Sheer Abandon (16 page)

She hadn’t felt really bad until the cameraman left and one of them said, “Nice old buffer, isn’t he?” and she had thought that actually she was probably nearer to the old buffer in age than she was to Ed and his friends. Although it didn’t matter, it had made her feel vulnerable and uncertain; and she had realised, too, that this was going to happen over and over again, if she continued to see Ed.

“Are you all right?” Ed’s face was concerned as he looked at Martha. They were in the Pizza Express in Covent Garden; it seemed to her to be full of twenty-year-olds.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Just a bit tired.”

“Well, that’s a first,” he said cheerfully. “You’re never tired. You told me you didn’t believe in being tired—”

“That was very arrogant of me. And I can’t quite believe I said it.”

“You did. On our first date. I was well impressed. Have you decided what you want to eat?”

“Yes. The pollo. With no dressing.”

“Frites?”

“Oh, no thank you!”

“No need to sound quite so horrified,” he said. “I’m offering you a few slivers of fried potato, not a plate of cow with foot-and-mouth.”

“Sorry.” She smiled quickly. “I just don’t—don’t like chips.”

“Like you don’t like cream or chocolate or pastry? Or salad dressing?”

“Well, yes. Actually.”

“Not because you’re on some rigid eating programme?”

It wasn’t a good evening; she was edgy, not at her best. Conversation flagged. At about ten thirty, she said she must go. “I have so much to do tomorrow. It’s been great, Ed, honestly.”

“No it hasn’t,” he said. “It’s been crap. Anyway, I’ll find you a cab.”

“No need, I’ll call one.”

“You’re very self-sufficient, aren’t you?” he said, his voice rather flat. “And very in control—”

“Yes, I suppose I am. I’ve had to be.”

“It’s a pity,” he said. “You should let go a bit.”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Fine. Well, go on then.”

“Go on what?”

“Getting the cab.”

“Yes, all right.”

He looked baffled, dejected. More than anything she wanted to explain, to say it was nothing to do with him, her disquiet; but the only solution was to end the whole thing, here and now. There was no future in it, in their relationship, it was a piece of absurd fantasy, vanity on her part.

“Ed,” she said, and he looked at her, his blue eyes wary. “Ed, I really think—”

“It’s OK,” he said. “I understand. I’m not what you want, am I? I don’t suit you. I shouldn’t have tried, even. So—best leave it. Pity. It could have been great. Well, for me anyway…”

And what, she thought afterwards, what if she had just nodded, kissed him briefly on the cheek, and left? As she knew very clearly would be…sensible. Only she looked at him, staring down at the table, everything about him dejected, and she felt a terrible need to tell him that the fault was not his.

“I would say it was the other way round, actually. Surely you can see that. You don’t need some bossy older woman, with a complicated life—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, and there was real anger in his voice, “stop presenting yourself as some dried-up old schoolmarm. When you’re beautiful and clever and sexy—”

“Sexy? Oh, Ed, I don’t think so,” she said, managing to smile.

“Well, you think wrong. Anyway, you’re hardly the one to judge, are you? That’s my job.”

She sat there staring at him, feeling suddenly very confused and…something else as well, a lick of desire, brief but horribly, dangerously strong, and it must have showed because he smiled, a slow, almost triumphant smile, and said, “Come on. Let’s go and get into an ordinary cab, one I can pay for, and I’ll take you home.” They sat in the back of a black cab, and all the way from Soho to Docklands he kissed her, slowly, gently at first, then harder, with a skill that she would not have expected, and she felt herself whirling into a confusion of hunger and pleasure and fear and a pure, flying excitement. And when the cab finally stopped, she wanted to ask him into her flat more than anything, and she might even have done so, so badly did she want him, but he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow. OK?” and she nodded, feebly, and said nothing.

As he paid off the cab, he turned to her and smiled, his beautiful, heart-wrenching smile, and said, “You’re totally gorgeous, Martha. Totally. Bye now.”

And he was gone, loping down the street, not looking back, exactly as he had done the night she met him, that long year ago.

