The Other Side of the Story Page 9

The last of Dad’s free confectionery is gone. Perhaps this will shake Mam out of the rut she’s in. Not so much stuck in a rut, as lying down in it, almost buried by chocolate.

  Yes, of course I was joking about her transformation! God Almighty. I don’t think she’s got out of her candlewick dressing-gown since the morning Dad left and she still hasn’t surrendered his porridge bowl. And as for losing three stone, I’d say it’s three stone the other way. She won’t stop eating chocolate, she says she ‘feels closer’ to Dad by consuming what his company makes.

  Love

  Gemma

  PS I’ve ordered the toaster and now I want a Barbie rucksack.

  PPS Helmut has bouffant blondish hair (very similar to Mam’s), a permanent tan and a tall lithe body which I find curiously repellent. He uses La Prairie products, the really, really expensive skin-caviar stuff. He left a jar in the bathroom, so of course I used some and the following day he confronted me about what he called ‘the stealing’. Naturally I denied it, but he said he knew it was me, that I’d left the shape of my finger in the jar and that no one but a savage just sticks their hand in and gouges out a lump of La Prairie skin caviar.

  I objected to being called a savage, so I told on him to Mam. She was sitting up in bed wearing a silk, oyster-coloured negligee and eating breakfast – one slice of wholemeal toast with an invisible scraping of honey. Her hair and make-up were already done. I made my complaint.

  ‘Oh darling,’ she sighed. She never used to call me ‘darling’. ‘I do wish you two would stop fighting over me and try to get along.’

  ‘I don’t know what you see in him!’

  ‘Well, darling.’ She quirked a plucked eyebrow at me – when did Mam begin getting her eyebrows plucked? And then quirking them? ‘Let’s just say he’s… veeerrry gooood between the sheets.’

  ‘Too much information! I am your daughter.’

  She got out of bed. Her negligee barely covered her bottom. She has very good legs for a sixty-two-year-old woman. Although she’s begun telling people that she’s only forty-nine and saying that she’ll be celebrating the big five-oh next year.

  I pointed out that if she’s only forty-nine, then she was sixteen when she had me. ‘I was a child bride, darling.’

  ‘It means Dad was only thirteen.’

  ‘Who?’ She smiled absently.

  ‘Dad. My father. The man you married.’

  ‘Oh,’ she gave a little wave of her hand, which managed to be dismissive and pitying of Dad.

  11

  TO: Susan_inseattle@yahoo.com

  FROM: Gemma 343@hotmail.com

  SUBJECT: I’m living in a fantasy world

  I’ve written a little story. I thought you might like to read it.

  Noel Hogan was quietly watching the golf when another almighty crash in the room overhead made the fake chandelier sway. Geri and Robbie were wrecking the place above but he was too tired to go up and give out to them. Not that it would make any difference, they’d only laugh at him. He turned his attention back to the golf and told himself it was normal for children to hurl television sets off their bunkbeds.

  Colette had left him babysitting while she went into town. She’d said it was a good opportunity for him to build bridges with the psychotic little bastards (his words, not hers), but he couldn’t shake a suspicion that she just wanted to go round the shops without having children hanging out of her.

  After a while he noticed that the crashing noises had stopped. Feck it. Now what? His heart sank as the door opened and Robbie and Geri slid into the room, each as evil-looking as the other. Funny how they were both the image of their mother and she wasn’t evil-looking at all. Was she…?

  Geri picked up the remote and idly changed the station.

  ‘I was watching that,’ Noel said.

  ‘Tough bananas. It’s not your flat.’

  Geri flicked through the channels, discarding anything of interest until she found what seemed to be a state funeral of a cardinal; slow moving and dirgy.

  They sat in silence, listening to the tuneless chanting, until Robbie remarked, ‘We hate you.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re not our dad.’

  ‘More like our grandad. Except older.’

  More silence. Noel couldn’t tell them that he hated them too. He was still trying to win them over.

  ‘She’s out there spending your money,’ Geri said. ‘It’s the only reason she’s with you. She’s going to buy lovely things for her and me and Robbie and our dad, then when she’s spent it all, she’s going to break it off with you. If you’re still alive.’

  Geri’s spiteful remarks struck a chord. Colette was going through the greenbacks at a ferocious rate.

