State We're In (3 page)

Clara often felt uncomfortable under Lisa's gaze; literal and metaphorical. She suspected that Lisa knew much more than she should. Did she know, for example, that Mark was a patch-up baby, after, well … Clara's difficult period at the BBC? She'd insisted on him, she'd
needed
him to anchor her. Did Lisa know that, despite trying not to have favourites, Clara enjoyed the company of her son far more than she enjoyed the company of her daughters? It wasn't that she liked one child more than the others. Not as such. It was just that he was so easy. He was confident, independent and somehow ‘other'; the girls seemed to be mixed and meshed with Clara in a more fundamental, primal and confusing way. It was probably something to do with the endless comparisons people made between mothers and daughters. The girls were said to be either funnier or not as funny as she had been, prettier or not as pretty, more confident or not quite so. She felt a burdensome responsibility towards them that for some reason did not extend to her son.

Besides, by the time Mark came along, she'd been significantly less innocent and pliable; perhaps that helped her to be a more confident mother. After all, she'd only been nineteen when she'd had Lisa. Still a child herself.

Attempts at watching her favourite show with the children were brought to a definite halt when Joanna asked, ‘Why doesn't Steven have a wife? Does he want to marry that man? Is that allowed?'

After that, Clara had bundled the children straight up to bed.

So. How to fill the afternoon? Clara had nothing left to do. She'd prepared chilli with jacket potatoes for tonight's supper. She'd made it relatively mild, but to further induce the children to eat it, she'd also baked a chocolate fudge cake. They knew that pudding was only allowed if they could show her a clean plate. Rita, their cleaner, had changed all the beds; the sheets were hung on the line right now, snapping in the wind. Tim thought Clara was insane, but she liked to keep her hand in with the domestic duties around the house, even though she could have left everything to Rita; it gave her something to do. So she'd dusted all her Lladro figurines – there were twenty-eight of them, so this was no small task – and now she glanced around her sitting room wondering whether there were any other outstanding chores to tackle.

It was immaculate, dust-free and the height of fashion: a mass of pastels, cream, peach and salmon hues placed side by side, swirling and morphing. Her father-in-law had once said that coming to their house reminded him of visiting a French brothel. She'd chosen not to dignify his comment with a response. He couldn't have visited a brothel ever, could he? Perhaps he had; parents were people too. Her father-in-law had a tendency to be very coarse; Tim didn't take after him at all.

The carpet was a pale beige colour. She'd quite fancied cream but hadn't thought it practical, not with three children utilising the patio doors to the full. They were constantly running in and out of the garden, trailing mud, so she had settled for beige. She'd taken a risk with the floral pastel three-piece suite, though; one spilt glass of orange squash and it would be ruined, so she didn't allow the children to bring drinks into this room. The wallpaper was another floral pastel design, but it was a slightly smaller, tighter flower than the suite. The paper stretched just halfway up the wall; there it met with a very impressive – almost regal – border. The top part of the wall was painted peach and then ragged with an iridescent gold paint. Clara was very proud of the ragging; she'd done it herself, even though Tim had said she could get decorators to do the job. It had been a challenge – by the time she was finished, there'd been as much paint on her overalls and hands as there was on the walls – but every time she looked at it, she felt a swell of satisfaction, knowing that she was responsible for it.

Hung on the wall above the television was a picture of a river and some hills. Clara didn't know the name of the artist, but she had seen the original painting in the National Gallery and then bought the print in the shop. The colours were more muted on the print compared to the real thing, but that didn't really bother Clara, because the paler colours matched better with everything else. There were two brass chandeliers, and other than the dark, dreary bar in the corner (Tim's folly), the room was perfect. It was exactly the sort of room Clara had always imagined she'd preside over as wife and mother. It was everything she hoped she'd have as a married woman.

She hated it.

Clara sighed and picked up the
Radio Times
. She combed it carefully as she always did, scouring for his name. She'd spotted it twice in six years and she'd seen it on the credits of three different TV programmes. Each time it had caused a small spark to flicker deep between her legs. Wasn't it strange that a name, written down in print, could have that effect? She didn't regret her choice. What would be the point in regretting? Her lover was trouble. Her husband was kind. She preferred kindness to trouble; it was as simple as that. Yet there were always the sparks.

