No Place For a Man (6 page)

‘Oh, I’ve got foster people. Nice ones. It’s OK.’ Tom shrugged. Jess could see his face closing down as if
he’d said too much. She could sense pain somewhere and hoped Natasha would be kind to him. Not too kind though. The girl was still only fifteen.

‘Right, well I’ll get back to work.’ Jess took her tea and a couple of biscuits and left the two of them alone. She had the feeling that Natasha didn’t really know this boy too well – she’d noticed that Tom had been swift to tell her his name himself as if Natasha didn’t actually know it. She wondered where they’d have met. Girls from her school tended to team up with the St Dominic’s lot, being socially and academically equivalent. Parents of children from both schools were comfortable with that. It was as if the schools had been paired off by a dating agency matching similar incomes, class and interests. If there was trouble to be got into everyone played by the same rules: parents could afford private abortions in case of sexual accidents. These teenage boys weren’t about to have their path to the essential law degree hampered by an expensive scuffle over child maintenance. If schoolwork fell apart there was a good selection of nearby Kensington crammers for extra holiday courses and if it was a matter of drugs, well, most of the parents still went in for a spot of after-dinner dope themselves. For serious sorting out there was even the Priory nearby for some outpatient counselling or long-stay readjustment. Jess’s father, George, felt that private education led to a form of social apartheid, reinforcing the separation of rich and poor. Sometimes, as when she noticed the gradual loss of contact between Mel and Natasha, she knew he had a point. He’d much approve of Natasha’s new friend, Jess thought wryly. Probably invite him to look over his collection of Karl Marx memorabilia.

*  *  *

Zoe knew about this sort of thing. Her mum wrote about it all the time. She’d know what to do, which was obviously why she was the one Emily had chosen to tell. She only wished that, right now, she knew the right thing to say to Emily.

‘You mustn’t tell anyone. Promise, really promise,’ Emily sobbed.

‘Course I won’t tell,’ Zoe said, reassuring for the fifth time. The two girls sat on the allotment bench watching a woman in a big flouncy velvet skirt and purple boots hoeing between rows of vegetables. Zoe wondered what they were. Could be leeks, she thought, or they could be onions. Grandad would know and he probably grew better ones. He’d been way ahead of his time, growing everything organically, not just because it was better for the eater but because he was sure that spraying chemicals about rotted gardeners’ brains. Emily was quite good at crying quietly so the hoeing woman took no notice of them. It was just as well it wasn’t Natasha sitting next to her with this kind of problem, everyone would hear her wailing about it for miles around. Whatever she’d promised Emily, though, someone who could be more effective in the practical sense would have to know sooner or later. It would be best in the long run to tell Emily’s mum, for one thing they’d need money – an abortion wasn’t going to be within pocket-money range – but Angie wasn’t used to having her mid-week afternoons interrupted by her own children. Emily was supposed to be seventy miles away, safe and cosy in her boarding school. Angie was probably up at the gym having an aromatherapy massage or her toenails revamped or something.

‘Your mum should have let you stay at school here with us,’ Zoe said, thinking aloud.

Emily looked confused. ‘Why? Don’t girls get pregnant at your school then?’

Zoe shrugged, ‘Well, some I suppose. I mean, well, instead of getting pregnant you could have just gone down the road to Boots and bought condoms and stuff if you hadn’t been shut away miles from the shops couldn’t you?’ She couldn’t actually imagine, herself, shopping for that sort of thing, at fourteen you really didn’t want to think about the embarrassment factor if you didn’t have to: she’d only just got to the point of not blushing handing over money for Tampax at the checkout. Emily looked way too young as well. She was so thin, her legs looked like Bambi’s and she often walked with her hands folded across her front as if she hadn’t got used to having breasts. Her long brown hair was thin too and flopped miserably each side of her face. Zoe would bet she never got asked for ID when she requested a half fare on the bus.

Emily came up with half a grin. ‘Yeah that’s a good one. That means I can blame the school. I like that but I don’t think my mum will go for it. And we’ll both get expelled when they find out.’

‘You’re joking!’ Zoe was outraged. ‘I don’t think that’s an expellable thing at our school. And
both
of you? Why?’

‘Betrayal of trust or something. No shagging is in the rules, written down. “Any boy and girl caught …”’

‘They actually
caught
you at it?’ Zoe giggled, ‘How
embarrassing
!’

