Lover in Law (17 page)

“But you haven’t, you know, been with him again have you?” she asked.

I thought about lying, but remembered who I was talking to.

“Well, there was the Midsummer Ball,” I admitted.

“For the first time in your life you’re being an idiot, do you know that?”

Isn’t family meant to think you’re wonderful, whatever you do?

“Why,” I said, “tell me why I’m being such an idiot? I mean, if Adam so wanted to be with me, don’t you think he’d have asked me to marry him by now?”

Until making that comment I realised I hadn’t actually contemplated life without Adam, despite my behaviour. A bizarre look had crossed Kayla’s face, a momentary flash that I couldn’t quite read.

“What?” I said.

She cast her eyes down, pretending to flick something out of a fingernail.

“Well, err, you know how, err, Adam feels about marriage,” she said.

This was a most opportune moment to tell her that I now knew EXACTLY how he felt about marriage in light of his current shenanigans, but I decided to keep this one up my sleeve. Kayla already considered my conduct with Anthony reprehensible. I didn’t need her condemning my hypocrisy vis-à-vis Adam’s affair too. Besides, Adam should be the first person to confront about his dirty laundry. 

“Yes,” I said, fiddling with the diamond studs he bought for my 30
^th
. “I know how he feels.”

That strange look crossed her face again. She started to say something, then stopped and started on a different track.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked. “You can’t be serious about this Anthony bloke. You’ve only known him all of five minutes. Or are you planning to string him along indefinitely?”

I hadn’t really thought about it. I was living for the moment, like Anthony had suggested, taking each day as it came. It would unravel itself in its own good time.

“He’s a nice guy,” I told her. “You’d like him.”

“Adam’s a nice guy.”

We stared at one another. I couldn’t argue with her rationale. What I wanted more than anything was to share with Kayla the connection I had with Anthony, make her see that it wasn’t ‘nothing’. It might not be right, but it wasn’t evil. It was at this juncture that we’d heard a car door slam in the road outside, noisy chatter winding up the garden path, and my father beat his customary ‘bum, buddy, bum, bum’ (pause) ‘bum bum’ rat-a-rat with our front door knocker. 

***

My mother is a very beautiful woman who defies her fifty odd years. I have no complaints with how she brought us up. Right up till we left school, she was a dedicated, affectionate hands-on Mum, who rarely said no and supported us in all that we did. It’s as if, though, when she left, a switch was flipped. She’d given eighteen years to her daughters, now it was time for her life back.  Despite not having her kids with her in Canada, my Mother’s still always busy. Doing courses, doing lunches, going to exhibitions, to the theatre. Often she’s too busy to speak for long or she’s too busy to even call. Two to three weeks can easily pass without her picking up the phone. Our relationship is frequently strained. I never say what I really feel about her not fulfilling her role, as I imagine it, as a Mother. She’s better with Kayla, probably because she thinks Kayla needs more mothering. I’ve had an excellent substitute in Adam around, ever since they left. They’ve always approved of him, although more recently Mum has made irritating noises about needing a ring on my finger. About us buying a house together not being enough. I always let her say her piece and never argue the toss. I don’t see the point. It’s safe to say that I’m a Daddy’s girl. Dad’s always got time for me. I often think he regrets his decision to move and wishes he were around to see his daughters’ lives unfold. Our conversations reach a much more personal, meaningful depth. He understands what makes me tick.

