Darling

Not enough though, yet.

I had never once bought callaloo; spinach or kale were more readily available in High Desford. However, I had tracked down a supplier in Brockton – forty-minute drive, plus a full five minutes of speed bumps, mind you – where I bought an astonished boxful of the leafy veg, common to even the most spit-poor yards in Jamaica. Including the petrol, it cost more than Stevie’s shoes. But that green haul of social climbers deserved a Thomas to appreciate them. At the same time, I did wonder whether preparing this authentic Jamaican meal for him was in itself inauthentic, from a woman mostly reared on plain grey mince and plastic butterscotch desserts, just like him. Still, I knew it was a dinner that told more truth about me than lies. Each mouthful would seduce. A sweet smack of plantain and it was done: our hot lovers’ spread.

Thomas, as it happened, would never forget it. Nor would I.

Halfway through, the door went bamm-bam-bam. I knew it was Demarcus, still too much man for doorbells. Thomas shot up, rice falling to the table from his brandished fork.

I opened the door to Demmie, coiled tight as ever and dressed sharp, holding my sleeping son.

‘Y’alright?’ he nodded darkly at Thomas, who sank back down and started piling up my killer crisp-soft plantain on to his plate. ‘Got to go, Darling. I’m going out.’

I kissed Stevie, took him. ‘Where though?’

‘Just out, innit, change of plan. One-off, promise.’

‘Is it a woman?’ I did not smile but I felt no anger either. The spices and simmering had soothed me, and I had missed my baby.

‘What women? Don’t know no women.’

I smiled then, an easy reflex; this was our usual banter, our stock exchange. We were cool with each other, Demarcus and I. He was always a good dad, at least for a dad who couldn’t keep it anything like in his pants. His pants flew off weekly and landed in a different time zone without ever fulfilling their cotton destiny of keeping anything in them. However, when I got pregnant he stuck around, unlike some – unlike many – and we had talked about a flat-pack future, living together, even a wedding at the town hall where his brother could DJ, crack out the old-school ragga. I had been serious and so had he; we were not tripping off down any bumpy babyfather route, I did not want some cartoon of a bruvva cliché. I wanted a real husband, to be a father and son and mum, an all-together family like the one I grew up in.

Our truest story, to be fair: he was no stereotype spat out by potty-mouthed politicians – those whom Mum had christened battymouts – and nor was I. We were just not ready for each other. He liked having a boy but did not rate the stink of nappies. He had liked my milk-heavy breasts but had not wanted to miss Amsterdam to watch me push our son out of that same swollen body. He liked to stroke his son’s cheek goodnight but never woke for him. Or he would already be out. Then my Stevie was diagnosed and Dem, still my anti-husband, would stay out longer, later and longer, until I noticed that I had not seen him for three days and he hadn’t left his best jeans for me to wash and soon he wasn’t even calling me any more to tell me, ‘Don’t know no women.’

Game over, then. But only because I had been ready anyway.

So that night Dem stood there breathing in the peppery tang of another man’s dinner for two and I closed him out with a calm click, and brought Stevie in to meet my new friend, Thomas, and my boy was too drowsy to ask questions, and Thomas was fantastically uncool and kind – with a proper sleep-tight voice, that very first night – and it was enough.

Dem deh two gwan be like bench an’ batty.

As I turned to take Stevie to his bed, my phone went. I stooped to answer it, arms full of son.

‘Oh, I really can’t be arsed to—’

‘Easy, turn it off,’ said Thomas, rising to make us coffee.

I turned it off.

My man, his back to me, waved a silver pouch high. He had sought out some Jamaica Blue Mountain to make for us in my home, perhaps his way of telling me something about how he got me even though he didn’t know me.

Later, in that same kitchen, I was taken aback by just how much he knew me. We went together. He got me.

Stevie was pulling at my hand so hard I nearly sloshed coffee on to the floor.

‘Don’t go out, Mum.’

‘I won’t, poppet, not until much later.’

‘Cuddles!’

‘I’ve told you, darling.’ I bent to hug him. ‘The big lorry was far away, not here.’

He had been clingy ever since that morning, when a new terrorist atrocity had driven a hole through his innocence. He had sensed my alarm at the rolling news. Unable to find the controls I had stared too long, wearing the fear for both of us. My Stevie knew, despite my efforts, and now he did not want me to go out tonight.

