“I don’t believe it,” Ralph says, staring at Miriam. “Are you all right? Shall I make some tea?”
He moves towards her and she shudders.
A pot of Yorkshire Tea. A plate of Rich Tea biscuits. A bar of Kendal Mint Cake—why not? Miriam is clearly about to embark on an expedition of sorts—anyone can see the huge familial mountain, rising higher by the second, shouting climb me climb me you know you want to climb me.
Side by side on the sofa. He puts his arm around her shoulder. Her body is stiff, stubborn.
“He says my mother told him to leave and never make contact,” she says, her face even paler than usual.
“But why would he agree to that?”
Miriam gives him a sharp look and rolls up her sleeves.
“If Sadie told me I could never try and see the boys, I wouldn’t agree to it,” he says.
“But Sadie isn’t my mother.”
“No she isn’t.”
“My mother told him she would hurt me if he turned up.”
“You never met my mother.”
“He could have gone to the police.”
“She got there first. Told them he was aggressive and she’d forced him to stay away.”
Ralph sips his tea. Whose life is this? Sitting on a sofa eating Rich Tea biscuits with a woman whose father played dead? It’s not his life. It’s never his life.
“This is a lot to take in,” Miriam says. She looks at him expectantly.
“It is,” he says.
“I probably just need to sit quietly,” she says.
“Yes.”
“By myself.”
“Oh—”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
His presence is neither comforting nor helpful. It’s humiliating.
“To be honest, you’ve been sitting in this house for days,” she says.
“Mmnn.”
“You’re going to turn into me if you’re not careful.”
“I’ll go for a walk,” he says.
“You could go to the pub for last orders.”
That would be a first—wandering to a local pub for last orders. Quaint.
“Boo often does that,” she says. “Actually, he’d probably like to join you.”
“And you wouldn’t mind?” he says. He never asks Sadie if she would mind him going out. He just comes and goes and she just comes and goes and—
Boo doesn’t answer the door. He can’t hear it above the sound of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Ralph just stands there, feeling partly like Miriam has kicked him out and partly like he has abandoned her.
He walks through the streets until he reaches the Crown. Inside, people stare at him. At the bar, he orders a pint and a bag of crisps. In his peripheral vision he can see a woman getting up from her seat and walking over to where he is standing. She says her name is Sandy. She says would you like some company? She is wearing an orange boob tube and tight stonewashed jeans. She asks what he does for a living and he says he’s a psychotherapist. She says what’s a psychotherapist? He says it’s someone who’s paid to listen and help people make sense of their interior worlds. She says what’s an interior world, are you talking about hanging pictures and stuff? And he says no, I mean the interior of a person. She laughs and calls him a psycho. Her teeth are a shocking white. She leans in and tells him that people have paid a lot of money to enjoy the benefits of her interior world, and is he interested, does he know what she means? He says thank you for your kind offer, but no thank you. She says it’s not a kind offer, you prick, I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart. He says I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m just here for a quiet pint. Need a break from your frigid wife? she says. I bloody knew it. It’s written all over you. Bet you can’t even remember what to do with it. Bloody useless, you are. Give us a crisp it’s the least you can do.
Fucking hell, Ralph thinks, as he leaves the pub. He walks around the corner until the Crown is out of sight, and hesitates before heading back to Miriam’s. Does she want him there? Does he want to be there? And if not there, then—
He looks at his phone. No messages or missed calls today. He dials a number.
“Well I never,” a voice says.
“Hello.”
“Finally bothered to make contact, have you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you really.”
“I’m sorry, Sadie.”
“Do you think it’s acceptable to just walk out on your family?”
“Not really.”
“I’ve reported you missing to the police.”
“Oh God, you haven’t.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why not? Anything could have happened to me.”
“Something told me you were fine. Are you fine?”
“I suppose so. How are the boys?”
“They’re good. Look, can we talk another time?”
“It’s late, I know.”
“It’s not that. Do you remember Alison Grabowski?”
“From university?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m out with her right now.”
“Where are you?”
“In a car park.”
“What?”
“Look, I have to go, Ralph. We’re about to get a taxi.”
“Where to?”
“Alison’s.”
“Are the boys with you?”
“They’re hardly boys any more, are they? They’re sixteen.”
“So they’re home alone.”
She sighs. “They’re sixteen.”
“Did Alison contact you?”
“Why?”
“Did she?”
“No, I Googled her.”
“You Googled her.”
“That’s what I said. Look, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Alison’s waiting. I’m glad you’re fine. We’ll talk soon.”
Beside a street light, on a row of white terraced houses, Ralph stares at his phone and says Jesus Christ. Sadie is out with Alison. She isn’t at home, worrying about him and their marriage. Did he expect her to be? Probably. Or she might have been out with Kristin or Beverley. But Alison fucking Grabowski. He hoped she had become fat and boring. How mature, Ralph. Oh fuck maturity. Fuck it all. Even Miriam’s on the move, she’s on her way up a mountain, climbing suspiciously and hopefully towards a man who claims to be her father. But what about him? He is just standing here by a street light, in a part of town that can only be described as insalubrious, and earlier tonight he was rejected by Miriam, then the man from the Village People whose light was on when he knocked on the door, and now his wife sounds drunk and silly and he could hear the smile in her voice. Google did that. It made the smile happen. Not Alison herself. Maybe Google could do something for him too? He would need to use Miriam’s computer. Does she have a computer? She must have, everyone has one.
Oh you idiot, Ralph. You have Google in your hand, don’t you? He rolls his eyes at his own technological naivety. Smart phone, dim user. He has never used his phone properly before—he’s had no need to visit websites or send emails on the go. But now his life is permanently on the go. So where is he going? This question is unexpectedly vast, a construction of letters the width of Amsterdam, with its own canals, bikes and tulips, its own galleries and red-light district, and a bar in which a woman called Julie Parsley is singing about how the past never ends.
If Sadie can do it, why not him?
Ralph has a competitive streak and tonight it gives him a purpose and direction, even if that purpose is beating his wife in a game of Win Back an Old Flame.
(Childish, Ralph.)
(And you don’t even know how to access Google on that phone.)
Game on, Sadie, he thinks, as he jogs all the way back to Miriam’s.