State We're In (20 page)

‘What sort of thing do you want to know?'

‘Anything, everything.' She stared at him blankly, so he decided to give her some pointers. ‘Where do you live?'

‘London.'

‘Which part?'

‘North. Sort of. At the moment.'

‘Do you have a nice place?' Jo shrugged but didn't elaborate. ‘Do you flat-share?' She moved her head slightly, but it was unclear whether she was nodding or shaking it. Exasperated, Dean asked, ‘Have you a window box you'd like to tell me about?'

‘What is this? Twenty questions?'

‘Why are you being so cagey all of a sudden?'

‘Why are you being so nosy all of a sudden?'

‘I'm just trying to make conversation.'

Recognising her own words, Jo relented. ‘OK, OK. Well, the truth is, I'm sort of in between flats.' She sighed, and then added, ‘I sleep on my sister's sofa.'

‘Oh, I see.'

‘When Martin and I split, I rented a room off my friend, a lovely two-bedroom flat in Islington. It was great. We were fine for ages, then Charlotte moved her boyfriend in.'

‘Two is company, three's a crowd.'

‘Exactly. Shortly after he moved in, he said he was going to start working from home. He said he'd have to convert the spare room into an office. When Charlotte first explained the situation to me, it took me a moment to understand. I actually said, “But we don't have a spare room.”'

‘She meant your room?'

‘Yup.' Jo shrugged. Something tightened in Dean's gut; he empathised. There was nothing worse than that feeling of having nowhere to go; it chilled the core. ‘I quickly discovered that rents have rocketed since I struck my deal with Charlotte and my wages have somehow managed to remain exactly the same for the last few years. There's a disparity. A disparity between what I earn and the rent landlords ask at the sort of place I'm prepared to live in.'

‘I see.'

‘My standards aren't ridiculous,' she assured him in a tone laced with panic and indignation. ‘Although I don't want to share a bathroom, kitchen and sitting room with strangers, I accept I have to, but I do draw the line at sharing a
bedroom
with a stranger. Bunk beds, for goodness' sake. I'm thirty-five, not five!' She blushed. Dean guessed that she hadn't meant to let her age slip out like that. She rushed on. ‘So, Lisa's sofa is more attractive than bunk beds and Lisa's sofa, notably, is free. But it's only a temporary measure.'

‘Of course. How long have you been there?'

‘About five months.'

‘Oh.'

‘But it won't be for ever.'

‘No.'

Jo sighed, then continued, ‘I'm not sure how much longer the arrangement will last, actually. I get the feeling that my brother-in-law, Henry, is finding it a tad irritating. He's got into the habit of making me a cup of tea before I set off for work each morning.'

‘That's nice.'

‘Yup, I thought he was being sweet too, at first, but last month he started circling ads for rooms to let in the local freebie newspaper and handing the paper over with the cuppa.'

‘Sharing can be fraught,' said Dean sympathetically.

‘He was so snappy the other day because I'd used his razor to shave my legs, and yes, I realise I ought to try to remember to mention it if I use the last of the milk, but it's not as though I put the empty carton back in the fridge. I just forget that the kids need milk for breakfast. I don't have kids; I've never had to think that way. More's the pity.' She threw the last sentence towards the aisle and away from him so he let it drift.

Dean thought of his own home, a sleek loft apartment, full of what estate agents might call mod cons. More importantly, it boasted an abundance of privacy and space; he felt incredibly grateful. Suddenly, surprisingly, he wondered where his father had lived before he went into hospital. As a kid, he'd given a lot of thought to that sort of thing, but he hadn't allowed himself to imagine anything like that for years. It was pointless, a dead end. Unbidden, an image of his father burst into his head. He was sitting alone and pitiful in a studio flat, towers of washing-up stacked precariously around the sink, an unmade bed in one corner and a small TV droning from another. He knew these types of flats. Intimately acquainted. He could picture the relentless browns and greys easily; he could smell the dust, damp and stale stranger sweat; he could hear the neighbours fighting through the paper-thin walls. He shoved the thought away and scrabbled around for the earlier vision of his father in France, indolent, ignorant, distant, but that image had collapsed, vanished. He tried to focus on this Jo woman instead.

