It feels good to be in this room, even though the reasons for being here aren’t so good. The Lydons have a large Victorian house, and it’s old and tatty and full of things—furniture, paintings, ornaments, plants—which don’t go together but which have obviously been chosen with care and taste. The room we’re in has a huge, weird family portrait on the wall above the fireplace, done when the girls were about ten and eight. They are wearing what look like bridesmaids’ dresses, standing self-consciously beside Ken; there’s a dog, Allegro, Allie, who died before I came along, in front of them and partially obscuring them. He has his paws up on Ken’s midriff, and Ken is ruffling the dog’s fur and smiling. Janet is standing a little behind and apart from the other three, watching her husband. The whole family are much thinner (and splotchier, but that’s the painting for you) than they are in real life. It’s modern art, and bright and fun, and obviously done by someone who knew what they were about (Laura told me that the woman who did it has had exhibitions and all sorts), but it has to take its chances with a stuffed otter, which is on the mantelpiece underneath, and the sort of dark old furniture that I hate. Oh, and there’s a hammock in one corner, loaded down with cushions, and a huge bank of new black hi-fi stuff in another corner, Ken’s most treasured possession, despite the paintings and the antiques. It’s all a mess, but you’d have to love the family that lived here, because you’d just know that they were interesting and kind and gentle. I realize now that I enjoyed being a part of this family, and though I used to moan about coming here for weekends or Sunday afternoons, I was never bored once. Jo comes up to us after a few minutes, and kisses both of us, and thanks us for coming.
“How are you?” Liz asks, but it’s the ‘How are you’ that has an emphasis on the ‘are,’ which makes the question sound meaningful and sympathetic. Jo shrugs.
“I’m all right. I suppose. And Mum’s not too bad, but Laura … I dunno.”
“She’s had a pretty rough few weeks already, without this,” says Liz, and I feel a little surge of something like pride: That was me. I made her feel like that. Me and a couple of others, anyway, including Laura herself, but never mind. I’d forgotten that I could make her feel anything and, anyway, it’s odd to be reminded of your emotional power in the middle of a funeral which, in my limited experience, is when you lose sense of it altogether.
“She’ll be OK,” says Liz decisively. “But it’s hard, when you’re putting all your effort into one bit of your life, to suddenly find that it’s the wrong bit.” She glances at me, suddenly embarrassed, or guilty, or something.
“Don’t mind me,” I tell them. “Really. No problem. Just pretend you’re talking about somebody else.” I meant it kindly, honest I did. I was simply trying to say that if they wanted to talk about Laura’s love life, any aspect of it, then I wouldn’t mind, not today, of all days.
Jo smiles, but Liz gives me a look. “We are talking about somebody else. Laura. Laura and Ray, really.”
“That’s not fair, Liz.”
“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow, as if I’m being insubordinate.
“And don’t fucking say ‘Oh’ like that.” A couple of people look round when I use the ‘f’-word, and Jo puts her hand on my arm. I shake it off. Suddenly, I’m raging and I don’t know how to calm down. It seems like I’ve spent the whole of the last few weeks with someone’s hand on my arm: I can’t speak to Laura because she lives with somebody else and she calls from phone boxes and she pretends she doesn’t, and I can’t speak to Liz because she knows about the money and the abortion and me seeing someone else, and I can’t speak to Barry and Dick because they’re Barry and Dick, and I can’t speak to my friends because I don’t speak to my friends, and I can’t speak now because Laura’s father has died, and I just have to take it because otherwise I’m a bad guy, with the emphasis on guy, self-centered, blind, and stupid. Well, I’m fucking not, not all the time, anyway, and I know this isn’t the right place to say so—I’m not that daft—but when am I allowed to?
“I’m sorry, Jo. I’m really sorry.” I’m back to the funeral murmur now, even though I feel like screaming. “But you know, Liz … I can either stick up for myself sometimes or I can believe anything you say about me and end up hating myself every minute of the day. And maybe you think I should, but it’s not much of a life, you know?”
