STAND WELL BACK

I wish I’d never mentioned the damned thing now. I never intended to. Just the usual first Thursday of the month drink: how’s the wife, how’s the job, that sort of thing. But Tim is the kind of bloke who gets things out of you. He always has, ever since we were schoolboys. His knowing silences always made me feel I had to say the first stupid thing that came into my head. The quieter he was, the more I blathered. The more I blathered, the more he smiled. It’s been that way, more or less, for twenty-five years.

I eye him now across the table. His thinning hair, his worn shirt, his cockeyed spectacles, his worthy corduroy trousers – they’re everything I loathe. He’s gone down in the world since those prep-school days but he still behaves as if I’m the one who has to be patronized, even though I could buy and sell him three times over. It’s not as if we have anything in common any more. So why do I go on meeting him – a whole evening once a month just so I can go away feeling terrible? My sister Di says it’s survivor’s guilt, whatever that means.

Tim’s going on about blood being thicker than water. I can’t believe it. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Absolutely not.’ I don’t like to think about blood anyway. It’s not what I associate with – well, with the whole Jane thing. So I object to Tim bringing it up. Of course I know why he has. Because although he helped me out, he never approved in the first place. And now he has a chance to say: ‘I told you so.’

He puts his fingertips together, leans forward. ‘Altruism is all very well, but there’s a connection. An inviolable connection. And now it’s caught you out.’

‘Bollocks.’ I start to get up. I’ve had to fit Tim in between the office and a Kennedy concert. It starts at eight, and I hate being late. ‘I should never have told you. I knew you’d be critical.’

‘Not critical, Matthew. I just feel you’re not being honest with yourself.’ He gives me the pitying-but-encouraging look. He’s adept at it. He’s done a course on it. He’s someone with ‘counselling skills’. It makes me want to puke. As does the Welsh rarebit congealing on my plate with its forlorn sprig of parsley. Tim seems immune to bad food, having just wolfed down an enormous baked potato filled with bright orange chicken tikka and some kind of bean. A hint of orange clings to his upper lip now. His glass of Speckled Hen sits untouched.

‘Honest? For God’s sake, Tim! It was a simple transaction. That was the whole beauty of it. I’d no right to barge in after all this time.’

‘You may have been a bit, well, rash. But you must see you had a kind of right. An emotional right.’ (Tim’s strong on emotions, the inner child, all that jazz.) ‘All you’ve done is woken up to the implications at last.’

‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ I laugh. Tim’s the complete New Man, carrying his kids around with him in some sort of papoose, changing nappies on any horizontal surface to hand, reading bedtime stories for hours on end, volunteering for playgroup duty, and so on and so forth. Three little girls, all under five, and a fourth (sex unknown) on the way. We can’t afford it, but we’ll manage somehow. Children are the most valuable part of us, aren’t they? (Smile, smile) Ugh. I keep away from his little nest of domesticity as much as I can. It was a nice house once, Victorian, elegantly proportioned. Now it’s a kind of kindergarten. The kitchen’s impossible, even for a snack – awash with crayons and half-eaten cereal, littered with scribbled drawings which shed bits of glitter and dry macaroni all over the floor. The tiles are a death trap of rolling plastic and spilt drinks. It seems that every time I go, the girls (Tabitha, Freya and Edith) are bouncing about on the sagging sofas with cereal bars in their mouths, dribbling gunge onto my trousers, tugging my jacket out of shape in four different directions at once. In the midst of this, Saint Tim smiles pityingly at me: Look what you don’t have. I play the game, make jokes, pretend to be a good uncle (and I’m remarkably good at it), but I can’t wait to get out. Get back to peace. Privacy. Self. Yes, self, I admit it. I have no problem in admitting it. It may sound smug, but I like my life the way it is.

Tim cocks his head. ‘But I’m right, aren’t I? Blood is thicker than water.’

‘You were always one for an original phrase.’ I’m sneering again. Tim tends to make me sneer. I could be really hard on him but something always inhibits me from going too far. We have our roles, I suppose. I grit my teeth.