  ‘Have some chocolate.’ Children loved chocolate.

  ‘Nah, that stuff’s shit. We only like Ferrero Rochers.’

  Eventually he heard Colette’s key in the door. Thank God. She came in and threw what looked like dozens of Marks and Spencer carrier bags on the table.

  ‘Hello, love.’ She kissed Noel on the nose. ‘I,’ she teased, ‘have a little present for you.’

  Pork pies! Noel thought. Marks and Spencer full-fat ones, the nicest you could get. What a woman! He’d been right to leave his lovely, loyal wife of thirty-five years for her.

  Colette reached into the bag and slowly pulled out something. It crackled like the wrapping on a packet of pork pies – but it wasn’t pork pies. It was a bra. Black and turquoise nylon. Fancy. Then the hand went in again and out came matching knickers.

  ‘Nice pants,’ he said gamely.

  ‘Not pants.’ Playfully Colette threw the scrap of lace at him and it draped itself on his head, disturbing his comb-over and making his wispy hairs all staticy. ‘A thong!’

  A thong. Noel knew what a thong meant. It meant she’d be looking for the ride tonight. Again. But first they’d have to have the fashion show, her parading up and down in her fancy pants, shoving her bottom at him, doing the dance she did around the trouser press, in the absence of a pole. Every bloody night.

  She was insatiable and he was exhausted.

  ‘Anything else in the bag?’ he asked, still hoping for the pork pies.

  ‘There certainly is!’ She slid out a matching suspender belt.

  Noel nodded miserably. He was mad to have thought she’d get him pork pies. She’d never allow him to have one ever again. She said he was old and clapped out and his arteries were mink-lined.

  But this healthy low-fat diet she had him on was killing him.

  THE END

  What’cha think? Could it really be like that? Wouldn’t it be great? I’d give anything for him to come home.

  It was time for my visit to Johnny the Scrip. He was in conversation with a woman who was buying something for a chesty cough.

  ‘Here’s Gemma, she’ll know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘How much money should you bring with you for a weekend in Paris?’

  ‘Plenty,’ I said. ‘Tons.’

  ‘He thinks four hundred,’ Mrs Chesty Cough nodded at Johnny.

  ‘Oh, at least. They’ve lovely shoes in Paris. And jewellery. And clothes. And think of the meals out.’ Dear God! ‘I’d love to go to Paris.’

  ‘So would I,’ Johnny said.

  Our eyes met. ‘I’ll take you,’ he said. ‘For a couple of weeks.’

  ‘How about a month?’ With that we both creased over with uncontrollable laughing.

  Smiling, Chesty Cough watched us. But when Johnny and I looked up from our mirth, saw each other and doubled over again with renewed vigour, her smile wilted. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Johnny gasped. ‘Nothing at all.’ That was the whole point.

  TO: Susan_inseattle@yahoo.com

  FROM: Gemma 343@hotmail.com

  SUBJECT: Hit me, baby, one more time

  Guess what? The Owen youth rang again. He said he was looking at his leg and felt that something was missing, which he then realized was the huge bruise I’
d given him when I pushed him out of bed that time. He wondered if there was any chance of a repeat performance and he must have got me at a vulnerable time because I said yes. Details to be finalized. I don’t know how I’m going to get it past Mam, but I’ll think of something. And I plan to enjoy myself…

  Love

  Gemma

  It was good that I was going out. The hours at home with Mam were having a detrimental effect on my grasp of reality. I couldn’t stop speculating on everything going wrong for Dad and Colette, and then writing little essays about it. It was the only thing that gave me comfort. I constructed a vivid imaginary world where, amongst other things, Colette refused to do any work now that she was living with Dad, Dad gets into trouble with his higher-ups and gradually begins to come to his senses.

  I so badly wanted Mam and Dad to get back together. It was horrible being from a broken home, even though I was thirty-two.

  Instead of the film director-farmer fantasy, I spent my sleepless early mornings imagining scenarios plucked from various romances, where Mam and Dad ended up being thrown back together. I was very fond of the one where on some pretext – say, a mutual old friend’s birthday – they have to go on a long journey together but the car breaks down and they end up in a cottage in the middle of nowhere and there’s a big storm and the electricity fails and they hear a funny noise and have to sleep in the same bed for safety.

