No Ordinary Bloke (33 page)

If I wasn’t depressed already, a well-timed call from me mum sent me into a death spiral that even a Liverpool premiership wouldn’t pull me out of. It was a late Saturday afternoon, and after a morning at the gym, I was settling into what would be an evening of football in front of the telly. When my mobile rang, I glanced at it with a finger ready to send the call directly to voicemail. When I saw it was me mum, I answered. We hadn’t talked much since my break-up, and I kept the conversations we did have short. Still, I’d always take a call from me mum if I had the time to talk.

After the usual updates about her volunteer work teaching English as a second language and whatever she and Aunt Judith were up to, she asked about me. These questions were usually easy to deflect because she wasn’t that interested in my actual work and she really didn’t like to hear about my private life. We tended to talk about our family, places we’d traveled, and occasionally football. From the time I was little, she’d talk to me about football because it was the only topic that guaranteed conversation with me.

That afternoon she was peppering me with football questions which already gave me the heads up she was going to hit on a big, possibly personal subject later on. First she simply brought up Liverpool, then she asked technical questions about obscure European Cup qualifying rules, and finally she asked the age-old question, “Why are Americans so terrible at football when they do well in other international sports?”

“Because they’re lazy as hell, Mum,” I said with a yawn.

“But they’re not a lazy people. You always complain about how they never go on holiday and work all the time.”

“That’s different. That’s normal people just trying to get by or get ahead. Professional athletes in America are treated like kings. They don’t have the hunger and the discipline for football like other countries have. Until they change their mindset, they’ll never compete.”

And then she began dropping the bombs. Actually, it was more like the fucking Blitz during World War II. She was the German Luftwaffe bombing London, and I was a defenseless English bloke desperately running for shelter so I could hide until it was all over.

Her first question put me on red alert. “I heard from your Aunt Judith you were seeing an American girl. She sounded quite nice.”

Those two were thick as thieves and gossiped about their kids all the time. Adam, Sylvia, and I all knew that telling our mum something about each other was equal to tattling to the other one’s parent. We had an unspoken pact to be careful about what we said to our parents about one another. “How does Aunt Judith know about that?” I asked suspiciously

“Nicki. I think she was excited you were seeing someone you liked and that she was a fellow American.”

Ugh. Nicki still hadn’t learned. I loved my virtual sister-in-law, but damn she’d fucked up. How could she have blabbed about Allison? That was pure gossip, which only made trouble for me. “Um. Yeah.”

“What happened?”

I leaned my head onto the back of the sofa feeling the pain of what needed to be said next. I simplified it as much as possible. “We split up.”

“That’s what I heard.” Her tone became wistful. “Shame. We were all hoping.”

That made me so bitter I asked a question that put me straight in the path of a fucking cluster bomb. “And what was everyone hoping for?”

“Oh, I think Adam and Nicki would like for their kids to have cousins. You know Nicki doesn’t have any siblings, and who knows if Sylvia will ever find someone who can tolerate her. You are their only hope.”

It all made sense. Adam, Sylvia, and I were the only cousins. Mum and Judith were the only children in their family, and Adam’s old man had two brothers—that Uncle Willard bastard who women probably ran away from because he was so creepy and Uncle Thomas, who had converted to Catholicism and became a priest. We all had to reproduce or our bloodlines would shrink in size.

I made a bad joke. “Maybe I’ll donate some sperm. That way they can have thousands of cousins.”

“Now, David, that’s not funny at all.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t care for pressure though.”

“Is that what broke you two up? Was she pressuring you to get married?”

“No,” I said meekly as I felt a crack in my heart.
If only
Allison had pressured me to get hitched, I’d have obliged without a second thought.

She didn’t even listen to what I’d said or how I said it. Instead, Mum went on speaking as if she’d prepared a fucking speech for me. “I don’t want to pressure you. While I’d love a grandchild, I understand this is your life, not mine, but David, I worry about you flitting from one woman to the next.”

I could feel the pain in my heart increase as I mumbled. “Yeah. I know, but…”
But what?
I loved my mother, and the thought of letting her down killed me. Of course, she wanted grandchildren no matter what. She was such a liar on that one, but undoubtedly, I’d been a selfish arse.

When I trailed off, she jumped in, and I’d gladly have taken a bullet than heard what she said next. She sighed. “There are so many lovely women out there who would be good for you. Don’t you want to share your life with someone?”

I winced as her words cut into me, shattering my already fragile heart into a million pieces. Sometimes when I couldn’t bear the pain, I’d take it a step further just to torture myself enough to feel a little better. I’d imagine what it would’ve been like if Allison and I had stayed together. Like where we might’ve lived together, London or New York? What sort of wedding we might have had, civil or in a church? What our kids would’ve looked like, blondes or redheads? And worst of all, how I was sure I’d love her with gray hair as much as the red she had now. I loved her for her, not her hair.

Of course, I wanted to share my life with someone. I wanted Allison, but she didn’t want me. What the fuck was I supposed to do but be miserable? My throat began to tighten as my heart begged to release the pain with some tears.

“Thanks for calling, Mum,” I said as I held it together. “I’ll ring you soon, okay?”

I could hear her breath deeply in the background before saying, “All right, sweetheart.” Her voice was dejected. Her grand plan to confront me had failed.