And so it began: she felt sometimes, not of her own volition, as if he had worked some sleight of hand while she wasn’t looking. It was ridiculous, such a totally unsuitable liaison, between this beautiful man, little more than a boy, and herself, a lot more than a girl; she didn’t have time and she didn’t want to get involved. But she went on and on wanting to see him. And seeing him. It was just that he made her feel so happy.

She felt uncertain a lot of the time with him. It was part of his charm. Or rather the charm of what he did to her. She was used to being absolutely certain—of who she was, what she wanted, where she was going, what she was going to do. Ed questioned all of it.

“Why?” he would say. “Why work on a Sunday, for God’s sake?”

“Because there’s so much to do.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t. The client wants it first thing.”

“And he’ll leave, will he, go to some other poncey firm, if he gets it second thing?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, then. Don’t go to work. Come out with me instead. We’ll have fun.”

Or: “Why? Why don’t you eat more?”

“Because I don’t want to get fat.”

“Martha, you’re so not fat. So not anywhere near it. Anyway, why does it matter?”

“Because I like being thin.”

“But you’d still be thin, you’ve got a long way to go. Would you die, or something, if you went up a size?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, then. Have some frites. They’re really good.”

That had been the night she had first gone to bed with him; determined to resist, she had allowed him to argue himself into her bed.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because—well, because this isn’t a very sensible relationship.”

“Relationships shouldn’t be sensible. They should be good. Anyway, why isn’t it sensible?”

“Well—because—oh, Ed, you know. You’re twenty-three, I’m—”

“You’re beautiful and interesting and I want to have sex with you. What’s me being twenty-three got to do with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, then. Let’s go.”

As she lay in bed and watched him undressing, looked at his beautiful boy’s body, she felt a stab of terror. Suppose she was a disappointment? Almost certainly he had only known young girls. Suppose, in spite of all her care and attention, her body was beginning to look less good. Suppose—She felt taut, tense with fear, almost told him to go away, to leave her to herself.

But, “You are so beautiful,” he said, sliding in beside her, pulling back the cover, studying her, “you are just so, so beautiful…”

And gently, slowly, very tenderly, he was somehow all over her, everywhere, kissing her breasts, stroking her stomach, moulding her buttocks. Then he was in her, infinitely gentle, desperately slow, and then, then she wanted him terribly, and she was going to meet him, rising, falling, pushing, thrusting herself on him, and the great tangled waves of need grew higher and higher, and she thought she would never get there, reach the crest. She was struggling, fighting, desperate: and then she was there and she rode it, shouting with joy, and on and on she went, for what seemed a long time, swooping and flying, and then slowly and almost reluctantly she let it go, released it, and fell down sweetly into peace.

Afterwards, lying beside him, her body finally relaxed, fractured with pleasure, more than she could ever remember, smiling at him, half surprised at herself, half delighted, she wondered how she could ever have thought it might not be a good idea.

But it did frighten her—a lot. She was frightened of giving too much of herself away, of losing her iron control on her life, of ceasing to function in her own, ordered, Martha-like way. Yes, she would think, as she lay restless and anxious in the small hours, she’d enjoy it for just a few weeks and then end it, before she made a fool of herself, before her life was too disrupted. He must see it couldn’t go on forever, that he really needed someone much nearer to his own age. As she did.

But she wouldn’t do it just yet. She was too happy.

It was absurd, how well they got on. How easily they talked, how much they managed to enjoy the same things, how seldom it seemed to matter that she was ten years older than he was. She even shared her smaller insecurities with him; she had never done that before.

“I hate my nose. It’s too big. Too much.”

“It’s a fine nose. You can smell with it, can’t you? It lets the bogeys out.”

“My boobs are so pathetic.”

“They are not pathetic.”

“They are. They’re so small.”

“They’re not too small to kiss. They give your bra something to do.”

The sex became more wonderful as she became less afraid. He was all the things she might have expected, inventive, tireless, sensuous, but others that she had not: tender, careful, infinitely patient. He would spend a long time arousing her, kissing, talking, easing her into excitement; she told him how lovely that was, how much she appreciated it.

“What about all your other lovers?” he said, grinning. “Didn’t they do that for you?”

“Ed, I haven’t had many other lovers,” she said truthfully and then regretted it. She tried not to do that: to talk about anything personal. Apart from him, apart from them.

“Why not?”

