The Year I Met You (19 page)

‘Good.’ Your eyes examine me; I hate this.

‘But I could bring her,’ I say. ‘If that’s okay.’

‘Of course.’ You smile. ‘You’re a protective big sister.’

‘Little,’ I say.

You frown.

‘She’s older than me.’

A penny seems to drop. You have that look of realisation. But it’s sarcastic. ‘That would make sense. She’s more mature.’

A smile tickles at the corners of my mouth but I refuse to let it happen. I look away to Fionn. You follow my stare.

We watch Fionn picking up the mallet.

‘Are you seriously okay with him doing that?’ you ask.

‘Are
you
okay with it?’

‘They’re not my stones.’

‘A piece could fly into his eye,’ I say.

Silence.

‘Could slice his arm. Hit an artery.’

You take off after him across the road.

I don’t know what you say to your son but you haven’t handled it well. Before you even finish your sentence, Fionn is smashing up pieces of my expensive Indian sandstone on your garden table. You jump back so that the pieces don’t hit you. It’s as if you’re not there to him.

For twenty minutes he smashes everything up into tiny pieces, his cheeks flushed from the exertion, his face screwed up in anger. Your daughter, the blondie who dances everywhere instead of walking, is watching him from inside the jeep, the closest you will allow her to go, and you are at the front door, arms folded, standing upright, watching with less embarrassment and more concern as he batters my expensive stones. When he’s finished, he surveys his work, his arms loose and gangly and free of tension. Then he looks up and around, suddenly aware of his surroundings and the people watching him, as if he’s coming out of a coma. He tenses up again, the hood goes back up, the turtle disappearing into its shell. He drops the mallet into the wheelbarrow and he pushes it across the road to me.

‘Thanks,’ he grunts, before shuffling off again, head down as he passes his family and pushes past you, in through the front door. From across the road I hear a door slam upstairs in the house.

It makes me think I should call my dad.

I should. But I don’t. A few months into this gardening leave I realised I’d slammed my door closed a long time ago, I don’t know when it happened – when I slammed the door and when exactly I realised it – but it is obvious to me now, and I’m not quite ready to come out of my room yet.

16

I awake in the middle of the night to the same low voices being carried in the gentle wind over to my house, as though the breeze is a messenger, carrying the words especially to me. As soon as I wake, I know that I am wide awake and will be for the long haul. This despite the fact I’m exhausted, completely and absolutely spent; the gardening yesterday was so backbreaking and intense that I feel the effects of it each time I move, but it is a satisfying ache. Not the headache I used to get from spending too long talking on my mobile phone, the hot-eared, hot-cheeked pain and ache in my eyes from staring at a computer screen all day or the lower back problems and the right shoulder strain from bad posture at a desk, hunched over a computer. It does not equal any of these, nor does it equal the pain I experience after working out after a break from exercise. This feeling is so completely different and satisfying I am almost buzzing. Even though I’m exhausted, my mind is alive. It is invigorating, I am pumped and some of that is due to the fact my soul feels fed by the earth, but mostly it’s down to the fact I can’t figure out why Dr Jameson has once again joined you at your garden table, sitting out in the cold night air until one o’clock in the morning. What is so important that it can’t be discussed during daylight? Even more confusing, what on earth could you and he possibly have in common? You two are the least likely candidates on the street for an alliance, perhaps less likely than you and I – and that’s saying something. I eventually reason that you are a fuck-up and Dr Jameson is someone who needs to clean everything up, fix things. You must be part of his neighbourhood watch effort; perhaps he considers you a potential menace to the people on this street with your streetlight, window and garage smashing.

I throw off the bedcovers and admit defeat. You have suckered me.

I cross the road in Ugg boots and a Puffa coat carrying a flask of tea and some mugs.

‘Ah, there’s the woman herself,’ Dr Jameson announces, as though the pair of you have been talking about me.

You look at me, bleary-eyed, drunk as usual. ‘See, I told you: she can’t get enough of me,’ you say drily, but it is half-hearted.

‘Hello, Dr Jameson. Tea?’

‘Please.’ His tired eyes sparkle in the moonlight, his second night on the trot up past midnight.

