Swimming Upstream (9 page)

I realised now how shallow my friendships had been
with all of these women, largely of my own volition. I hadn’t really tried to
get to know them at all, in all these years, because for the most part all we
had in common was that our boyfriends were friends. That was the glue that had held
the group together. And now that I was no longer Larsen’s girlfriend there was
nothing left. Zara was the one person that I had felt a real connection with,
but I had never nurtured that. I had been too wrapped up in Larsen. I now
regretted my inertia; Zara could have been a good friend.

I glanced back through the window into the living
room. Larsen and Jude were still sitting on the sofa talking. I noticed that
their legs were close together, touching. Jude then said something, and smiled
up at Larsen, who laughed, put his hand on her leg and then kissed her, full on
the lips.

 “Oh,” I said. “Now I get it.”

Doug followed my gaze. “Oh. Larsen and Jude. I
thought you knew.”

I stood up. “How could I have been so stupid?”

“Lizzie - wait!” Doug jumped up after me and tried
to grab my hands from behind me. I yanked them free and tripped over the step
into the living room. Karen turned round and nudged Marion, who turned the
music down.

 Jude looked up. “Lizzie..” she began.

 “How long has this been going on?” I demanded.

“A few months,” said Jude, looking at Larsen for
backup.

“A few months?” I repeated. I looked at Larsen. “You
mean… from the moment we split up? Or longer?”

“No,” said Larsen, quickly. “No, not longer.”

Jude glanced at him and I knew instantly that this
wasn’t true. And I realised suddenly how naive I had been. I should have known
that he would never have ended our relationship unless there was someone else
waiting in the wings. All this time that I had been reeling from the blow of losing
him - imagining him to be doing the same - and he hadn’t felt a thing.

I looked up and Larsen’s eyes met mine briefly,
then flickered away.

“Don't go breaking your heart,” I said.

Larsen said nothing.

Doug followed me as far
as the front door, but nobody followed me out.

I woke the next morning with a throbbing headache and as
the events of the previous night began to crash in on me, I also realised that
I wasn’t well. I cast my mind back and remembered that I hadn’t eaten since
lunchtime the day before. I’d been too nervous before the party about seeing
everyone again. I sat up slowly, then walked unsteadily downstairs into the
kitchen. I filled the kettle and put two slices of toast into the toaster. I was
rummaging through the drawers for coffee filters when the phone rang.

It was Larsen. “We need to talk.”

I felt bile suddenly rising in my stomach and my
forehead prickled. I said, “I'm really not feeling very well.”

Larsen didn't seem to have heard. “Okay, Lizzie, I
don't blame you for being upset. But there are things we've got to sort out.”

It was as if we were having two different
conversations. Which wasn’t that surprising after all, as we were clearly
having two entirely different experiences of breaking up. His was soft,
cushioned; Jude and his friends had broken his fall. Mine was cold, empty and
bereft. I was freefalling in space and time, with nobody standing by to stop me
hurtling headlong into obscurity.

I sank down onto the sofa. “This isn't a good
time.”

“Let's face it, there's never going to be a good
time, is there?” he said gently. “I know you probably don't feel like talking
to me right now, but you have a right to know what's going on …”

I laughed ironically. “I kind of figured it out
for myself, actually. But thanks for your concern.”

Larsen paused for a second, then continued. “And I
want you to hear it from me.”

“There's more?” I croaked.

“I didn't plan this, Lizzie.”

I didn't say anything. My head was pounding and a
wave of nausea was sweeping over me.

“I'm not saying I'm not equally responsible,”
Larsen was saying. “But it just happened and that's that and if you can try and
understand ...”

My stomach contracted and my jaw tightened. “I
have to go,” I said.

“Lizzie, wait. Look, I can't stay at Brian's for
much longer.” He paused. “I'm going to need to move back into the house. I’ll
buy you out.”

“What? You can’t afford to buy me out. You can’t
even afford to pay the mortgage!”

“Maybe not, but…Jude can.”

“Jude? You have got to be kidding.”

“Okay. Her parents can. That’s what I meant. They
can buy you out.”

“Her parents? Why would her parents do that? You’ve
only been together a few months!”

