The Other Side of the Story Page 12

  I can hear you perfectly.

  So why aren’t you talking to me?

  We’re here for you to talk, not me.

  No, wait a minute, what’s going on here, I’ve come to get hypnotized to stop smoking.

  I need to know you before I can help you.

  No, no you don’t. I’ve seen hypnotists on TV, making people think they were chickens who’d lost their butts. And they’d never met them before in their lives, they knew nothing about them.

  I’m a hypnotherapist, not a hypnotist.

  There’s a difference?

  A big one. They are entertainers, possibly even charlatans. I’m a professional.

  …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. Oh…… my……God. You’re a shrink.

  Do you have a problem with that?

  No. Well, yes! I wanted to come here, look deep into your eyes, feel sleepy, then leave and never smoke again.

  Smoking is a deep-seated addiction. There are no magic solutions.

  ………………………………………………………………………………………….. Yeah, well I want a magic solution……………………………. So when I leave here tonight I’ll still be a smoker?……………………

  Correct.

  I’ll have to come here again next week?

  Correct.

  And tell you about my pop?

  Correct.

  Please stop saying correct. How many weeks will I have to come for?

  How long is a piece of string?

  Not as short as my temper. How many weeks?

  Between six and nine is the average.

  Thank you.

  You seem to have a problem with trust.

  I don’t have a problem with trust. I have a problem with time.

  You can walk out the door right now.

  I could, but I’ve missed Friends, I may as well stay. So let’s get going! The sooner we start the sooner I’ll be a non-smoker. You want to know about Pops. Hey, can I smoke in here? No?………………… It was worth a try. OK. Name’s Charlie, half Irish, quarter Italian, quarter Jewish. About six three, weighs two-twenty, maybe two-thirty. First he was a cop, then a firefighter. What else is there to say?

  What kind of person was he when you were growing up?

  Um………………. you know, he was just………………. Pops.

  You’re his youngest child and his only daughter. Did he treat you differently to your three brothers?

  No way, I was always one of the guys, a fourth son. I didn’t find out I was a girl until I was about fifteen!

  Why is that funny?

  Excuse me?

  Why are you laughing? Why is being confused about your gender a matter for humour?

  Hey, I give up, I was joking. I just meant I wasn’t one of those pretty pretty girls who wore party frocks and never got their hands dirty. Can I chew gum in here? No? No?

  So what did you wear?

  The cigarettes I can understand, but gum. And it’s not even regular gum, it’s Nicorette. Medicinal! I’m not going to stick it under my seat when I leave, you know. What do you say?

  So what did you wear?

  I’ll take that as a no, then, yeah? Damn. So what did I wear? Regular stuff – jeans, sneakers. Ski-goggles. Fake tails. Feather boas……………………………………………………………………………………………………………… I’m sorry. Just jeans and sneakers.

  Your own?

  Some.

  Who else’s?

  My brothers’. Hey, there wasn’t so much money and me and my mom didn’t care what I wore.

  What do your brothers do now?

  They’re cops.

  All three of them?

  Um… yeah…

  Your home environment sounds quite a macho one

  Excuse me, I don’t think my mom would appreciate hearing that! She’s a real lady. If we so much as said ‘damn’ she smacked us upside the head.

  She smacked you upside your head?

  …………………………Ahhh……………………I see what you mean………………………………………. But she didn’t want her children cussing. She was trying to teach us values.

  Tell me more about your mother.

  She’s English, her name is Diane, she’s a nurse. She met Pops when he was bringing a shooting victim into the hospital.

  Having a mother as a nurse must have been nice when you were ill.

  Are you kidding me? She said she had to take care of sick people all day at work and she didn’t want to do it on her down time. Like, if I fell and cut my knees, she’d say she had a little girl on her ward who had third degree burns on seventy per cent of her body. Or if Pops had a headache, she’d say he should try having his skull bust open with a baseball bat – then she’d offer to do it for him.

  So your parents’ marriage was an unhappy one?

  No! They were crazy about each other. When she said that thing about the baseball bat, she was only kidding.

  What happened when you were fifteen? When you found out you were a girl?

  Look, I always knew I was a girl, it was just, you know, I was one of the guys…………………. But when I was fifteen I beat a guy at pool……………………D’you want me to say more?………………………….OK, we had a pool table in our basement at home and I used to play with Pops and my brothers, and they used to destroy me. But I guess with all the practice I got good. Then I met this guy and I liked him.

  Liked him how?

  Liked him, liked him. Fancied him.

  Was this your first crush?

  Noooh, I was fifteen, I’d been having crushes since I was about eight – but not on real guys, mostly on movie stars. Like, I loved Tom Cruise and I had a big thing for Tom Selleck… maybe it was just men called Tom. You know, now I think about it, I really liked Tom Hanks in Big.

  What was your crush called?

  Melvin. Not Tom. Maybe that was a sign it wasn’t going to work out.

  What happened?

  It was my first proper date. He came by the house and Pops told him that if he laid a finger on me, he’d kill him. Then, after he’d put the frighteners on him good he said, ‘Enjoy yourselves, kids,’ like we were in Happy Days. So me and Melvin went out and played pool and I beat him. He didn’t like it and afterwards he didn’t want to know.