‘Are you crying, Mummy?’

‘No, sweetness.’

‘I can stay here, with you. I won’t go to Ange.’

I could not stay. We had awoken to brutality, and to more wrong to come, to every shade of evil directed to extremes. And to change.

But you had to run. Run towards what they hoped you would hate.

‘Ange would miss you too much, my precious. You need to go see her. First though, cornflakes.’

We left the TV off all day and before I could think twice, I was there.

Littleton Lodge, in High Desford Old Town. From my house, it was across the main park and along a bit, on the corner of a lane so green it felt like the gateway to another country. I had walked past it often, this house: set right back, three storeys high and wide, really bloody wide, and white, with wisteria swagged across it. A great fat wodge of Tinkerbell’s wedding cake, it even had the nerve to stand at the end of a muesli-crunch driveway.

Walking up to the house I had noticed a scuff on my black court shoes – bloody gravel – but the door opened before I knocked and – blouse an skirts! Mi neva si huh dere – there she stood, the happy fairy or nymph or sprite, shifting her weight from foot to foot in a pink playsuit. The girl, his girl, with her father coming close up behind her. As I neared them I could see they shared the same welcoming gaze but hers shone from grey, almost metallic eyes, eyes that you knew would not look away first. Her face was warm cream, her shoulders bare, no wings. Lola.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ we said.

I stepped in, Thomas stepped back, there was a hefty ker-chunk of the door and before I had stepped off the doormat Lola had moved forward to wrap me in a surprise: a free and fluid hug. Then she stepped back and smiled up at her father. The dance of greeting, done.

Father and daughter were both barefoot. Burnished floorboards stretched back into hard acres behind them.

The air was so harmonious I was afraid to disturb it:

‘Should I take my shoes off?’

Thomas parted his lips.

‘If you don’t mind, thanks,’ said Lola.

I felt their eyes on me and my marked heels. I should have worn tights: my surprised toenails were unpolished. My toes were silly, stubby and two were considering corns; I had always hated my feet. I was wondering how to work gravel damage and hours spent standing on wards into the conversation as she took my hand and said:

‘Come, I’ll show you around.’

Another easy glance; and yet such ripening wisdom in those silver disc eyes. I put down my handbag. I was dazzled. Truly, I could not take her in.

‘Good girl.’ Thomas was nervous too. ‘I’ll potter off and get on with our dinner. You’re in for a treat! We’re having my special pasta sauce. A real family fave, is it not, Lollapalooza?’

Lola took me from room to room, looking back at me now and then with a certain intensity as if to check that I was missing nothing, noticing it all. How could I not? This was Thomas himself in brick: a home that challenged you not to find it charming and well appointed. It was the generous but cosy, life’s-goshdarn-rosy nest of an architect who had been born with that true American optimism in his blood and still felt he was coming into his greatest powers. As I walked his hallways I believed in him more than ever. Later on he might provoke, or dissemble, or build sustainable grass-roofed mansions, or fool around with the conventions of loft apartment chic, or offer answers to clients’ most difficult prayers in cathedrals of black brick and zinc cladding; later, there was time. For now he lived somewhere that suited him. Clever, with a heart. I was inside what he called his ‘three-dimensional canvas’, in which walls would have been moved, spaces taken up and down and outwards. Lola was formal and proud, but I understood that. I followed her and paused to admire, followed and paused as she padded with unsettling poise – ballet? – around her home. I shuffled through the full tour on my ugly bare feet. We stood caught in our unblinking double glare, the light sting of her scrutinising my back as I wheeled, toes resting to hide for a moment in the pile of a rug, in slow humiliation through the study and the snug, through the whole of her too-lovely world.

Lola beckoned me to the next stop on the tour with a steel-tipped wave. (Her nails and toes were both painted, a shade lighter than her stare.) She was set on showing me all five bedrooms. These would not have been tidied, armfuls stuffed into cupboards, for my eyes only. It was a well-ordered house, grown-up and yet designed to fulfil the grandest hide-and-seek fantasies. By the time we went from her room to the attic (up the secondary doll’s house stairs behind a Narnia door, I kid you not), which they had thought about converting – not her dad, they – I almost wanted to say, ‘OK, I get it and yes, I’m impressed not accustomed, and yes, I’m just the guest …’

But then I thought sixteen and bit my tongue – actually gave myself a salty little nip – and I beamed and nodded, every inch the spellbound stranger, when she asked:

‘So, Darling, would you like to see Dad’s favourite place?’

