Growing Up Twice Page 29

  ‘Oh God, Selin, you wouldn’t believe …’ I began but then I saw the shadows under her eyes and the tired line of her mouth and stopped myself. ‘Well, the edited version is that Rosie is still umming and aahing about Chris, can you believe it? Anyway, we’ve sort of fallen out about it and one or two other things but I’ll tell you the details another time. I can see you’re tired.’

  Selin smiled and looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’d better get going. Family dinner, you know?’

  ‘OK, well, I’ll stop leaving you messages every five minutes now I’ve seen you. You call me when you want me, won’t you? If you want me.’ I stood and buttoned up my coat, it had started to drizzle outside.

  ‘Of course. If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you at Josh’s exhibition anyway, won’t I?’

  ‘Definitely. OK then.’ As I opened the door I collided straight into Josh and, strangely, Mr Selin’s tall, silent friend who had looked after Selin at the funeral.

  ‘Hello, Jen,’ Josh smiled at me.

  ‘Hello,’ I said to him. ‘Hello,’ I said to the friend, who nodded at me in return.

  ‘We’ve just come to pick Seli up, working too late as usual. Come on, sis. Mum’s cooked up a storm.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming, I’m coming.’ Suddenly Selin seemed to become more like her old self again and I watched with bemusement as a wide smile spread over her face when old-tall-silent-friend-man strode across the office to her and sat on the corner of her desk talking softly to her as she shut down her PC.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ I said to Josh, my eyes still on Selin.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink later in the week? You and Rosie and the pub? Maybe Seli if we can drag her away from … home.’

  ‘Yeah, love to if you’re up to it, give us a call.’ I looked at Selin and the man once again and shook my head. ‘See you then.’

  ‘See you.’ Josh shuts the door practically in my face.

  That was over a week ago. Josh’s exhibition is next Saturday and it looks as though I won’t hear from either of them until then. And it’s another wet Monday and, OK, I am feeling sorry for myself.

  The last few weeks could have been worse, I suppose. There haven’t been any more messages from Owen, although there was one evening on the way home from work when I thought I’d seen him. I thought I caught sight of his familiar shock of blond hair and his angular jaw standing out in the commuter crowd and I braced myself for confrontation, but when I looked again all I could see was an army of grey raincoats and umbrellas. Realising that I must have imagined it I worried all the way home, wondering whether my brain had conjured up his image because I was anxious about just that kind of confrontation or because deep down part of me missed him.

  And then, one night, after sitting though the maximum number of bearable hours of Carla’s latest bedroom tales in the pub along with Kevin, Brian and a very bored Jackson, I’d come back on the bus late and alone and sort of tipsy, but moreover tired and depressed, and for a moment I thought he’d turned up again.

  For once the usually busy short stretch of Green Lanes that leads to my road was quiet and abandoned and I could see as I followed the bend of the road that even the Pizza Gogo lights had been turned off. For a moment I thought I heard Owen’s familiar brisk walk behind me, characterised by the steel toe reinforcement he insisted on having on his second-hand shoes, but when I turned to look the road was empty. I stood for a moment and looked around me at the empty shadows, peering through the steamy windows of the coffee houses for a familiar face, and suddenly I felt afraid to be alone outside in the night. I was only fifty or so yards from my door but I ran that last stretch and didn’t stop until I had slammed the door behind me.

  I stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs getting my breath back, and then I laughed. Spending too much time alone or in the company of my mostly moronic colleagues was clearly making me slightly crazy. Even if Owen had once been inclined to follow me – and I’m pretty sure he’ll have found some other distractions by now – he’s got no idea where I live.

  Now I’m sitting on the telephone chair listening to the rain stream down the ancient double glazing and looking at the phone. I miss Michael, or at least I miss the idea of him, or maybe just being able to think about the idea of him. I hadn’t really expected our last goodbye to be our last goodbye. I’m certain that if I had been in Michael’s position I would have written letters, phoned and probably begged at least a few more times before finally giving in, but it seems that Michael has more presence of mind and dignity than I gave him credit for.