“We need the house,” said Larsen. “Jude's
pregnant.”

The room was moving. I placed the receiver down,
lurched up the stairs to the bathroom and was horribly, violently sick.

Three hours later the sickness still hadn't
stopped. I couldn't even lie down in bed in between bouts because whenever I
did, the room started spinning. I was desperately thirsty but every time I
tried to drink my stomach muscles contracted so violently that I could almost
feel my stomach lining getting ready to rip. I lay in the bathroom for what
seemed like hours, my cheek resting against the cold white enamel of the bath,
my legs curled up underneath me.

I had lost all track of time and was almost dozing
off on the bathmat when I heard a noise downstairs and a voice called through
the letterbox.

“Lizzie?! Are you there?”

“Mum?” I lifted my head up, relief flooding
through me.

“Lizzie? Are you home?”

“Yes!” I called, as loudly as I could, but my
voice was so hoarse that all that came out was a whisper. I levered myself up
onto my feet and almost threw myself down the stairs. My stomach immediately
started to tighten.

I fiddled with the latch and flung the door open. “Mum!”
I screamed.

I could see that my mother had been about to
leave, her car keys in her hand. She turned at the sound of my voice “Oh, you
are there. Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better. A lot better, in fact.” I sank
to the floor and clutched at my stomach.

“What's wrong? Are you ill?”

“Just a bit.”

“Oh Lizzie, what's the matter?”

“Don’t know.” I hiccupped. “Can't stop being sick.”

My mother pushed open the front door.

“Come on. Let's get you into the car,” she said. “We'll
soon get you home.”

I shook my head. “I can’t move.”

My mother stepped over me, fetched a bucket from
under the kitchen sink and pulled my jacket off the coat peg by the door.

“Up you get,” she said, firmly.

She took hold of me by the shoulders, tugged me up
and pulled my arms into my jacket, through the sleeves, from the cuffs, the way
she used to do it when I was little and had my mittens on bits of elastic
inside. She steered me out of the front door and towards her car. One of my neighbours
walked past and stared at me. I realised I wasn't looking my best. My hair was
unbrushed, my face unwashed and I was still in my pyjamas, with my arms now
round the bucket. I didn't have the energy to care.

“How long have you been like this?” she asked,
hoisting me into the front seat of the car.

“Forever, I think.” I slumped back and fastened my
seat belt. She started the engine. I watched the windscreen wipers, flicking
back and forth. My head was spinning; I felt as if I was in space.

“You should have called me before,” she
reprimanded.

“I know,” I said.

“You never know when to ask for help.”

“I know,” I said.

“You're too independent for your own good,
sometimes. Just like your father.”

“I know,” I said.

“Silly girl,” smiled my mum, and stroked my hair

I woke with a start. I opened my eyes and waited for the
room to come into focus. My body was stiff and hot, my heart beating heavily in
my chest, my clothes drenched with sweat and clinging to me. The room was
darkened, the curtains drawn, but it was clearly still daylight outside. The
remnants of a nightmare faded into the light.

My mum appeared in the doorway with a tray. “How
are you? Did you sleep?”

I nodded.

“Here you are.” She placed the tray on my lap and
lifted me up, plumping up the pillows behind me. My limbs were weak and I moved
with difficulty.

“What is it?”

“Chicken soup. It’s homemade.”

“Thanks. It looks better than that disgusting
drink. What was it?”

“Salt and orange juice. You were dehydrated. It
did the trick though, didn't it?”

I nodded and looked round the room. I was in my
sister Keri's bed. It no longer smelled of plasticine and old apple cores the
way it used to. It must have been years since I’d set foot in here. In the
meantime, it had undergone a complete transformation. The childish crayoned
pictures of houses and flowers that she'd stuck to the walls with blue tac had
been replaced and the room was now a splash of red and white. The Liverpool
team photo took pride of place in the centre. Surrounding it were individual
pictures: Ian Rush heading the ball, John Barnes striking, Peter Beardsley in
mid-air looking over his shoulder at his backside, both legs flung out beside
him. Mug shots of the less prolific goal scorers were dotted around the window
opposite. At the end of the bed sat a scruffy, one-eyed teddy bear wearing a
red and white bobble hat. With a pang, I found myself wishing for one very long
moment that I could come home again, that this was my room.