It was the dinner that had set the tone, my tone in particular, for the night. Kayla was there too. Adam normally cooks the welcome meal. Not only is he more of a culinary whiz than me, he’s cooler under the pressure of having to prepare something a little bit special, which is what we like to do. If I’d have shoved a chicken in the oven, everything might have been different. As it was I’d got a bee in my bonnet about moussaka, Dad’s favourite. Adam said he didn’t know how to make it. Not that I did, but I’d told him not to worry, that I’d do it instead, forgetting I’m more godless than goddess in the kitchen. First gripe, the recipe’s estimated ten minutes preparation was off by two hours. Second gripe, dabbing off excess oil from frying aubergines and potatoes is a thankless task. Third, and major gripe, the recipe failed to specify which flipping spuds to use. As it was, the whole load of nice, seasonal new potatoes I chose turned out to be a fatal flaw. New potatoes do not cook properly in the oven. However long you put them in for and however high you jack up the heat, they remain stubbornly glassy. By the time I dished up, I was irritable beyond belief. When everyone took the first mouthful, proclaiming it to be delicious, I knew they were lying. Dad was the only one to gamely ask for seconds. And Adam did not mop up any of his sauce. The whole evening had felt like a personal attack.

  “Ali, can’t you help Kayla find a man?” Mum had asked, over peppermint teas, after the meal.

“Yes Ali,” piped Kayla, with a twang and a knowing look, about her fifty thousandth of the day. “I don’t believe that you don’t know anybody.”

The date with that bloke on her homeopathy course hadn’t worked out. It had been a bit of a weird one actually. Despite the fact that he’d asked HER out, the whole lunch he’d acted, said Kayla, like he didn’t want to be there. When they’d left the restaurant, which was round the corner from their college, they’d bumped into a group of fellow students and Kayla’s date had mumbled a hasty goodbye, quietly slipping off. A few days later, he’d called to ask her out again. She’d told him no way, accusing him of being an arrogant prick, at which point he’d apologised, explaining that he was engaged and was feeling guilty because he couldn’t get Kayla out his head.  

“There’s always Paul,” I’d said.

“You know I don’t fancy Paul,” said Kayla.

“What about that Anthony guy?” Adam had suggested.

“You’ve never met him and what about him anyway?” I’d been aghast, blushing furiously, in disbelief that Adam had even remembered the name. Adam, of course, knows OF Anthony, that I work with him, that he’s senior counsel on the Scott Richardson case. I’d have first mentioned him way back, although I couldn’t be certain what I said.

“You said he was a bit of a dish,” Adam reminded me.

“Ali, tell me more about this Anthony guy,” twanged Kayla again, with her fifty-one thousandth look.

“He’s not your type.”

“What’s my type then?” said Kayla.

“He’s black.”

“I can do black.”

“Forget it,” I’d snapped, frazzled. “He’s seeing someone anyway.”

“I’ll bet he is,” Kayla quipped.

She stared me out so hard that I’m surprised Adam didn’t notice.

“Enough. Let’s change the subject,” I’d said.

“So Adam, how are your folks?” Mum had asked.

“Yeah, very well thanks. Still happily separated,” he joked.

Everyone always takes the Mickey out of his parents, who’ve been married and divorced twice apiece.

“Don’t let that put you off,” said Mum.

Her comment was as subtle as a sledgehammer.

“Mum!” I’d objected.

“It’s alright,” Adam had said, sneaking Kayla a curious sideways glare.

“No it’s not,” I’d said hotly. “It’s none of my Mum’s business.”

“Stop being so tetchy,” Mum had said. “It was only meant in jest.”

“Well, it wasn’t funny and I’m not being tetchy.”

“You are being tetchy Ali. Let it go,” Adam had said.

“AND YOU CAN FUCKING TALK!” I’d exploded, from out of nowhere, releasing a spurt of pent up frustration like a shaken bottle of bubbly that’s popped its cork. The full force of the fizz took, even me, by surprise. I’d scraped back my chair, calmly stood up and left the room. As I took a seat next door, in the lounge, to cool off, I could hear Adam ask, slightly awkwardly, if anyone wanted another hot drink.

***

My Dad had quietly let himself into the lounge, sat down beside me. 

“Ali love, are you alright?” he’d asked. He’d wrapped a comforting paternal arm around me and I’d snuggled up close, instinctively, a cub seeking protection.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry, I think I’m just tired.”

“Is it work?”

“I think it’s just everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah, this whole life thing isn’t as easy as it’s cracked up to be.”