  But my favourite was the one where Dad dropped in to Mam, ostensibly to collect his post. Her hair was done, her make-up was discreet and flattering and she was wearing a sarong and bathing suit. She looked great.

  ‘Noel,’ she said, with a warmth that confused him. ‘How nice to see you. I was just about to have lunch. Would you like to join me?’

  ‘Aah, depends. What are you having?’

  ‘Toasted cheese and ham sandwiches and a bottle of wonderfully dry chardonnay.’

  ‘Colette won’t let me have cheese.’

  ‘And Helmut thinks I’m a vegetarian,’ she said dryly.

  ‘That stymies that then.’

  ‘Really?’ A slow wicked grin spread across Mam’s face. ‘Let’s be naughty. I won’t tell if you won’t.’

  ‘Right, so.’

  ‘As it’s such a beautiful day let’s take it out to the patio.’

  They sat at the little table and the sun smiled down. Bees buzzed fatly in and out of the swaying magenta foxgloves. Mam wore Chanel sunglasses and her lipstick didn’t come off when she ate her sandwich. Dad gazed at the lovely mature garden that had once been his pride and joy before he got lured away by thongs. ‘I’d forgotten what a suntrap this is.’

  ‘I haven’t.’ Mam extended a toned tanned leg. ‘The Kilmacud Riviera, my dear. So tell me everything. How’s life with Claudette?’

  ‘Colette.’

  ‘Oh I am sorry. Colette. Going well, is it?’

  ‘Fine.’ Said dolefully. ‘How’s life with Helmut?’

  ‘Peachy. More sex than I know what to do with.’

  ‘Er… aye.’

  ‘Sex,’ Mam said dismissively, sucking cheese from her fingers. ‘It’s all they think about, young people. You’d think they’d just invented it. It’s rather pathetic.’

  ‘Aye. They’d have you worn out.’ Suddenly the words began to pour out of Dad. ‘What’s wrong with just a snuggle? Why does it always have to be the full business? Why can’t I go to bed and for once just GO TO SLEEP?’

  ‘Quite. A dreadful bore.’

  They sat in silence. (Companionable, of course.)

  ‘And Claudette’s two little ones? How are they? Lots of energy at that stage, haven’t they?’

  ‘Aye.’ Said grimly.

  ‘Little shits, actually.’

  ‘Aye.’ He looked at her in surprise. She hadn’t always been that salty, had she?

  ‘And it only gets worse. Wait until that young madam hits adolescence! Then she’ll really keep you on your toes!’

  Noel couldn’t be more on his toes if he was a prima ballerina and suddenly the thought of returning Chez Colette plunged him into darkest despair.

  ‘I’d better go. I’ve to collect Geri from hip-hop.’

  Out in the hall, he nearly left without his post, until Mam reminded him.

  ‘You’d forget your own head if it wasn’t attached,’ she said affectionately. In the shade of the hall and the splashy blues and greens of her bathing suit, she looked like the girl he’d married.

  ‘Lovely to see you,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Do give my best to Claudette. And remember,’ she said with a roguish smile. ‘About the cheese – I won’t tell if you won’t. It’ll be our little secret.’

  JOJO

  12

  2.35 Monday afternoon

  Manoj stuck his head around the door. ‘Jojo, Keith Stein is here.’

  ‘Who’s Keith Stein?’

  ‘Photographer from Book News. To accompany the piece on you.’

  ‘Oh right. Two minutes,’ Jojo said. She swung her feet off the desk and tossed aside the crossword which was making her crazy. From her hair she slid out the ballpoint which had been holding it in a makeshift up-do. The auburn waves tumbled to her shoulders.

  ‘Why, Miss Harvey, you’re beautiful,’ Manoj said. ‘Except your mascara’s gone flaky.’

  He passed her her handbag. ‘Put your best face forward.’

  Jojo needed no encouragement. Every one in publishing read the questionnaire in Book News; it was the first thing they went to.

  She snapped open her compact and reapplied her trademark vamp-red lipstick. She wished it wasn’t her trademark; she’d love to wear pale pink lipgloss and great neutral taupes. But the one time she’d come to work in ‘Crushed sorbet’, people looked at her oddly. Mark Avery told her she was looking ‘a little peaky’ and Richie Gant had accused her of having a hangover.

