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‘Whoa, it’s packed!’ said Michelle.
Aishe saw she was right and felt a tiny stab of fear for Gulliver. She hoped he play well. She hoped he wouldn’t let nerves get to him.
Eddie was on the ticket desk. Aishe braced herself for a leer and a suggestive aside, but he was business-like, taking their tickets with only a quick smile and a nod. Aishe was relieved, yet at the same time found his response slightly unsatisfactory.
‘You must be pleased with a full house,’ she felt compelled to say.
‘I’d be happier if the sound desk wasn’t on its last legs,’ he said. ‘Say a prayer to the gods of music for me, will ya?’
He’s taking this really seriously, thought Aishe, as he turned to the next people in the queue. He genuinely wants the kids to have a good night.
Eddie went up a notch in her estimation. Not far enough to make her like him, but enough to be glad that Gulliver had been given the chance to play at his school. The thought that she actually had Benedict to thank for that was choked to death before it had time to form.
Michelle and Aishe found seats in a row near the front. There were four seats spare, and Aishe’s natural antipathy towards people led her to the one right at the end, nearest the aisle.
‘You should budge up,’ said Michelle, pushing past to take the seat next to her. ‘It’s rude to leave a gap.’
‘I need to be able to leave quickly,’ said Aishe, ‘in case my nerves can’t stand it.’
The lights in the hall dimmed. The crowd started to settle down, loud talk sinking to a murmur, programmes rustling, limbs shifting as people found the most comfortable position in the hall’s rigid and narrow folding chairs.
Aishe became aware of someone standing in the aisle beside her chair, hissing, ‘Over here!’ Then the voice said, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ and Aishe was forced to lift her feet to let a young woman and her companion, someone in jeans and a leather jacket, push past.
Aishe was trying to keep her eye on the stage, so it wasn’t until she heard Michelle say, ‘Hey, look who’s here’ that Aishe realised that the young woman, now sitting next to Michelle, was Izzy, and that her companion, who was avoiding her eye, was Benedict.
‘Oh, hiya,’ said Izzy to Aishe. ‘Gulliver’s mum, right?’
Yes, that was right, thought Aishe. To her, Aishe would never have a name. She’d lost her identity as an individual sexual being as soon as she’d had a child. Izzy didn’t even consider her to be the same species. She was an ex-woman, a cipher, a hollow vessel. An empty jam jar with a faded label that said “Gulliver’s Mother”.
Aishe slid a quick glance down the row to Benedict, whose attention seemed to be fully on the stage. But Aishe saw, even in the dim light, that his face was tense and his shoulders high.
The thought her presence made him uncomfortable gave her a little pleasure. And then into her head flashed another thought: she could win him back in an instant. That stupid girl had no clue, no idea what Aishe was capable of. So, why didn’t she show her?
Aishe settled back in her seat. She might enjoy this evening after all.
The concert itself was excellent. The performers, aged between fourteen and seventeen, were skilled, talented musicians. The songs were good rock staples, chosen to please any crowd. Aishe’s heart flip-flopped only once, when Gulliver stepped forward to play the bass solo from Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain.
‘Nailed it!’ Michelle raised her hands above her head to applaud. ‘Whoo-hoo! Go Gulliver!’
Before she could stop herself, Aishe cast another glance Benedict’s way. To her surprise, and his, judging by his expression , eyes met. Because Aishe was still smiling, he offered her a smile in return. But then Izzy sat back, and draped her arm around Benedict’s shoulders and began to nuzzle on his ear. Aishe vowed to not look over again.
In the foyer at half time, Michelle glanced around, frowning. ‘I have to go to the girls’ room,’ she said. ‘There’ll undoubtedly be a queue, so don’t wait. Meet me back at our seats.’
Aishe acknowledged this with a nod. She was trying to keep a subtle eye on Benedict. With a quick hot rush of satisfaction she saw Eddie beckon Izzy over and the two head back into the hall, presumably to get the stage sorted for the next half. Aishe watched Benedict hover for a minute, as if deciding what to do, before turning and heading out the entrance.
Gotcha, thought Aishe, and began to move.