  This morning I dithered around considering deleting his number from my phone but something like sentiment stopped me from doing it – that and the memory of our first kiss under the trees in Soho Square. It sounds corny but if he had been a bit older then maybe he would have been the one, or maybe in ten years’ time life and love would have turned him into someone else, someone who couldn’t love someone like me.

  I stare at the phone. I’m not expecting anyone to call me, I can’t think of anyone I want to call (although I should call my mum) but even so I’m tempted to pick up the receiver and check the dialling tone just in case.

  Just as I reach my hand out the doorbell chimes and I jump out of my skin. I run to the front door and pick up the intercom phone.

  ‘Hello?’ I say in breathless tones.

  ‘Hello, Jen, it’s me. Do you and Rosie fancy that pint?’ It’s Josh. I resist the temptation to kiss the handset. A visitor!

  ‘Rosie isn’t here but I’d really love to,’ I say, completely failing to not sound grateful.

  ‘OK, I’ll wait for you down here then. See you in a sec.’

  ‘Josh! I’m a girl. Monday night or not, I have to brush my hair and put on make-up. It’s raining, you’ll be soaked by the time I get down there. Come up.’ I buzz him in, leave the door on the latch then skip into my bedroom in search of my hairbrush.

  When he arrives in the door frame I have my head between my knees as I brush out the tangles of my unruly hair.

  ‘There won’t be anybody there, you know, except two drunk old men, an Australian barmaid and me.’ I fling my head back and smooth the untangled waves away from my face.

  ‘You never know,’ I say slowly. ‘And anyway, I’m not doing it for men, I’m doing it for myself.’ I lift my chin.

  ‘Yeah, course you are.’ He smiles and perches on the edge of my bed.

  ‘To be honest, Josh, it’s so nice to get out of the house to a place that isn’t work that I’m pretty tempted to get fully glad-ragged up.’ I hastily brush on some mascara and lippy. ‘How about you? How are you doing, or are you fed up with people asking you that question?’ I think of Selin who has not been in touch since I saw her.

  ‘Not fed up exactly, just sort of depressed by the inevitability of being unable to say, “I’m OK.” Gradually things settle into a pattern, I’m not saying it’s getting easier for us, it isn’t, but it’s getting bearable and in some ways – I’m not sure how I can put this – somehow I feel like Ayla is inspiring me. The last couple of weeks I’ve completely rebuilt my part of the exhibition, I’ve added three new paintings, the fastest work I’ve ever done and maybe the best. They’re not paintings of her but they are paintings for her, paintings of her spirit, if that doesn’t sound too hokey.’

  I zip up my boots and pull on my jacket. ‘Not at all, I can’t wait to see them.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to until next weekend, and anyway, one of them isn’t even dry yet.’

  As we walk out into the night air I’m pleased to see that the rain has subsided into a drizzle and that it’s light enough for me not to have to go back upstairs and get an umbrella.

  ‘And Selin? Couldn’t persuade her out?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘Selin, no. She’d really rather just be at home right now, you know.’

  The light and the warmth of the Rose and Crown beckon and as we walk into the large airy pub I look around. There are
two old men and an Australian barmaid. But it’s only early, not quite eight, there may well be more of Stoke Newington’s young hip set – not quite as thin as Ladbroke Grove’s, nor as happening as Brixton’s, but generally attractively affable in a bohemian kind of way – about to arrive.

  ‘What are you having?’ Josh asks me and I go for a whisky mac, my favourite bad-weather drink.

  ‘I’d better grab a table – beat the rush,’ I say and slide into a comfy corner and remove my coat. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. The damp air has curled my hair up in exactly the way I least like and my mascara has run a little. I lick my thumb and pull it under my eyes but I can see little improvement when I check again.

  Josh settles opposite me with a pint of Guinness and places my drink in front of me.

  We look at each other.

  ‘How’s Dan?’ I say on impulse.

  Josh rolls his eyes. ‘You’re not thinking about going there again, are you?’ he asks with exasperation.

