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Aishe woke suddenly, her heart hammering. She’d had that dream again, the one with the wave. It always started out so benignly. She and Gulliver would be on a beach, somewhere wild and remote, in the shelter of a tall, rocky cliff. The weather would be fine and calm, and they would be the only two people there. They never spoke, but would stroll along in companionable silence.
Then, as if the dream was a movie that cut abruptly to another scene, Aishe would find herself at the top of the cliff, looking over the edge, down at the now tiny figure of Gulliver still on the beach. He was usually gathering stones or sticks, with his back, in every dream, to the sea. The sea, which to Aishe’s horror, would slowly but inexorably begin to rise.
Aishe in the dream knew that all Gulliver could hear were the small waves still spreading with a gentle hiss on the sand. He had no clue that coming up behind him was a wave so huge it would break right over him and sweep him away. The sea, which was swelling and growing like a monstrous living creature, would seize her boy and suck him under. He’d have no chance.
In the dream, she tried to call out to him. Her mouth would be wide open, her throat straining, but she was mute. Behind Gulliver, the wave towered and she could not save him. Then, always, she woke up.
That was the worst part. In her head, she knew it had only been a dream. But at that moment of waking, every muscle was taut with fear, her heartbeat and breathing were so rapid, she had to fight to control them. Most terrible of all was a sense of loss so acute that she could feel her chest swell with the urge to howl in grief and pain.
The first time she’d had the dream, Gulliver had been two years old. Frank had been asleep next to her and she’d thrown herself into his half-awake arms, sobbing and shaking. Now, even though she knew she was alone in her bed, she stretched out one hand and rested it in the space where another body could be. She ran her hand over the slight dip in the mattress where other shoulders had not so recently lain.
What was the matter with her, she wondered? How did she manage to sabotage everything so right royally? It was as if she had a bomb strapped to her, but one that destroyed everyone around her and left her dusty but intact.
The evening at Gulliver’s rock school had been a kamikaze mission from start to finish. She had arrived there full of aggressive swagger and that was the high point. She supposed she should be grateful that it wasn’t more catastrophic, but that didn’t make her feel any less stupid, or any less of a failure.
Aishe hadn’t worn her gold latex mini-dress. Although she knew she could still fit it, she’d suspected that comparisons with Katy Perry might be made, and “juvenile pop princess” wasn’t really the look she was after. Instead, she’d walked down her stairs in skin-tight jeans, high-heeled cowboy boots and a pink t-shirt from the animal shelter that was purposely a size too small. Aishe knew her breasts looked incredible in it, just as the vision of her arse in these jeans had been known to make respectable men moan low as she walked by.
Gulliver, waiting at the front door, bass in its black case slung around his shoulder, had reacted with a slightly pained expression. ‘Are you coming dressed like that?’
‘Why?’
‘Bit OTT, don’t you think?’
Her son, Aishe had observed, was wearing nothing that could possibly offend: a baggy blue t-shirt with some impenetrable logo on it and straight-legged jeans slung a little low on the hips, but not so far as to show actual underwear.
‘I’ll go change into a twinset and pearls then, shall I?’
Gulliver had rolled his eyes. ‘Just don’t blame me if Eddie hits on you.’
Eddie was not the one she wanted to notice her. Then again, maybe a bit of rivalry wouldn’t be a bad thing.
For the length of the twenty-minute drive, Aishe had stewed about whether she had a rival, or if Izzy genuinely was that most suspicious of phrases “just a friend”. She’d been dying to interrogate Gulliver, but knew he was smart enough to wonder why. And Gulliver could never know anything about her and Benedict.
The rock school practised together in a big open room above Eddie’s guitar shop. It was an excellent shop, Aishe had noted with approval, as she’d followed Gulliver through it to the stairs. Eddie was a man clearly head over heels in love with this instrument. There was nothing mass-produced here, only lovingly crafted guitars, each with its own personality and quirks. She’d stopped briefly to peer more closely at a red and white one that seemed unusually small.
‘It’s called a Ritchie Valens,’ a voice with a New York twang had said. ‘Know why?’
Aishe had turned. Eddie hadn’t been wearing his usual pork pie hat, but instead had on a British bowler, pulled low on his head. He’d teamed this with a wide-cuffed white shirt, black jeans and a Fairisle vest, which made him look like a cross between Alex in A Clockwork Orange and Suggs from Madness. Not having previously given him more than a passing glance, Aishe had seen then that he was handsome. Dark hair streaked with grey, bright blue eyes, a strong chin and an infectious smile. Not young — early fifties, she guessed. But not bad. Not bad at all.
‘Because it’s good for playing Mexican music?’
‘Nope. Because it fits in an airplane locker. Tasteless but true.’ Eddie had stuck out his hand. ‘You’re Gulliver’s mother. He’s got a lot of talent.’
Aishe had returned the handshake. ‘I think he has, too. But then, as you say, I’m his mother.’