Liz shrugs.
“That’s not good enough, Liz. You’re dead wrong, and if you don’t know it, then you’re dimmer than I thought.”
She sighs theatrically, and then sees the look on my face.
“Maybe I’ve been a little unfair. But is this really the time?”
“Only because it’s never the time. We can’t go on apologizing all our lives, you know.”
“If by ‘we’ you are referring to men, then I have to say that just the once would do.”
I’m not going to walk out of Laura’s dad’s funeral in a sulk. I’m not going to walk out of Laura’s dad’s funeral in a sulk. I’m just not.
I walk out of Laura’s dad’s funeral in a sulk.
The Lydons live a few miles out of the nearest town, which is Amersham, and I don’t know which way the nearest town is anyway. I walk round the corner, and round another corner, and come to some kind of main road, and see a bus stop, but it’s not the sort of bus stop that fills you with confidence: there’s nobody waiting, and nothing much there—a row of large detached houses on one side of the road, a playing field on the other. I wait there for a while, freezing in my suit, but just as I’ve worked out that it’s the sort of bus stop that requires the investment of a few days, rather than a few minutes, I see a familiar green Volkswagen up the road. It’s Laura, and she’s come looking for me.
Without thinking, I jump over the wall that separates one of the detached houses from the pavement, and lie flat in somebody’s flower bed. It’s wet. But I’d rather get soaked to the skin than have Laura go mental at me for disappearing, so I stay there for as long as is humanly possible. Every time I think I have got to the bottom, I find a new way to sink even lower, but I know that this is the worst, and that whatever happens to me from now on, however poor or stupid or single I get, these few minutes will remain with me as a shining cautionary beacon. “Is it better than lying facedown in a flower bed after Laura’s dad’s funeral?” I shall ask myself when the bailiffs come into the shop, or when the next Laura runs off with the next Ray, and the answer will always, always be ‘Yes.^1
When I can’t take it anymore, when my white shirt is translucent and my jacket streaked with mud and I’m getting stabbing pains—cramps, or rheumatism, or arthritis, who knows?—in my legs, I stand up and brush myself off; and then Laura, who has obviously been sitting in her car by the bus stop all this time, winds down her window and tells me to get in.
What happened to me during the funeral was something like this: I saw, for the first time, how scared I am of dying, and of other people dying, and how this fear has prevented me from doing all sorts of things, like giving up smoking (because if you take death too seriously or not seriously enough, as I have been doing up till now, then what’s the point?), and thinking about my life, especially my job, in a way that contains a concept of the future (too scary, because the future ends in death). But most of all it has prevented me from sticking with a relationship, because if you stick with a relationship, and your life becomes dependent on that person’s life, and then they die, as they are bound to do, unless there are exceptional circumstances, e.g., they are a character from a science-fiction novel … well, you’re up the creek without a paddle, aren’t you? It’s OK if I die first, I guess, but having to die before someone else dies isn’t a necessity that cheers me up much: how do I know when she’s going to die? Could be run over by a bus tomorrow, as the saying goes, which means I have to throw myself under a bus today. When I saw Janet Lydon’s face at the crematorium … how can you be that brave? Now what does she do? To me, it makes more sense to hop from woman to woman until you’re too old to do it anymore, and then you live alone and die alone and what’s so terrible about that, when you look at the alternatives? There were some nights with Laura when I’d kind of nestle into her back in bed when she was asleep, and I’d be filled with this enormous, nameless terror, except now I have a name for it: Brian. Ha, ha. OK, not really a name, but I could see where it came from, and why I wanted to sleep with Rosie the pain-in-the-arse simultaneous orgasm woman, and if that sounds feeble and self-serving at the same time—oh, right! He sleeps with other women because he has a fear of death!—well, I’m sorry, but that’s the way things are.