Then a voice behind her said, ‘He’s fucking good, isn’t he?’
Patrick was beaming. ‘I’m seriously impressed. Jon Entwistle in the making, I’d say. Though I should probably pick an example who’s alive.’
‘Yes, great. Excellent.’ Aishe tapped her foot. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She searched for an excuse that would forestall all other questions and chose the one that had never yet been known to fail. ‘Women’s problems.’
‘Right.’ Patrick actually backed up a step. ‘Well, I’ll – see you after.’
Aishe hadn’t a scrap of doubt that she could find Benedict, and so it proved. He was sitting on a concrete block in the small vacant lot that lay between the rear of the hall and the back wall of a row of shops.
He stood up immediately and watched her approach with a wary expectancy, like a cowboy unsure if the opponent walking to face him would wait for the signal, or pull his gun any time and start filling him with lead.
She came up to him and took a stance with her thumbs hooked in the belt loops of her jeans, head to one side, a small, appraising smile.
‘Counting the spaces between stars?’ she said. ‘Or are you waiting for someone to whistle for you?
Benedict mouth opened and shut as if he was searching for a snappy comeback. But all he said was, ‘I needed some fresh air.’
Aishe knew she had only minutes before the concert resumed. No time for chat.
She placed one hand inside his jacket and under his t-shirt. She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt the goosebumps rise as she traced her thumb over the skin above his hip.
‘I don’t think that’s what you need,’ she said, and reached up her other hand to pull his mouth down to hers.
Two things occurred that Aishe was not prepared for: one, the sheer force of the desire that swept through her, and two, Benedict breaking the kiss and shaking himself free of her hands.
He stepped backwards. His expression as he stared at her was shocked, a little dazed. But then it changed, hardened like cooled wax, and Aishe went immediately on her guard. Because the only emotion she could see now was anger.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he said. ‘What the hell is your game?’
Never apologise, never explain – that was Aishe’s motto. ‘Why should it be a game?’
‘Because you don’t give a damn about me.’ He sounded calm, but Aishe could see his chest moving up and down with rapid, shallow breaths. ‘You never have.’
Never apologise.
‘I’m not sure why you slept with me before,’ he said. ‘I suppose you must have been bored, and seen me as an easy mark. Which, God knows, I was. Or you had some other reason, I don’t know.’
He dropped his eyes to the scrubby ground and kicked at a loose chip of concrete. ‘No, I don’t know what your reasons were then, and I have no idea what they are now.’ He raised his head. ‘And to be honest,’ he said, ‘I no longer care.’
Aishe realised she knew exactly what he was going to say next, and while the top line of her thoughts carried on in nonchalant don’t-care mode, deep down something reached up for her heart and twisted it in a hard, cold grip.
‘I’m leaving,’ Benedict said. ‘I’m tired of living without dignity. I’m not sure I was anything much before this all started, but I’m damn sure I’m considerably less than that now – and if I don’t do something fast, I suspect I’ll cease to exist at all.’
He paused. The anger had gone, replaced by a mildly embarrassed but resolute calm.
‘I’m sorry I can’t give you more notice,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll find someone else. Gulliver is well ahead in his studies, so a short break won’t set him back.’
A swell of panic swept through Aishe at the mention of Gulliver’s name. How would he feel at being abandoned without a word? He was still her boy, her baby – how would he cope with a betrayal like this?
‘You’re not going to leave without telling him?’ Aishe became aware her hands were shaking. ‘Without saying goodbye?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Benedict did look genuinely unhappy. ‘Tell him I’ll write to him and explain. Tell him—’ He seemed to reconsider what he’d been about to say. ‘Tell him he played like a boss.’
What does that mean, Aishe railed?
Benedict was walking away. He wasn’t hurrying, but it wouldn’t be long before he’d round the corner and be gone. Aishe felt panic pile on alarm and dread. She began to ransack through her thoughts, searching for something, anything, that she could hurl at him — in attack or defence, she wasn’t sure.
‘What about Izzy?’ she called after him. Her voice sounded harsh, even to her. ‘Are you dumping her, too?’