‘The thing is, Lisa has this huge career, while Henry has a part-time position with the council; some administration job that fits around the kids. Consequently, Henry and I are seeing rather more of one another than either of us is used to. We've had to get to know each other's quirks. It's simply a period of readjustment.' She was obviously trying to convince herself as much as him.

‘What quirks?' Dean wanted to know.

‘I like to chat in the mornings, Henry is monosyllabic. I'm happy to eat my supper off a tray in front of the TV, but Henry strongly believes the family ought to sit around the table and make conversation. He's kept supper hot for me on four different occasions when I've returned home later than anticipated. Although I don't know why he bothers; the warm plate can't do a thing to thaw the frosty atmosphere when I delay a meal.'

‘Sounds a bit of a nightmare.'

‘It can be. Of course, he's always polite enough. I'm family and he's a decent man, so I know I'm safe from out-and-out eviction, but …' Dean fully understood why she broke off. She didn't fit in. It wasn't her home. That was uncomfortable. She rallied, and smiled again. At a glance it was convincing, but if anyone cared to look for longer than a fleeting second, it was obviously not one of her heartfelt smiles. He wondered whether anyone looked beyond; his experience had been that no one ever did. People wanted to accept what was easiest and most convenient, regardless of truth.

‘I'm sure they love having you to stay,' he said, mustering cheer.

‘You think?' She looked doubtful and grateful at the same time. ‘I'm well aware that it is
my
responsibility to fit in with
their
lifestyle and habits, so I haven't once complained about my nephews and niece waking me up at six every morning, or the fact that they never watch anything decent on TV. I've been the third wheel to enough couples to receive the message loud and clear: single women have to adapt, single women have to accommodate.'

‘Right.' Dean took a long, deep breath in. He thought she ought to as well. He decided he'd better change the subject; her sleeping arrangements were almost as depressing as her romantic aspirations. He went to the old favourite. ‘So, what do you do for a living?'

‘I'm a writer.'

‘Interesting.' He beamed.

‘You?'

‘Advertising.' He wouldn't let her turn the conversation. ‘What sort of writer? Novelist? Journalist?'

‘Journalist.'

‘Newspapers?'

‘Magazines.'

‘Which one?'

Uncharacteristically, Jo hesitated, and then eventually admitted, ‘Well, until yesterday, I worked for
Loving Bride!.
'

Dean was glad that he'd mastered the art of never betraying any emotion through his expression; least of all hilarity or derision. ‘I don't know that title,' he said evenly.

‘No. It's quite specialist.' Jo grinned, showing that she'd somehow read his careful tone perfectly. ‘You're not in the market. Truthfully, you are unlikely to
ever
be in the market. I don't think a single copy has once been bought by a man.'

‘Who knew such an entrenched sexism still existed.'

‘Sexism is alive and kicking, never doubt that,' Jo said. She sounded worn out. Dean considered her comment.

‘So, you are a hapless romantic and a feminist too? How does that work?'

‘As a romantic, I'm in the perfect position to see all the limitations placed on women. Don't you think I wished things were different?'

Dean could barely process, let alone respond to, such raw honesty. There was more to her than gushing optimism. He wasn't sure if this was good to know or disastrous. He pulled the conversation back to her career. ‘So what's your new title called? Will I know that one?' he asked.

‘New title?'

‘The one that lured you away from
Loving Bride!.
'

‘Oh. Erm. I'm flattered that you've made that assumption and embarrassed that I have to put you right. I'm sort of between jobs too.'

‘Oh. I see.'

‘I was fired.'

There was a silence that settled between them like a film of dust. Dean was not often at a loss for words, but he found he couldn't pull to mind anything trite yet charming with his usual efficiency. He was beginning to understand why this woman might have convinced herself that a dash across the Atlantic to sabotage her ex's wedding was her only hope. Hesitantly, he commented, ‘Well, I'm sure you'll find something new before long.' It was the best he could do, the usual platitude people offered, and he expected her to play her part, to politely reassure him that she would do just that.

