Part 32 (1/2)

Does that mean I still believe it might happen? d.a.m.n me, for being an eternal optimist. I have to learn. I must not have these thoughts.

I drag Eddie out from the makes.h.i.+ft cubby he's built under the dining table with a picnic rug and an a.s.sortment of cus.h.i.+ons. I force him to brush his teeth but let him forgo his bath as it is already a quarter to eight. He lugs his little body into his favourite Spider-man jim-jams and unusually, falls into a heavy sleep the moment I ease him into his bed.

I sit by his side, stroking his dark curls, which defiantly refuse to be tamed, and listen to the sounds that are drifting through the open window. I can hear a neighbour's TV blaring; someone else is considering lighting a barbie. I've got to hand it to the Brits, there's no holding them back when it comes to making use of every second of summer. It only stopped raining about an hour ago how can a barbie seem like a reasonable idea? A couple pa.s.s by and I listen to them bickering about what to watch on TV tonight. Just as they are moving out of earshot I hear the bloke yell, 'OK, OK, we'll watch your c.r.a.p.' His words are stroppy but his tone of voice is affectionate.

And I wonder.

Is this it for me?

Am I destined to sit forever on the sidelines, watching my son grow up and listening to my neighbours' squabbles? Will I get the chance to grow old disgracefully in the arms of someone who adores me? Or is it really two strikes and you're out?

Bleak, bleak thought.

I wander into the kitchen, stick my head in the fridge and consider what I should eat for supper. Nothing looks especially inviting as my appet.i.te is subdued, but my belly is rumbling and thinks my throat has been cut, I need fuel. I settle on a tin of beans. I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and the beans into a saucepan.

I scrabble around the kitchen drawer for a box of matches to light the gas ring. Sod's law springs into action. Of course, I couldn't stumble across a box of Swan: I had to find the ones from the champagne bar at Paris, Las Vegas.

I read the quote on the box: 'Brothers, come quick! I am tasting stars!' I bitterly regret sneaking these into my pocket. I do not need to be reminded of that wonderful night. I need to forget it. I, too, thought I was tasting stars. I believed that Stevie was a miracle. A stupendous, delicious, bubbly miracle, all mine to enjoy.

And I thought he felt the same about me.

But he didn't.

So I need to stamp out any latent affection that might be smugly hanging around, waiting to develop into something even more dangerous longing, for example. Because if Stevie doesn't adore me and doesn't want to grow old being adored by me, then b.u.g.g.e.r him. It would be such a mistake to flog a dead horse. I am not some imbo who is prepared to hang around wanting and waiting for Stevie, since he's clearly a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Besides, who am I kidding? He's probably rooting Bella right this moment. They are probably enjoying some amazing date in a fabulous restaurant, bar or club, while I'm here, alone in my kitchen with my tin of beans and box of matches. It's worth remembering that I couldn't hang around him, even if I wanted to, as he wants nothing to do with me. Which is a good thing because he's the lame-brained one. He's unworthy.

It would be a big, big mistake to want to be with him. Huge. Catastrophic.

The only mistake I could think of making that would be quite as catastrophic would be not hanging around Stevie if he did want something to do with me.

b.u.g.g.e.r it, why is it so easy to imagine being adored by him? Growing old with him? That mental picture should have been well and truly shunted from my mind now. It's over four weeks since we broke up. I sigh.

Still, since the picture of domestic harmony and ancient dotage is still lodged firmly in my mind, what harm can it do ringing Phil?

49. Reconsider Baby.

Sat.u.r.day 14th August 2004.

Philip.

I wasn't surprised to receive Laura's call, but then again, little surprises me nowadays. I was pleased she rang. I've missed her. She's a great girl, a decent laugh; you know, fun. Of course, I'm not expecting her to be much fun today. Not under the circ.u.mstances.

She didn't bother with excuses or a preamble. She barely paused to politely ask after me. She went directly for the jugular and said that she needed to talk to me. I suggested dinner or lunch, she reminded me that she struggles to get childcare cover at the weekend, so I suggested we meet in Kew Gardens, that way she can bring Eddie with her. He can terrorize geese while we talk about life.

She's late situation normal and I feel strangely comforted by this constant in a world that is in such disarray. Finally, she strides through the gates, a striking silhouette against the rare suns.h.i.+ne this summer. She looks lovely. She's wearing a dress, a floating, girly thing that is an effective complement to her strong, defined, almost masculine limbs. Eddie is trailing behind her. He looks hot and bothered; stubborn and fed up. I kiss her h.e.l.lo, on the cheek, and offer to buy him an ice cream. It's like flicking a switch: suddenly, he is wearing the widest, most angelic beam. If only it was so easy to make his mum smile.

We find a cafeteria, choose an ice each and, thus fortified, Eddie gamely charges in front of us, happy to amuse himself.

'How have you been?' I ask.

'Miserable,' replies Laura. She grins, there's not a jot of self-pity about her, she's simply stating a fact. 'How about you?'

'Up and down.'

'I bet,' she says licking her chocolate ice cream (two scoops and a Flake).

I take the bull by the horns. We might as well get on with it. 'I understand you won't speak to Bella or Stevie.' I bite into my more modest choice, a fruit-flavoured ice lolly.

'Do you b.l.o.o.d.y blame me?' she asks, outraged. 'You of all people can't think I owe them a hearing or anything else for that matter.'

'No, but you might owe it to yourself.'

'f.u.c.k 'em, I say. They deserve each other. I don't want to have to listen to either of them bleating on about how they couldn't resist each other, or that they were destined for one another, or that they tried to stop themselves but couldn't, or some other predictable pig's a.r.s.e.'

Laura says this at reasonably high volume. Even though I've sat through, and actively contributed to, some fairly loud debates in the past month, I still shy away from publicity. I take a glance around us and then start to lead her along a less populated walkway.

'Neither of them wants to say any of those things to you, Laura.'

'Yeah. I bet they don't think they even have to justify it to me,' she says bitterly. 'Too busy rooting.'

'They haven't s.h.a.gged for many years.'

'Who told you that?'

'They did.'

'And you believe them?'

'I do, as it happens.' Laura flashes me a strange look. It's hard to decipher. It's somewhere between incredulous and pitying. 'I've talked to them both at some length over the last month and I think I have a clearer picture of what went on than you have.'

'I suppose Bella managed to convince you that she wasn't about to run off with Stevie. That she'd made a choice to be with you even before Neil Curran spilt the beans.'

'Just so.'

'Ha.' Pure contempt spurts out of Laura's mouth.

'Do you want me to tell you what I found out?'

'No,' she says firmly.

'Then why did you call me?'

Laura plonks herself on the nearest bench. Eddie runs to us and insists his mum holds his ice cream. She takes it from him and continues to lick her own as she watches him attempt forward rolls, cartwheels and handstands just in front of us. He's only four, so not in the slightest bit accomplished.

'It's great being a kid, isn't it?' she muses. 'Look at him, not a thought for injury, mud or goose s.h.i.+t. He's just having a laugh. I'd give anything to be that carefree.'

Eddie waves and instructs us to watch him do a forward roll. Which we do; he performs it badly then stands up and beams, 'I'm brilliant at those, aren't I?'

His mother and I laugh and a.s.sure him he's the world champion.