Growing Up Twice (36 page)

But Rosie didn’t want to hear my speech. ‘Nope, let’s not. OK? I’m off for a bath, see you later.’ Interrupted mid-soliloquy, I watched her retreating back. It could have gone worse, I suppose.

Since then we have smiled at each other across the breakfast table; Rosie takes all her calls in her bedroom when she’s in the flat and a lot of the time she isn’t here. I wonder who she is with?

One day at work Georgie forced me to attend a debrief with Jackson over how the exchange had gone so far, on the pretext that I’d have valuable input but really so that I could take the minutes. After an hour and a half with only bottled water for refreshment, I collared him in the corridor and said, ‘Do you see Rosie a lot?’

He looked me up and down and said, ‘Some. Why?’

We continued to walk back to our offices.

‘Well, Jackson, I think if you saw Rosie
that
much you’d know why,’ I said, convinced now that she was seeing more and more of Chris.

‘You mean you think I’d know more about the affair with the teenage kid and your views on Chris and your latest big row and the frosty atmosphere round your house?’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, if you know why haven’t you said anything?’

‘Well, because I like Rosie a lot. I like you a lot. But despite this and my considerable abundance of talent and charm, neither of you will sleep with me and frankly spending any time worrying over your latest schoolgirl fall-outs seems to me to be pretty pointless. Now if I was getting laid by at least one of you, I might
pretend
to take an interest.’

My face must have been a picture of horror because he laughed and patted me on the back.

‘Oh guys, hey?’ he joked, rolling his eyes. ‘No, stupid, do you want to know the real reason?’

I nodded.

‘OK, so hear me out, OK? Rosie and I have talked a lot. She was pissed at you, sure, because you got into that whole teenage thing – which by the way I do want to hear more about some time – and because you didn’t tell her anything about it until some middle-aged axe-wielding maniac mom turned up. You know, you two have always talked about everything. I think she minded that more than anything. But also, considering how close you are, it seems that you just don’t want to listen to how she feels about Chris. It seems that you’ve built up this image of him as a monster that you have to rescue her from. Granted, it’s an image to which she did initially contribute, but hey, you’ve broken up with a few guys, right? You don’t exactly paint them as Mr Nice in the aftermath, but maybe a few weeks or months or years later you might think, “Oh well, he wasn’t that bad.” Right?’

I thought about Mr Philosophy who left me because despite the fact that I didn’t love him I wanted him to love me so much that I badgered and pestered him into a commitment he wasn’t ready for. About six months after we broke up he met Miss Right. Got engaged and got cats. Jackson’s right, I don’t think he is such an evil heartless bastard now. In his position I’d have done the same thing. But Chris is different.

Jackson continued. ‘Well, we’ve talked a lot about it over the last few weeks and believe me, I’ve tried every machiavellian trick in the book to get her to think that he’s not the one and run back home with me, but the more we talk the more I think I might be wrong, much as it depresses me. The more I think about it, that whole marriage-divorce fiasco might just have been one of life’s regular reality-check mess-ups, not a modern interpretation of a Jacobean revenge tragedy. In fact, I’ve met Chris. And I hate him, but that’s because I’m in love with Rosie. Objectively? He’s immature, sure, a bit too “English” for my taste, maybe needed a bit longer to shop around before seeing what a good thing he had with Rosie, but he’s no wife beater. He’s not evil, just misguided. He’s just a guy who got it wrong big time and wants a second chance.’

We paused outside my goldfish bowl and I leant my forehead against the glass.

‘You weren’t there, Jackson, after it happened. You didn’t see her. If you’d seen her you’d understand,’ I said wearily.

‘Well, maybe, but my point is I like you a lot and I like Rosie a lot. I don’t want to fall out with either of you, so if you want to talk about stuff, as long as it’s not fast-track global invoicing systems, then let’s talk. But I won’t be doing any go-between stuff or telling you what she said and her what you said, and that’s the last time I offer my opinion. OK?’

‘Fair enough.’ I didn’t want to fall out with Jackson as well.

‘Now, office-machine coffee or ritual suicide by biro?’

‘Ritual suicide by biro, please.’

I did eventually see Selin. Both Rosie and I had left messages on her answerphone every other day, and one of our few conversation topics recently has been:

‘Heard from Selin?’