  ‘No-oh! I’m just asking. I’m fond of Dan now that I’ve got over the horror of having … thinged with him. Yuck Yuck Yuck!’ I gag theatrically. Josh makes a squeamish face and sinks some of his pint.

  ‘He’s OK, working himself up into a tizz about Saturday. Basically, his whole piece revolves around him making plaster casts of bits of his body and reassembling them in a creative way, and no, I don’t know what he means either. But there is one body part he hasn’t quite got around to yet, keeps putting it off, can’t think why, can you?’

  I almost choke on a mouthful of ginger wine and whisky and splutter. ‘No! Poor Dan. Perhaps he should ask you to do it.’

  We both laugh and I ask myself if I really have just brought Josh’s private parts into the conversation. In any event, Josh has gone slightly pink and sinks another good portion of his pint, shifts uneasily in his chair and changes the subject by saying, ‘So, after the day you moved house we all thought Owen would hassle you big time, but nothing? Maybe he’s finally out of your life.’

  I finish my drink and let it melt my chest before I answer.

  ‘Well, not quite. There were one or two e-mails, phone messages for a bit. But they’ve stooped now.’ I finish brightly.

  Josh leans forward with concern. ‘What do you mean, emails, messages? When? Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Oh, it was just before the accident. I would have said but it wasn’t really a big deal, just a typical Owen gesture. I had his e-mails blocked and he hasn’t texted me since. Probably just a last-ditch attempt to attention-seek, although I did think …’ I remember the two times when I thought I might have heard or seen him but decide I don’t want to sound too paranoid. ‘No, nothing really.’ I shrug and get up to go to the bar. ‘Same again?’

  Josh nods, a frown of concern creasing his forehead.

  ‘You’re sure,’ he says as I return, ‘that that’s all it is? You don’t think he’s gone all barking like he did with that girl I knew?’

  ‘No, no. Really. I mean, I know him if anyone does, don’t I?’ I say, not feeling quite as sure as I sound and wondering how I can change the subject.

  ‘Still, maybe you should mention it to the police?’ Josh asks.

  ‘Mention what? A couple of cheesy e-mails and some stupid texts? I’ve deleted them all now, anyway.’ But looking at him I can see he is not going to let this go. ‘Look, I promise if anything else happens I’ll talk to the police. They’ll say I’m paranoid with an overactive imagination, but I will go, OK?’

  ‘OK then.’ He nods with satisfaction and both of us take a deep drink.

  By the time the landlord rings time, a fuzzy warmth has seeped through my chest and into the ends of my fingers and toes. The warmth of the whisky and the pleasure of Josh’s company have cheered me up but still my good mood can’t quite suppress the undertone of chaos that my current situation seems to teeter on the brink of.

  ‘Come on,’ Josh says. ‘I’ll walk you home.’ Outside, the rain has cleared and the night has become chilly, so I tuck my arm into his and lean on him as we stroll down Albion Road.

  ‘Rosie’s got a theory about me,’ I say, apropos of nothing. ‘A theory about why I can’t accept her prospective reunion with Chris and why I basically stuff up all my relationships.’

  Josh looks down at me. ‘This should be good, maybe it’ll help me stop stuffing up all of mine too. What is it then?’

  ‘She reckons that every man I get involved with is basically my father. Oh, and every man she meets, and Selin I guess. She reckons I’m incapable of trusting anyone and that I project my own insecurities on to the men I get involved with thus inviting them to treat me like shit. Which, frankly, I think is a bit rich.’ In fact, Rosie didn’t say exactly that but my own twisted theory has developed out of that conversation and several hours of night-time ceiling gazing. Josh tips his head to one side and bites his lip.

  ‘Your father? That’s a very specific theory and one I’m going to have a hard time applying to myself, although I might try it next time I’m involved in a break-up. “It’s not my fault, it’s Jenny Greenway’s father – he treated her like shit and now I just can’t be trusted by any woman!” Well, what do you think?’

  I smile despite myself, the rain begins again.

  ‘I think it’s crap, probably. Don’t you?’ We turn into our road and Josh is silent until we reach the front door of the block. ‘Well, don’t you?’ I ask impatiently.

