One Step Closer to You (15 page)

He turns to me.

‘OK, if you want to know, I missed a couple of payments
… I can’t pay the mortgage and the bank’s decided to call in the debt. Happy now?’

*

‘Well, that’s really going to help,’ he says when he finds me in the kitchen draining the last of the wine.

I feel sick with worry. All I want is to pull the duvet over my head; escape this life. ‘We’ll be homeless, you’ll be made bankrupt …’ I say. ‘It’s all one big giant mess. I should have listened to my friends, to Hugo, to Mum …’

‘Oh shut up, Polly!’ He grabs the bottle from me. ‘Who the fuck are you to criticise? Call yourself a mother? You’re nothing but a drunk.’

But I’m not listening. I’m far away. ‘We’ll be homeless …’

‘Shut up!’

‘… out on the street.’

I feel the force of his hand against my cheek.

The sting of his slap.

‘Oh, Polly, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he says, pulling me into his arms. ‘I love you,’ he’s saying repeatedly, words I’d longed to hear when we first met, but now, never have I felt so desolate and alone.

Jim, Ben, Nellie and I have dropped the children off at school on Monday morning and are sitting at our usual corner table in Chamomile. Jim is tired this morning. He tells us he had a weekend from hell. It started on Friday night when he had to go to a corporate event with his wife.

‘What does she do again?’ Ben asks.

‘She’s a lawyer.’

‘So what was so awful about Friday?’ I ask.

‘These events are like endurance tests.’ Jim stirs his tea. ‘These men see me as the boring old stay-at-home dad.’

‘I’m sure they don’t,’ I say, imagining that’s what many of them do think.

‘They do. I can almost hear them thinking, ‘God, what do we talk to this freak about?’

‘Look at me,’ chips in Ben. ‘If half the guys I used to work with could see me walking Nellie and drinking tea that smells of’ – he lifts his mug and gives it a sniff – ‘compost, they’d laugh, but I don’t care.’

Jim nods. ‘I know I shouldn’t care, I should rise above it, but it’s hard not to feel irritated when they come up to me and say, “I wouldn’t know where to begin changing a nappy,” or this one guy clamps me on the back and says, “Where’s your apron, Jimmy boy?”’

‘If I had it, I’d strangle you with it,’ I suggest, making Ben laugh.

‘I go “ha ha ha” when all I want to say is, “You know what, buddy, I could do your job standing on my head, but could you do mine?”’

Jim goes on to tell us that Theo, his youngest, was sick the entire weekend. The first time was at the fish counter at Sainsbury’s; the second at the cashier’s checkout. He managed to get Theo and Maisy home, but Theo threw up in the car. After a day of staying indoors, they all developed cabin fever and Maisy wanted to kill her brother with her toy rolling pin.

‘Poor you, not fun,’ I say. ‘Where was Camilla?’

‘Office. She doesn’t normally work weekends, but she had this deadline.’

‘Would you like to swap back?’ Ben asks.

‘No. All I’d like is a little recognition here and there. I know it’s the same for mums, so why should men be hero-worshipped for doing the same job, but … anyway, enough whingeing,’ he says as my mobile rings.

I dig into my handbag. Again it’s a number I don’t recognise.

‘Hello?’ Pause. ‘Hello?’

‘What?’ Ben and Jim ask when I hang up.

‘I’ve been getting these calls. It’s probably nothing,’ I say, trying to disguise my concern. I put the phone down on the table. ‘What were you saying, Jim?’

‘What kind of calls?’ Ben asks.

‘They hang up. It’s only been a couple of times …’

‘Oh listen, I get
loads
of crank calls,’ Jim says. ‘I’ve had deep breathing, a whistle blowing, deathly silences, you name it, I’ve had it. Too many bored people out there.’

‘Have you tried calling the number back, Polly?’ Ben suggests.

‘Nothing happens. It keeps on ringing. It’s probably nothing, like Jim says, a hoax or wrong number.’

‘Sure.’ Ben nods with me.

‘Gather you’re going to Hugo’s concert tonight, Ben?’ Jim says, moving on.

When my mobile rings again, both Jim and Ben stop talking abruptly and stare at it. I don’t normally feel so relieved when I see my mother’s name on the screen.

*

Hugo’s concert is in St Peter’s Church, a tangerine-coloured building in Notting Hill. ‘
I want to meet this so-called friend you’re spending so much time with
,’ Hugo had said.

When Ben waits outside the front entrance he almost doesn’t recognise me because I’m wearing a dress and heels. It’s a simple red dress with long sleeves and lace buttons.

‘You look good,’ he says, taking off his shades. ‘I like your …’ He looks at me quizzically again, as if unsure what it is I’ve done to myself. ‘Your hair,’ he decides. ‘I like it down.’

‘Thanks. You look good too.’ I gesture to his pale-pink shirt and dark jacket.

He grins, giving me his arm.