I don’t even bother to offer you one. You are nursing a glass of whisky and the bottle is half-empty on the table. I don’t know how many you’ve had. Two or three perhaps, of this bottle anyway. There is a strong smell of whisky in the air, but that could be drifting from the open bottle and not your breath. You have a different energy about you tonight; you seem defeated, the fight all gone out of you. Though it doesn’t stop you from nipping at my heels, it is done with less vigour than usual.

‘Nice jim-jams,’ you say.

‘They’re not jim-jams.’ I take care to check the chair for broken pieces of stone, which are still scattered all around the place despite Fionn sweeping up after himself yesterday evening, obviously against his will from the angry sound of the bristles hitting the concrete. ‘They’re lounging pants,’ I reply and you snort.

I sit opposite you at the other head of the table and wrap my hands around the mug of tea to keep me warm.

‘Now the mad hatter’s tea party is complete,’ you say. ‘Is it cry o’clock yet?’

That stings but I don’t rise to the bait.

‘I’m afraid our friend is a wind-up merchant,’ Dr Jameson says, conspiratorially, jovially. ‘I wouldn’t take much notice.’

‘That’s what I get paid for,’ you say.

‘Not any more.’ I peek at you over my mug. Perhaps I’m looking for a fight, I’m not sure. I was aiming to match your tone, but it doesn’t work when I do it. You give me a stony look that surprises me and I know that I’ve hit a nerve. And I like it.

I smile. Payback. ‘What’s happened, Matt? Bob not going to fix you up? Thought you were like that –’ I cross my fingers the way you had done.

‘Bob had a heart attack,’ you say darkly. ‘He’s in hospital on a life-support machine. We don’t think he’s going to make it.’

I feel horrendous. My smile quickly fades. ‘Oh. God. Matt. I’m so sorry.’ I stutter my way through an apology, feeling just awful.

‘Bob was fired,’ Dr Jameson says. ‘Matt, please.’

You chuckle, but it doesn’t sound happy and I’m raging that you reduced me to feeling like that, for making me apologise to you.

‘Dr J, this woman is up and down more than a stripper on a pole.’

‘Now now,’ Dr Jameson cautions.

I can’t debate this fact – the up-and-down bit, not the stripper bit. It’s true of me with him.

‘So your buddy got fired,’ I say, slugging back my tea, feeling back on top again. ‘That doesn’t look so good for the routine investigation into your conduct, does it?’

‘No, it doesn’t, does it.’ You stare at me.

‘Unless they’re going to hire a new friend of yours to take his place. Someone else who’s willing to overlook your extreme error in judgement. Again.’

You give me a dangerous look and knock back your whisky. I should read the signs but I don’t, or I do but carry on regardless. I thought you were a man on the verge before but you were perfectly solid in comparison to this. I want to reach out my finger and push you. It feels like therapy for me.

‘Uh-oh,’ I say sarcastically, reading his look. ‘They’ve hired someone who doesn’t like you. Shocking. Wonder where they found him.’

‘Her, actually,’ Dr Jameson says. ‘Olivia Fry. An English woman. From a very successful radio station in the UK I believe.’

‘An awful radio station,’ you say, rubbing your face, the stress obvious.

‘Not a fan?’ I say.

‘No.’ You look at me darkly again.

I take another sip.

‘Try not to look so sad about it, Jasmine.’

I throw my hands up. ‘You know what, Matt, I can understand in a weird way, how you think that what you do is for the greater good—’

You try to interrupt.

‘Wait, wait,’ I raise my voice.

‘Sshh,’ Dr Jameson says. ‘The Murphys.’

I lower my voice to a hush but keep the power. ‘But New Year’s Eve? The woman in your studio? What the hell?’

There’s a long silence. Dr Jameson looks from me to you and back again. I can tell he’s curious to see if you’ll give the honest answer.

‘I was wasted,’ you finally say, but it is not a defence, it’s acknowledgement. I look at Dr Jameson in surprise. ‘I mistakenly took my anxiety pills with some alcohol before the show.’

‘And you shouldn’t do that.’ Dr Jameson shakes his head violently, already knowing this story. ‘Those pills are strong, Matt. You shouldn’t have been drinking at all. You can’t mix them. Frankly, you shouldn’t be on those pills.’

‘I’ve mixed them before and it would have been fine, except I still had sleeping pills in my system from that morning,’ you explain. Dr Jameson holds his hands to his head in horror.

‘So you admit that your show on New Year’s Eve was wrong,’ I say, more surprised by the admission of wrongdoing than the concoction of drugs you’d taken.