  ‘Well, I don’t think you or your dad are responsible for the crap that Owen put you through. I think Owen is. But maybe if in some way your past does influence your choices, well, maybe she has a point … in a way.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I say fiercely and fling the door open. ‘Come up for coffee,’ I demand and march up the stairs in front of him. He acquiesces without argument.

  ‘I’ve got to say, if you’re supposed to be such a pushover I’ve yet to see any evidence for it,’ he says to my back.

  ‘Well, you’re different, aren’t you? I say. ‘You’re not trying to sleep with me.’

  As we get into the flat I wipe the rainwater from my face and go into the kitchen, opening cupboard doors, forgetting what it is I’m looking for.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Josh asks softly. ‘You seem pretty angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry about Dad! I’m angry with Rosie for using that as an excuse to make it OK for her to get back with Chris. I’m not angry about Dad, I don’t care any more about all that. I put it behind me years ago – everything, everything … what … what … he … did.’ I finally get the words out along with a gut wrenching sob. Why did I drink whisky? It always make me cry, I know that.

  ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ I hear myself saying as I sink on to the kitchen chair. ‘It’s the whisky, ignore me, I’ll be all right in a moment!’

  ‘Jen, come on now,’ Josh says softly, taking my hand and leading me into the living-room. He lets me crumple on to the sofa and sits next to me. ‘Don’t cry, darling, not over him. Not any more.’

  ‘I’m not! It’s the whisky,’ I protest as another wave of tears hits me. ‘I don’t mean to, it’s just that, it’s just that it does still hurt. The fact that he doesn’t want me any more, or my mum or my brother, even his grandchildren, not any of us. He just replaced us and that was it, like we never existed. Your dad is supposed to be the one man who won’t do that to you, isn’t he? Like your dad. Like Mr Selin. And maybe, maybe if my own dad doesn’t want me, well then, why would anyone?’ I listen to the whisky tell my secrets for me and I listen to my own tears rattle inside me. ‘Oh God, ignore me, I’m flipping drunk and weepy again!’ My voice hits another crescendo and I can’t seem to calm myself down.

  ‘Oh God, Jen. Come here.’ He pulls me across his lap and I collapse into his arms, unable to hold it back any longer. I bury my head in his chest and the smell of him, the smell of oil paint, Guinness and cigarette smoke. As I cry he rocks me gently, brushing my hair away from my forehead and letting it fall, brushing it back
and letting it fall. After a while the tension and pain subside and I find myself cradled between his legs, my arms around his neck, his hands around my waist. I sniff and wipe my eyes, conscious of the black panda smudges that must now surround them.

  ‘Jen, you mustn’t see yourself in that way.’

  ‘I don’t!’ I say feebly. ‘I’m just being stupid.’

  ‘No, you’re not, you mustn’t let this hold you back. Your dad was a prick, a total prick for letting go of his relationship with you. A prick and a coward. You’re not to blame, it’s got nothing to do with you. You’re a wonderful woman, a beautiful wonderful funny woman and you’ve done that without him. Remember, I knew you when you were a podgy teenager and believe me, you’ve made an improvement. Most men would give their eye-teeth to be with you. Any man. Not just the sociopath types you seem to think you’re fit for. You should give yourself a break, aim a bit higher next time. You know, someone evolved.’ Finally he succeeds in making me smile. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry. The last thing you need is to be nannying me right now,’ I say, lifting my face to his.

  He grins. ‘Actually, it’s a bit of a relief to get to look after you for a while. My macho image was seriously going down the bog.’

  ‘Macho image! What macho image, you’re a flipping girlie artist!’ We laugh more with relief than anything else.

  But after the laughter something strange happens. As we watch each other’s faces, quietly searching for something else to say, I become acutely aware of his hand on my waist and the feel of his torso against mine. I can’t think of a more inappropriate feeling to be having about a more inappropriate person at a more inappropriate time. I begin to move away but his arms tighten around me. Before I know what I’m doing, I raise my chin so that my mouth hovers millimetres from his.