State We're In (13 page)

Dean felt emboldened by the digital presence of his niece and nephew; they always made him feel better. They made everything seem OK. ‘I can get you one printed off, if you like,' he offered, plunging.

‘No. It's OK.' Eddie turned away from the phone and looked out of the window again, snuffing out Dean's embryonic compassion and hope.

A deluge of fury streamed through Dean's body and erupted like boiling lava. He couldn't stand the kids being rejected. ‘Fuck you, I'm going.' He leapt to his feet.

‘Why?' Eddie was genuinely puzzled.

‘Because you, you …' He didn't know how to finish the sentence. ‘Because you don't care about Zoe's kids,' he exploded. It was only part of what he wanted to say.

Eddie appeared surprised. Perhaps he thought he'd shown due interest. ‘The lad looks like a bright enough boy. The girl's too young to tell. What can I say? Chubby?'

‘She's a baby! She's supposed to be chubby.'

‘I didn't say otherwise. They look like strong little nippers.'

The two men glared at one another. The tension sizzled in the air.

‘What do you want from me?' Eddie asked eventually.

Dean shook his head. He was the one who had been summoned. What did Eddie want from him?

‘I think we both know it's a bit late to be trying for Grandpa of the Year award,' Eddie snapped as sharply as his weak chest would allow; he glanced towards the drip that hung above him.

‘Yes it is, isn't it. It's all a bit late. For me, for Zoe.'

‘So this isn't about the kids at all. It's about you.'

‘Yes, maybe it is.' Dean turned away from the bed. He was jet-lagged, this situation was surreal and the lack of sleep was adding to the overwhelmingly emotional scenario. He couldn't think clearly. He collapsed back into the bedside chair. It wasn't so much that he'd decided to stay; he simply didn't have it in him to leave.

Eddie said nothing for a moment, allowing his son to settle. They both needed to get their breath back. Just when Dean thought they might get stuck in the quagmire of silence once again, Eddie asked, ‘How is your mother?'

Dean was blindsided by the question. He never thought of his father in relation to his mother. They were too separate to comprehend any sort of connection. He only ever thought of them in relation to himself and Zoe, or more specifically, their lack of relationship with either him or Zoe. He didn't know how to answer the question.

At last he said, ‘She took your desertion very hard.'

‘Desertion.' Eddie snorted. He almost sounded amused. Dean wanted to hit the button that made the bed rise or lower. He had a brief flash of the comedic moment that so frequently appeared in cartoons where it folded in on itself, crushing the patient. He knew
desertion
was dramatic; it dragged with it connotations of terrified soldiers shot at dawn during the First World War, but it was a fitting word. The wilful abandonment of a post of duty. What his father had done was dramatic. It was life-defining.

‘She started drinking,' he added, peeved that he needed to introduce the subject but determined that his father should know the extent of the repercussions of his actions.

‘She was a party girl when I met her.' Eddie smiled, missing the point entirely. No doubt he was enjoying flashbacks to their headier days together.

‘She stopped being a party girl; she became more of a solitary drinker. At least that's how I remember her,' muttered Dean. ‘An alcoholic.'

The fact was still desolate, stark, unpalatable. No matter how often he had had to confess this over the years – to himself and to carers – he never got used to it.

‘Everyone likes a drop.' Eddie's eyes crept to the floor. ‘I suppose there was always the chance she might turn to drink. Fewer calories in a gin than a meal. Plus, she had that side to her. An extreme, addictive nature.'

‘You knew that, yet still you left us with her?'

Chastised, Eddie moved his shoulders a fraction. He didn't dare shrug boldly.

‘Anyway, look at you.' Eddie's glance took in Dean's expensive suit. ‘You're a success. It all worked out.' Dean wasn't sure who Eddie was comforting.

‘You took away the normality when you left.'

‘I didn't.'

‘You did. Or at least any chance we had at it.'

‘It doesn't exist, son. I don't know what being normal is. I couldn't have helped you there.'

‘She was in and out of recovery for years. And we, Zoe and I, we were in and out of care and emergency foster homes.'