Eddie had gestured towards the stairs. ‘Come on up.’
He’d let her go first, and not, Aishe had been pretty sure, for reasons of old-fashioned courtesy. She’d made sure to swing her rear.
The room had been large and dimly lit. Aishe’s gaze immediately zeroed in on Gulliver, standing in one corner unpacking his bass — and talking to Benedict. Beside Benedict, but obscured by Gulliver, Aishe had caught a glimpse of fair curly hair. Izzy. Had to be.
Aishe had found herself chanting under her breath: Don’t let her be pretty. Don’t let her be pretty.
Gulliver had moved to one side. Shit.
Izzy was gorgeous, and in that entirely natural, utterly infuriating way. No makeup, just good, high colour on flawless skin. Masses of blonde curls with caramel highlights. Terrific figure, tall with endless legs and a generous bust. And young. No more than twenty-five. Inside Aishe, a red mist had begun to rise.
As if he’d sensed her escalating ire, Benedict glanced over. She’d seen him flinch just a little before he quickly looked away. Aishe had kept watching, eyes boring into the pair of them, scanning the body language. Izzy had been standing close to him, but not touching. But then Benedict had said something that made both Gulliver and Izzy laugh. And Aishe had seen Izzy drop her head briefly onto Benedict’s shoulder.
No, Aishe had thought. No. That little girl cannot have him.
She’d become aware of Eddie standing beside her. ‘Young Benny there’s going to take this session.’ Then he’d moved closer. ‘Why don’t you come and sit by me?’
And that had been it. Looking back, Aishe could be grateful that Gulliver’s presence had restrained her from making a complete spectacle of herself. But nonetheless, she and Eddie had flirted shamelessly. In no time, he’d draped his arm around the back of her chair and insinuated his fingers under her own arm to explore the curve of her breast.
Aishe had let him; their chairs were to the rear of the band, and all the students and Izzy, who’d been put in charge of the music sheets, were facing away from them. By contrast, Benedict, out in front, was positioned for an unobstructed view of Eddie’s covert groping. To Aishe’s immense satisfaction, he’d struggled to keep his eyes on the music and on the band. When for the third time he’d had to apologise for his inattention, Aishe had seen Izzy give a sharp glance their way. She’d have seen nothing but two grown-ups appreciating the children’s efforts, Aishe had thought with grim pleasure.
After forty-five minutes, Benedict had called a halt.
‘Break time,’ Eddie had whispered in her ear. ‘Want to come downstairs to my office? I’ve got a stash of hard liquor.’
Aishe had been under no illusion that liquor would be the only hard thing she’d find in Eddie’s office. And she’d hesitated for around twenty seconds — the exact time it had taken for Izzy to link her arm in Benedict’s and put her lips to his ear.
‘Why the fuck not?’ Aishe had said.
Why not fuck? was a truer statement, Aishe thought as she stared up at her bedroom ceiling. She’d let him do it, let him take her up against his filing cabinet because she was under the insane delusion that an act like that somehow constituted revenge. It was quick and dirty and, in other circumstances, in other days long gone, she might even have enjoyed it. But as soon as it began, she’d known it was a mistake. And then all that self-righteous heat drained out of her, and she felt cold and soiled and foolish.
Another small thing to be grateful for, Aishe thought. Eddie clearly had no intention of asking for anything more. They had straightened themselves up in silence. Eddie was cheerful. He’d even started whistling, at which point, Aishe recalled, she’d started to fantasise about killing him. The point she seriously considered putting a knife through his heart was when he ushered her through his office door and they had bumped straight into Benedict. He’d stopped dead and she’d seen his eyes travel from her to Eddie. They had held absolutely not a scintilla of doubt about what they’d been doing.
‘I have to go,’ he’d said to Eddie. ‘Sorry. Emergency.’
‘Yeah?’ Eddie had shrugged. ‘OK. I’ll take over.’
‘Ben?’
Aishe had glanced up to see Izzy jogging down the stairs. She’d stared, uncertain, at the group at the bottom, her frown in no way diminishing the quite astonishing prettiness of her face.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Iz. Yes.’ Benedict had risen up on the balls of his feet, as if itching to make a fast getaway. ‘Got to go, though. Something’s — er, come up.’
‘Oh. OK. I’ll grab my bag.’
And before Benedict had been able to protest, she’d dashed back up to fetch it.
‘Um.’ Without meeting anyone’s eye, Benedict hooked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Can you tell her I’ll meet her outside the front door?’
‘Sure, buddy.’ Eddie had clapped him on the arm. ‘See you next week!’
Aishe had not been able to say a word.
Only a day and a half had gone by since that evening. To Aishe, it felt like years. Benedict had been due for tutoring duty yesterday afternoon, as usual. Aishe had made an excuse to Gulliver and left before he arrived. But he was there when she got back. For about a minute. He’d said his goodbyes civilly enough and nothing more. Aishe had known there was nothing she could say, so she hadn’t tried. She expected that’s what things would be like from now on.
