Precocious Read online

  ‘Now then. What’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No Dave? What’s that about?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s …’ I can’t think what to say.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, sort it out, will you? We like Dave.’

  ‘Oh, well, as long as you like him …’

  ‘We assumed you did too, given that you married him.’

  ‘Fair point,’ I sigh, ‘but my track record in relationships isn’t that brilliant, is it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I set you the best example.’

  At this moment Jill calls from the living room, ‘Charlie and Alex would like tea please, Tina!’

  ‘And you, my love?’

  ‘I’ll have a coffee, please. Shall I come and give you a hand?’

  ‘No, no,’ Mum’s eyes not leaving my face, ‘me and Fiona can manage. Stay where you are.’ She lowers her voice and says to me, ‘You’re like your mother, that’s the trouble … flighty.’

  ‘Well, it takes two to make a marriage work, Mum.’

  ‘I could have been a better wife, though. And a better mother,’ she laughs, a brittle sound, and looks at me closely. She places an awkward hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry, you know. I should have been better, when you were … young. I should have protected you. I thought you were so … grown up.’

  I laugh, say ‘so did I’, and take her in a brief hug.

  ‘Well, you’re all grown up now.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So sort it out. Right,’ she puts away the last plate. ‘Pudding?’

  Later, as the world outside turns dark, I doze on the sofa, stomach full of chocolate pudding and custard, resentful of the train I have to catch, sorry for the first time I can remember to have to leave these people, leave this life.

  eighteen

  When Dave and I began, we would pass time making lists. He had teased me about the list thing, said I was a control freak, but soon our lists became a ritual, a game, a fairly crude way, with hindsight, of probing for personal detail before getting involved. Top Ten Songs, Top Ten Films, Top Ten Foods. Like a game of Snap! for the personality; trying to find a match. By the time I met Dave I’d been through so many short-term, ill-advised relationships that I just wanted to say ‘Snap!’ enough times with someone that it seemed possible to live together.

  You don’t want to play the list game.

  ‘It’s childish,’ you say. You would’ve humoured me when I was fourteen, I think.

  ‘Too much like giving something of yourself away?’ I ask.

  I don’t know why I start trying to call Alice. I’ve no idea what I’ll say if she picks up.

  I’m not surprised when it rings out. ‘Hi, this is Alice,’ her machine tells me, ‘leave a message.’ I hang up.

  This age of texts, of emails, of instant messaging, instant contact, has added speed but removed romance and excitement. I wish for the prolonged anticipation of the post: letters from Laura, from Mari, when I was at university. Laura’s three or four pages with fortnightly regularity; Mari’s sometimes a gushing tap, sometimes a two line update on a postcard, those ones from the local corner shop, all bleached at the edges where they’ve sat on the shelf for years: ‘Everything much the same here, kid. Miss ya! x’

  Letters from you, at school, in plain envelopes, handed under a desk or brushing by me in the corridor.

  Now that we have all the technology, we’re losing our language. We shorten words, don’t bother talking. And there are more ways to cheat, and more means of being found out.

  There have been a couple more late night calls, each time shrugged off by you as ‘a prank’ or a ‘wrong number’. You’ve taken to setting your phone to silent. I’ve taken to staring at it, as it idles in your hand while we watch TV, willing it to become separate from you, watching it and wishing for it to give up its secrets. But I haven’t been able to get near it: for weeks you’ve kept it close as a talisman, as you lounge on the sofa, as you cook, as you lean over exercise books with your red pen. I’ve been trying to remember whether you’ve always done this, and I just haven’t noticed, until now. Until the doubts started to take their insidious roots in my brain.

  You’ve even been picking it up and taking it with you as you move from room to room. Have you always done this? I don’t think so.

  ‘Waiting for a call?’ I’ve asked occasionally, trying to keep my voice casual, leafing through a magazine. You’ve shrugged, or changed the subject.