‘Care homes? Why were you ever put in care homes?'

‘So somebody could take care of us. At least, that was the theory. Initially she drank to forget her disappointment. Then she forgot everything. They kept taking us off her. Or … or she'd just drop us off at the social services when she'd had enough or fancied a binge.'

Eddie did not allow his face to move. Dean appreciated this restraint because Eddie had no right to be horrified; it was his fault, he was responsible and that meant he didn't get to be outraged.

‘We've been in four care homes. Four. Those places aren't like Butlins holiday camps, you know.'

‘I wasn't aware. Why didn't anyone tell me?'

‘No one knew where to find you.'

‘I went abroad for a while. France.'

Dean imagined his father sitting at a table outside a café, in a cobbled street streaked with sunlight; he was drinking red wine and tucking into a delicious bloody steak and a crisp green salad. There was a beautiful French woman in the picture too; she had dark, intelligent eyes and very white teeth. Perhaps his second wife, perhaps another mistress. This image contrasted starkly with the thought of his and Zoe's Hansel and Gretel existence. They'd huddled together, no one to protect them, no one to take care of them.

‘I don't give a toss that you were in France. You left us, you rotten sod. You left us,' Dean spat furiously. He was surprised that he'd been so honest. Normally he avoided saying anything he really meant. Zoe said that was why he worked in advertising.

‘It's not my fault your mother drank.'

‘Isn't it?' Dean hissed, trying to regain some control. He crossed his hands over his body, to keep them far away from his father; it was an idiotic protest. What did he think might happen? That his father might suddenly lurch for his hand and hold it tight? It seemed unlikely. It seemed impossible.

‘Still, like I said, it's turned out OK, hasn't it? You said yourself your sister is doing well. Married, a mother, an accountant. And you, you're …' Eddie broke off. He hadn't asked Dean what he did for a living. In fact he hadn't asked him anything about himself at all. Dean filled him in.

‘I'm a board account director for a successful international advertising agency.' Dean hated himself for sounding like a kid coming home with a grade A in maths, waiting for his dad to pat him on his head.

‘You sell ad space. It's all worked out.'

‘Yes, we're fine,' snapped Dean. Another silence cloaked the room.

A
fter Jo had left, Clara felt the need for fresh air. She didn't like walking aimlessly so she decided she'd go out and buy some flowers. True, Tim usually bought them on a Friday, which was very kind, but now and again Clara wished she could put her own arrangement together; that
she
could choose the flowers. It was a small thing to wish to control. Now she had seized the opportunity, she'd gone a bit over the top.

‘Special occasion?' the young man serving in the shop had asked.

‘Yes, my wedding anniversary.'

‘Lovely.'

She'd selected dramatic heliconia, protea and anthuriums in bright scarlet and vibrant orange. She'd bought so many that the young man had had to deliver them; she couldn't possibly stagger home under their weight. She'd filled every vase in the house with blooms. There were flowers in the hallway, above the fireplace, on the dining-room table and three occasional tables; she didn't bother taking any up to the bedroom. They'd smell horribly this time next week – there really wasn't anything worse than the stench of rotting foliage – but that wasn't her concern. She opened the windows in the sitting room and plumped the cushions into more pristine shapes. Then she turned her attention to carefully selecting her outfit; what she wore was so very important tonight.

Clara was fifty-six years old. Was she now officially an old woman? she wondered. Or could she still squeeze into the middle-aged category? Who lived to one hundred and twelve? Who would want to? When did one admit to oneself that one was old? She clearly remembered the first time a shop assistant had called her madam rather than miss. It was a long time after she'd become a wife and even a mother; it shouldn't have been a shock, but it was. Then there was the first time someone stood up to offer her their seat on the tube. It was a handsome European boy. Maybe Spanish or Italian. She'd told herself he was flirting, it was a courtesy, anything rather than the fact that he thought she was old enough to be entitled to the privilege of a seat on crowded public transport. The thing was, she didn't feel her age, so it was always such a shock to register it.