We traipsed back down the main attic stairs along the landing, and carried on down to the hallway without speaking. A shout from the kitchen over the effortful jazz:

‘All OK, girls?’

‘Fine, Dad!’

Lola and I kept going, to the right, to the left, to the side, through a door hewn out of the fucking Faraway Tree and into the dust of a red-brick landing. Another smaller door. I hesitated:

‘Basement?’

‘Cellar.’

She flicked on a sickly light and I squinted, unsure. Before I could think of three good reasons why not, we were going down. I descended into the B-movie, my mind’s camera shaking, her he’s-behind-you blonde hair swishing in too much shadow to be funny. But something about her steady pace told me she was not acting. Lola led me down into the dark must.

‘Watch these steps,’ she said.

‘Will do, thanks.’

I tried not to mind her. Of course she was showing off the house as if it were double-glazed with diamonds. Anyone would be proud with a dad like Thomas Waite.

At the bottom, another switch; more powerful illumination. Racks stood in rows, housing aristocratic boozers asleep under thin blankets of dust. The stone-carved ceiling curved in places and the ends from wine boxes tiled the walls.

‘Ta-da!’

I nodded and smiled, as required.

‘Go ahead and take a look, it goes right back.’

I had never been a huge wine drinker – a vodka, gin or rum girl, me – and could not spot a good year, coo with urbane delight. However, even I could work out, without looking too hard at the labels, that if wine had been left alone for a few decades you had to be confident that some poor grape-trampling sod would have made it worth the wait.

‘Yes, Dad? Coming!’ A yelled reply to a call I could not hear. ‘Back in a sec.’

She skipped upstairs and left me gazing, with the same eyes I had turned on the ‘original’ fireplaces and the ‘spacious’ study, at a bottle of 2012 Côtes du Roussillon Villages Le Clos des Fées. Ah, fée: French for fairy.

Thud-click.

‘Lola?’

Nothing. Nothing except a muffle-thump of bass, some new and energetic tempo. Was that Queen?

‘Lola?’

I moved, with laboured nonchalance, to the foot of the stairs. Slow, slow, feet chilling on dank stone. I stared up: please, not this. Where the oblong of daylight had shown there was now only black.

‘Lola!’

Nothing but the dun-dun-dun high above, through dense, deaf floors – ‘Under Pressure’? Within seconds the room was pressing against my skin. I sank into a crouch. Walls locking down on me, dead air growing sweet in my nostrils, a sharp whiff of red flowers; the lights dimmed and in my ears dun-dun-dun a drum beating, a dangerous vibration, my lungs tight and full because I must have stopped breathing and then I was pounding upwards, upstairs dun-dun-dun-dun pounding hard into hard blackness:

‘Lola!’

I hit at the door dun-dun-dun. Not goddamn ‘I Want to Break Free’, no way. She couldn’t have.

‘Lola! Lola, let me out. Get me out now!’

Too loud, too far. My mobile; it was still in my handbag by the front door, next to my shamed shoes.

‘Lola! Lola!’

I could feel tears bleeding into the sweat at my temples.

Then a blinding of light and air and noise rushed in and she was there, a bending shadow. Oxygen, music washed me down (my hysterical ears now heard ‘Killer Queen’) and Lola swept me up.

‘Oh, you poor thing, I’m so sorry!’

‘I thought—’

‘This stupid beeping door. God, Darling, so sorry. It must have locked behind me, it’s been sticking lately.’

She took my hand and led me through the first door back to safety. Thomas danced out, a seafood cocktail in each hand. Seeing me he stopped dead:

‘What’s wrong, what—?’

‘The cellar door, Dad. Knew it would do that sooner or later.’

‘I’m fine.’ The veil of sweat said more, the tacky film noir on my face. I dropped her hand.

We ate. The prawns were perky, the pasta porky; paccheri topped with a fat chop, rubbed with salt and fresh oregano, in a more than passable passata. But I was done in. I laughed too loud, complimented everything Thomas had created: the dinner, all things Lola. I tried, but the pulsing music was all dun-dun-dun and I could not follow the chatter, my flesh had been rubbed with salt sweat and fear, and my wine tasted sharp, all wrong. We ate on as my toes curled up on themselves, defeated. My smiles lied broad and long, as did the yawns at around 9.30 p.m. Enough. Our night had been left behind, locked in the cellar, and I pleaded an early start with Stevie: physio. I would gather up my boy, he could sleep in my bed after all.