‘You know it’s not originality that counts, Matthew.’ He smiles patiently, as if he has no idea how trite he’s being, as if he’s saying something incredibly worthwhile. Instead of which he sounds like a woman’s magazine, and a downmarket one at that. ‘It’s not the phrase, is it? It’s what lies behind it. That’s why you’re upset.’

‘I’m not upset, for God’s sake!’ But I can hear my voice rising up the scale, and I’m beginning to have that odd feeling again. This thing must really be getting me down. I grope for my wallet. ‘Look, I want to get out of this thing, not delve in deeper. Anyway, I’ve no time for your little homilies – I’m meeting Julia in the foyer in half an hour.’ I pull out a ten pound note. Eating with Tim is always cheap, but he insists on paying half, counting out his change in the tray of a little leather purse. I’ve given up trying to argue.

Tim pats my arm, gently depositing some chicken tikka on the elbow of my new suit. ‘You’re in denial, Matthew. But believe me, it won’t go away.’

I’d been mad even to risk it, although of course I never intended to. But when the Chief said we needed to go over to Charlie Gray’s home ground if we were ever to get him on board for the Runsgate development, that was fine by me. I don’t think I thought twice about it being Finsbury Park. Because, as I kept telling Tim, it honestly didn’t bother me. I’d told Jane I’d keep away, and my word is my bond. You’re so beautifully old-fashioned, she’d said, kissing my forehead. We’re so very, very lucky. I admit that in the early days there’d been the occasional telephone call, the odd scribbled note. I think Jane and Barbara had felt obliged – Barbara to a lesser extent, I imagine. But over the months, communication had stopped. And I’d been relieved.

So all Finsbury Park meant to me the day before was a business venue, and a pretty inconvenient one at that. I was mainly concerned that we wouldn’t be stuck there all day, given the problems Charlie Gray was throwing up. I wanted to get done quickly and get back early. All my thoughts were on that. It looked like being a warm evening and I fancied sitting out on my balcony with a glass of Rioja, with the Thames in the distance and the early rush hour glittering past beyond the trees. As long as Nick Crisp didn’t let me down with the figures and allow Charlie to spin things out till five o’clock. In the event Charlie made no bones. Agreed with all our projections. Thanked us for our hard work. End of story. And there we were out on the front steps at three o’clock in the afternoon. Free.

The weather by then was so glorious it seemed downright criminal to rush straight back into the stale dirt of the Tube. Even more so to share a taxi with Nick, whose main topic of conversation is the Arsenal. I decided to take a walk, a breath of fresh air after that cooped-up office with its smell of charred coffee and overheated copying machines. I left Nick to his own devices, and set off. When I came to the station, I turned left. I swear I might as easily have turned right, but the left looked more inviting. Sunnier, I suppose. I couldn’t possibly have recognized anything; it was two years since the other time, and anyway, Tim had done all the navigating, getting lost, and calmly admitting that he didn’t know this part of London ‘all that well’ and had only come to offer me ‘moral support’.

So, although it was Finsbury Park, it might just as well have been Timbuktu. My thoughts were on the moment. Entirely on the moment. If I thought ahead in any way, it was to anticipate that early evening drink, or maybe a meal at Giuseppe’s with Pippa or Isabel.

I walked on, following my nose, enjoying the freedom of an afternoon off. I crossed a little park and turned down a pleasantish road, thinking where I might go to pick up a taxi, when I saw it – the street name. It was framed neatly against a background of privet: Primrose Crescent. The name had always reminded me of Jane, especially the first time I saw her in the basement café at the Courtauld when she looked so small and pale and delicate. She’d been wearing a huge furry coat, and silver earrings. We’d taken to each other straight away.

‘Are you sure you’re not in love with her?’ Tim had kept asking afterwards.

‘Are you mad?’

‘You talk about her a lot.’

‘I always talk about women.’

‘Matthew, this is not the same.’

‘May I remind you, I am going into this with my eyes open.’

‘So you think. But there’ll be consequences. You’ll see.’

