The Year I Met You (27 page)

Feeling out of control this year, I have turned to my garden to maintain control, thinking it would bend to my will. It has shown me that it will not. Nothing can bend to our will. I neglected my garden and I allowed the slugs to take over.

That is exactly what I have done with myself.

21

Apart from betrayal, June also brings a christening, godmother duties and a one-night-stand with my ex-boyfriend Laurence, the boyfriend who lasted longest, the one everybody thought I’d marry, including me, but the one who left me in the end. Sleeping with him again after two years of Laurence-celibacy was a mistake, it was an enjoyable mistake, but it won’t be happening again. I don’t know what I was thinking, but after a day spent drinking in the sun, the old familiar feelings came back, or the memory of them did, their echo, and so I confused them as easily as I had the male from the female toilets and the glass of water from the straight vodka. Just another oopsie on that long summer’s day. And maybe I was longing for a moment of security, to go back to the feeling of being loved, of feeling in love. Only it didn’t work out that way, of course it didn’t. Recreations never work. The ‘here’s one I made earlier’ can rarely be replicated. Don’t try this at home, kids.

And so I end up outside your house at two in the morning, drunk, throwing pebbles at your window, with a bottle of rosé and two glasses in my hands.

You open the curtains and look out, your face sleepy and confused, your hair standing high on your head. You see me, then disappear from view and I sit at the table and wait for you. Moments later you open the door, tracksuit on, and sleepily make your way to me. When you register my state, the groggy inquisitive look on your face quickly changes to amusement, the expression that makes your blue eyes sparkle mischievously, though smaller and surrounded by the crinkles that squeeze them when you smile.

‘Well, well, well, what have we got here?’ you say, coming towards me with an enormous grin. You give my hair an annoying big-brother ruffle before joining me at the garden table. ‘You look fancy tonight.’

‘Just thought I’d call an urgent neighbourhood meeting,’ I slur, then push a glass towards you and lean over to fill it. I almost fall off my chair as I do so.

‘Not for me.’ You place your hand over the top of the glass.

‘Still not drinking?’ I ask, disappointed.

‘Have I made you get out of bed in the middle of the night lately to get me into my house?’

I think about it. ‘No.’

‘Not for four weeks.’

I top my own glass up some more. ‘Party pooper.’

‘Alcoholic.’

‘Potato, potato,’ I say. I slug back some wine.

‘That’s supportive,’ you say good-naturedly.

‘You’re not an alcoholic. You’re a pisshead – there’s a difference.’

‘Wow. That’s controversial. Explain that please.’

‘You’re an eejit, that’s all. Selfish. Choose late nights over early nights. You’re not addicted, you don’t actually have a drink problem, you have a life problem. I mean, do you go to meetings?’

‘No. Well, kind of. I sit with Dr J.’

‘A retired GP doesn’t count.’

‘Dr J is an alcoholic. Hasn’t had a drink in over twenty years. There’s a lot about him that you don’t know,’ he says, seeing my shocked expression. ‘His wife said she wouldn’t have children until he cleaned himself up. He didn’t stop until he was over fifty. Too late. She stayed with him though.’

‘Well, she’s dead now.’ I drain my glass.

You frown. ‘Yes, Sherlock. She’s dead now.’

‘So she got away in the end.’ I have no idea why I’m saying the things I’m saying. Probably for the sake of being annoying, which I clearly am. It’s fun to be you, I can see why you do it.

You get up and leave the table and disappear into the house. I think you’ve gone for good, but you return with a bag of cheese nachos.

‘Are the kids in there?’

‘Kris and Kylie asked if they could stay another night. They’re enjoying the plot.’

‘Kris and Kylie. So that’s their names. They even sound like twins.’

‘They are.’

‘Oh.’

You have quite an impressive plot of vegetables growing at the side of the house. Though it’s dark, I eye the area. You laugh.

‘You’re jealous.’

‘Why would I be? When I have that.’ We look at my garden. It’s the best on the street, if I do say so myself. ‘Don’t try to compete with me, Marshall,’ I warn.

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ you say, mock-serious. ‘Fionn still isn’t getting into the spirit of things.’

‘He might not ever,’ I say thoughtfully, my finger running around the rim of the glass. ‘No matter what you do.’