You look at me, eyebrow raised, unimpressed by my goading you. When I see you’re not going to repeat it, I look at Dr Jameson.

‘So, how was your holiday?’

‘Oh, well,’ he gathers himself. ‘It was rather nice to see the children and—’

‘It rained for two weeks, they were stuck inside and they made Dr J do all the baby-sitting.’

‘It wasn’t all doom and gloom.’

‘Dr J, you tell me to face facts, it’s time you did the same. They used you.’

Dr Jameson looks defeated.

What rings in my ears is you saying
you tell me to face facts.
A little glimpse into your relationship with the good doctor; facing facts is not what I thought you’d be doing at this hour, outside in your garden.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say to Dr Jameson.

‘It’s … you know, it’s … I was hoping to stay with them for Christmas, you see, but no. That won’t be happening now.’

‘Dr J’s spent Christmas Day on his own for the past fifteen years.’

‘A little less than that,’ he says. ‘I was hoping this year would be different. But,’ he perks up, ‘no matter.’

We sit in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

‘You’ve done a nice job on your garden,’ Dr Jameson says.

‘Thanks.’ I look at it proudly.

‘She’s on gardening leave,’ you say, then laugh and cough ‘fired’ into your whisky glass.

I feel the anger building. ‘Fionn helped me with the rockery. He wanted to get away from his dad,’ I say.

Dr Jameson is amused by our banter. I’m not.

‘He’s fifteen. No one wants to be with their dad when they’re fifteen,’ you say.

I concur.

‘And there’s nothing to do here,’ you continue. ‘The three of them just want to sit around all day playing on their iPads.’

‘Then
do something
with them,’ I say. ‘Think of something. He likes being out and about, do a project with him.’ I look at the table. ‘Sand and varnish this thing. That’ll keep him busy. Do it together. You might even communicate.’ I gasp sarcastically at the idea.

Silence again.

‘Gardening leave, Jasmine,’ Dr Jameson says. ‘For how long?’

‘One year.’

‘What was your business?’

‘I was co-founder of a company called the Idea Factory. We came up with and implemented ideas and strategies for other companies.’

‘Consultancy?’ you ask.

‘No.’ I shake my head.

‘Advertising then.’

‘No no,’ I object.

‘Well, it’s not very clear what exactly—’

‘It’s not talking out loud for people to hear, Matt, that’s what it’s not,’ I snap.

‘Hoo hoo hoo,’ you sing-laugh, knowing you’ve touched a nerve and I’ve reacted perfectly, played right into your hands. ‘I’ve offended her, Dr J, somehow, sometime,’ you explain.

‘Why stop at one time? Why can’t everything you say offend me?’ I know that that’s no longer true and I feel bad. I think of the times when your words comforted me.

I look across at my garden, the only thing that can take my mind off everything these days, the only thing that will lift me out of this conversation and stop me from saying something I might regret. You have been good-spirited up till now, but I know that if I keep on pushing your buttons you might crack, and likewise with me.

‘What will you do?’ Dr Jameson asks, and it feels as if I’ve had to come back from somewhere far away to answer him.

‘I’m thinking of building a water fountain,’ I say.

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘She knew what you meant.’ You watch me thoughtfully.

‘That couple who live beside me, Dr J,’ I say, without realising I’m now using your nickname for him until you react.

‘The Lennons,’ he reminds me.

‘I saw them calling door-to-door yesterday. What were they doing?’

‘A secret swinging society,’ you say. ‘Right under our very noses.’

I ignore you.

‘I think she fancies me,’ you say to Dr J.

‘You are so childish.’

‘You are so easy to wind up, it’s almost a waste not to.’

‘Not normally. Only with you.’

‘The Lennons were saying goodbye,’ Dr Jameson says as though our childish spat isn’t happening. ‘They’ve decided to let their house and go on a cruise for a few months. After what happened with Elsa Malone, they’d rather live while they have the chance.’

‘Who’ll be renting?’

‘Your cousin,’ you say.

‘Really? I heard it was your wife,’ I shoot back.

‘A corporate man. Lone man. Companies pay an absolute fortune for their managing directors now, don’t they? He moves in next week sometime. I saw him having a look around. Young fellow.’

You make a bizarre tooting sound that I realise is directed at me. A schoolboy jeer. ‘You never know, Jasmine.’ You wink at me.