‘You know, Ben, you’re really very handsome when you smile.’

*

Inside the church, there’s a buzz of activity. We head towards the front, squeezing ourselves into a pew next to an elderly couple.

‘How long does this last?’ Ben scans the Mozart Requiem programme.

‘Oh, at least three hours, with no interval and prayers at the end.’

He turns to me, about to protest, but then sees me smiling. ‘You are so easy to tease, Benjamin,’ I say, looking over to the group of singers at the side of the church, dressed in black tie and trying to line up into some kind of order, ready to take their position on the stage. Hugo tells me their leader in charge of the seating plan is always in a state of meltdown minutes before a concert, and how they pull it together is anyone’s guess.

There’s a buzz of anticipation as members of the orchestra settle down in front of their music stands and begin to tune their instruments. The choir begins to file onto the stage
with their music folders. ‘There’s Hugo,’ I say, pointing to the tallest member, towering over his colleagues like an enormous palm tree, his bow tie skew-whiff. ‘And that’s his ex, Rosie,’ I say, nodding towards a blonde woman near the front. They split up amicably when Louis was about two. ‘I didn’t want to marry her,’ was Hugo’s simple explanation. ‘I had to be honest.’

Hugo is a bass, so he takes a seat on the back row next to a small balding man with spectacles. The choir is like a bus, or AA for that matter, filled with a motley crew of passengers of all shapes and sizes.

‘I couldn’t stand up there,’ I say.

‘Why not?’

‘Well I can’t sing for starters. At school they used to tell me to mouth the words during assembly. I sound like a strangled cat. I can shatter glass with my vocal cords.’

‘You can’t be that bad.’

‘Trust me.’

‘Would you get up on stage for a million quid and sing a solo?’

I hesitate. ‘No. Seriously, I cannot sing and the audience would pay a million quid
not
to hear me. Hugo got all the singing talent in our family.’

‘Unfair.’

‘And all the height.’

‘Double unfair. But you obviously got the beauty and the brains.’

I smile, aware he’s still looking at me. He turns when the plump conductor walks to the rostrum to a round of polite applause. There’s a hush. The concert begins.

*

Midway through the Requiem I forget where I am. As I watch Hugo, a feeling of pride swells inside me. When I was drinking I was never present for anything, not even the birth of my own son. Tonight, I’d have made some excuse as to why I couldn’t be here just so I could be in the pub. I’m so relieved things have changed, that I have changed.

When one of the professional soloists is singing I am in awe of her voice and beauty. She is willowy and blonde and wearing a pale-turquoise silk dress. She moves her body with the music. How can it be that when she opens her mouth this amazing pure sound comes out? Where does this gift come from? I picture Louis and me singing along to his
Annie
CD at home. When I sing ‘Tomorrow’, Louis laughs and puts his hands over his ears in protest.

During the Lacrimosa I glance sideways at Ben. He’s sitting quietly, completely absorbed. Towards the end there are tears in his eyes. When the choir takes a bow the audience claps and cheers, Ben and me included.

As Ben and I wait for Hugo to get changed we remain seated. ‘I didn’t think I’d enjoy that,’ Ben says emotionally. ‘In fact I was dreading it.’ Soon we are the only two left in the church. ‘Ben, are you OK?’

He begins to cry, apologising and telling me to ignore him.

‘Ben?’ I touch his shoulder. ‘What is it?’

‘I was thinking about Grace. She used to tell me I was a Philistine, you see I’ve never appreciated classical music. She’d listen to Mozart while she cooked, or a bit of the other guy, Bach, I think. Tonight made me think of her … I miss her, Polly,’ he says, his voice trembling.

I rub his back.

‘All I was thinking was how she won’t see Emily again. She won’t see her daughter grow up. We didn’t have much of a childhood. A rich but empty one. It would have been better to live in a caravan with next to nothing but with parents that were around rather than live the way we did. We only had each other and now she’s gone. The kindest and most gentle woman who never resented the world or felt bruised by the hits she was given. All she wanted was to be a good mother and even that was taken away from her. Emily should have a mum, not me.’ He curls his hand into a fist, ‘I miss her and I’m scared because she was all the family I had. There’s so much you don’t know about me, Polly, so much bad stuff.’

‘Come here,’ I say, pulling him towards me. He clutches my arm, falls into my embrace. I hold him while he sobs, stroking his back like a child. I cry with him. ‘You’re a good man, Ben, don’t ever think you’re not, and Grace would be so proud of you, I know she would.’ When his breathing subsides he looks up at me. ‘Don’t tell Hugo I cried. I feel
such an idiot. Perhaps you should have taken Jim,’ he suggests, making both of us smile. ‘A safer bet.’

‘Perhaps. But who wants a safe bet?’

*

Ben, Hugo and I find a table in a crowded Italian restaurant on Westbourne Grove, close to St Peter’s Church.