A
s if Elinor and me mum hadn’t performed enough emotional torture, Sylvia just had to pile on. One afternoon, Elinor buzzed me. “It’s your cousin.”

“But I’ve just spoken to Adam on my mobile.”

“Your
other
cousin,” she muttered.

“Oh, God.” I’d gone out of my way to be nicer to Elinor, but I just had to say what was on my mind. “Tell her to bugger off.”

“She’s standing in front of me.”

“
Aw, fuck
.” Occasionally, Sylvia would drop by, and it would seem like she’d never leave. Despite all my protests, I liked seeing my cousin, but she was best in small doses. “All right,” I said as I stood up. “Coming right now.”

When I opened the door, Sylvia was waiting for me. “Hi, Syl,” I said, ushering her in. “This is a surprise.”

“It shouldn’t be,” she said, as she waltzed in wearing sky high stilettos not found in any business setting outside high fashion or prostitution. While I shut the door behind me, she said, “Hi. You look like utter crap.”

“Fuck you.” I looked down at her shoes. “The last time I saw shoes like that they were on a stripper in Las Vegas.”

“They’re Christian Louboutin.” She rolled her eyes. “Las Vegas. Of course, that’s the sort of place you go.”

“Did you come here just to insult me? Because I have work to do.”

“I’m sorry.” She lifted her hands in surrender. “I’m starting on the wrong foot. It’s just that you look a little different.”

“I’m working quite a bit.”

She glanced around my office. It was spacious and comfortable, so comfortable that I’d slept overnight on the sofa more than once. “Should we talk here?” she said, pointing to the sitting area. “Or should we go to a café.”

“Here is fine. Unless you need something. Elinor will fetch us something.”

“Sparkling water with a twist of lime.”

“Jesus Christ. She’s not a fucking bartender.” I shook my head. “Water from the tap will be just fine.”

“I don’t like her, by the way.” She took the best seat in the room with a gorgeous view of the Thames.

“She’s worked that out.”

“She doesn’t like me.”

I held up a finger while I rang Elinor, asking for water. When I hung up, I told Sylvia, “I think you’re a bit high-handed with her sometimes, don’t you think?”

Sylvia’s eyes widened as a smile grew on her face. She pointed straight at me. “And that’s why I’ve come to talk to you.”

“Explain.” I took a seat on the sofa and stretched out my legs on the coffee table, prepping myself for another bizarre Sylvia conversation.

Sylvia sat back in the chair and crossed her arms. “You look like crap.”

“Why are we talking about me again? Weren’t we talking about you?”

“We’ll get to that, but I’m here to talk about you.”

“How so?” The conversation didn’t sound too promising anymore.

“Your girlfriend, who is the love of your life, dumped you because you’re too violent.”

My brow furrowed. “How do you know that?”

“Oh please.” She waved her hand. “Adam and Nicki didn’t say it outright, but I can put two and two together.”

Blimey.
“And here I never thought you were good at maths,” I grumbled.

Just then Elinor opened the door, delivering two glasses of water. “Here you go,” she said as she placed them on the tray on the table.

“Thanks, Elinor,” I said. Sylvia mumbled a thanks, while Elinor told me, “You’re welcome.”

After Elinor left the room, Sylvia said, “So I’m right, right?”

“Yes,” I said offering her a glass.

“I’m here to help you.” She picked up the glass and took a drink.

As much as I wanted to toss her and her giant handbag out the door, I remembered that she’d been helpful with Allison in the past. “What are you thinking?”

“First, I need you to answer a question honestly. Do you think she loves you? And I mean really loves you, not just like infatuation or she loves you like a big brother.”

“She’s not the kind of girl who’d shag her big brother,” I snarled.

“You know what I mean. Is she in love with you? Would she be with you right now if you weren’t such a hotheaded git?”

I was sullen. That was the key question, wasn’t it? “Dunno.”

“That’s not very promising.” She leaned in closer to me and asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Because it wasn’t just because I’d beaten up a few blokes in front of her. It was mostly that, but exes kept popping up. She found them annoying—as did I, I might add.”

“Ew. I wouldn’t like that either.” She puckered her mouth in distaste, but soon shook her head. “But you don’t break up with someone over that.”

“You don’t? If you were her, what would you’ve done?”

“You mean if it was just that you had all these skanky birds coming up to you all the time, not that you beat random blokes to a bloody pulp?”

I cleared my throat. “I wouldn’t say my exes are skanky.”

“Whatever. If it was only about ex-girlfriends and I was Allison, I’d wait it out a bit.” She looked down at her left hand, admiringly. “I imagine a nice, big diamond ring would be very reassuring and empowering to a woman in that situation.”

“I didn’t have the chance,” I muttered with a pout.

“Can we get on with this? Is she in love with you or not? Did she cry when she broke up with you? Was she upset?”

“Yes.” I was barely audible, but I knew it was the truth. “I think she was as devastated as I was.”

“Fantastic. So we just need to fix your anger issue. This is what I thought, and why I want to share my experience with you.”

“You’ve broken up with someone lately?”

“No, but I had what Americans call a three-sixty review at work. Everyone whom I work with at the publishing house from on high to far below could comment on my review.”

“And what did you learn?” I asked, suppressing a smile.