I finished the last of the soup and was relieved
to note that it was staying down. “Where’s Keri?” I asked.

“At her dad’s.”

“Oh. Him. She sees him, does she?”

My mother’s face tightened for a moment. “He’s her
dad,” she said.

“He was supposed to be mine too. Ours; mine and
Pete’s. And look how that went.”

“Let’s not do this,” pleaded my mum.

“Why not, mum? It’s time we talked about what
happened.”

“Because I can’t. That’s why. Because we’ll both
say things that we regret and then we’ll both be hurt. I know how you feel. It
doesn’t do to keep raking it over.”

She sat on the bed with her back to me and began
undoing the bandage on my foot.

I sighed and put my soup bowl down on the floor. “So,
what were you doing in Cambridge?”

“Shopping. Keri needed some new school things. I
thought I would stop by and see if you were home. I did try to phone. I can see
now why you didn’t answer. It’s a good job I came by when I did.”

“I know. Thank you. And I
am
grateful.”

 I watched my mother as she then got up and moved
around the room, picking up errant socks and crumpled t-shirts and putting them
into Keri’s washing basket. She opened the curtains and the late afternoon
sunshine lit the room.

“What's wrong with me?” I asked her.

My mum looked up. “You got dehydrated. You have
low blood pressure. Hypotension. You know that. Did you eat yesterday?”

“Not much. I had a bad day.”

“Oh, love,” my mum put my foot up onto a pillow
and turned to face me. “What’s happened?”

I told her about Larsen, and Jude, and the baby.
She sat on the bed next to me and listened, stroking my hand tentatively, and
didn’t speak until I'd finished.

“It must hurt,” was all she said.

“I can't believe he could just replace me like
that,” I said. “I feel like she's pirated my life. He wants her to move in,
sleep in my bed, and bring up their baby in my home. And he wants me to just
…go.”

“Poor Lizzie,” said my mum, unhelpfully. She
stroked my hand, back and forth, over and over again. I could feel the calluses
on her work-weary fingers rubbing gently against my skin. Then she asked, “Did
you want him back?”

I picked at the throw on Keri’s bed. “Maybe. A
part of me did, at least. I think that’s what I had hoped for when we first
decided to break up, that we would work through our problems. Be there for each
other, perhaps. And maybe after some time apart… I don’t know what I expected. But
I should have seen this coming. I should have known.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

I sighed. “So anyway, I’m going to have to move
out.”

“Do you really have to?”

“Either that or find forty grand. I can’t afford
to buy him out.”

 My mum paused. “I wish I could help. But you know
I don’t have that sort of money.”

“I know that. I wasn’t expecting you to do that
for me.”

 I collapsed back onto the pillow with a thump. A
book slid off the bed and dropped onto the floor beside me. I picked it up.

“The Water Babies,” I said, wiping my eyes and
turning the yellowing pages. “I haven't seen this for years.”

“I found it in the attic. We must have brought it
with us when we moved,” my mum said, a little apologetically.

I flicked through the pages, pausing to marvel at
the beautiful fairy-like illustrations of dragon-flies and lobsters and little
rounded babies, with ‘Lucie Mabel Atwell’ printed on them at the bottom and
captions underneath which I used to read myself. There was an ink stain on the
corner of the back cover.

“This was my favourite book,” I said, spellbound. I
turned back to the beginning, looking for my name inside to prove it had been
mine. On the imprint page was an inscription. It said: ‘To my own Water Baby, with
love from Daddy,’ which took me completely by surprise. I hadn't remembered it
being there at all.

“I didn't know my dad wrote this,” I said. My
voice sounded hollow. It felt strange, sitting there looking at it his
handwriting. It was big, slanted, and old-fashioned; it was proof that he'd
really existed. “Why did he call me that?”

“He used to take you swimming; he taught you to
swim. Don’t you remember?”

“No. Not really.” I waited for my mother to tell
me more, to remind me, but she didn’t. I looked again at the cover and tried to
remember. “I didn't know he gave this to me.”