  I don’t know what makes you less vigilant today. It’s been a relaxed day; we’ve just talked, and lazed around the house, with no plans except for a meal out in the evening. We’ve laughed lots, and made love, and the gnawing, needling feeling I’ve had for the past few weeks has all but subsided. So when you announce you’re off for a shower, leaving the precious phone blinking on the coffee table, I actually hesitate before picking it up.

  The sound of the shower is like a meter running. I’m trembling, breaths short and shallow in my chest.

  With one eye on the door, I pick up the phone, press my thumb to the arrow keys. Scroll quickly.

  There’s no name on the text message, just a number. It reads:

  I wish I was your cigarette

  Between your lips so warm and wet

  Take a breath

  Don’t fear, sweet death

  will take you, but not yet.

  And a kiss.

  I look at it quickly, then press the red button. Stop. Then I look at it again, for longer. Then I consider sending it to my own phone, so that I can look at it some more. No.

  My brain buzzes.

  Someone is writing for you. It’s not even very good. What is it supposed to mean, anyway? Is it supposed to be clever, or deep, or something?

  Have you kept the message because it means something, or because it means nothing?

  The shower shuts off; I count the seconds out in my head, picture you stepping out, grabbing a towel, running your fingers through your wet hair, rubbing steam from the mirror so you can look at yourself.

  Staring at the little screen, I blink as I notice another message. How had I not seen that? With a trembling thumb I open it: When will we get 2 spend a whole night together? and a string of kisses, like bullets.

  I feel faint.

  Even though I’m going to confront you, so you’ll know soon enough what I’ve done, I put the phone back exactly in its place. I am going to confront you – aren’t I?

  If I ask if you are cheating, I know what you’ll say. Never a straight answer. A teasing smile will play on your lips and you’ll say ‘depends on your definition of cheat’. I glance at the overstuffed bookcase, wondering crazily if I’ve got time to look it up, imagining confronting you with the dictionary, because you never could argue with black and white, on the page.

  When you’re back in the room, wet hair, beaming smile, I try for what seems like hours, days even, to say nothing, to let it go, but I suppose it is just minutes.

  The moment before saying something that you know will take you from here to there – will change everything – is like holding your breath. Suddenly it seems to me that our relationship has been just a string of these instances. Like going to a cliff edge, taking in the view for just a moment, then leaping off, only to find that when you reach the bottom, even though you’ve survived, there’s another ledge right in front of you.

  Is this how it’s supposed to be? When will there be no more drops?

  You move towards me and I move away, panicking, trying to keep a distance between us. I know if you touch me I’ll bottle it. You lean forward again and I lean back, as though the space between us is not space at all but an actual, solid thing, a boulder, a block.

  Your face creases into an amused frown, and as you reach for me a third time, I blurt, ‘I’ve done a bad thing.’ I didn’t know until the words came out that this was going to be my opener; that I was going to come to you penitent, instead of accusing.

  ‘O
h dear, oh dear,’ your voice low with mock gravity, ‘what might that be then? Confess all.’

  I can see how this will play out. Why did I start off penitent?

  ‘I’m sorry’, I will say. Perhaps through tears, perhaps just sniffing, and blinking, as though even my tears haven’t the energy to roll out.

  You will give a long pause and a dramatic exhalation of breath. Maybe you will do the running your hand through your hair thing.

  ‘It’s alright’, you will say. Beatific smile. Arms outstretched. Grateful, I will take them and bury my silly head in your shoulder. Thank God, thank God, you haven’t had enough of me yet. You are still putting up with me.

  ‘Thank you’, I will say/sob/whisper.

  You are so patient.

  And I, so untrusting, with my black heart, will nestle into your arm.

  Not tonight. Not this time.

  ‘I looked in your phone,’ I say, ‘I looked in your phone while you were in the shower, and I read your messages, and …’ I falter because I’m not sure what comes next. I swallow the ‘I’m sorry’ that’s waiting in my throat and look at you.