  How did you feel about that?

  I thought he was a dumbass. I didn’t want a guy who had to be better than me.

  Now we’re getting someplace.

  We are?

  But the time is up. See you same time next week.

  20

  9.07 Saturday morning

  The phone rang: Mark.

  Bad news. She’d been half expecting it. He’d been away for a week and if she were his wife, she’d expect him to stick around for his first day back – garbage to take out, kids to yell at, all that stuff.

  ‘Jojo?’ he whispered. ‘I’m very sorry. I can’t make it today.’

  She said nothing. Too disappointed to make it easy for him.

  ‘Sam’s in a bit of trouble.’ Sam was his son. ‘We got a call last night. He went drinking with his mates – told us he was watching videos – and got so bad he ended up in hospital.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘He is now. But we’ve all had a bit of a fright and I ought to stay close.’

  What could she say? Sam was a thirteen-year-old boy. This was serious stuff. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the shed.’

  In the shed. Surrounded by weed killer, slug repellent and spiders’ webs. She nearly laughed – the glamour of an affair.

  ‘Well, take care of yourself, and him and er, the others.’ Your wife, your daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jojo, you know I am. But there’s a chance that tomorrow I could –’

  ‘Tomorrow,
I’ve got plans. I hope Sam will be OK. See you Monday.’

  She disconnected and pulled her comforter up to her chin, having a moment. She wasn’t going to kvetch. Right from the get-go she’d known what she was getting herself into and that was the deal she’d made with herself.

  But she’d been so excited, it was more than a week since she’d spent any time with him…

  She looked at her bedside table, where she put her new wallet every night so it would be the first thing she saw when she woke up, and said to it, ‘Ah, fuck.’

  Now she was sorry she hadn’t had sex with him on the office floor last night. When you’re seeing a married man, you take your chances where you can.

  How did this happen? Where having sex on a floor covered with man-made fibre looked like a prize? How did she and Mark Avery end up this way?

  She had always liked him; she respected the down-to-earth way he motivated his staff without scaring the shit out of them. And it was clear that he liked her. Theatrically he used to flatten himself against the wall as she strode through the corridors of Lipman Haigh. ‘Watch out,’ he’d say as she passed. ‘She’s moving at speed.’

  He called her ‘Red’ and she called him ‘Boss’. They dead-panned conversations out of the sides of their mouths, as if they were in a noir movie.

  He was a good boss, the type you could go to for advice. She had tried not to bother him; she liked to figure out stuff on her own – unless she was snarled up in something that no amount of juggling could get her out of. Like the Miranda England time, a messy, solution-free situation that nearly drove her crazy.

  She dropped in to Mark, sat down and said, ‘You’re going to love this one, Boss.’

  ‘It was a slow day,’ he drawled, in his deadpan voice. ‘In a slow week. In a slow life. Then she shows up. What is it, Red?’

  She explained it all. Miranda England was a great author but her career had been badly mishandled. She wanted to sack her agent, Len McFadden, and become Jojo’s client. She also wanted to switch publishers. But Len had in his possession a contract with the old publishers for two more books. Miranda had signed the contract; if he returned it to her she’d be free to move to the new publishers, but if he gave it back to the old publishers she’d be stuck there for two more books. And in a fit of sour grapes when he heard that Miranda wanted to sack him that’s exactly what he was talking about doing.

  ‘And you’ll get no income from it? Not until the next contract is up for negotiation?’

  ‘Right. If Miranda’s career hasn’t been totally wiped out by then.’

  Mark considered the ceiling, then swung down to face her. ‘First question. Is it worth the trouble?’

  ‘Yes, for sure. Miranda England is great, really great. She’s going to have a long career writing great books but she needs the right publisher. Pelham didn’t stump up any marketing money but Dalkin Emery would. Her career could get on track right away with Dalkin Emery, we could even try to buy back the first two books and reissue ‘em, treat ‘em as new publications, this time do it right, it could be totally great…’

  ‘OK. So the problem is Len McFadden. What does he stand to lose?’

  ‘His ten per cent on the new two-book deal.’

  ‘Can you negotiate a better deal with Dalkin Emery? Enough to cover McFadden’s ten per cent without leaving Miranda with any less money?’

  Jojo thought about it. About how badly Dalkin Emery wanted Miranda. ‘You know, I guess I could.’

  ‘Well, there we are then.’

  ‘God, you’re good.’

  She’d gone into his office trapped in a Catch-22 – whichever way she jumped she’d lose something. But he’d unravelled a win-win.

  ‘You are the knees of a bee,’ she told him.

  ‘The pyjamas of a cat?’

  ‘That too. Thanks.’

  That was about eighteen months ago and it shot her regard for him so high, it rang the bell. There was suddenly a lot more warmth between them. When she pitched proposals at the Friday morning board meetings he had a way of listening to her but looking away and smiling that she found affecting; he admired how she worked and she liked that.