‘Well, that’s positive, thanks.’

‘I’m not here to be positive. I’m here to be realistic. If you want cheery tips, talk to okey-dokey Dr J.’

‘I do.’

‘I’m surprised about him, you know. He’s lucky he didn’t kill someone at the practice.’

‘He was a functioning alcoholic. The worst kind.’

‘Lucky for you, you weren’t.’

You take both insults: that you’re an alcoholic and that you couldn’t function.

‘I know. He’s made me see that.’

We go quiet and you munch on the nachos. I slug my wine. I realise I’ve been doing the usual thing of attacking you.

‘Every boyfriend I’ve ever been with has left me. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ You have that amused expression again. ‘But I can’t say I’m surprised,’ you add, sarcastically, but gently.

‘Because I’m very difficult to live with,’ I say, to your surprise.

‘Why are you difficult to live with?’

‘Because I want everything done my way. I don’t like mistakes.’

‘Jesus, you wouldn’t want to live with me.’

‘You’re quite right. I don’t.’

Silence.

‘Where’s this coming from tonight?’

‘I slept with my ex.’

You look at your watch. It’s two a.m.

‘I left when he was asleep.’

‘He was probably pretending to be asleep.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘I used to pull that trick all the time.’

‘Well, it worked. She left.’

You don’t like that joke so much, probably because it didn’t come out as a joke.

‘So is that what he told you? That you’re difficult to live with?’

‘Not in so many words. I came up with it all by myself. It’s something I’ve realised since …’ I look over at my garden, beautiful and blooming, drawing the magical source of knowledge into myself. The more I dig into the soil, the more I dig into myself.

‘Then how do you know it’s true? Maybe you’re not difficult to live with at all, maybe you’re just a busy, successful, beautiful woman who won’t settle for anything but the best – and why should you?’

That moves me, almost to tears.

‘Maybe,’ he says.

My tears instantly dry.

‘Or maybe you’re crap in bed and impossible to live with.’

You start laughing and I throw a nacho at you.

‘He told me tonight that he was lonely in my company. That’s why he left me.’

Silence.

‘Lonely in your company,’ you say slowly, thoughtfully.

‘Lonely in my company,’ I repeat, refilling my glass.

Imagine how I felt – imagine how he’d felt, being with somebody who made him feel lonely. It’s quite an awful thing to feel lonely in the company of someone you love. It is quite something to say it, it is unbearable to be the one to hear it, to be the one to have it said of you.

‘He said this before or after you slept with him?’ you ask, leaning forward, elbows on the table, interested, studying me.

‘Before. But I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t a line.’

‘It was a line,’ you say, annoyed. ‘Come on, Jasmine, it was a line. I bet you two were on your own somewhere, bet it was the end of the night, he takes you aside, talks to Jasmine, still single and jobless, bound to be in a vulnerable state, her friends popping sprogs all around her. Even though she says she doesn’t want them, it’s still going to get her thinking. And then he pulls the line out of his pocket. He looks at you, all red hair and big tits …’

I snort, trying not to smile.

‘Smudged eyeliner …’

I wipe under my eyes.

‘It’s a line. It’s bound to go one of two ways: either you get angry and throw your drink on him, or you feel guilty and he gets laid. Nine times out of ten, it works.’

‘To quote Dr J: “
Codswallop!
” You did not try that ten times,’ I say, dubious.

‘Twice. Got a drink in my face once, got my happy ending once. And the drink in question was a Sambuca, which really stung my skin, with the coffee bean still on fire.’

I laugh.

‘Finally. She smiles,’ you say softly.

I light up a cigarette.

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Only when I drink.’

‘Wild thing.’

I roll my eyes.

‘So what about your boyfriend? You going to tell him about what you did tonight?’

‘What boyfriend?’

‘The good-looking guy who calls around all the time. The one who’s not your cousin.’ You hold your hands up and laugh. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend. That’s Monday. He’s a headhunter. He was trying to get me to go for a job.’

‘Monday?’

‘He was born on a Monday.’

‘Right. And Monday is headhunting you.’

I don’t like the amused look on your face.