“I—just haven’t. Didn’t want to. Didn’t—”

“Have time?”

“Well, obviously,” she said, laughing, glad to be able to turn it into a joke.

“Did you—love anyone? Ever?”

“Once, yes, I did.”

“And?”

“And it ended.”

“Why?”

“He was married,” she said quickly, “and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“OK.” He always respected that if she spelt it out.

Martha was happier than she could ever remember, and knowing that it couldn’t last made it sweeter still.

For just three weeks, she felt very, very happy.

And then it was Valentine’s Day.

It started out quite well: A posy of red roses the night before, some sex at midnight—“I was hoping I could make you come as the clock struck, but I think I failed, let’s see, yes, it’s 12:13, damn”—and he rang her just before her six o’clock alarm call, to say Happy Valentine’s Day: “That was the hardest part, waking up before you.”

They were going out to dinner at the Pont de la Tour—her treat, she said—and had agreed to meet at eight, but at seven thirty he called and said he’d been held up doing some important editing and would she come down to Soho instead. Slightly irritated—while reminding herself this was what she did to him all the time—she cancelled the table and got a cab to a Thai restaurant in Old Compton Street, which he said would remind them both of their travels. He wasn’t there when she arrived, but a table had been booked and there was a bottle of white wine on ice beside it; she sat down, ordered some water instead, and waited. For twenty minutes she waited, and there was no phone call, no sign of him; she was about to walk out when one of the boys who worked with him came in, breathless, and said Ed would be just another ten minutes, his phone had died, he was really sorry and could she please hang on? Martha thanked him for coming, but after fifteen minutes, she couldn’t stand it any longer, got up, and stalked round to Wardour Street to the building where he worked. She pushed the entry-phone bell, and announced herself.

“Come on up,” said a voice and she went up the rather scruffy stairs and into the minuscule space that called itself reception.

There was nobody there; she had just started walking along the corridor when she heard a voice coming out of one of the offices. And heard her name.

“She was in a right state, Ms. Martha was.” It was the boy who had come round to the restaurant. “Don’t rate his chances much tonight. She practically smacked my hand just now. Not pleased.”

“Yeah? Maybe that’s how their relationship works—maybe she dresses up in leather and whips him.”

“Nah. Anyway, it’s not a relationship, not really. How could it be? I reckon, now he’s won his bet, it’ll be all over in next to no time…”

Martha took a deep breath, walked on, and pushed open the door of the editing room. Ed sat staring at a screen, scrolling images backwards and forwards.

“Fuck off,” he said without looking round. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Yes,” she said, “actually. I can. And I won’t be interrupting you any longer, Ed, not tonight, not ever. I’m so glad I helped you win your bet. Now why don’t you fuck off yourself.”

She walked out of the building, got into a taxi, and went back to her apartment. And refused to answer any of the twenty-two calls he made before he gave up and, she imagined, shrugged his shoulders, and went out to have fun with some people his own age.

Chapter 10

         “Shall we get a Chinese? Mum’s left me some money.”

“You’re so lucky, Sarah,” said Kate wistfully. “No one nagging at you all the time to do your homework and tidy your room, or turn your music down. And you can eat whenever you like. We have to sit down every night, all four of us round the table, and make polite conversation, it’s gross. Dad calls it communicating. God! He doesn’t know what the word means.”

“Yeah, well, it’s all right here in some ways,” said Sarah. “Sometimes it’s not so good. Like I have to look after the little ones a lot. Mum’s never here, not in the evenings.”

“Where does she go?”

“Oh—out. After she’s finished at the pub. Drinking. Clubbing.”

“Clubbing! At her age?”

“I know. It’s pathetic. And then she stays over at Jerry’s place quite often.”

“What, the guy with the motorbike?”

“Yeah, he’s her boyfriend. Didn’t you realise?”

“Not really.” Kate digested this in silence. “Do you think they—they—”

“Yeah, course,” said Sarah. “What else do you think they do?”

“I don’t know,” said Kate. She looked at Sarah in silence for a moment, then: “You haven’t yet, have you?”

“Course not! I’m thinking of it, though.”

“With Darren?”

“Yeah, he’s so fit.”

“But—but what’s the point? Really?”