Of course that was the moment to have turned back, poised on the corner of the street. I did think of it. I knew it was the sensible thing to do. But it was such an extraordinary coincidence that it seemed somehow perverse not to take a peep. And I was curious, I admit. I told myself it would do no harm just to pass by the door, just satisfy myself with the look of the place. I walked down the road. Then, when I got to the door, my feet seemed to stop of their own accord. And my hand went to open the little gate, and next thing I found myself walking up the path. It was the same time of year as before, and I recognized the creeper growing up the wall by the door – little white star-shaped flowers that I’d stared at so intensely that first time, waiting for the door to open. Not that I’d been nervous; just a little embarrassed. Tim, of course, had fussed around as if it were going to be him, not me, with the clean jam jar in the upstairs bedroom.

I found myself knocking, the same little brass knocker shaped like a leprechaun. They were bound to be out, of course, on such a lovely day. Then I heard a footstep inside, echoing on the tiled floor. I started to panic. Jane could have changed; all sorts of things could have changed. The door opened. It was Barbara.

‘Hi, there,’ I said, rather too gaily. ‘It’s Matthew – Matthew Mulholland.’

‘Yes. I know who you are.’

Her dark brown eyes were blank with hostility. Words deserted me and I blustered something about being unexpectedly in the neighbourhood and feeling it was rude not to drop in. I felt pathetic, the schoolboy with a useless excuse. It was like being back at school, except Tim wasn’t there to back me up. I made what I hoped was a wry face. ‘Probably not a good idea. On reflection.’

‘No.’ She didn’t help me out.

‘No. Yes. Sorry.’ But I still stood there; a formal idiot with a briefcase, wilting a little from the heat on the back of my neck.

And, perhaps for politeness, she conceded: ‘You’d better come in, I suppose.’

‘No, it’s okay. Well, just for a minute if that’s all right.’ I stepped into the tiled hallway. She closed the door.

‘They’re not here. If that’s what you came for –’

I tried to tell her I hadn’t come for anything.

‘– but they’ll be back soon, and I don’t want you here then. I don’t want to be petty, Matthew, but that was our agreement, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. You’re right, of course.’ I was ridiculously anxious to placate her, remembering how awkward it had always been between us. Jane used to laugh and say Barbara was inclined to be jealous: Silly old sausage.

She took me to the back of the house – the kitchen-diner, immaculate and bright with Jane’s embroideries and cushions. Coloured building blocks were neatly stacked in a wooden tray. The garden beyond was full of flowers and shrubs. Barbara was a trained gardener, of course, and I’d always imagined her digging away in some market garden while Jane kept house and entertained visitors. In fact, she was wearing an apron and I could smell baking.

‘Earl Grey, if I remember rightly?’ She took a blue cup down from the dresser.

‘That’s right.’ I was beginning to breathe again. Social niceties are very soothing. ‘That’s very clever of you. After all this time.’

‘We know all your preferences off by heart.’

They’d written everything down, I remembered that now. It was all part of their philosophy. I’d filled in a whole questionnaire. Jane had told me the first time we met, what they were looking for. It has to be personal, she’d said. But you need to keep well away afterwards. I’d said there’d be no trouble there; I wasn’t into complicated relationships. And I was certainly not into children. I told her about Tabitha, Freya and Edith, making such appalled faces that she laughed. Oh, Matthew, she’d said, tucking into a sandwich. You’re just our type!

I’d never been sure whether Barbara agreed. I often felt she disapproved of me, although we’d only met three times and I’d always been on my best behaviour. And when I’d looked over the questionnaire – well, without seeming to be too conceited – I felt it gave quite a good account of myself. Good education, good career, healthy, cultured, literate, plenty of interests, a full social life. She had nothing to complain about.

She turned to me suddenly. ‘We’ll fight you, you know, Matthew.’

I stared at her strong fingers around the cup, imagined for a wild moment she was going to hit me in the face.

‘We’ll go to court – anything – if you try to get him back.’

So that was the problem. I laughed with relief. ‘God, no. Nothing further from my mind –’

‘Why have you come, then?’ She put her other hand over the first to steady the tremble. She was really worked up. I felt quite surprised.

