!’ his mother bellows.

He stands his ground.

‘I’ll be down in a minute, mum. I want to say goodbye to Jenny.’ She looks from him to me, her face a picture of despair, and she heads towards the door.

‘You have one minute before I come back up here and drag you out on to the street by your hair,’ she spits and then she is gone.