After Ben and I heap praise on Hugo’s choir, me adding that the bass soloist was hot and I want his number, I read out the menu for Hugo. ‘Four seasons,’ he says when I come to the first pizza on the list. ‘That’ll do.’

A slim waitress in a black apron takes our order. ‘Any wine?’ she asks, her pen poised.

‘No,’ we all say at the same time.

Briskly she clears away our wine glasses.

As we wait for our food, Ben asks Hugo about his radio show.

‘I’m glad you asked, you might have some ideas. Next week we’re talking about all the things we’d do if money and time were no object.’

‘Oh, that’s a good one,’ I say. ‘I’d take myself off to Ballymaloe in Ireland.’

I tell them it’s this amazing cookery school in the middle of nowhere. ‘I’d love to grow my own food, go out in a boat and catch crayfish.’

‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ says Hugo.

‘Me neither,’ claims Ben. ‘I’ve only had to learn to cook
because of Emily, and when I say cook, it’s more like pressing a button on the microwave.’

‘What would you two do then?’

‘Cricket,’ says Ben without even thinking. ‘Doesn’t matter what I’m doing, I will stop and watch a match wherever I am, whoever I’m with.’

‘Even if you were in bed with Kelly Brook?’ Hugo asks, mischief in his eyes.

‘I’d still stop. Well, maybe not.’ He laughs. ‘Played it at school, fell in love with the game. Granny and I would watch the Test matches in the summer holidays with orange juice and a plate of choccie bics. She’d send me newspaper cuttings, too, of our favourite players. I used to play a lot down in Hampshire, with a few of my sister’s friends. We formed a club. Travelled all round the place in the summer playing matches.’

Hugo tells us he’d live in the mountains and ski all day long.

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ says Ben, grabbing a bread roll from the basket, ‘but how can you ski without knocking someone over or flying off the edge of the cliff to your death? Isn’t it terrifying?’

‘Actually, Hugo won two silver medals in a World Championships,’ I say proudly.

‘How very British of you to come second,’ quips Ben. ‘Who came first?’

‘Some Swiss wanker,’ Hugo says, making us all laugh.

‘Well, first the worst, second the best,’ says Ben. ‘I’m impressed. You must have started young.’

‘At school. I was picked for the British Ski Club. It was all about getting people like me up into the mountains to give us confidence. My racing career began when I was about fourteen. I had a guide in front but apart from that I just went for it. I’m a speed freak,’ Hugo admits. ‘Got the scars to prove it.’ He points to the faded scar above his left eyebrow. ‘For me skiing is the substitute for not being able to get behind a wheel. I love cars, so it’s ironic that I can’t drive. Now that would be an accident waiting to happen, but on a mountain the reflective light is great, I can see much more than I can sitting opposite you.’

‘I’m tall, dark and devastatingly handsome, that’s all you need to know.’

They laugh, a natural chemistry between them. ‘Anyway, skiing is one of the only ways I can throw caution to the wind. I have my guide yelling left and right as we turn, and I go hell for leather.’

‘I’ve seen him,’ I chip in. ‘He’s like a high-speed train.’

‘Some people imagine “the blind” sit at home and read Braille, live in the dark and hobble around on a white stick.’

‘Guilty,’ says Ben, raising his hand. ‘Not about the hobbling, but I wouldn’t have put skiing with blind people.’

‘Don’t worry. But what you said earlier, about it being terrifying? I was petrified before the start of the downhill race
and I was pretty scared when I fell down a crevasse while training on a glacier in Italy. It’s about trust and freedom. Skiing conquered a lot of my fears. Both of you know all about that.’

*

Aunt Viv slips on her coat.

‘Thanks so much for babysitting,’ Ben says. Aunt Viv babysat Louis, Emily and Nellie at my flat tonight.

‘Any time,’ she replies, kissing us both goodnight. ‘So glad you two had fun.’

After Aunt Viv has gone, I show Ben the photograph of Hugo skiing, all six foot four of him, donning his skin-tight yellow plastic suit and crash hat to race the downhill in Colorado.

‘How does he get home?’

‘By reference,’ I say. ‘He knows the bus routes, that’s fine, and he knows there are six trees along his road and his door is just before reaching tree number five. When we were children we’d count the stairs together and after a while he knew the house off by heart. It’s kind of the same in London. He knows little pockets. It’s instinct more than anything. Often he’ll catch cabs in the winter, but he hates that, says it’s like throwing money down the gutter, but sometimes life is too short to get freezing cold and lost.’

‘He’s pretty special, your brother,’ Ben says.

I place the photograph back on the mantelpiece. ‘Yes. Yes, he is.’

After a mug of mint tea, we tiptoe into Louis’s bedroom. I watch Ben carefully lift Emily out of bed. She was sleeping on our pull-out mattress. She wraps her slim arms around his neck. They look more together now; a puzzle that’s beginning to fit.