‘Was. Or do you think that was a line too?’ I’m being sarcastic, I don’t expect you to give it serious consideration.

‘What was the job?’

‘Working with the DavidGordonWhite Foundation.’

‘The tax consultants?’

‘They have a new foundation dedicated to climate justice.’

You look at me pointedly. ‘You do start-ups.’

‘It’s new. I’d have to start it up.’

‘And you’re telling me he’s not trying to get you into bed?’

‘I wish he would,’ I reply, and you laugh. I drop the cigarette on the ground and pivot on it with my strappy heel. For a moment I’d contemplated extinguishing it on the varnished table, but the thought of the children’s hard work stopped me. ‘Anyway it’s too late. I missed the interview.’

‘Why? Get scared?’ You’re not teasing this time.

‘No.’ But I was scared, though it wasn’t over the job.

I think about telling you the truth. It would mean having to explain my fears about Heather going away on her own, and I don’t want to reinforce your stereotypical view of Down syndrome, even if my own thinking was wrong. She has been home for one week and while we have spoken on the phone – of course she’s talking to me, Heather couldn’t be any other way – things are not the same. She is distant. I’ve lost a piece of her, the invisible piece that held her and me together.

‘Did you miss the interview because you were drunk?’ you ask, concerned.

‘No,’ I snap.

‘Okay, okay. It just seems to be a recurring theme these days, so I thought I should mention it, seeing as you so
kindly
brought my drinking to my attention.’ You hold your hands up, defensively.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, more calmly. ‘I’m just … so …’ I make a fart noise with my mouth and then sigh, unable to sum up my feelings any more than that.

‘Yeah. I understand.’

And despite my inability to explain, I think that you do understand exactly. We sit in a comfortable silence which makes me think of how Jonathan and Heather were together, the jealousy I felt, not realising I have that comfort right here with you.

‘That man who comes over to your house with the little girl. Is that your dad?’

I nod.

‘He seems like a good dad.’

I think you’re going to start picking at me again, but as you run your hand down the smooth varnished wood I know that you’re thinking about yourself and your current predicament.

‘He is now,’ I say. I want to add
to someone else
, but I don’t.

You look up at me. Study me in that way that you do, which I hate, because it’s as though you’re seeing, or trying to see right through to my soul.

‘Interesting.’

‘Interesting,’ I sigh. ‘What’s interesting about that?’

‘It explains the things you said to me, that’s all.’

‘I told you you were a terrible dad because you were a terrible dad.’

‘But you noticed it. It bothered you.’

I don’t respond. I drink instead.

‘Is he trying to make up for it now?’

‘No, he’s interfering in my life – different thing altogether.’ On your questioning look, I explain: ‘He’s trying to get me a job. At his old company. Pull in a few favours, that kind of thing.’

‘That sounds helpful.’

‘It’s not helpful. It’s nepotism.’

‘Is it a good job?’

‘Actually, yes, it is. Account director, manage a team of eight. Forty thousand,’ I repeat dad’s mantra in a bad impression of him.

‘It’s a good job.’

‘Yes, it’s a great job. That’s what I said.’

‘Not something that he’d give to anyone.’

‘Of course not.’

‘You’d have to do an interview.’

‘Of course. It’s not his company any more. He’s only putting my name forward.’

‘So he believes in you. Thinks you’re capable. I’m sure he’s a proud man. He wouldn’t want to be embarrassed by an underperforming daughter.’

I prickle at that and wonder if you’re referring to Heather. I ready myself, but realise you’re not. I don’t know what to say to you.

‘I’d take it as a compliment.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You and Fionn have a lot in common,’ you say, and I know you’re criticising my childish response, but I go for the jugular.

‘Because we’ve both got crap dads?’

You sigh. ‘If I told you I knew someone with a great idea for a start-up, and they were looking for someone to work with, would you be interested?’

‘Is her name Caroline?’ I say, and hear the dread in my voice.

‘I mean hypothetically.’

‘Yes. I would meet them.’

‘But your dad knows someone who’s looking for someone and you won’t entertain it.’

I don’t know how to answer, so in the spirit of Fionn, I shrug.

‘I wouldn’t rule it out if I were you.’

‘I don’t need his help.’

‘Yes, you do.’

I’m silent.