State We're In (34 page)

Tim had called her on her mobile several times since Thursday night. Of course she had taken his calls. They weren't silly lovestruck kids who sulked with one another and played attention-grabbing games; they never had been. That was the point. He'd called to ask whether she was settled into the spa. It was a peculiar sort of break-up when the wife left details of her future accommodation with her ex, but Clara had felt it was the most polite thing to do; after all, Tim would be paying for the room. ‘It's very nice, I'm quite comfortable. Thank you for asking,' she'd assured him politely, and then, because there was an awkward silence, she added, ‘Much the same as all my other visits.'

‘Well, hardly.' He'd sounded irritated.

Clara had regretted her tactlessness. ‘No, I suppose you're right, it's not the same. Just the rooms are the same.'

He'd suggested she eat a good supper and get some rest. He clearly thought she was suffering from some sort of mental instability, a breakdown. Like the other time. She wasn't. She was very cool, calm and collected. When she tried to tell him as much, Tim became more panicked, not less, so she gave up and instead let him think she was out of her mind. He'd called again on Friday morning. He'd enquired as to whether she'd had a good night's sleep. They talked about the scrambled eggs she'd had for breakfast; she'd commented that they were a little sloppy for her, more to his liking.

‘Perhaps next time you visit the spa, I'll come with you,' he'd suggested. ‘If you think it's to my taste. We should probably be doing more together. Maybe that's what's at the root of this problem.'

Clara did think that a husband and wife ought to do plenty of things as a couple – shared hobbies did have their merits – but indulging in mini manicures and pedicures together would only exasperate this particular situation, surely.

Tim had called again when she was at Eddie's hospital bedside. She'd taken the call and lied. She'd considered saying she was shopping but thought the hospital sounds might expose her, so she told him she was seeing her own doctor about the possibility of finding a counsellor. He'd believed her and supported her wholeheartedly. ‘I can come too, darling, if that's what it takes.'

‘Maybe.' She'd remained non-committal, quickly made her excuses and promised to call him back later.

‘Just like old times.' Eddie rasped out his comment but still managed a sly grin.

‘How so?' asked Clara as she switched off her phone and buried it deep in her handbag, out of sight, out of mind.

‘Me lying in bed, you lying to your husband.'

Clara remembered the guilt and shame and her inability to fight it. ‘Not quite. For one, we weren't plagued by mobile phones,' she pointed out brightly.

‘True, it was easier to be bad then.'

‘Now it's all tracked and traceable. I don't know how anyone manages to have an affair nowadays.' Clara jokingly pretended to sound outraged on behalf of the adulterers, but it was not what she believed. She liked to think of herself as a sort of accidental adulterer. Not someone who sought out trouble or got a kick out of the subterfuge and drama of an illicit affair. It had almost killed her.

‘I managed,' Eddie informed her. So there were women after her. Before her. Probably running alongside her. Women other than his wife. Why did it still hurt? Not as much as it had, of course. Then it was agony, a ripping out of guts; now it was more of a sharp twinge akin to banging your funny bone. Not so funny.

‘You didn't go back to your wife, then?' Clara had often wondered.

‘No.'

‘Or the children?'

‘Married again, had more children. Two girls.'

‘Oh, well that's OK then.' Clara could not quell her sarcasm; didn't even want to.

They fell into a miserable silence. There was nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the hospital: other visitors chatting, talking about the weather or who they might vote for on Saturday night's latest talent show; the hum of the various machines that monitored and maintained; and his heavy breathing. Eddie broke the silence.

‘Don't be like that, Clara. I know it's not ideal, but it is what it is.'

‘So where is your second wife?' Clara looked around the hospital ward as though she imagined the second wife might suddenly materialise from behind a plastic curtain or from under one of the beds.

‘Divorced me.'

‘Because? Same old same old?' Clara hated herself for being part of this long list of women. She could see them in her head, all too clearly. They were trailing through the room in nothing other than tiny panties, the way they had trailed through Eddie Taylor's life: plump women, thin women, young women, mature women, sane women, insane women, black, white and golden-hued women. She felt undignified. She was sure she ought to be too old to be jealous.