This time, she thought, she’d blown it for good. Blown it to smithereens.
She glanced over at her alarm clock, glowing biliously. Five forty-six.
Oh, well, she thought as she lay there. She could think of one tiny thing to be grateful for.
No one but Benedict and Eddie and her knew anything about it.
Benedict lay in bed and tried not to move or think. He did not want to move because he might wake Izzy and no doubt she would expect him to make love to her again.
To be fair, it wasn’t exactly terrible making love to Izzy, but it wasn’t what he wanted. It certainly wasn’t what he’d planned.
The events that had led Izzy into his bed were one reason he was trying not to think. The other was his confession to Michelle. About neither of those things was he proud, nor was he at ease about the potential ramifications. In both cases, he felt as if he’d rubbed a bottle and released not a helpful wish-granting genie but one that actively craved to do him harm. And it was late to grab the stopper and shove it back in.
The night before last, he’d wanted to die. Fucking Eddie. Benedict so rarely used the word that it startled him even to think it. But fuck, he’d railed! How could she have fucked fucking Eddie! Eddie would hump one of his own guitars! No doubt he already had!
He’d stood on the pavement outside Eddie’s guitar shop and wanted nothing more than to drive to the nearest clifftop and throw himself off. But as he’d lacked both a car and the location of any nearby cliff, he’d had to settle for pacing between lampposts.
She didn’t want to wait for Izzy. He didn’t want to be around anyone. But even as he’d had the idea of leaving, it was too late.
‘So, what’s up?’ Izzy had said.
‘Nothing,’ he’d said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She’d studied his face for a moment. ‘Yeah, righto,’ she’d said. Then she’d looked around. ‘There’s a pub over there. Want to go get a drink?’
Benedict hadn’t been able to help himself. ‘Here it’s called a bar.’
Izzy had shrugged. ‘Pub. Bar. Same diff.’ Then she’d taken him by the arm. ‘Come on. I’ll shout you a piss-weak American beer.’
And if he’d stopped with one or two of those, thought Benedict, he might have emerged unscathed. He might be lying in bed right now peacefully, mercifully alone.
But the beer had been followed by tequila, the drinking of which Izzy had proved a master and he a shameful novice. Benedict dimly recalled a chanting crowd, the patrons at the bar egging them on. Or it might have just been him. By then, he wasn’t exactly in full control.
He had no recollection of getting back to his flat. He certainly had no recollection of making love to Izzy. But in the morning, there she was, sitting on the edge of the bed in one of his t-shirts, holding out a cup of coffee.
‘I’m pulling a sickie today,’ she’d said. ‘The boss will have a complete spaz but who cares?’
‘Shit!’ Benedict had caught sight of the alarm. He’d scrambled out of bed and stood up, a move he’d instantly and fundamentally regretted.
‘Mate.’ Izzy had laughed as he’d collapsed back down on the bed. ‘You cannot go to work today! You’re still pissed as a chook!’
Once he’d worked out that she meant he was still inebriated, Benedict had been forced to admit she was right. But the choices had been either to drag himself to Michelle’s or spend the day with Izzy. And do — God knows what.
He’d gazed at her with some trepidation. ‘Did we, um? You know?’
Izzy had burst out laughing. ‘You could hardly bloody stand, let alone give me one!’
‘Oh.’
‘I wouldn’t mind though,’ she’d added. ‘If you want to.’
She’d set the mug of coffee down on the bedside table and flopped back down onto the bed. Benedict had tried again to stand up, and for the moment he’d succeeded.
‘I really have to go to work,’ he’d said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No worries,’ she said. ‘I’ll hang around here. Catch the bus into town tomorrow.’
Alcohol and excellent manners conspired to rob Benedict of any ability to come up with an alternative. And when he’d got home last night, there she’d been. She served him dinner, made him watch Survivor, and then taken his hand and led him to bed.
It wasn’t bad, thought Benedict. He hadn’t hated it.
But what was bad was that it wasn’t Aishe. And that it couldn’t be, because she’d now chosen to sleep with a person who humped guitars.
Prone on the bed, Benedict could hear Michelle questioning why he had believed himself in love with Aishe in the first place. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t purely physical?’ Michelle had persisted. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. Many a right-thinking man has mistaken a screaming orgasm for true love.’
Benedict had fudged his answer to Michelle. The physical side of his relationship with Aishe had been astonishing, but there’d been so much more to it than that. Put on the spot, though, he’d said something trite like he felt they were meant to be together. Michelle had snorted into her cappuccino.
Which was fair enough because that explanation was a lie. Benedict had fallen in love with Aishe because he’d truly believed he could be the one to make it all OK for her. He’d believed that, metaphorically, he could be the next three hundred-pound black man in her life.
The problem was that Aishe didn’t even see him as a man. She’d said so, and in doing so, ended it. And having had the benefit of first-class British education, Benedict knew that a metaphor could only be stretched so far.