‘I don’t know. Honestly. Just because I was here, I suppose. Just seeing that sign: Primrose Crescent. It was stupid …’

‘– Because I won’t stand for it. And don’t think you can sweet-talk Jane into anything behind my back –’

‘Barbara!’ I touched her arm. Her brown skin was surprisingly soft. She pulled away sharply. I didn’t know if it was me or men in general she disliked, but I felt rebuffed. ‘Believe me, the thought never crossed my mind. It’s the last thing I’d be interested in. As I said to Jane –’

She wasn’t listening. ‘David’s everything to us. You can’t just swan in here and just – impose yourself. Just because you’re so well-off and think so much of yourself –’

‘Hang on a minute!’ My sympathy was ebbing away and I was beginning to feel annoyed. I’d only done the wretched thing in the first place because I was asked. Because I felt sorry for them both. Because I liked Jane and thought it would be a simple act of kindness. After all, what were a few million sperm to me, more or less? It was no big deal. However, it was a bit rich, her going on at me. I needed to calm her down. I lowered my voice, spoke slowly, in my best negotiating manner, what Di calls my ‘soft soap’. ‘Look. Barbara. Believe me, nothing’s changed. Nothing, right? Okay, I’ve made a mistake, coming here. And now I’m taking myself off. And you are going to forget I ever came. Is that clear?’

She nodded. I felt magnanimous. I looked at the cup in her hand. It was a nice piece of Worcester. ‘Forget the Earl Grey. A bad idea. Anyway, I prefer Lapsang these days.’

She smiled for the first time, and stretched to put the cup back on the dresser. My eyes followed it. And that was when I saw him – the chubby figure buttoned up against the winter in a blue coat and woolly hood. He was looking right at me, smiling out of the frame as if he knew me, as if he were there in the room. David.

I don’t know what I said (if I said anything). My whole body was in shock, as if I’d moved abruptly to another world and back again. I just remember Barbara’s voice, disembodied, as if I were coming round after anaesthetic, ‘Yes, he’s really like you, isn’t he? I noticed it at the front door. Gave me a bit of a turn, in fact. Your eyes are exactly the same.’

I could only manage a grunt. My mouth was dry, my head whirling. I put out my hand, touched it gently to his cheek through the glass. I started to stroke his face and found I couldn’t stop. My finger went back and forth, back and forth as if I could rub him into existence like a genie from a lamp. I wanted the eyes to be looking at me, the mouth to be making sounds I could hear. I wanted to be able to touch his skin, speak to him. After a while I sensed Barbara shifting a bit at my shoulder. ‘D’you want to keep it? We’d often wondered, but you’d never asked, all this time, and so – well, we left it alone.’

I nodded. ‘Please.’

She tried to take the frame from me, but my hand wouldn’t let it go. ‘Matthew,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it back, you know. I just need to …’ She unclasped my fingers one by one, eased out the photo, handed it back: ‘There.’

‘Thanks.’ I slipped it into my breast pocket, behind my folded handkerchief. I didn’t quite know what to do next. I knew I had to go, but I hated the idea of leaving the room, the place where he spent his time with the piled bricks and the wooden toys, the light from the garden window shining on his hair. I turned to the door, feeling oddly giddy. Then turned back to Barbara: ‘Don’t tell Jane. Not just about the photo. This – anything. No need.’

‘That’s it, then? You don’t want to see him?’

I tried to find my old confident voice, and miraculously it came. I grinned at her. ‘You know me and kids. Hate the little buggers.’

She took me in her arms and hugged me. She smelt of geraniums and cake.

So – an altogether stupid, unnecessary episode. And now, two nights later, I’m lying here, staring into the dark, unable to sleep. I thought the concert would have put me in a different frame of mind. Kennedy was fantastic, and I came out on a high, the music thrumming through my brain. But the moment I’d put Julia into her taxi, that little face flipped back into my mind. I see him everywhere now. In the Tube. On the stairs to my flat. In the hallway. In every room I go into. I haven’t managed a wink in two nights, even with Di’s absolute no-fail sleeping pills.