‘No, you?’

‘No.’

Getting more and more concerned about her, I decided to walk past her office window one evening on my way back from work and sure enough I saw her dark head still bent over her office desk.

I rattled the door but it was locked so I knocked, and she looked at me for a moment before letting me in. She looked thinner, fragile.

‘Selin, we’ve been so worried about you. Are you OK?’

She smiled and took my hand and hugged me.

‘OK as I can be. I’m sorry, Jen, don’t take it personally, I’ve just been spending time with the family. I’ve got your messages and I’ve been meaning to return your calls, but never seemed to find the time. After a while you dread someone asking you how you are. Not that I’m not glad to know you care or anything,’ she added hastily.

‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘I understand.’ But I felt hurt nonetheless that she hadn’t wanted me. Every crisis that had happened to me, I had always wanted her, but then nothing this big had ever happened to me.

‘How are things at home?’ I asked. Despite her declaration of dread, there really didn’t seem to be very much more I could say. I sat opposite her desk and looked at a poster depicting a Cypriot coastline that hung on the wall above her shoulder.

‘Well, quiet, devastated … you know. The shock has worn off now; we’re just left with the grief and the empty space without her. Surprisingly, Mum’s doing the best, cooking her way through the whole thing – but she’s the rock, she’s holding us all together. Dad has just gone to pieces, I think he feels that he let her down, somehow failed his little girl. Hakam tries really hard not to come out of his room. He won’t talk to me but he spends a lot of time with Josh. They play on the computer and watch videos and they talk about it. Josh has been really good with him. And as for Josh, well, you’ve seen Josh, haven’t you? He said he’d been over. I think it did him good. He’d exhausted himself, refused to sleep. He comes round to Mum’s every day for dinner and then he’s been working, painting, getting ready for the exhibition, it’s his way of escaping, I suppose. So that’s how we’ve been.’ She smiled a tired smile and then leant back in her chair with a weary resignation. ‘And you?’

‘Oh God, Selin, you wouldn’t believe …’ I began but then I saw the shadows under her eyes and the tired line of her mouth and stopped myself. ‘Well, the edited version is that Rosie is still umming and aahing about Chris, can you believe it? Anyway, we’ve sort of fallen out about it and one or two other things but I’ll tell you the details another time. I can see you’re tired.’

Selin smiled and looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’d better get going. Family dinner, you know?’

‘OK, well, I’ll stop leaving you messages every five minutes now I’ve seen you. You call me when you want me, won’t you? If you want me.’ I stood and buttoned up my coat, it had started to drizzle outside.

‘Of course. If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you at Josh’s exhibition anyway, won’t I?’

‘Definitely. OK then.’ As I opened the door I collided straight into Josh and, strangely, Mr Selin’s tall, silent friend who had looked after Selin at the funeral.

‘Hello, Jen,’ Josh smiled at me.

‘Hello,’ I said to him. ‘Hello,’ I said to the friend, who nodded at me in return.

‘We’ve just come to pick Seli up, working too late as usual. Come on, sis. Mum’s cooked up a storm.’

‘OK, I’m coming, I’m coming.’ Suddenly Selin seemed to become more like her old self again and I watched with bemusement as a wide smile spread over her face when old-tall-silent-friend-man strode across the office to her and sat on the corner of her desk talking softly to her as she shut down her PC.

‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ I said to Josh, my eyes still on Selin.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink later in the week? You and Rosie and the pub? Maybe Seli if we can drag her away from … home.’

‘Yeah, love to if you’re up to it, give us a call.’ I looked at Selin and the man once again and shook my head. ‘See you then.’

‘See you.’ Josh shuts the door practically in my face.

That was over a week ago. Josh’s exhibition is next Saturday and it looks as though I won’t hear from either of them until then. And it’s another wet Monday and, OK, I am feeling sorry for myself.

The last few weeks could have been worse, I suppose. There haven’t been any more messages from Owen, although there was one evening on the way home from work when I thought I’d seen him. I thought I caught sight of his familiar shock of blond hair and his angular jaw standing out in the commuter crowd and I braced myself for confrontation, but when I looked again all I could see was an army of grey raincoats and umbrellas. Realising that I must have imagined it I worried all the way home, wondering whether my brain had conjured up his image because I was anxious about just that kind of confrontation or because deep down part of me missed him.