‘No, course they didn’t, but when I start to get fat, that’ll be pretty obvious. And they’ll know it was Giles. Giles and me, we’ve been together since last year. Everyone knows, even the teachers make jokes about
us. If we sit together in class they call us the Happy Couple.’

‘You could lie.’

‘What, to save him? Why should I? After he asked if it was really his? There’s only been him, and only that once. He knows I’m no slapper, the bastard.’

Zoe shrugged. She didn’t know what Emily got up to at school. She’d assumed it was all hockey and compulsory cross-country running and lashings of prep, like in Enid Blyton. Now she wondered if all they ever did was screw each other senseless behind the gym or whatever, out of sheer boredom. If that was it, then maybe it was the school’s fault for not letting them just laze about watching telly. That was something that really sapped the energy.

This all felt unreal. It had been a shock just to have found Em waiting outside school for her. It was an even bigger shock to find that she, Zoe, was the only person Emily wanted to tell about her pregnancy. They’d been at the same playgroup, so if it was something to do with being her oldest friend, well she certainly qualified. But not her
closest
friend, surely. Since Emily had gone off to her Oxfordshire school they hadn’t really had that much to do with each other. Angie liked the single life and in the holidays Emily and her brother Luke always seemed to be away at pony-club camps or skiing or spending time with their father in Italy. Matthew had said it was to keep them from scuffing Angie’s elegant beechwood floor and lounging about making the primrose suede sofas untidy.

‘Do you remember when you fell out of that tree?’ Emily pointed to the low-branched oak on the railway side of the allotments, just beyond Zoe’s grandfather’s scarlet shed.

‘I broke my arm.’ Zoe smiled. ‘I must have been about eight I suppose. I remember they called it a greenstick fracture and I kept saying that it wasn’t, it was me that was broken not the tree branch.’

‘Seems so long ago.’ Emily sighed, hugging her arms round her thin little body.

‘It was. We’ll soon be fifteen, halfway through our teens. Halfway from ten to twenty.’

‘Too young for babies.’

Zoe could hear the threat of tears in Emily’s voice again, but could only agree, ‘Yes. Definitely too young for babies.’

‘I think I might take up tennis again,’ Matt was saying as he stacked the dishwasher after supper. ‘I think I’ll join that gym you go to, get fit. We could go together.’ He patted his stomach and Jess grinned at him.

‘We could. And in the car you could listen to Angie talking about her latest love, or should I say lust, interest. She collects them you know, young builders and plumbers and what-have-you. It’s what she means when she says she’s “got the men in”. And then she tells me all about it on the way to the gym.’

Matt looked doubtful. ‘Blow by blow as it were? Does she have to? Perhaps she won’t if I’m there.’

Jess laughed. ‘But there goes my entertainment!’

‘OK, I give in. You don’t want me crowding you, I know. I’ll mooch round the park, pick up a tennis partner there. Or drag Eddy out. He’s OK. Should’ve got to know him better before. You don’t get time, wasting all day in an office.’

‘Tennis would probably kill him.’

‘True. Listen, you didn’t mind me staying in the Leo this afternoon did you?’ Matt put the last of the glasses
in the dishwasher and then put his arms round Jess. She snuggled against him, remembering how she’d thought she’d felt safe like that, all those years ago when she’d first met him. It was probably from reading too many drippy romances in which the heroines frequently leaned their pretty heads against hunky chests and felt secure and adored. This had been purely in the interests of research – Jess’s earliest writing attempts had been romantic fiction, rather too cynically told to be acceptable. These days cuddled up to Matt she just felt comfortable – there was no such thing as secure – and thankful that with her ear against his shirt she could still make out a strong and regular heartbeat.

‘Is that how you’re going to spend your days? Hanging out in the pub with a clapped-out old rock star?’ she asked, hoping it didn’t sound as carping to him as it did to her.

Matt pulled away and looked at her coldly. ‘No. Not every day. But when I do I’m not going to ask for permission.’

‘But you just did! You just asked if I minded!’

‘I asked if you’d minded about
this afternoon
. We didn’t really have much of a discussion in the Leo, I thought you might have wanted to continue it at home, that’s all.’

‘Oh right. Well “at home” I had work to get on with so no, I wouldn’t have been able to spend hours chatting to you about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. Anyway it looks as if you’ve already decided that one.’