“The point is I want to,” said Sarah. “At least, I think so. I mean, half the class has. I’m beginning to feel like an alien. Aren’t you?”

“No,” said Kate firmly. “I’m not.”

“Not even if you finally landed Nat Tucker?”

“No way!” Nat Tucker had been in the year above them and the object of a great many girls’ desire; he was tall, dark, and although only moderately good-looking and at times even slightly spotty, he was extremely sexy. He had left school and was working as an apprentice at his father’s garage and had consequently acquired a car which he drove round the neighbourhood, stereo at full volume, one arm dangling out of the window, nonchalantly holding a cigarette. He had twice told Kate that he was going to take her out; so far nothing had happened.

“S’pose you got pregnant with Darren. Then what’d you do?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Sarah. “I’d make him wear something.” She looked at Kate. “It’s because of your mum, isn’t it? Your
real
mum? You’re afraid of the same thing happening to you.”

“Course not,” said Kate. “I’m just not that stupid. Now listen, I’ve got a new idea.”

She had seen an ad in the local paper. “Private Detective Agency,” it had said, “Company Searches, Matrimonial, Missing Persons Etc. Discreet and Confidential.” And then the magic words: “No Find, No Fee.”

Well, it was worth a try. And if she did find her mother, then
she
could pay the bill. Bitch. It would be the least she could do. Shaking slightly, she had called the agency; a bright and breezy woman answered the phone.

“Yes?”

“I—want to speak to someone about finding someone. Please.”

“Ye-es. Can you tell me a little more? Is this a relative?”

“Yes. Yes, it is. I want to—want to find—my—” She stopped. God, this was always so hard. “My mother,” she said firmly.

“I see.” The voice was reassuringly calm. “Well, we’ll do our very best. But before we can go any further, I shall have to take a few details.”

“I—I don’t have a name. Of any kind. So—”

“Well, that does make it more difficult, but not impossible. We have solved similar cases.”

It was raining; a grey and wretched day. To Kate it suddenly seemed filled with sunshine.

“Could you give us any idea of location, where she might be?” A few clouds gathered.

“No. None at all, I’m afraid.”

“Well, do you have a starting point? Like where you were born? And when?”

“Oh yes.” This was easy. Gloriously easy. “I was born at Heathrow airport. On August the fifteenth, 1986.”

A long silence, then: “Actually at the airport?”

“Well, yes. And then she—well, I—that is, I was found—a bit later that day.”

“I think,” said the voice, “you really should come in and see us. We obviously need to discuss this very carefully.”

Sarah offered to go with her, but Kate thought she should go alone. “It looks more…more grown-up.”

She went after school next day. The offices were over a jewellery shop: quite flashy, not seedy as Kate had expected, and Mr. Graham was not the sad old man she had expected either. He was dapper, quite good-looking, well-spoken. He was fairly old, she thought, although not as old as her parents, probably about forty. He gave her a horrible cup of coffee and told her to tell him what she wanted.

After about five minutes he held up his hand. “Now look, dear. We could just possibly find her, find your mother—”

“You could? Oh my God!” He said all sorts of encouraging things: that they knew where she was born, the hospital she was taken to, that trails could be picked up long after they’d seemed to go cold. It was like some wonderful fairy story. And then came the bad bit: that they couldn’t possibly do it for no fee. That it was going to be a long haul, a big investment of their time. He’d want at least £300 on account.

She felt sick: the tantalisingly bright vision, of her mother delivered to her, fading slowly.

“Look,” said Richard Graham, who was not an unkind man, “you speak to your mum and dad. The ones who adopted you. See if they can help. And then tell them to come back to me.”

There was no way her parents would part with £300. Not for this. They would tell her it was all very dodgy, warn her it could run into much more money, and that someone like the National Organisation for the Counselling of Adoptees and Parents would help her for nothing, when she was eighteen.

When she was eighteen. Years away. And even then they’d say all the usual things, like did she really want to, and was it a good idea, and what about counselling first? And they were very hard up at the moment, anyway. They kept saying so. She felt totally miserable; it was as if she had been told her mother was just round the corner and that, if she hurried, she would find her there. Only someone had anchored her to the street, so she couldn’t hurry. It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t fair!

