Pillow Talk (12 page)

‘You're not helping, Eric – and anyway, who says he was pathologically unfaithful? It was just the once. It was his birthday. He was a bit pissed. He never meant for me to walk in.’

‘And that makes it OK? Petra, why are you defending him? He hasn't been nice enough to you – from the start. Please use this as an opportunity to walk away. Please. You're too good for him. He doesn't suit you.’

Oh God, won't you just take your Eve Lom lotions and potions and sod off. Petra went quiet, not because the sense of Eric's sentiment struck home, nor because he was slathering a thick, aromatic gloop on her face. She was really tired of talking, tired of trying to think, she didn't have the energy to know what she ought to do next but she just wanted to be allowed to make up her own mind as to whether Rob was as much of a sod as those who loved her best decreed him to be. It was a strange thing: desperate not to be alone yet suddenly wanting to be all by herself.

So, when Eric suggested they crack open the wine and watch
Jerry Maguire
, Petra told him that actually she'd rather go to bed because she was exhausted. Before he left her flat, he checked all the windows were locked and then hid her keys, texting her the next morning to tell her under which cushion they could be found.

Chapter Thirteen

She may think she's all alone, she may bemoan the fact that her best friend lives abroad and that Eric's facial didn't really help much at all, but although a little self-pity can be constructively cathartic in times of crisis, if it lasts too long it becomes destructively self-indulgent. Sunday morning finds Petra very quiet. The sunshine is tauntingly brilliant, Rob has resent his text message to her and she feels she needs someone to tell her what to do next. Kitty has left the sweetest message about a friend of a friend who does voodoo and though Gina has sent a text inviting her to supper in SW3, Petra suspects neither approach is what she needs just now. She could catch Lucy, she could phone Eric again but they wouldn't have any new answers for her. They'd be happy to hear from her, they'd be pleased to be there for her, they would sweetly say the same things they said yesterday and they wouldn't mind her repeating herself and crying afresh, but until Petra gives them her thoughts, they can't really shed any new light on her situation.

She goes back into her bedroom and gets back into bed, sliding her hand under the mattress for her tanzanite, her touchstone, perhaps today her crystal ball. She tries to lose herself in its mesmeric colours and facets but she sees only its pure beauty which lifts her spirits but gives her no answers. What it does do, though, is transport her back in her mind's eye to peaceful afternoons spent in the company of this tanzanite's original owner. What succour was to be found with Lillian McNeil.

Petra at just-turned sixteen. Having a tough old time of it at home and a crap time at school because mocks loomed after half-term and she hated maths and didn't understand why it was compulsory at O level when she felt sure she'd fail anyway. Plus, she wasn't picked for the first or second netball teams and she'd rather not play at all than be a reserve. And her dad has gone away on his second honeymoon and her mum needed to sort her head out so she's gone to a Tibetan centre in Scotland.

‘Bizarrely, the climate and the soil in Tibet are similar to areas of Scotland and they share many indigenous plants and herbs,’ Lillian McNeil said carefully because she had yet to ascertain who was looking after the child.

‘Oh. Did you ever live there? In Tibet or in areas of Scotland?’

‘I am Scottish but I haven't been back for years – and I've never been to Tibet.’

‘Oh.’

‘How is your revision going, Petra?’

‘Well, I revise hard at the stuff I find easy – at the expense of the stuff I find hard.’

‘I'm sure your mother will be helping you?’

‘She's in Scotland.’

‘Silly me. You did say. Well, who do you have to test your French vocab instead?’

‘Well, you could, if you like. I could bring a list along next visit? Shall I come back tomorrow?’

‘Yes, do – but I mean, I'm sure whoever's house-sitting could help you with maths this evening?’

And from Petra's embarrassed smile, Lillian McNeil had her answer: the child was alone.

‘When is your mother back?’

‘When her head is sorted, she said.’

The elderly lady and the schoolgirl looked at each other, aware that the dynamic had swung completely. The point of Pensioners' Link was that Petra could pass on any concerns from or for Mrs McNeil. Just then, her pensioner was wondering whom she could contact on Petra's behalf.

‘Please don't tell,’ Petra pre-empted. ‘Please.’

Mrs McNeil lowered her voice. ‘Do you have money and food?’

Petra nodded and Lillian thought, What on earth is the value of money and food when there's no parent to nourish the child?

‘My mum said it was a credit to me that she felt she could go.’

‘If you have a sleeping bag, you are welcome to stay with me, Petra.’

‘Oh, I'm fine. Thank you. If anything, I get more revision done without my mum doing her chanting or getting me to henna her hair.’

‘And you feel safe?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And not too lonely?’

‘Oh no.’

‘Well, do come and visit me tomorrow. I'd like that. Will you buy me a quarter of ground coffee from Carwardines in Swiss Cottage – my usual? And bring some French vocab with you.’

‘I will. I'll come in the morning.’

‘And stay for lunch.’

‘Thank you.’

You always knew what to do, Mrs McNeil, you knew what I needed. When I came in that following day with that bump on my head and a bruised elbow because I must have sleepwalked into a wall, you had a bottle of distilled witch hazel and you dabbed it on and it worked. You also had a little chore for me, every day during that half-term, and that worked too. And when my mum came back, magically there were no more chores. You knew what to do because you knew about everything. From Tibet to Tanzania. From French vocab to witch hazel. You had a remedy for any situation. You were wise and kind and sensible. What would you say to me today? If you were here? What would you have me do?

‘I would say, Petra, my dear, you ought to have a jolly good look at yourself in the mirror. Don't give yourself a talking-to. Just stand and see yourself from the inside out, from beyond the reddened surface of your cried-out eyes.’