‘No. Not another woman, as it happens. Money. Difference of opinion.' Eddie pointed towards the water jug. Clara jumped up and poured; she tried to hand him the plastic beaker the moment before she realised he wasn't able to take it from her. Helpless. She sat on the bed, carefully cradled his head in her left hand and guided the cup to his lips. His skin was hot. Her fingers tingled. She eased him back down, put the cup back on the bedside cabinet but did not move off the bed. Refreshed, Eddie was able to finish his sentence. ‘I had none. She wanted some. She worked out I was never going to be a big Hollywood screenplay writer. I used up my ambition quite early on.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry.' Clara wasn't sorry. This divorce seemed less grubby in comparison to the first one and she was irrationally relieved that the list of women she imagined he'd entranced was not, after all, infinite. ‘Are you on good terms with your children?'

‘No.'

‘None of them?'

‘No.'

‘Oh.'

‘Well, the boy …' Eddie looked momentarily confused. Clara wondered whether he might have forgotten his son's name. Was that the result of his illness or his carelessness?

‘Dean,' she prompted helpfully, because she remembered all the details.

‘He came here.'

‘Well, that's good.'

‘Not really. He came to tell me how angry he is. He came because he's fucked up.' Eddie's breath was so laboured that Clara wasn't sure he'd said that Dean had fucked up or that Eddie had fucked up. It hardly mattered; the two things were one and the same in Clara's mind. ‘Angry, cynical. More cynical than I ever was. Alone. What about you? How are your kids?'

Clara felt her nose prickle; it took her a moment to realise she was fighting tears. She didn't want to indulge in outward shows of emotion; she always preferred to resist them. Usually she was refined to the point of restrained, but this was the first time Eddie Taylor had ever mentioned her children or asked after their well-being.

‘Oh, they are fine. Wonderful.'

‘Grown-up?'

‘Yes. All grown.'

‘University and such?' He waved his hand to suggest his enquiry was to encompass all possible accolades children could achieve.

‘Yes. My eldest went to Cambridge, middle one went to Leeds and my son went to Bristol.'

‘Impressive.'

‘Two of them are married. Happily so.'

‘And the other?'

‘Oh no, she's a romantic.' Clara and Eddie shared a conspiratorial glance; he raised an eyebrow at her joke. They used to tell one another that marriage was no harbour for passion or romance; they'd believed it was only available outside the sanctified union. It was a bit of a sad joke if you thought about it. ‘Seriously, I think I ruined her. Overprotected her. She isn't very realistic when it comes to relationships.' Clara could not stop herself confiding her fear to Eddie. Jo was on her mind.

‘Who is?' He shot her another look, saying more. Yes, thought Clara, Eddie Taylor was not very realistic when it came to relationships either. His cynicism and aloof detachment hadn't immunised him; he'd simply suffered from another strain of the unreality that her daughter suffered from. Jo was too romantic, too hopeful; she believed entirely in total perfection and expected to find it in everyone she met. For this reason she gave herself fully and was often exposed or hurt. Eddie did not expect to find a glimmer of the good stuff in anyone; he did not expect to have to offer it up. Clara thought that, by contrast, she was realistic. She was the queen of compromise and make-do. ‘Glad it worked out for you,' said Eddie. He probably meant it, too.

‘Oh yes, they're all fine. It's worked out for them. My husband's gay, though,' she added.

‘What? When?'

‘Well, always, I suppose. But he told me just after I had Mark.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘Quite.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Yes.'

‘But you stayed with him?'

‘I did.'

Clara almost wanted to laugh. The Eddie she remembered had burst through from the ghostly body of this old man. He looked shocked, animated and almost amused again at last. ‘Clara?'

‘Yes?'

‘Why didn't you come and find me?'

‘Eddie, you never wanted the children you sired. How could I possibly hope you'd bring up mine?'

‘I might have. If you'd asked.'

‘I
need a drink,' said Jo.