Clara was delighted to find an article about Harrison Ford. Goody. She hadn't been able to get the man out of her head since that first
Star Wars
film. It was the way he wore his gun slung so low. The thought made her smile all over her body. She'd seen
Raiders of the Lost Ark
twice. Once with Tim but the second time she'd gone on her own. She'd never let on to Tim. He'd have thought she was silly but it had been such fun. Sitting in the dark, alone with her thoughts and fantasies. Little secrets were fine, harmless. Little secrets were allowed. She'd bought popcorn but had hardly been able to eat it; Harrison certainly could wear a fedora, and a whip in
his
hands, well, my … Yes, she'd jump to it.

She read the entire article but it was in fact quite dry; Harrison wasn't prepared to say whether that amazing on-screen chemistry with Karen Allen was for real or not. But then he wasn't the kiss-and-tell sort. Real gentlemen weren't. The challenge was working out which were the real gentlemen.

Clara carefully put the magazine back in the rack and wondered whether it was worth changing into her new top before she went to pick up Mark. Yesterday, she'd bought a shimmering silvery shirt from the brand-new store, Next. It had big puffed sleeves that were brought into line by a neat row of fabric-covered buttons running the length of her forearm. It was quite a dressy shirt, intended for a restaurant or even a nightclub, but Clara didn't get out that often nowadays and so she figured she might as well wear it at the school gate. After all, it never did any harm to look your best, especially on a Thursday. On Thursdays Neil Todd's father did the pick-up. He was such a friendly man. Very attentive. She wondered what he'd look like in a fedora. Would he be able to pull it off?

‘D
ean, there's a call from overseas.'

‘Is it Rogers?' Dean grinned. A flame of excitement and aspiration licked his innards.

Dean was a board account director at a huge international advertising agency, Q&A; however, the Chicago branch of the agency was unofficially viewed as the younger brother to the New York arm, and this was something that chafed at Dean's keen sense of ambition and professional pride. The two offices were equally large, expensive and state-of-the-art. They each serviced approximately the same number of clients. The creative teams were similarly innovative, award-winning and obnoxious, but in the final analysis, when it came down to the numbers (and it always came down to the numbers), there was a sizeable difference between the revenues each office managed to pull in. The New York arm had been more profitable than the Chicago office for many consecutive years. Dean wasn't sure how many exactly, but it was all the time he'd worked for Q&A. It irked, but he was sure that was all about to change.

Rogers was the international marketing director of an extremely large confectionery company. For the last five months Dean had been leading a team of twelve in a pitch to win the company's advertising campaign. The ad spend would be approximately $132 million. That sort of income would catapult his agency and his career; the board account director in New York would have to eat his dust. Dean knew he was on a shortlist of three agencies; success was within his grasp. Success was everything to Dean. He valued it over popularity, friendship and even love. Confectionery wasn't normally what he considered to be his area of expertise – he was stronger on cars or gadgets – but he'd been pretty sure that his strategy was groundbreaking and the creative concepts he'd presented were bold and exciting. Off-the-fucking-wall was how he'd described them in the pitch. Rogers was in London right now, discussing the pros and cons of the various agency pitches with his international team; he'd assured Dean he would call as soon as a decision was reached. Dean was not an unreasonably arrogant man; in fact, he was a realist. He'd led a harder life than anyone would imagine when they met him now, clad in Armani, driving an Audi TT. It was because he'd had more than his share of disappointments that he'd learnt how to judge carefully. His optimism was always curbed, but still he hoped, and almost expected, that the decision Rogers would reach would pan out in his favour.

If Q&A Chicago secured the business, there might be a healthy bonus. He would treat himself to a trip to Vegas. Uncomplicated tits and ass, fun clubs and gambling, what was not to love? He deserved it. He had worked hard to win this pitch. Besides the endless hours needed to develop solid strategy and tease out some crazy concepts, he had invested a lot of time developing a relationship with Rogers. The promise that Rogers would call the moment a decision had been reached was elicited in a strip club that Dean had taken the marketing director to. Turned out that Rogers had never been to a strip joint before; Dean considered that a sin.