I pecked Thomas and hugged Lola, realising as I backed away that I knew little more about her than when she had first landed those eyes on me. As the door closed, those eyes put me in mind of magnesium, with the potential to flare bright. Or perhaps the casings of incendiary devices, of dormant bombs. Yes, that was it. In a certain light, Lola looked like she could go off at any moment.

Lola

DONE LIST 1

So, getting right down to it – we good girls always do our homework.

If you are my future child, going through all my old crap as I dribble Happy Oats down my knitted front in a nursing home you can’t afford, please ignore anything that you read here – I already have.

Introduction

Welcome, Ms Waite, to the inside of your brain!

This pointless but scenic ride through your psyche is your buy-one-get-one-free, no refunds, pain-in-the-ass complimentary gift, for which you are eligible thanks to the £110 per hour (I googled her) your dad has spent on ‘talking therapies’ every fortnight since you hit puberty and cried all night because you wanted to try on your mum’s bra (totally logical, how the fuck else would I know how it worked?).

So, no one even thought to get me as much as a training bra before thirteen (if I get saggy tits I will sue EVERYONE) but hey, two thumbs up for Alison Thoroughgood!

BTW innocent dinky future kids: that’s true, but it’s not actually a reason anyone ever got a shrink, not any girl anyway, let alone a fine specimen such as your drooling mother, but I really can’t be arsed to go into it all right now. Also, I’d just be happy with a bit more tittage generally – there’s always lifting tape for when you hit thirty.

Never mind that though, it’s basically:

£110 x 26 fortnights x 5 years since my nipples first weirdly popped out (still joking) = £14,300 minus holidays. About £14k spent paying someone he hardly knows (we love our letters after names, Dad and I) to get into my head. No wonder AT wants me to deliver some serious goods, aka ‘exploratory homework’ #cantbearsedwithfuckedupgirls #fundingmytibetanyogaretreat.

Still, £14,000 says something. It tells me two major things about Dad.

First thing: he has a lot more money than you might think to look at his car. Even I, who deleted all his lame old-guys-in-flying-jackets-speeding shows, know a Volvo’s too safe a choice. Alfa, Dad? Audi? Merc?

Second thing: he is an optimist.

He wants to cure you. Aka me. But none of us – especially not Alison Thoroughgood BSc, PG Dip whatever – is sure of What Underlies The Problem. All my mouthing off may be suppressed sadness, ask AT. So what’s my issue? My Dead Mum blues, no doubt. My stinking attitude. That ‘horrible’ obsession with hotness (is this really a fault? If you have to live your shitty life, you might as well look good). Bra fetish?

I probably am crazy, but point me to a teenage girl who isn’t. ‘Talking therapies?’ Chemo = therapy. Talking = fuck off, I’m watching YouTube, right? Just saying.

Make yourself comfortable, Lola, and I hope you have plenty of biros.

This is a piss-poor introduction to my head, but then who likes saying what they’re supposed to say? It’s tragic. Long story short: I will make the Notes every week or day or month or whatever and make my long list of five Achievements, as instructed, because as I have mentioned, I am a good girl. Not four Achievements (four’s for losers), not six (arsewipe show-offs) but five, as in ‘high five, AT, woop-woop!’ But basically these will be no more than DONE LISTS. I told her straight ‘No thanks, I’m more of a Nike kind of girl: just do it’ but that Alison, she needs to see where I’ve been – she’s always looking backwards. Isn’t that a bit lazy, or nostalgic, or even romantic for a therapist? Obviously I don’t think AT is actually in love with me though, thank Christ. Scary old geezerbird when I first met her. Now I think she’s more straight and tough than butch. Whatever. She won’t be reading any of these lists either, she just wants me to keep telling her whatever the hell I want in our sessions – an important part of the process she says – but at least she will get me to spend my whole time looking backwards too #timewasters101. I think the idea is that I am to feel I have got somewhere, DONE something just by making it to the end of the week without pausing to blow my brains out. Or something. Still, better than the sad-sack page-a-day diary with spaces to note your mood and that weird teddy on the front she tried to shove on to me a couple of months back. I didn’t mind giving her what she wanted to hear for a while: ‘Dear diary, I’m so fat and why can’t I get anyone to screw me blahblahblah … Mood: So Very Sad …’ I aimed for devastatingly sincere with a tiny hint of piss-taking, but I guess she didn’t buy it which is why we’re now doing this. ‘I won’t read these lists, Lola. You decide how much and when, Lola,’ in her ever-hopeful voice. Touching. I suppose I do owe her a brief go at this thing, although the diary fail was definitely not my fault – don’t give me some fat teddy holding carnations and expect me to spill my guts like you’re doing me a huge favour.