  ‘Okay,’ you say slowly, ‘okay.’ You are staring at the phone, but you don’t pick it up. I can tell by this that you know what I’ve seen, what I’ve read.

  I’d expected that if you had something to hide you’d be angry, and the fact that you’re not confuses me, and gives my own anger nowhere to go.

  But remembering the kisses at the end of the texts, bold letter ‘X’s screaming ‘wrong’ at me as though marking me in a test, I press on.

  ‘So who is she?’

  ‘She’s a kid,’ you say simply.

  ‘A kid,’ I repeat, ‘and you’re forty-three,’ and you bounce back, blue-grey eyes unblinking, unflinching.

  ‘She’s a kid at school with some … problems.’ You are calm. I breathe slower.

  ‘Have you learned nothing?’ I want to scream.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Tess.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Why’s that important?’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘She’s year ten, so, fourteen or fifteen I suppose.’

  ‘And why would she send you a message – messages – like that?’

  To my amazement, you laugh.

  ‘Like I said, she’s a bit … troubled. I haven’t the heart to have a go at her about this sort of thing, so I just ignore it.’ You pick up your phone and, saying ‘ignore it’ again, still smiling, casually delete the messages. The messages you’ve kept for four days.

  ‘Is it her that’s been ringing? Late at night?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘No idea? So it might have been? You said they were wrong numbers. Which is it?’

  ‘Look, Fee, is this going to take long?’ The exasperation creeping into your voice pleases me; it feels like I’m having an impact, it feels like progress. ‘I want to get ready for dinner …’

  ‘We’re not going out,’ I say. ‘We need to have a talk.’

  ‘We can talk over dinner.’

  I ignore this.

  ‘How many?’ The question is quiet, calm, necessary. You look confused.

  ‘What? How many what?’

  ‘You know.’ ‘You fucking well know’ I want to say, but I need to keep control and I know swearing will drag volume out of my lungs.

  You lean back in your chair with a bored sigh, the shift from confusion to indifference visible in your eyes.

  ‘How. Many?’ I stand up. ‘How many?’

  ‘Fee, sit down. You’re being—’

  ‘What? What am I being?’ I’m shaking.

  ‘Dramatic. Childish.’

  ‘Childish?’ I laugh uncontrollably, and razor blades slice through my chest, my throat and out of my mouth. I think I will never stop laughing. ‘Childish! Ha. You are brilliant.’

  ‘What is it you want from me, exactly?’ There it is, the smooth control, the perfect contrast to dramatic, childish, hysterical little me. My laughter subsides to a sigh.

  ‘I want to know. That’s all. Me. This Tess girl. Alice. How many others? If you care about me – if you’ve ever cared – just tell me.’

  You are silent. Words scramble up through my body, over the hard, tight knot in my stomach, and when they reach my mouth they taste of where they came from, they taste of bile and regret.

  ‘I left my bloody husband for you. I left my life.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to.’

  The sound that comes out of me is a short, sharp scream, just an echo of the howl that I’ve got whirring about inside.

  ‘How fucking many, Mister Morgan?’

  Fights have a rhythm, like everything else, and in between bouts of shouting there are often quiet phases, where the words are soft, even affectionate.

  ‘You’re not a man to grow old with,’ I say, shaking my head, trying to lose this realisation, but once it’s said, it’s out there, it must be true.

  ‘You’re just saying that because I’m already old,’ you smile but it’s a weak joke, and it’s as though we’re both staring, shocked, at my words as they hang in the air.

  ‘I love you.’ Only the second time ever you’ve rolled out the magic words, and there’s more, ‘No one will ever love you like I do.’

  ‘You’ve hurt me. You don’t hurt people you love. That’s Rule One of loving them.’

  ‘That’s not true, is it? Come on, Fee, you of all people know life isn’t like that. Life isn’t all black and white.’