‘Course I haven’t. We could try again tomorrow, a nice long boozy lunch, just the two of us, no interruptions.’

‘Can’t. I’ve got an editor lunch, Paula from the
Gazette
. She wants to talk about the column and some other stuff.’

‘Oh well, if that’s more important …’

‘Of course it is, especially now! Anyway I’m not cancelling – I like Paula.’

‘I like Paula, I could come too. Or would that be crowding you as well?’

Jess almost relented. Matthew and Paula got on well: she’d been to the house several times, been sweet to the girls, flirted mildly with Oliver and laughed at Matt’s jokes. But this wasn’t social, this was work.

‘Let’s put it this way,’ she said eventually. ‘You didn’t used to take
me
to
your
business lunches.’

Jess knew they were being juvenile. If she’d been listening to any of her children having this discussion she’d have told them quite firmly not to be so silly.

‘Mum and Dad, you’re shouting! We can’t hear the telly and
Friends
is on!’ Zoe stood in front of them like a cross referee. Jess wondered which of them would be awarded the yellow card.

‘Sorry Zo. Just having a frank exchange of views,’ Matthew told her.

‘Is Natasha with you?’ Jess asked suddenly.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Just wondered. She didn’t say much over supper.’

But Zoe was already out of the door, back to her favourite spot on the sofa, curled up with the cat and with her bare feet tucked away under a cushion.

‘What’s that about Tash?’ Matt asked. There seemed to be a truce, Jess thought, brought on simply by a change of subject.

‘Nothing, really. She brought home a boy today.’

‘She’ll bring home dozens of those. She’s a bit of a
stunner, our Natasha. I’ll get the shotgun polished and ready, if you like.’

‘No need for that, I hope! No, this one was strange. He looked like he’d been sort of abandoned, like a lost puppy. He doesn’t seem to have a family.’

Matt reached into the fridge for another beer. ‘Want one?’ he asked. She shook her head, trying not to wonder how many alcohol units he’d packed away that day. ‘So, not one of the usual posh boys,’ he said. ‘More the type old Angie would fancy?’

‘I think he’s a bit young even for her! I think he’s been in care, something like that. He looks damaged.’

‘A learning experience for Tash, then. Your dad would be pleased, having her exposed to someone who’s done without the comforts of capitalist privilege.’

‘You make the boy sound like something educational we’ve bought for her to play with. And that reminds me. Dad’s back from his holiday on Thursday. He said he’d come over when he’s checked over the allotment.’

‘Better get him to bring something to eat with him,’ Matthew suggested. ‘After all, we can’t afford to entertain now there’s only one of us earning.’

‘Why do they put “pan-fried” on the menu? Is it supposed to make it sound posher than just “fried”? Or less fattening, do you think?’ Jess was laughing as her lunch arrived. She looked down at the delicate arrangement of prawns perched precariously on top of a scaffolding of French beans and strips of celeriac and felt a childish urge to scatter the elaborate still life across the comically oversized plate on which it sat.

Paula Cheviot, editor of the
Sunday Gazette’s
Comfort Zone section, was opposite Jess at the inadequately small table in one of central London’s currently hyper-smart restaurants. She didn’t reply with an agreeing giggle as she normally would but looked a bit puzzled, as if Jess had questioned one of life’s acknowledged truths – such as did moisturizer really make
that
much difference. Slowly, Paula picked up a rocket leaf and nibbled at it, a look of intense concentration on her face. She had something on her mind. Jess could tell by the small frown lines.
Paula never normally allowed such things to rumple her flat matt skin, for that would lead inevitably to the appointment at the clinic to have her forehead injected with botox into a paralysed (but smooth; divinely, age-defyingly smooth) expression of mild surprise.

Jess, in the process of loading her fork full of prawn, felt her appetite trickle away like chilled bathwater down a drain. Paula’s phone call two days previously, the apparently spontaneous suggestion that it was high time they got together for lunch and a gossip, suddenly seemed like a carefully calculated ruse. It was a trap. Jess put her fork down, suddenly shaky with the foreknowledge that she, like Matt, was about to be fired. His-and-hers dole cheques looked more than likely. After all, things went wrong in threes, didn’t they? There’d be this, and then something would happen to Oliver in Australia, or the girls would be expelled from school.