Whilst he was not a drinker himself, Dean could recognise the need in others; a Hershey bar wasn't going to cut it. There was no question that they could go back in to the ceremony now. Before the phone call, the wedding had represented all Jo believed in but didn't have. Now the bubble had burst. She believed in nothing at all, which Dean knew, through experience, was a considerably harder position to be in.

He took her to the first diner he spotted. It was a grungy basement that had never had the benefit of a makeover. The seats were tatty and the lino was sticky, but Dean was prepared to overlook this providing the milkshakes were delicious. Somehow he instinctively knew what she needed, and it wasn't a glitzy restaurant. Jo needed to hibernate. To hide from the daylight and eat lots of comfort food.

She gave him the facts. An adulterous mother. A gay father. Not quite the fairy tale she'd thought, then, after all. She had probably needed to move out of la la land, but he feared that this was too sharp and sudden a wake-up call; it might rip at the very fabric of this woman's existence. She asked for a glass of red wine, which he ordered, but he insisted that she drink a banana milkshake first. He figured she needed the sugar; she was in shock. She obediently drank the creamy drink as he instructed. She was never the sort of woman to throw out unnecessary objections, and right now she was too beaten to be anything other than entirely compliant. She needed taking care of. She trusted he would do it, and as they sat shoulder to shoulder in silence, he accepted that he would indeed take care of her. He put his good hand over hers and squeezed.

The silence stretched for ten minutes, twenty, thirty. Dean was generally OK with silences, but Jo being so quiet for so long was unnerving him. She'd struggled to hush up for thirty seconds all day yesterday. He was worried. He'd ordered poached salmon, fries and a tomato salad because on the flight she'd told him it was her all-time favourite meal. When it arrived, she automatically thanked him and the waitress but didn't pick up her fork.

‘Come on, Jo, you need to eat something.' Her gaze dropped to the plate in front of her and she seemed genuinely surprised to see the food. He wondered where she was, where her thoughts had taken her. He wanted her to come back to him. He forked up some fish and held it to her mouth. Silently she parted her lips and allowed him to feed her. After half a dozen mouthfuls she said, ‘I hate my parents.'

‘No you don't.'

She took the fork off him, picked up her knife and started to reluctantly feed herself. Dean turned to his own meal, a burger, but was surprised to discover he wasn't as hungry as usual either. Jo's upset was catching.

‘How could they?'

‘How could they what?' How could her mother have left her gay husband? That didn't seem a tricky one to Dean. He was struggling with the question of how they could have lived a lie for all those years. Why would they? But he wasn't sure what Jo was thinking, so he trod carefully.

‘How could they be so different from what I thought they were?' she said with an enormous sigh.

‘Oh, that's easy. They're human.'

‘They held hands when walking down the street. Do you think that was an act?'

‘No, not necessarily.'

‘And their bedroom.' She looked confused. ‘The enormous bed. I thought it was a faintly embarrassing embodiment of their uber-romantic existence, but in fact they probably have such an enormous bed so they don't have to touch one another. I am such an idiot. I have nothing now. Absolutely nothing. No job, no home, no plan as to who I should marry, and
now
, apparently, no history. At least not a real and dependable history. I've based everything I am, everything I wanted to be on what I thought they were, and they never were that.' Jo looked horrified, terrified. ‘You're right, Dean, there's no such thing as true love. There are no happily-ever-afters, no soulmates, no chances.' Two big fat tears slipped down her face. They splashed on to her salmon.

‘Shush, don't say that, Jo.'

‘What? I'm wrong now because I'm agreeing with you?' She turned to him and for the first time he saw a flash of genuine anger swipe across her face. This was old news to him: disappointment led to anger, finally to bitterness; he knew as much, had always known. Hadn't he tried to tell her, to warn her? But even he had not banked upon her disillusionment coming in this particular and sudden form. He'd fully expected her to be rejected by the tall, dull guy she used to date; he'd expected that to sting. Wasn't that why he'd turned up here today – to mop up, as necessary? He had thought that she'd find out the tall guy wasn't for her and that she'd be sad about it for a while but eventually pick herself up, brush herself down and fall in love all over again. He'd sort of depended on it.