Notes

First off, I don’t get it. I just don’t. So three even four times I offered to give him Viv Halston-Jones’s mobile. Pretty, freshly divorced, perfect. Lizzie HJ’s a laugh too so if the parents hooked up it would be exactly like some cheesy old sitcom, brilliant. Him – ‘I’ll think about it.’ That usually means ‘yes’. Next thing, he comes back with her?

I don’t fucking think so.

I strongly suspect I have failed all my GCSEs. Why not? Screw A*s – nothing you really expect to happen happens. Things you don’t want: boom. Who needs it?

OK, massive dilemma – how best to slut-shame Caro Francis?

1 FB? Might actually be that much of a loser, but everyone would think I was joking. Who takes those posts seriously any more?

2 SnapChat? Yaas! Snap of me with my tongue poking way into my cheek, nice. Will try not to send it to Eli C instead of Ellie this time. #bloodydisaster

3 Old school … Yes! Scream with laughter around the Dovington boys then shout to Anna about what is so piss-yourself funny. Bingo. (Hey, Dad, you were right! Sometimes life is better without a digital trail.)

Seriously – who the hell gives someone a blow job in a hot tub? At a party? When it’s Will Benton? Caro Francis is rancid. Caro bloody Francid. She must secretly have been a total ho this whole time when we thought she was just a bit of a dick whose mum massively over-Bodens. It was probably because everyone reckoned they had holed themselves up in the parents’ en suite doing all that blow first. Anna was too drunk to freak. Lucky her mum was on another cruise with Tobias (the dilf to end all dilfs) and not just out. Someone’s hot tub – since when is that OK? Other people went in there afterwards as well. Ewwww (add ws. Ad infinitum. Rocking that Latin revision a little too late, Lola Waite). No wonder Anna was so pissed off in the morning that she cried, what a way to start the summer. I think she is planning to drain it just in case (sperm swims, right, but does it float? Maybe the filter got it all. Caro certainly did lol). How does that even work: why didn’t she drown?

I want to know all of these things, now. Sooner.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

He saw her again. Until after 1.30 a.m. last night, ‘dinner round hers’, and apparently she’s ‘quite a bit more than just a date’. I mean … what?

For a start, let’s get the obvious thing out of the way. Since when was he into black women? I mean, Mum was it for him – the bomb – natural blonde, like me; she was your genuine Alpha², your total headfuck dreamgirl. I’ve got the photos to prove it. Dad’s always said: they simply went together. Tall, slim; him dark, her fair. All that genetic pay dirt I would get on my knees and thank God for every day if I believed in all that crap. Then Mum dead, nothing and no one for years, a few pointless dates, and now Darling. Is she his change that is as good as a rest? I doubt it. She must have been some kind of sexual accident. But then AT always says there are no such things as accidents. This does not make any sense.

Listen up, Roxie McFoxy. Stop torturing us with yet another tragic end-of-year routine … Rrrrring! The Eighties called, they want their Electric Slide back (told you – YouTube never lies). And why is Jane Forte in the front row? Her arse alone will eclipse us all.

Darling. She’s kidding, right? She tried, I’ll give her that. Obviously right out of her depth, nice enough, just wrong. Wrong for us, anyway. Nothing intelligent over dinner – except how lovely the pasta was, how lovely the daughter was, and had she mentioned she loved the pasta? Just rolled her eyes at Dad and laughed the whole bloody time. Some sucking up to The Lovely Daughter (that’s me, kids), all a bit obvious. Pretty sure Dad was finding her painful too because he wasn’t bothered when she sloped off early. That’s old people for you: need to get their rest.