  ‘Sometimes it is.’

  ‘Okay then. How have I hurt you, exactly?’ Two words unsaid, underneath: ‘prove it’.

  ‘What, just like that, put it into words, define it? What do you want, exact times, dates? It’s about feelings, for fuck’s sake. I can’t put it all into logic because if I do, you’ll say something more logical and you’ll beat me down. And you’ll lie, and I’ll believe you, because I want to, desperately. Anyway,’ I lower my voice, try to keep it steady, ‘I’m not just talking about now. I mean then. You hurt me then.’

  ‘Ha!’ Not the reaction I expected. ‘I gave you the attention you needed, right when you needed it. I looked after you. I gave you what you wanted, remember?’

  ‘No! I don’t remember, not really. That’s the problem. I remember pieces … and some of them are great, and some of them really hurt. The past … you can’t just forget it … it’s there, it’s in us. All the time.’

  ‘Past, past. A million years ago! Is this because of Jean?’ I start; Jean? Who? Oh, the woman from the disco … so that was her name. You go on, ‘Christ, Fee, so I had female friends. Friends my own …’ (you stop yourself saying the word ‘age’, but I hear it, I hear it). ‘You were running around with that Todd boy and God knows how many others, and I never said anything.’

  ‘No, because you didn’t give a toss.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Anyway I’m not talking about Jean. That’s not it. You … you took advantage of me.’

  You start to laugh, a horrible, clanging laugh like pans being knocked together.

  ‘Oh, spare me. You came after me, and you got what you wanted. That’s what happened.’

  Suddenly there isn’t enough air in the room; it’s as though your laugh has consumed it all. I have to sit down. I suddenly feel very tired.

  ‘And the … you know. You know what. You weren’t there for me.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? Just say it. Go on, say it out loud.’

  I shake my head violently. You know I can’t.

  ‘You weren’t there,’ I say quietly, ‘and after that … I had a shelf life, didn’t I?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I had an expiry date.’ I look at you, my eye a challenge.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I saw your diary!’ The words burst from me, and you look genuinely shocked, and in an instant I realise that you possibly don’t know what I’m talking abo
ut, that maybe you haven’t been obsessing over every detail the way I have for all these years, and whether that’s because there were others or not, maybe that’s the problem. You don’t know that I’d picked up the navy leather-bound book from your desk, in your office, and flicked through it, thrilling to the sight of your handwriting, as I always did, and shivering when I saw my initials. I’d been excited that you were making plans with me, until I saw what you’d written.

  Still, I continue, ‘You marked my time.’

  ‘Fee, I really don’t …’

  ‘“17 January. FP 16th birthday. 25 May. FP last exam.” Ring any bells?’ You shake your head. But in my head, swimming before my eyes, your handwriting, and next to each of these entries two words, and a question mark: ‘The End?’

  ‘I didn’t make it that far though, did I? I didn’t even last past Christmas. The thing is, Morgan, what I don’t get is, if you were planning, if you were diarising, the end of my usefulness to you … what am I doing here? Now?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘No. I really don’t.’

  You sigh, and you suddenly look like an old man.

  ‘Then I guess you choose which messages you read.’

  I rattle round the house picking up the things I’ll need. It’s a standard collection, could be anybody’s: toothbrush, phone, purse, underwear, contact lenses, old letters. I picture my possessions shrinking with each house I leave; picture all the things that are still at Dave’s, then all the things I might leave here, a pyramid of belongings and me, at the top, without them. Next time I leave somewhere, I think, I’ll probably just be in the clothes I’m standing up in.

  I head for the door.

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’ you say quietly. ‘That’s it, you just walk away?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ your voice thick with scorn, ‘back to your easy little life, back to normality. Back to sleep. Is that really what you want?’

  What I want is to trust you. What I want is to wrap myself in your arms and never surface. What I want is for everything in the world that isn’t you and me to just not exist. But I don’t say any of these things.