Julia Gets a Life (46 page)

            ‘Spare me the pathos,
please
. And the lecture as well. And she’s
my
Mother, and just because I don’t think she’s Croydon’s answer to Wedgwood, doesn’t mean I don’t love her. Okay?’

            He picks up a tea towel. It is clean and has iron folds. Pizza time?

            ‘I’m picking the children up from the cinema in an hour and a half. It would be easiest if I dropped them back to you, wouldn’t it. All right?’

            I am being dismissed. I am being
bloody dismissed
.

            He doesn’t even offer me pizza.

*

Bastard.

            Making some sort of totally sleaze-ball comment about his catering arrangements I stomped out and down to the car.

            I heard the front door shut only inches behind me, so there was little point in making a histrionic departure. So, instead, I sat in the car for a few moments and wondered where precisely,
precisely
, our bizarre conversation had taken a wrong turn and ended up where it had.

            Then I did a new list, on the back of a Sainsbury’s receipt. I wrote;

            Richard

            Bastard

            Holier Than Thou (and then some)

            Dismissive

            Ungrateful (though did not know about me knowing about TV programme so    slightly unfair)

            Suspicious (so, above)

            Unfriendly (so, above)

            A bit
nasty

           
? Motivation

            Woman???

           
All in all, I decided, he had only himself to blame if I just told him to shove it.

By the time I got home I was so puffed up with righteous indignation that a stray pollen grain could have easily popped me. Just where did the toe-rag think he was coming from? There was I, all fired up to be friendly, even conciliatory, perhaps, and he threw it in my face with a barrage of sniper-fire. In fact, he may as well have gone the whole hog and just told me to sod off.

            Which was why, when the doorbell rang fifteen minutes later, I found myself saying exactly that to him.

            He blinked at me. ‘Pardon?’

            ‘You heard me. Where are the children?’

            ‘I told you. I’m picking them up at eight-thirty. It’s now only...’

            ‘So why are you here?’

            ‘Look. Can I come in or are we to conduct this conversation on the doorstep while Mrs Buckley deadheads her marigolds?’

            I turned and glared but all credit to her. Though she had quite plainly heard she didn’t even break snip. I moved the glare back. ‘Which conversation would that be? I wasn’t aware we were having one.’

            ‘Oh, very droll. I’m coming in.’

            Which he did. With a well aimed left leg into the hallway. Followed by the rest of him.

            ‘I don’t...’

            He exhaled. ‘Can’t you stop that for five minutes? I came to ask you precisely why you turned up at my flat half an hour ago knowing very well that the children were not there and that you could give me those vases when I brought them back here. I could think of no plausible explanation other than the one that occurred to me while you were standing in my kitchen, which was that it must have seemed like a good opportunity to have a nose at my shit-hole of a flat. Except that you could have found an excuse to have a nose round my flat any time in the last few months, so it’s not a very plausible explanation at all. And I’m sick and tired of trying to work it out. So here I am. Well?’

            He folded him arms.

            ‘Wrong. For your information.....’

            ‘What’s all this
for your information
tone about?’

            ‘It’s not a
tone
. For your information, I came round to your flat because I saw you and the children on TV yesterday evening and I hadn’t realised that you’d got that backing you needed, and I wanted to let you know I saw it and to congratulate you on your success.’

            Hah. Point to
moi.

            ‘You’re kidding, of course.’

            ‘I’m not kidding! Why should I be kidding? You must have been very excited about it.’

            ‘So what?’

            ‘So I thought I’d let you know I’d seen it.’

            ‘So why didn’t you just tell me when I dropped the kids off?’

            ‘Because I didn’t.’

            ‘But
why
?’

            ‘Because I
thought
it would be nice to come round and tell you face to face.’

            ‘You could have told me face to face here.’

            ‘I know, but...’

            ‘But what?’

            He sat down. Then stood up. Then said,

            ‘Why do I get this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that you came round to tell me something else? You did, didn’t you?’

            I shook my head.

            ‘Not as such, but...’

            ‘You want a divorce now, don’t you?’

           
What?