When I nestled into Laura’s back in the night, I was afraid because I didn’t want to lose her, and we always lose someone, or they lose us, in the end. I’d rather not take the risk. I’d rather not come home from work one day in ten or twenty years’ time to be faced with a pale, frightened woman saying that she’d been shitting blood—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but this is what happens to people—and then we go to the doctor and then the doctor says it’s inoperable and then … I wouldn’t have the guts, you know? I’d probably just take off, live in a different city under an assumed name, and Laura would check in to the hospital to die and they’d say, “Isn’t your partner coming to visit?” and she’d say, “No, when he found out about the cancer he left me.” Great guy! “Cancer? Sorry, that’s not for me! I don’t like it!” Best not put yourself in that position. Best leave it all alone.
So where does this get me? The logic of it all is that I play a percentage game. I’m thirty-six now, right? And let’s say that most fatal diseases—cancer, heart disease, whatever—hit you after the age of fifty. You might be unlucky, and snuff it early, but the fifty-plus age group get more than their fair share of bad stuff happening to them. So to play safe, you stop then: a relationship every couple of years for the next fourteen years, and then get out, stop dead, give it up. It makes sense. Will I explain this to whomever I’m seeing? Maybe. It’s fairer, probably. And less emotional, somehow, than the usual mess that ends relationships. “You’re going to die, so there’s not much point in us carrying on, is there?” It’s perfectly acceptable if someone’s emigrating, or returning to their own country, to stop a relationship on the grounds that any further involvement would be too painful, so why not death? The separation that death entails has got to be more painful than the separation of emigration, surely? I mean, with emigration, you can always go with her. You can always say to yourself, “Oh, fuck it, I’ll pack it all in and go and be a cowboy in Texas/tea-picker in India,” etc. You can’t do that with the big D, though, can you? Unless you take the Romeo route, and if you think about it …
“I thought you were going to lie in that flower bed all afternoon.”
“Eh? Oh. Ha ha. No. Ha.” Assumed nonchalance is tougher than it looks in this sort of situation, although lying in a stranger’s flower bed to hide from your ex-girlfriend on the day that her dad is buried—burned—is probably not a sort, a genre of situation at all, more a one-off, nongeneric thing.
“You’re soaking.”
“Mmm”
“You’re also an idiot.”
There will be other battles. There’s not much point in fighting this one, when all the evidence is conspiring against me.
“I can see why you say that. Look, I’m sorry. I really am. The last thing I wanted was … that’s why I went, because … I lost it, and I didn’t want to blow my top in there, and … look, Laura, the reason I slept with Rosie and mucked everything up was because I was scared that you’d die. Or I was scared of you dying. Or whatever. And I know what that sounds like, but … ” It all dries up as easily as it popped out, and I just stare at her with my mouth open.
“Well, I will die. Nothing much has changed on that score.”
“No, no, I understand completely, and I’m not expecting you to tell me anything different. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She’s making no move to start the car.
“I can’t reciprocate.”
“How do you mean?”
“I didn’t sleep with Ray because I was scared of you dying. I slept with Ray because I was sick of you, and I needed something to get me out of it.”
“Oh, sure, no, I understand. Look, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. You get back, and I’ll wait here for a bus.”
“I don’t want to go back. I’ve thrown a wobbler too.”
“Oh. Right. Great. I mean, not great, but, you know.”
The rain starts again, and she puts the windscreen wipers on so that we can see not very much out of the window.
“Who upset you?”
“Nobody. I just don’t feel old enough. I want someone to look after me because my dad’s died, and there’s no one there who can, so when Liz told me you’d disappeared, I used it as an excuse to get out.”
“We’re a right pair, aren’t we?”
“Who upset you?”
“Oh. Nobody. Well, Liz. She was … ” I can’t think of the adult expression, so I use the one closest to hand. “She was picking on me.”