She knew she was a good-looking fifty-six; her high cheekbones still jutted out at a spectacular angle, and the rest of her flowed elegantly from that point. She wished she didn't care what she looked like. She wished she was the sort of woman who just
was
. They were rare but wonderful. But she had always been the sort of woman who was described as ‘looking the part'; indeed, that was how she had become the part. It would be a relief to shrug that off. Ageing had its compensations, though no one ever talked about them. By the time you were old enough to appreciate them, you were generally past the age of having to brag about anything at all, so dignified beauty rarely got a mention. But it was real. She knew what she wanted now. After all this time. She'd worked herself out, and that was a marvellous thing. Her eyes sparkled more tonight than they had for many years.

Some changes were to be expected, of course, and however many Pilates classes she attended or however expensive and regular her facials were, she could not alter that. The skin round her eyes was baggier than it used to be, she was more wrinkled, and yes, the flesh below her chin and her upper arms tended to flop about more than she'd ideally like, but she was always careful to hold her head up high and she avoided sleeveless dresses. Her best years, in terms of beauty, were undoubtedly behind her; she'd be insane to kid herself that anything other was the case. Her décolletage and cheeks used to be plumper and smoother when she was in her early twenties, but she'd been a little awkward in those days, unsure. Until she met him, that was. Of course, nothing was the same after that. Everything changed. Clara used to spend a lot of time wondering whether things had changed for the better or the worse, but it had been impossible to decide. She'd stopped thinking about it in those terms and just accepted it for what it was. A shameful mistake or a sweet memory: either way it was part of her history. She hadn't thought about him for so long, but since the letter it was almost impossible to think about anything else.

Her prime time had been her thirties. Then she'd combined a youthful vigour with a new-found confidence. That had dulled a little since, over the years, inevitable given her situation with Tim. It was hard to continue to feel desirable, impossible to kid oneself one was still youthful. Yet undeniably there was something rather gorgeous about her this evening. She'd reignited.

She showered and then moisturised practically every inch of her body. Her skin gratefully drank in the luxurious creams. She chose her underwear carefully. Big, helpful pants, the kind that held everything exactly where it ought to be; even though she didn't have too much spare flesh that might threaten to move around, she didn't want to take any chances. She picked out an extremely pretty bra, a structured one that created a cleavage where there wasn't much of one. She'd had a blow-dry today, even though it wasn't her regular day, and she'd treated herself to a mini mani-pedi. Finally she selected her Chanel skirt suit, in blush. It was cotton tweed, with a cream leather collar and pearl button details. It made her gasp when she put it on, even now, even though she'd worn it on half a dozen occasions. It was so beautiful. It would shield her. She glanced in the mirror. It was a bittersweet reflection. She was an elegant woman, beautiful for her age. She was simply older than she wanted to be. Why had it taken her so long?

Tim arrived home at eight. He'd made an effort, as she'd asked him to. Often he wasn't home until much later; sometimes he didn't come home at all on a Thursday. She smiled appreciatively as she handed him a glass of decent chilled Sauvignon Blanc.

‘I thought it might be champagne,' he commented.

‘I considered it, but it seemed a little too …'

‘Bubbly?'

‘Yes.'

They clinked glasses out of habit, and wandered into the sunroom. After a disappointing day, the sun was finally trying to make an appearance. Streams of light filtered through the window, making the room feel airy, and the view of the garden, now dotted with daffodils and crocuses, was impressive; Clara hoped it would be enough to keep them buoyant. Tim threw himself back into the couch; Clara perched on the edge.

‘So you are still sure you want to do this?' he asked. Straight to the point; there was no other thought in their minds.

‘Yes.' Clara was surprised that tears instantly pricked her eyes. Damn them. She'd wanted to remain calm; she normally found it easy to do so. After years of masking what she was actually thinking and feeling, why would she cry now, now when she was telling the truth? She blinked furiously, willing them to go away. ‘I have to.'

‘Well, that's simply not true, Clara. You don't
have
to. We've managed very well as we are for almost forty years. There's no reason at all to upset the apple cart at this stage. There's the children to consider.'