            Which was the thing that did the trick for me really, because Richard’s stomach’s feeling hopped straight across to mine. Why bother being cerebral about affairs of the heart. Give me basic physiology any time you like.

            I said,

            ‘Richard, I did not come round to tell you I want a divorce. I came round because...well, because...because I was being nice. I saw you on TV and thought how you must be really proud and I thought how you had no-one to share it with and so I thought I’d come round and let you know I’d...’

            ‘You
what
?’

            I didn’t answer because I could see he was just pausing to gulp in another breath before saying, ‘You
what
? You thought you’d come round to be
nice
?
Nice
?’

            I tried a nod.

            ‘I see. You thought you’d come round to be nice to me, did you? Well, let me tell you, you can take your nice and shove it, okay? The last - the
very
last - thing I need right now is to have you coming round and being
nice
to me. Got it?’

            Did I imagine it, or was he shaking slightly?

            ‘I didn’t mean nice as in
nice
...’

            ‘Oh.’ He balled his fists. ‘As in patronising, then, maybe? As in - don’t tell me -
compassionate
, perhaps?’

            Which was the thorny one
I’d
been tussling with. And had dismissed absolutely. ‘No! None of those. I meant nice as in, well, as in..... because
I
wanted to. I wanted to...’

            He sat down again. ‘Be Mother bloody Potter, patron saint of sad gits.’

            ‘I’m sorry?’

            ‘You heard.’

            ‘You are not a sad git.’

            ‘I’m well aware of that, thank you. But to
you
...’

            ‘
Not
to me.’

            I sat down as well. I felt faint. ‘I came round because when I saw you on the TV it made me wish I’d been there as well. That’s all. And because, well, you had that shirt on...’

            ‘You see?’ His hand slapped against the table. ‘There you go again! Julia, my shirts are no longer your concern. I think we’re both clear on that point, aren’t we?’

            ‘But that’s the point. I watched it and I wished your shirts
were
my concern.’

            Richard stared at me for some seconds. Then sighed, then began to look exasperated. Then angry.. Then was.

            ‘Well they’re not! You can’t have it both ways! You can’t just waft in dispensing pearls of benevolence, you know. You either wanted to stay with me or you didn’t and you didn’t. End of story.’

            I noted the past tense. And Richard’s behaviour at his flat became suddenly clear. I’d been so wrapped up in my own spin-cycle feelings that I’d entirely neglected to consider his.

            ‘Richard, I don’t want it both ways. I’m just trying to explain how I felt. What made me come round to your flat, and...’

            He stood up again, and this time walked to the other end of the kitchen. Where he turned, and, arms folded across his chest, said quietly,

            ‘I really couldn’t give a stuff how you felt.’

            ‘That’s not true!’

            ‘But it is. Don’t you realise? I’m sick of considering your bloody feelings, and I’m sick of trying to fathom how you feel about me. I’m sick of feeling guilty, of feeling bad about the children. I’m sick of hearing the children bang on
endlessly
about all the exotic and exciting things you’re apparently doing, and I’m sick of staring at my four crap walls every night. I’m sick, more than anything, of having to think about it at
all
.’

            He crossed his legs at the ankle and put his head on one side. ‘Got that?’

            He seemed calmer, at least. I nodded. He uncrossed them.

            ‘Good.’

            Which amounted to a bit of a conversational cul-de-sac, because I couldn’t think of single constructive thing to say. It was obvious that anything short of a no holds barred declaration of absolute unconditional love and forgiveness would represent a gross insult to his intelligence. And I wasn’t altogether sure I was ready to make one. I had been kind of hoping for a gentle slide into testing the water. Not to be chucked in the diving pool. While I silently cogitated, Richard uncrossed his arms and checked his watch.

            ‘I suppose I should go and get the children,’ he said.

            ‘Shall I come?’

            ‘There you go again!’

           
God,
this was hard.

            ‘I’m sorry. I just thought....’

            ‘I could have built the bloody Forth Bridge single handed in the time you’ve spent ‘just thinking’. What useful thought could you possibly have had then?’

            ‘I just thought we could go together. I thought..(deep breath, mantra; self helpinnerchildselfhelpinnerchild)...we could maybe discuss our, er... relationship on the way.’