My tears were like a dog on a lead, tied to a railing. Wanting, more than anything, to run free, but held back by a stronger force. There was no point in worrying my Dad or my Mum with the truth. They’re here for such a short time. Why ruin it? There was no way I was going to admit what I’d done, or what I now knew definitively to be the case. Adam was having an affair. Once more, Adam had gone to the driving range, taking his golf clubs with him. Once more I’d followed him, not to the driving range, but to the fertile, pre-Raphaelite woman’s house. Once more I’d seen pretty much the same thing. I asked, a couple of days ago, casually, if the name Charlotte Buchanan meant anything to him. He’d looked at me, strangely, asked if I’d been going through his pockets. I’d lied, said I found a piece of paper in the rubbish with her contact details. Oh, he’d said. She’s just someone I work with. So the next day I’d rung up his work and asked to speak to Charlotte Buchanan, but strangely enough, there was nobody there by that name. My behaviour’s all over the shop. The whole thing’s a big mess. Screw Adam. Screw him.

JULY

Chapter 20

“Tea, coffee?” I ask my Mother.

They’re normally still asleep when I leave for work, but jet lag has been getting the better of Mum.  

“A pot of coffee would be nice if you’re offering,” she says.

I glance at my watch. I’m aware of this constant sense of irritation worming through my windpipe. I’m sensitive to everything and anything at the moment, not normal for me. So even though I see my Mum just the once a year, right now I wish she’d have a cup of instant instead of the proper filtered stuff because I’m running late and don’t have time. Even her accent’s getting to me. She’s been in Canada too long. Her vowels have been hit. Her ‘o’ s are now ‘ah’ s.

This is my last working day before taking a long weekend to spend some proper, quality time with my parents. Perhaps then I can relax. It’s been a particularly stressful stay so far. Since that first night, my emotions have been up and down like a yo-yo. So much so that I fear I’ve been rude, at times, to the point of being unwelcome. I’ve been one big walking talking apology, saying sorry time after time after snapping, but by then it’s too late. The damage has been done.

“Sorry, I’m behind schedule.” I slam a cup of black Nescafe in front of her so carelessly that some of its contents slop into the saucer. “The milk’s in the fridge,” I add.

  “What’s the matter with you Ali? You’re not yourself at the moment.”

Here we go.

“And how the fuck would you know what myself is?”

I can’t believe I’ve just sworn at her.

“Ali, don’t talk to me like that. I’m your Mother.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I hold up a conciliatory hand. 

“Your father and I both feel something’s wrong.”

Oh great. They’ve been talking behind my back.

“Is it work?” she asks.

“No!”

“Have you got money problems?”

“No!”

“Is everything alright at home?”

“Jesus, what is this? YES, everything’s fine!”

Her inquisition’s starting to get to me.

“You just seem so stressed, so strained. Is everything ok between you and Adam?”

“Everything’s fine,” I placate.

“When we spoke on the phone just before we came, you didn’t sound fine to me.”

That was when I’d called, after the Midsummer Ball and burst into tears when I heard her voice.

“I was tired, I’d had too much to drink. Alcohol always makes me emotional,” I try to explain it away.

“How bout I make sticky lamb chops for dinner tonight?”

“Ooh, that would be nice,” I say. I love her sticky lamb chops. 

I get the milk out the fridge and hand it to her. “I’m sorry Mum, for how I’m being.” I apologise again. “I don’t mean it. You know how much I love you and Dad being here.”

“Go on, get out of here,” she nods towards the door. “You’re going to be late.”

***

“Help, help, taxi, taxi,” I yell, running, arms flailing as I leave Kings Cross tube. Somewhere, from the depths of my panic and the paralysis of my throat I find a huge, shrill voice. I jump without a care or a morsel of guilt to the head of what is a long, orderly queue. I open the door of the waiting front cab and step in. “The nearest A & E and quick,” I whisper, before collapsing onto the back seat.