‘No, I don't think I will,' sighed Jo. She looked at her hands, which were resting on her lap. The pose oozed resignation.

‘I bet you're very good at what you do.'

‘I don't think I am. I was once. But I'm not sure any more.'

Dean rubbed his chin. This woman was unbelievable. She'd have to change her tack at interview. He needed a moment to think if there were any other directions he could steer this conversation. ‘But you have hobbies, right?'

‘Oh yes. I do a French class and I take salsa lessons.'

‘Sounds fun,' said Dean. It sounded deadly. Why did single women go to salsa lessons? Did they think they'd meet men there or something? No way, José.

‘You think they are terrible hobbies, don't you?' she asked. It seemed she had an uncanny ability to dig through his bullshit and an uncommon wish to do so.

‘Well, I think it would be good if just once I met a woman who did something, you know, different.'

‘Different? How so?'

‘Perhaps sculpture classes, or had an interest in collecting old rave flyers from the nineties; even attending seminars about antique maps would be cool. Anything.' He glanced at Jo and she blinked back at him. Possibly fighting tears. He'd said too much. Maybe she also thought that her hobbies were a poor show. Dean rummaged around his brain for something else to say. Something that would not reveal more of her failings and idiocy but that seemed friendly. He had no idea why he wanted to be cordial towards her but he knew he did. ‘Shall we watch a movie? There's a period drama with Renée Zellweger and Russell Crowe that looks like your sort of thing,' he said.

‘How would you know what is my sort of thing?' she snapped. ‘I might want to watch something completely
different.
' Dean didn't want to inflame her indignation and so resisted telling her that she was an open book. He offered her the entertainment magazine, which she reluctantly took from him. After reading the blurb, she sighed and admitted unwillingly, ‘Actually, that is
exactly
my sort of thing. I am going to watch it.'

‘So will I,' said Dean with a grin. ‘We can watch it together.'

‘You don't have to do that.'

‘It will be fun. I like talking about a movie after I've seen it. Don't you?'

She didn't answer his question directly, but she stared at him for an age. ‘Oh, go on then,' she agreed with a great show of disinclination, but Dean could see that a smile was dancing around the edge of her lips, and he knew that the disinclination was entirely feigned.

T
he nurse is at my side almost the instant I open my eyes. She's making soothing sounds, like women do to crying babies. She's not actually saying ‘There there,' but as good as. Someone is crying; well, not so much crying as groaning. Moaning. It takes a moment to realise it's me.

‘It's OK, Eddie, here's your syringe driver.' As usual, she jabs something into me and then moves around the bed tapping tubes and checking readings. She works efficiently but with an air that puts me in mind of Mrs Williamson, an old bird I haven't thought of in years. She was the group director's senior secretary, back at the Beeb. She used to be charged with the job of counting the employees' heads after a fire alarm. We were daft buggers. Liked to wind her up. We'd move around the line so she'd count twenty-nine rather than twenty-eight, or a few of us would nip to the pub and she'd get flustered over the unaccounted-for blokes. She carried with her a perpetual tinge of panic. She was always expecting the worst. Preparing for it. The nurse reminded me of her. I imagine that Mrs Williamson, a formidable ancient matron back in the eighties, must be dead now. No longer panicking.

‘Keep trying to drink your fluids,' says the nurse.

‘Has my son been in?' The question, once vocalised, surprises me. I hadn't realised it was on my mind. It blurted out like a confession.

‘Not since yesterday.' She places her hand on my arm. I don't have the energy to shake her off, but her touch stings and her sympathy makes me cringe. I wonder if she was on shift yesterday when he was here. I wonder what she saw or heard. There was a bit of a scene. Nothing compared to some I've witnessed while I've been lying here, though. No melodrama, no hysterics or fists involved. Lower key, but for anyone who is in the slightest bit tuned in to human nature, a notable scene. I'd just been scavenging around for something to talk to him about. He isn't the most communicative bloke, and, well, with our past, or more accurately lack of it, conversational avenues are limited. It was something and nothing. Then again, that's all we've ever been. Something and nothing. It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, an impetuous gesture. That's my style.