  But not once did she think of him as a potential boyfriend – he was married and that automatically meant he was off-limits. Also, if she’d thought consciously about it, she’d have decided that, at forty-six, he was a little too old for her.

  However, things had changed the afternoon he appeared in her office, looking for someone to represent the agency at a dinner that night. He was meant to be going, but his wife had a migraine and he had to attend a parent-teacher meeting in her place.

  ‘I know it’s very last minute,’ he said, ‘but are you free this evening?’

  Jojo squinted at him. ‘I dunno. How much did I charge you last night?’

  She expected him to laugh but the look on his face let her know that something had gone wrong. He wasn’t smiling; instead he looked sort of frozen. Her light-hearted mood plummeted – and she was surprised; previous to this he’d always been up for a bit of banter but she’d presumed too much. No matter how friendly he was, he was still her boss.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, soberly. ‘Of course I’m free.’

  After that she thought things had got back to normal, but a few days later it became clear they hadn’t.

  There had been a publishing awards ceremony, a long, rowdy affair at the Park Lane Hilton. At the end of the night Jojo was outside the hotel, queuing for a taxi and swinging her slingbacks from her fingers, when Mark appeared. She hadn’t seen him all evening.

  ‘Red.’ He hurtled up to her. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘Here I am.’

  Someone further back in the line yelled, ‘Mark Avery, what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Jumping the queue!’

  ‘At least he’s honest,’ Jojo heard the person mutter.

  ‘How was tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘Blah, blah, blah, books,’ Mark laughed, a little drunkenly. ‘Blah, blah, blah, sales.’ Then he noticed her shoes in her hands and, in surprise, looked down at her feet, bare on the night-cold pavement.

  Jojo shrugged. ‘They were hurting.’

  He shook his head in what could have been admiration, then passed the rest of the wait singing quietly to himself. ‘… hates California, it’s cold and it’s mank… that’s why the lady is a tramp… she likes the cool clean wind in her hair… life without air…’

  ‘Care,’ Jojo corrected. ‘Here’s my cab. Night. See you tomorrow.’

  The door was open and she was climbing in when Mark tugged her hair. She turned back in inquiry and he asked, ‘Can I come home with you?’

  ‘You want me to drop you off?’

  ‘No, I want to come home with you.’

  She thought she was hearing things. ‘No,’ she said, in surprise.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re married. You’re my boss. You’re drunk. You want me to keep going?’

  ‘In the morning I’ll be sober.’

  ‘And you’ll still be married. And my boss.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘No.’ She laughed and moved away from his touch and into the cab. Before she shut the door, she said, ‘I’ll forget this ever happened.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The following day she expected a sheepish jokey apology – eye-rolling talk of, ‘Christ, I was in some state last night,’ then perhaps a peace offering of an Alka Seltzer. But there was no apology, no Alka Seltzer, nothing.

  She didn’t even see him until the afternoon and that was only by accident, when they passed in the hall.

  As soon as he saw her his eyes altered visibly. She’d heard about pupils dilating – she got enough romantic fiction sent to her – but she’d never before seen it happen in real life. Now, as if by special request, they dilated until they were almost black. He didn’t say one word to her and after that everything was different.

  21

  11.12
Saturday morning

  Jojo had just drifted back to sleep when the buzzer went. Flowers. Since she’d begun this thing with Mark she’d never got so many flowers in her life and she’d kind of gone off them; they represented broken dates, bikini lines which had been waxed for no reason, punnets of strawberries which she had to eat all on her own, so many that they gave her hives.

  In her long T-shirt, she stood at the door, waiting for the flower man to come up the stairs. She lived in a fifth-floor flat in Maida Vale, in one of the redbrick apartment blocks which had originally served for married men to house their mistresses in. Although when she’d moved in she hadn’t known she was going to end up as a mistress. She would have laughed, not just at the idea, but at the very word.

  A huge bunch of stargazer lilies climbed the stairs. At the top, they bent over and wheezed, trying to catch their breath, then a young man appeared from behind them.

  ‘You again,’ he accused Jojo, and with a crackle of cellophane, the handover was transacted. ‘Oh wait, the card.’ He felt in his pocket and found the little envelope. ‘He says he’s sorry, he’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘Whatever happened to privacy?’

  ‘I had to write the thing. How private can it be? Must be a bad one this time, he told them to go all out.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ Jojo moved inside.

  ‘Could you stop having bust-ups? These stairs are killing me.’

  Jojo closed the door, dumped the flowers in the kitchen sink and rang Becky. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Thought you were spending the day with Mark.’ Becky sounded concerned.

  ‘Change of plans. So what’s up?’ Her tone was cheery; she didn’t want sympathy.

  ‘Dentist,’ Becky said. ‘One of my fillings fell out last night, then I’m going shopping with Shayna. Want to come?’

  Jojo hesitated. She had a bust, a waist and hips, the kind of body that was last fashionable in 1959. Shopping with Slinky Shayna was a bit gnarly because she frequented stores which only seemed to cater for malnourished thirteen-year-olds.

  ‘I know,’ Becky picked up on her hesitation. ‘She’ll make us go to Morgan. But come anyway. We’ll have a laugh.’