I'm looking, I'm looking and I look like shit. I feel ten times worse than I look.

‘If you think of Rob, do you glow? What does the thought of him do to your eyes?’

I'm looking. I'm thinking. I'm seeing how my eyes dull down and I look anxious.

‘A man should release your sparkle, not deflate your bounce.’

I'm very good at putting on a brave face.

‘From necessity. That's nothing to be proud of. It's a little sad.’

I don't want to be alone.

‘None of us does. You want to believe in happy-ever-after.’

What's wrong with that?

‘Nothing at all. But you have to be happy with the person involved for the concept to be workable.’

Do you think he's as wrong for me as Lucy and my Studio Three seem to think?

‘Only you can know that. And there's no point kidding yourself. No point at all. It'll take you further away from happy-ever-after and that would be a daft place to end up.’

Chapter Fourteen

Petra doesn't inform Rob that she's on her way. He never goes out on a Sunday morning anyway. He wears boxer shorts and his old university rugby shirt until lunch-time and drinks a lot of strong coffee. He sprawls around with all the papers spread about and Radio 4 as background sound. Petra could never get him to change his schedule no matter how appealing her suggestions: a trip to the farmer's market off Marylebone High Street, a visit to the Huguenot house in Folgate Street, a day out at Hampton Court, a picnic on Hampstead Heath as a change from his de rigueur brunch at the same crowded Islington brasserie. Today, this finally irks her. Sitting on the top deck of an empty bus, Petra really resents Rob and it feels quite liberating. Ten months' worth of Sundays when she hasn't had her say. Just before her stop, she briskly scoops up her hair into a pony-tail. The natural twists and tumbles of her hair give a lively bounce every time she moves her head.

But it seems she can't take her empowerment with her as she disembarks the bus. By the time she's jaywalked across Upper Street, she's taunting herself that she's probably five minutes away from coming across Rob in flagrante again. She can almost hear him at it. The sod. The domineering, controlling, adulterous sod who's been telling her what to do with her Sundays while he does what he wants behind her back. And she's within a stone's throw of finally being able to tell him what he can do with his bloody Sundays.

Every corner she turns, a new mood sweeps over her. Anger. Reluctance. Trepidation. Foreboding. Only when she finally turns into his street do the negative but determined feelings subside, replaced outside the front door to his building with rushes of adrenalin carrying surges of hope and delusion. She releases her pony-tail and hides behind a screen of ringlets.

She has keys but she daren't use them so she rings the bell and wonders if he's in or out. A moment's wait feels like an hour.

He must be out. So I think I'll just go.

Oh God, he's in. So I think I'll just go.

He looks tired and wan, which is a good sign, isn't it – he's suffering, he's atoning, he does love me after all.

‘Babe,’ he says, his voice hoarse; he opens the door wide but they stand still, on either side of the threshold, worlds apart. He shrugs. Petra waits. Their eyes dart across each other's faces for reasons and answers and who's going to speak first and say what.

‘Tell me I was sleepwalking,’ Petra whispers, locking in on eye contact like a torpedo to its target. ‘I was only sleepwalking, wasn't I?’

Rob looks pained and says nothing and won't meet Petra's gaze and she can't misread this so now she has her answer.

‘Wake me up?’ she says in a meek, final bid. And she wonders whether to hit him, to see if he's real – and if he is real, she'll really want to hit him again.

But Rob has walked into his flat and she shuffles in after him. His flat is really tidy, apart from the surface detritus of the Sunday papers. Petra was hoping for a hovel; that he'd have turned his world upside down in his remorse, in his search for life-changing answers. Actually, his life is personified by this flat. Swank and gadgets and gloss and a little mess on the surface that can be dumped at the end of the day. He stands, turned away from her, clasping his hands behind his head as if he's trying to stretch away the stress of it all. She can't see his face, she can't read his expression. She can only guess. And it's that which decides her. Without even seeing his face she realizes she'll always guess wrong with Rob. She wants him to be wearing an expression of torment and repentance. However, when he turns around he just looks harassed. But though he looks like shit and though it hits her in the gut, she is able to force herself to see that there's no love in his eyes for her.

‘Coffee?’

‘No.’

‘Anything?’

‘Nothing.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. It's something that he does when he's hassled. Petra has seen him do it often; when the Japs are giving him gyp or when dealing with the Yanks is a total wank. He pinches his nose when something or someone is getting right on his bloody nerves.

‘I wasn't sleepwalking, was I?’

Rob shakes his head and regards her blankly, his gaze so level it hurts her all the more. ‘I know I can tell you that Laura is no big deal – that we're just fuck-buddies. But you won't get it, Petra. We're too different, you and me. I like living as I do. It's a shame you have a problem with it.’

Is he actually implying that this is Petra's failing?

Petra is desperate for something to say. But while she is silently mulling soliloquies, her instinct takes over and suddenly she hears her voice and it's strong and cutting and it's out in the open, loud and clear, slashing across the detachment on Rob's face.

‘Actually, I only came for my bucket and my tin foil, you cunt.’

And as she walks purposefully away from Rob, strides from his flat and out into Islington, she doesn't know whether to sob or giggle, only she's all cried out and she can't quite summon the energy to laugh just yet. But she does know how proud everyone who loves her will be when she tells them what she did and what she said. They'll make her repeat her final
coup de grâce
again and again. They'll shriek with laughter and punch the air and hug her close. And they will all give her special dispensation for using the ‘C’ word. They'll think she's a star, they'll know she's going to be just fine. They'll know that great times are her due. But it'll take a while before she nods and says I know that too.