Laura snorts. “She was picking on you, and you’re sneaking out on her.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
She gives a short, mirthless laugh. “It’s no wonder we’re all in such a mess, is it? We’re like Tom Hanks in Big. Little boys and girls trapped in adult bodies and forced to get on with it. And it’s much worse in a real life, because it’s not just snogging and bunk beds, is it? There’s all this as well.” She gestures through the windscreen at the field and the bus stop and a man walking his dog, but I know what she means. “I’ll tell you something, Rob. Walking out of that funeral was the worst thing I’ve ever done, and also the most exhilarating. I can’t tell you how good and bad I felt. Yes I can: I felt like a baked Alaska.”
“It’s not like you walked out of the funeral, anyway. You walked out of the party thing. That’s different.”
“But my mum, and Jo, and … they’ll never forget it. I don’t care, though. I’ve thought so much about him and talked so much about him, and now our house is full of people who want to give me time and opportunity to think and talk about him some more, and I just wanted to scream.”
“He’d understand.”
“D’you think? I’m not sure I would. I’d want people to stay to the bitter end. That’d be the least they could do.”
“Your dad was nicer than you, though.”
“He was, wasn’t he?”
“About five or six times as nice.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Sorry.”
We watch a man trying to light a cigarette while holding a dog lead, a newspaper, and an umbrella. It can’t be done, but he won’t give up.
“When are you going to go back, actually?”
“I don’t know. Sometime. Later. Listen, Rob, would you sleep with me?”
“What?”
“I just feel like I want sex. I want to feel something else apart from misery and guilt. It’s either that or I go home and put my hand in the fire. Unless you want to stub cigarettes out on my arm.”
Laura isn’t like this. Laura is a lawyer by profession and a lawyer by nature, and now she’s behaving as though she’s after a supporting role in a Harvey Keitel movie.
“I’ve only got a couple left. I’m saving them for later.”
“It’ll have to be the sex, then.”
“But where? And what about Ray? And what about … ” I want to say ‘everything.’ What about everything?
“We’ll have to do it in the car. I’ll drive us somewhere.”
She drives us somewhere.
I know what you’re saying: You’re a pathetic fantasist, Fleming, you wish, in your dreams, etc. But I would never in a million years use anything that has happened to me today as the basis for any kind of sexual fantasy. I’m wet, for a start, and though I appreciate that the state of wetness has any number of sexual connotations, it would be tough for even the most determined pervert to get himself worked up about my sort of wetness, which involves cold, irritation (my suit trousers are unlined, and my legs are being rubbed raw), bad smells (none of the major perfume makers has ever tried to capture the scent of wet trousers, for obvious reasons), and there are bits of foliage hanging off me. And I’ve never had any ambition to do it in a car (my fantasies have always, always involved beds) and the funeral may have had a funny effect on the daughter of the deceased, but for me it’s been a bit of a downer, quite frankly, and I’m not too sure how I feel about sex with Laura when she’s living with someone else (is he better is he better is he better?), and anyway …
She stops the car, and I realize we’ve been bumping along for the last minute or two of the journey.
“Dad used to bring us here when we were kids.”
We’re by the side of a long, rutted dirt road that leads up to a large house. There’s a jungle of long grass and bushes on one side of the road, and a row of trees on the other; we’re on the tree side, pointing toward the house, tilting into the road.
“It used to be a little private prep school, but they went bust years ago, and it’s sat empty ever since.”
“What did he bring you here for?”
“Just a walk. In the summer there were blackberries, and in the autumn there were chestnuts. This is a private road, so it made it more exciting.”
Jesus. I’m glad I know nothing about psychotherapy, about Jung and Freud and that lot. If I did, I’d probably be extremely frightened by now: the woman who wants to have sex in the place where she used to go for walks with her dead dad is probably very dangerous indeed.
It’s stopped raining, but the drips from the trees are bouncing off the roof, and the wind is knocking hell out of the branches, so every now and again large chunks of foliage fall on us as well.
“Do you want to get in the back?” Laura asks, in a flat, distracted voice, as if we’re about to pick someone else up.
“I guess so. I guess that would be easier.”
She’s parked too close to the trees, so she has to clamber out my side.
“Just shift all that stuff on to the back shelf.”