And then, one night, after sitting though the maximum number of bearable hours of Carla’s latest bedroom tales in the pub along with Kevin, Brian and a very bored Jackson, I’d come back on the bus late and alone and sort of tipsy, but moreover tired and depressed, and for a moment I thought he’d turned up again.

For once the usually busy short stretch of Green Lanes that leads to my road was quiet and abandoned and I could see as I followed the bend of the road that even the Pizza Gogo lights had been turned off. For a moment I thought I heard Owen’s familiar brisk walk behind me, characterised by the steel toe reinforcement he insisted on having on his second-hand shoes, but when I turned to look the road was empty. I stood for a moment and looked around me at the empty shadows, peering through the steamy windows of the coffee houses for a familiar face, and suddenly I felt afraid to be alone outside in the night. I was only fifty or so yards from my door but I ran that last stretch and didn’t stop until I had slammed the door behind me.

I stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs getting my breath back, and then I laughed. Spending too much time alone or in the company of my mostly moronic colleagues was clearly making me slightly crazy. Even if Owen had once been inclined to follow me – and I’m pretty sure he’ll have found some other distractions by now – he’s got no idea where I live.

Now I’m sitting on the telephone chair listening to the rain stream down the ancient double glazing and looking at the phone. I miss Michael, or at least I miss the idea of him, or maybe just being able to think about the idea of him. I hadn’t really expected our last goodbye to be our last goodbye. I’m certain that if I had been in Michael’s position I would have written letters, phoned and probably begged at least a few more times before finally giving in, but it seems that Michael has more presence of mind and dignity than I gave him credit for.

This morning I dithered around considering deleting his number from my phone but something like sentiment stopped me from doing it – that and the memory of our first kiss under the trees in Soho Square. It sounds corny but if he had been a bit older then maybe he would have been the one, or maybe in ten years’ time life and love would have turned him into someone else, someone who couldn’t love someone like me.

I stare at the phone. I’m not expecting anyone to call me, I can’t think of anyone I want to call (although I should call my mum) but even so I’m tempted to pick up the receiver and check the dialling tone just in case.

Just as I reach my hand out the doorbell chimes and I jump out of my skin. I run to the front door and pick up the intercom phone.

‘Hello?’ I say in breathless tones.

‘Hello, Jen, it’s me. Do you and Rosie fancy that pint?’ It’s Josh. I resist the temptation to kiss the handset. A visitor!

‘Rosie isn’t here but I’d really love to,’ I say, completely failing to not sound grateful.

‘OK, I’ll wait for you down here then. See you in a sec.’

‘Josh! I’m a girl. Monday night or not, I have to brush my hair and put on make-up. It’s raining, you’ll be soaked by the time I get down there. Come up.’ I buzz him in, leave the door on the latch then skip into my bedroom in search of my hairbrush.

When he arrives in the door frame I have my head between my knees as I brush out the tangles of my unruly hair.

‘There won’t be anybody there, you know, except two drunk old men, an Australian barmaid and me.’ I fling my head back and smooth the untangled waves away from my face.

‘You never know,’ I say slowly. ‘And anyway, I’m not doing it for men, I’m doing it for myself.’ I lift my chin.

‘Yeah, course you are.’ He smiles and perches on the edge of my bed.

‘To be honest, Josh, it’s so nice to get out of the house to a place that isn’t work that I’m pretty tempted to get fully glad-ragged up.’ I hastily brush on some mascara and lippy. ‘How about you? How are you doing, or are you fed up with people asking you that question?’ I think of Selin who has not been in touch since I saw her.

‘Not fed up exactly, just sort of depressed by the inevitability of being unable to say, “I’m OK.” Gradually things settle into a pattern, I’m not saying it’s getting easier for us, it isn’t, but it’s getting bearable and in some ways – I’m not sure how I can put this – somehow I feel like Ayla is inspiring me. The last couple of weeks I’ve completely rebuilt my part of the exhibition, I’ve added three new paintings, the fastest work I’ve ever done and maybe the best. They’re not paintings of her but they are paintings for her, paintings of her spirit, if that doesn’t sound too hokey.’