I get up, lie on the sofa, listen to Callas, drink my way through the last of the Reserva Rioja. I’ve forgotten the concert already. Forgotten what Julia said, her hair, her dress. I just remember him, looking like someone I’d like to know. It’s insane.

I wash my dirty glass, plump up cushions, tidy my books, listen to the World Service, read yesterday’s paper. Tomorrow I’ll forget all this nonsense. I have to do it. Tim is wrong; it will go away.

Anna at the office takes one look and says, ‘Late night?’

‘Couldn’t sleep. It must have been that particularly disgusting Welsh rarebit with Tim.’

‘Tim with the wonky glasses?’ She laughs. Anna is very smart. As in clever and as in looks. She clearly wonders where Tim fits into my life, why I keep up the monthly ritual. She doesn’t understand how complex it all is. How much I hate him for his sanctimonious, self-satisfied, wiseacre opinions; how much I love him for them, too. I’ve always needed Tim to keep me in focus. I need to know he’s there; that he still cares enough to turn up rain or shine; that he comes bouncing back even though I abuse him and crow over him, and thrust my rich and wonderful life in his face at every opportunity. I always dread that one day he’ll stop coming and that I’ll be on my own.

Anna leans over me with a cloud of musky perfume as she brings me up to date with my diary. ‘The Chief wants you in his office at ten to congratulate you and Nick on the Westhouse business, and Mr Mohammed Akhtar is coming in at eleven to check on progress with the franchise.’ She also tells me over her shoulder that Sarah in Accounts is leaving today and I have to make the farewell speech.

‘Remind me again why she’s leaving.’ I can’t remember who Sarah is. Some clerical assistant, off to pastures new, I suppose.

‘She’s having a baby, Matthew. You signed the card, remember?’

‘Baby. Ah, yes.’ I pretend to look over the contract from Westhouse. After a minute or two I ask, ‘What about the father?’

‘Father?’ Anna looks round, in a puzzled way, from her irrigation of our office fern.

‘I suppose there’s a man in the picture? Unless, of course, it’s an Immaculate Conception.’

‘I doubt that, from what I hear of Sarah.’ Anna’s back with the fern again. ‘Anyway, it’s not my business.’

And not mine either. After all, I don’t remember who she is or what she looks like. And from today she won’t even be on the payroll. But I can’t help asking, ‘Is she going to be all right? For the future, I mean.’

‘Bit late now if she isn’t.’ Anna doesn’t seem very concerned, picking off dead fronds. ‘Anyway, why shouldn’t she be? It’s the twentieth century. Who needs a man to bring up a baby?’

‘Who indeed?’ It’s what I’ve always said: Light blue touchpaper and stand well back. I finger the photograph in my breast pocket. It’s getting dog-eared. I’ll have to find a frame for it soon, or press it between the pages of a book. Soon. But not quite yet. I can’t part with it yet. As I think of it, something clots in my chest, something hard and uncomfortable. I clear my throat.

‘Are you okay?’ Anna looks across at me.

‘Just tired.’ My face is aching; there’s a pain behind my eyes. I need to concentrate on something else. The farewell speech, that’s it. I’m good at that sort of thing. I can do it standing on my head. I’ll tell Sarah in Accounts how much we have appreciated all the hard work she’s done over the (however long) she’s been with us. I’ll tell her that we’ll all miss her, but that we wish her every happiness for the future. Because … because, of course, she’s got something to look forward to – that’s it. And it’s sad for us, but it’s not sad for her. Because she’ll be able to see the child grow up, and, yes, maybe he’ll have the same eyes as her. And he’ll look at her with that special look that makes your heart want to break …

I can feel the wetness on my cheeks. And now here’s Anna coming towards me. She’s a bit blurred. I can’t hear what she’s saying. Her face looks uncomprehending. I want to make a joke but I can’t seem to make my mouth work. She puts out her hand, but I don’t want her near me with her smooth face and smooth clothes and smell of patchouli. I don’t want her long elegant fingers and immaculately painted nails. I want the smell of geraniums and baking, and the sight of small hands playing with coloured bricks.