There’s an A-Z, a couple of empty cassette cases, an opened bag of Opal Fruits, and a handful of candy wrappers. I take my time getting them out of the way.
“I knew there was a good reason for putting on a skirt this morning,” she says as she gets in. She leans over and kisses me on the mouth, tongues and everything, and I can feel some interest despite myself.
“Just stay there.” She makes some adjustments to her dress and sits on top of me. “Hello. It doesn’t seem so long ago that I looked at you from here.” She smiles at me, kisses me again, reaches underneath her for my fly. And then there’s foreplay and stuff, and then—I don’t know why—I remember something you’re supposed to remember but only rarely do.
“You know with Ray … ”
“Oh, Rob, we’re not going to go through that again.”
“No, no. It’s not … are you still on the pill?”
“Yes, of course. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I didn’t mean that. I mean … was that all you used?”
She doesn’t say anything, and then she starts to cry.
“Look, we can do other things,” I say. “Or we can go into town and get something.”
“I’m not crying because we can’t do it,” she says. “It’s not that. It’s just that … I lived with you. You were my partner just a few weeks ago. And now you’re worried I might kill you, and you’re entitled to worry. Isn’t that a terrible thing? Isn’t that sad?” She shakes her head and sobs, and climbs off me, and we sit there side by side in the backseat saying nothing, just watching the drips crawl down the windows.
Later, I wonder whether I was really worried about where Ray has been. Is he bisexual, or an intravenous drug user? I doubt it. (He wouldn’t have the guts for either.) Has he ever slept with an intravenous drug user, or has he ever slept with someone who’s slept with a bisexual male? I have no idea, and that ignorance gives me every right to insist on protection. But in truth it was the symbolism that interested me more than the fear. I wanted to hurt her, on this day of all days, just because it’s the first time since she left that I’ve been able to.
We drive to a pub, a twee little mock-country place that serves nice beer and expensive sandwiches and sit in a corner and talk. I buy some more fags and she smokes half of them or, rather, she lights one, takes a drag or two, grimaces, stubs it out and then five minutes later takes another. She stubs them out with such violence that they cannot be salvaged, and when she does it I can’t concentrate on what she’s saying, because I’m too busy watching my fags disappear. Eventually she notices and says she’ll buy me some more and I feel mean.
We talk about her dad, mostly, or rather, what life will be like without him. And then we talk about what life will be like generally without dads, and whether it’s the thing that makes you feel grown-up, finally. (Laura thinks not, on the evidence available to date.) I don’t want to talk about this stuff, of course: I want to talk about Ray and me and whether we’ll ever come as close to having sex again and whether the warmth and intimacy of this conversation means anything, but I manage to hold myself back.
And then, just as I have begun to accept that none of this is going to be about me me me, she sighs, and slumps back against her chair, and says, half smiling, half despairing, “I’m too tired not to go out with you.”
There’s a kind of double negative here—‘too tired’ is a negative because it’s not very positive—and it takes me a while to work out what she means.
“So, hold on: if you had a bit more energy, we’d stay split. But as it is, what with you being wiped out, you’d like us to get back together.”
She nods. “Everything’s too hard. Maybe another time I would have had the guts to be on my own, but not now I haven’t.”
“What about Ray?”
“Ray’s a disaster. I don’t know what that was all about, really, except sometimes you need someone to lob into the middle of a bad relationship like a hand grenade, and blow it all apart.”
I’d like to talk, in some detail, about all the ways in which Ray is a disaster; in fact, I’d like to make a list on the back of a beermat and keep it forever. Maybe another time.
“And now you’re out of the bad relationship, and you have blown it all apart, you want to be back in it, and put it back together again.”
“Yes. I know none of this is very romantic, and there will be romantic bits at some stage, I’m sure. But I need to be with someone, and I need to be with someone I know and get on with OK, and you’ve made it clear that you want me back, so … ”
And wouldn’t you know it? Suddenly I feel panicky, and sick, and I want to get record label logos painted on my walls and sleep with American recording artists. I take Laura’s hand and kiss her on the cheek.