  Same with the hair; it just didn’t suit her any other way. Too long and she looked like an unkempt ceramicist, and too short, well… In her early twenties, shortly after she’d arrived in London, she’d got what she’d thought was a gamine crop and the next time she went into a pub, the barman looked at her suspiciously and demanded, What age are you, sonny?’

  That had been it for the short-hair experiment – and the fresh-faced look.

  ‘More mascara,’ Manoj suggested.

  ‘You’re so gay,’ Jojo said, indulgently.

  ‘And you’re so politically incorrect. I mean it about the mascara. Two words: Richie Gant. Let’s sicken him.’

  Jojo found she was applying her mascara with renewed vigour.

  After a speedy colour-by-numbers circuit through the rest of her face – blush, concealer, glow – Jojo pulled the brush through her hair a final time and was good to go.

  ‘Very sexy, boss. Very noir.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  Laden with equipment, Keith came into the office, stopped and laughed out loud. ‘You look like Jessica Rabbit!’ he said in admiration. ‘Or that red-head from the fifties movies. What’s her name?’ He stamped his foot a few times. ‘Katharine Hepburn? No.’

  ‘Spencer Tracy?’

  ‘Wasn’t he a bloke?’

  Jojo gave in. ‘Rita Hayworth.’

  ‘Yes! Anyone ever say that to you before?’

  ‘No,’ she smiled. ‘No one.’ He was so bright-eyed it was hard to be mean.

  Keith unloaded his camera equipment, surveyed the tiny book-lined room, considered Jojo, then looked around again. ‘Let’s do something a bit different,’ he suggested. ‘Instead of the usual shot of the desk and you sat behind it like Winston Churchill, let’s sex it up a bit.’

  Jojo stared stonily at Manoj. ‘What have you been saying to him? For the last time, read my lips. I am NOT taking my top off.’

  Keith lit up. ‘Would you be prepared to do that? It would be very discreet. Two carefully placed thumbs and –’

  A look from Jojo silenced him abruptly and when he spoke again he was a little less buoyant. ‘This is a g
reat desk you have here, Jojo. What about lying on it, on your side, giving a big wink?’

  ‘I’m a literary agent. Have a little respect!’ And she was too tall; she’d spill over the ends.

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ Manoj said. ‘How about we copy that famous shot of Christine Keeler? You know it?’

  ‘Where she’s sat backwards on a kitchen chair?’ Keith said. ‘Classic pose. Nice one.’

  ‘She was naked.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’

  ‘OK.’ Jojo guessed it was better than sprawling full-length on her desk, resting her elbow on empty air. Let’s get this done; she had tons of work and she’d already wasted half an hour on the crossword.

  Manoj went racing off and returned with a kitchen chair, which Jojo straddled, feeling like a dumbass.

  ‘Fantastic’ Keith knelt before her to start snapping. ‘Big smile, now.’ But before he pressed the shutter, he lowered the camera from his face and got to his feet again. ‘You don’t look very comfortable,’ he said. ‘It’s your suit. Could you take off your jacket? Only your jacket,’ he added quickly.

  Jojo didn’t want to, not at work. Her pinstriped suit held her like a safety harness and, without it, she felt way too busty. Released from the confines of the jacket her body’s behaviour made her think of a spilt mug of coffee – so much comes out it was impossible to believe that once upon a time, it had all fitted in. But her boobs would be hidden by the chairback so she slipped the jacket off and restraddled the chair, pulling its back to her chest.

  ‘One other thing,’ Keith said, ‘could you roll up the sleeves of your shirt? And open just one more button at the neck. Just one, that’s all I’m asking for. And, you know, shake your hair about, loosen up a little.’

  ‘Think sultry,’ Manoj urged.

  ‘Think dole queue, you.’

  ‘Let’s get going,’ Keith interrupted. ‘Jojo, eyes to me.’ SNAP! ‘They were saying back in the office that you used to be a cop in New York before you got into this game. Is that right?’

  SNAP!

  ‘What is with you guys?’ They all loved that she’d been a cop. Even Mark Avery admitted to sexy imaginings of Jojo kicking down doors, snapping on the cuffs and murmuring, ‘I’m taking you in.’ ‘Like, don’t you have any women police of your own?’