‘Get out of here!' he had said, laughing and slapping Rogers on the shoulder.

Rogers had initially appeared a little reluctant. ‘The expenses for tonight won't turn up on the bill for the pitch, will they?' he'd asked fearfully. Dean had pitied Rogers for his inexperience and slightly despised him for his inability to be a fearless man.

‘No way. This, my friend, is on me. Man to man. Buddy to buddy.' Rogers had been flattered; it was clear that he – like most corporate marketers – thought the agency guys were where it was at. Especially Dean. Dean was quite a guy. Everyone said so. He was funny, a wisecracker, full of killer one-liners. And he was tough. Worked out. Fast, determined. He'd completed the Chicago marathon every year for five years, and although he was, obviously, getting older, he always improved on his time. He was the sort of guy people invited to their parties, and if he couldn't make the suggested date, they would postpone the celebration. He was the type of bloke who might hold the lift for a woman and then ask, ‘Are you going up or down?' and the women would beg to tattoo his phone number on to her breasts. He was a man who other men dreamt of becoming.

Dean could almost hear the slot machines pounding.
Ker-ching
. Viva Las Vegas!

‘No. No, it's not Rogers,' his PA, Lacey, replied. ‘It's a hospital. A UK hospital. Queen Anne's in London. I didn't catch the state.'

‘We don't have states in Britain,' said Dean with a sigh. His PA was hot but not sharp. He might have to reconsider his recruitment policy. ‘I'll take it in my office.' He hoped to God his sister Zoe and her kids were all OK.

‘Mr Dean Taylor?'

‘Speaking.'

‘I'm Kitty McGreggor, a nurse at Queen Anne's Hospital, Shepherd's Bush, London.'

‘Is it my sister, Zoe, or the kids? Are they OK?' he demanded.

‘Actually, I'm ringing on behalf of Mr Edward Taylor.' The nurse had a gentle Scottish lilt to her voice. She sounded no-nonsense; firm, calm and in control.

For a moment Dean could not compute the information he was being given. It was not the Scottish accent that was confusing him. It was the name: a dim and distant memory, not to be whispered, let alone said aloud. The words
Edward Taylor
struck fear and loathing into the core of Dean Taylor, the way the word
Macbeth
– said during rehearsals of any show – struck actors; it was sure to bring bad luck.

‘I'm sorry to have to inform you, Mr Taylor, but your father has pancreatic cancer. It's unfortunately spread to other parts of his body and …' She paused, tenderness creeping into her voice. ‘And I'm afraid it's terminal. In fact, he doesn't have long left. It's only right that you should know.'

‘There must be some mistake.'

‘We're estimating a week or so, perhaps less. Perhaps days. There is no mistake.'

‘I'm not talking about the diagnosis.'

‘You
are
Dean Taylor?'

‘Yes.'

‘Son of Edward Taylor?'

‘I suppose.'

‘Then there's no mistake.'

‘The mistake is him asking you to call me.'

‘I
just can't believe that in seventy-two hours Martin will be married.
Married!
' I drag the words out of my dark and dingy subconscious and throw them on to the table for my big sister to examine closely, but Lisa is so obviously far more interested in the dessert menu. I understand: she's a working mother of three children and so nights out require military-precision planning; she's keen to have a good time, which includes ordering something lovely and indulgent for dessert. We've only managed to pull off this evening because I'm temporarily living with Lisa, and Lisa's husband views the idea of getting me out of the house (with or without Lisa) as one less obstacle between him and the remote control, so he offered to babysit.

‘What do you think, chocolate soufflé or tiramisu? I think I'll go for the tiramisu,' says Lisa, closing the menu with an air of finality. She's taking advantage of the fact that I'm her sister; she'd never order such an unfashionable dessert in front of her City analyst friends, but with me she can even drink Baileys in her coffee if she wants; sisters are forgiving about such things. I love her, but right now she's driving me nuts, as she's clearly reluctant to engage in the subject of my ex's imminent nuptials – the only thing I can think about. I bang home my point. ‘Less than three days. Seventy-two hours, to be precise!'