There’s a terrible scene back at the house, of course. Mrs Lydon is in tears, and Jo is angry, and the few guests that are left stare into their drinks and don’t say anything. Laura takes her mum through to the kitchen and shuts the door, and I stand in the sitting room with Jo, shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head and raising my eyebrows and shifting from foot to foot and doing anything else I can think of to suggest embarrassment, sympathy, disapproval, and misfortune. When my eyebrows are sore, and I have nearly shaken my head off its hinges, and I have walked the best part of a mile on the spot, Laura emerges from the kitchen in a state and tugs me by the arm.
“We’re going home,” she says, and that is how our relationship resumes its course.
She’s a quarter of an hour late, which means I’ve been in the pub staring at the same article in a magazine for forty-five minutes. She’s apologetic, although not enthusiastically apologetic, considering; but I don’t say anything to her about it. Today’s not the right day.
“Cheers,” she says, and clinks her spritzer against my bottle of Sol. Some of her makeup has sweated off in the heat of the day, and her cheeks are pink; she looks lovely. “This is a nice surprise.”
I don’t say anything. I’m too nervous.
“Are you worried about tomorrow night?”
“Not really.” I concentrate on shoving the bit of lime down the neck of the bottle.
“Are you going to talk to me, or shall I get my paper out?”
“I’m going to talk to you.”
“Right.”
I swish the beer around so it’ll get really lime-y.
“What are you going to talk to me about?”
“I’m going to talk to you about whether you want to get married or not. To me.”
She laughs a lot. “Ha ha ha. Hoo hoo hoo.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Oh, well thanks a fucking bunch.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. But two days ago you were in love with that woman who interviewed you for the local paper, weren’t you?”
“Not in love exactly, but … ”
“Well, forgive me if I don’t feel that you’re the world’s safest bet.”
“Would you marry me if I was?”
“No, I shouldn’t think so.”
“Right. OK, then. Shall we go home?”
“Don’t sulk. What’s brought all this on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Very persuasive.”
“Are you persuadable?”
“No. I don’t think so. I’m just curious about how one goes from making tapes for one person to marriage proposals to another in two days. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
“So?”
“I’m just sick of thinking about it all the time.”
“All what?”
“This stuff. Love and marriage. I want to think about something else.”
“I’ve changed my mind. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. I do. I will.”
“Shut up. I’m only trying to explain.”
“Sorry. Carry on.”
“See, I’ve always been afraid of marriage because of, you know, ball and chain, I want my freedom, all that. But when I was thinking about that stupid girl I suddenly saw it was the opposite: that if you got married to someone you know you love, and you sort yourself out, it frees you up for other things. I know you don’t know how you feel about me, but I do know how I feel about you. I know I want to stay with you and I keep pretending otherwise, to myself and you, and we just limp on and on. It’s like we sign a new contract every few weeks or so, and I don’t want that anymore. And I know that if we got married I’d take it seriously, and I wouldn’t want to mess about.”
“And you can make a decision about it just like that, can you? In cold blood, bang bang, if I do that, then this will happen? I’m not sure that it works like that.”
“But it does, you see. Just because it’s a relationship, and it’s based on soppy stuff, it doesn’t mean you can’t make intellectual decisions about it. Sometimes you just have to, otherwise you’ll never get anywhere. That’s where I’ve been going wrong. I’ve been letting the weather and my stomach muscles and a great chord change in a Pretenders single make up my mind for me, and I want to do it for myself.”
“Maybe.”
“What d’you mean, maybe?”
“I mean, maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t help me, does it? You’re always like this. You work something out and everyone else has to fall into line. Were you really expecting me to say yes?”
“Dunno. Didn’t think about it, really. It was the asking that was the important thing.”
“Well, you’ve asked.” But she says it sweetly, as if she knows that what I’ve asked is a nice thing, that it has some sort of meaning, even though she’s not interested. “Thank you.”