And then she stood stock-still, right in the middle of the pavement, felt herself getting quite hot—her grandmother could afford £300. There was no doubt about that. And she’d be more sympathetic, less fussy too. She might even go and see Mr. Graham with her. She’d think it was exciting, a bit of an adventure.

The more Kate thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. She was due to go and stay with Granny next weekend; she would ask her then. Maybe, just maybe, she really was getting a little bit nearer.

When Martha left the office late on Wednesday evening, it was raining. Dismal, cold, wind-driven rain. God, she hated February. She walked down the steps towards her waiting cab and then noticed that a couple of people in front of her were pointing at something just out of sight and laughing. As she reached the bottom step she saw why: a six-foot-high bright yellow chicken was walking towards her. Very elaborate, it was, with a proper chicken body, a long rather ostrichlike neck, and sturdy legs above its splayed chicken feet. It had started to skip now, and it was holding an envelope in its beak. Even in her cold, wet misery she had to smile, then giggle, it was so absurd.

“Miss Martha Hartley?” it said. Its voice was high, drag-style high, and very American. “Letter for you. Special delivery.”

It was a huge yellow plastic envelope bearing the words “Chicken Post: We Beat the Pigeons to It,” with a large bunch of yellow feathers fixed where a stamp might be.

“I’m sorry,” said Martha, trying very hard to look severe. “I don’t really want anything.”

“You want this, believe me,” the chicken said, dropping the letter at her feet and skipping off down the road away from her. “Good news in there, I can tell you,” it called over its shoulder, with a flap of its wings.

Martha picked it up, looked rather awkwardly at the people around her, and got into her cab.

“You get all sorts round here, don’t you?” said the driver.

Afterwards, she couldn’t believe that she hadn’t thought it might be from Ed. If she had, she would have dropped it down the nearest drain. As it was, she opened the envelope, found another inside, and then another inside that, and hadn’t even opened the final bright yellow envelope by the time she reached her apartment; she was changing by then, running her bath.

She started reading the chicken’s letter and recognised Ed’s appalling writing.

“Stop!” it said. “Don’t throw it away. Read this. Please, please, please read it.” Martha, wearing nothing but a pair of silk knickers, her heart thumping uncomfortably hard, read it.

OK, you were a bet. Getting you into bed was a bet. But before I knew you, before our first date. I can produce witnesses. Hopefully you’re still reading.

I just want to tell you a few things.

1. You’re fantastic.

2. I feel like a complete load of shit.

3. I wouldn’t have hurt you for anything.

4. I miss you.

5. It’s totally horrible without you.

6. I think you’re quite right never to eat more than once a day.

7. Nobody should ever go away for more than a week at a time.

8. Everybody should work at least twelve hours a day and on Sundays.

9. Nobody should have sex when they’ve got a meeting in the morning.

10. Your nose is not too big.

11. Your boobs are not too small.

12. I want you back.

Ed. X

Her doorbell rang.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me. The chicken. Can I come up?”

And reluctantly smiling she pressed the entry phone.

“It was Mum’s idea,” he said, as they sat on her sofa, his arm round her; she was still stiff, edgy, ready to be hurt.

“Your mother’s? Ed, you didn’t tell her?”

“Course not. Well, not that it was you. But that I’d upset someone, couldn’t get her to talk to me even. She said Dad could always get round her, however angry she was with him, if he made her laugh. She said once she’d laughed, she’d had it, because she’d let go a bit. I’d been out there hours, waiting in my car. Got a lot of funny looks. But driving there was the worst. Every time I stopped at traffic lights, people started pointing at me and laughing. And then I wanted to pee and I couldn’t. Just had to hang on. Once you’d gone, I ripped the whole kit off, rushed into a doorway. I was afraid of peeing on your feet,” he added, “ruining your Jacky Choos.”

“Jimmy Choos,” she said automatically.

“Sorry. It’s a good thing I’ve got you back, correcting my mistakes.”

At which Martha burst into tears.

“Don’t you see?” she said, wiping her eyes. “That was why it hurt so much. It was exactly what I was afraid of, that first night I met your friends, here was me, crusty old battle-axe, bossing you about, telling you what to do, laying down the law, and you, you—”

“Me what?” he said tenderly. “Me, the complete idiot. I don’t know nothing from nothing.”