He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow. His shoulders hunched for a moment, as if someone had landed a light blow on his back, but Aishe was forced to watch him keep on walking. In less than a minute, he was out of sight.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Michelle hissed when Aishe slid into her seat. The second half was underway. The children were playing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird. The lead singer, Aishe noted, was a girl.
Michelle gestured at the empty seats on the other side of her. ‘These two have bloody disappeared as well! Do you need to have one of those confidential talks with me about feminine hygiene?’
‘Good that they’ve got a female singing this,’ said Aishe. ‘Usually, it’s a paean to male bad behaviour.’
Michelle gave her a hard look. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.
‘Fine,’ said Aishe. ‘I wonder if they’ve got the chops to tackle the guitar solo?’
Aishe wasn’t entirely sure how she made it through the rest of the evening. She felt a little like she was in an empty train, being carried along inexorably to an uncertain destination — or to no destination at all, only a relentless click-clack onwards.
Gulliver was fizzing, so much that he let Aishe give him a quick hug. Michelle shook his hand instead, and Patrick clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Well done!’ said Patrick. ‘Well fucking done, indeed!’
‘Thanks,’ said Gulliver, standing tall for the first time since the onset of puberty. ‘Do I deserve a beer?’
‘No,’ said Patrick and Aishe.
‘But why don’t we go for pizza?’ Patrick added. ‘My shout.’
Michelle checked her watch. ‘I should really go home . . .’ Then she said, ‘No! Damnit! If he can’t cope with minding his own freaking children for one evening, then tough!’
‘You could text him,’ said Aishe.
‘I don’t want to text him,’ said Michelle. ‘It will do him good to feel that clawing desperation and panic that comes upon you when you’re all alone in the dark with a raging tot.’
‘I had to mind Tom once when he was about Rosie’s age,’ said Patrick, as they walked to the parking lot. ‘You’d think Clare was leaving him at home with a serial killer. I had instructions for everything, written down, with the key points underlined in bold. And phone numbers for every emergency service including the poisons unit.’
‘How did it go?’ Michelle said.
‘Tom and I had a great time,’ said Patrick. ‘Until Clare came home and found me on the couch watching boxing and drinking beer with Tom on my lap. She said I was reinforcing negative gender stereotypes. I pointed out he was asleep. Then I got into ten different kinds of shit, including risk of smothering and conditioning him for pre-teen abuse of alcohol.’
They stopped beside his rental BMW. ‘Come on,’ said Patrick. ‘Let’s save the planet and go in one car. I’ll drop you here on the way back.’
Aishe, sitting in the back with Gulliver, found his proximity almost unbearable. He was relaxed and happy, full of chat, leaning forward so he could talk, mainly to Patrick but also to Michelle, confessing bum notes while bragging about the parts he’d mastered, telling funny stories about his band mates, making oblique references to girls.
Patrick and Michelle were laughing, bantering with Gulliver as they might with each other, with their friends. But Aishe couldn’t see Gulliver as he was. She could only see the vivid images in her mind of him as a baby: such a good sleeper, such a mop of hair; as a toddler, towelling him down after a bath, planting kisses on his peachy skin; as a small boy, triumphantly bringing her flowers he’d quietly purloined from the neighbour’s garden, climbing up on her lap and telling her he loved her because she had pretty hair . . .
Aishe picked at the pizza she’d ordered. She wasn’t even sure where they’d driven to, where this restaurant was. She had no idea how long they’d been in the car. The click-clack, the swaying to and fro of this invisible train she was on had not lessened, but there seemed now to be some inevitability to this journey. It felt that she was racing to some kind of vanishing point, where she might finally stop — or disappear altogether.
It was when Patrick said her name that she knew the point had been reached. It was the way he said it, and the way he was looking at her when she slowly raised her eyes to his.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know you won’t believe this, but I didn’t come here to interfere. I genuinely did come here to see that winery. But when I met Gulliver, talked with him, I, well . . .’ Patrick screwed up his mouth apologetically. ‘I shouldn’t really spring this on you. But if I tell you in private, you’ll say no, I know you will. And I think this isn’t just your decision now. It’s a family decision — you, Gulliver and, well, the rest of your family. Us.’
Aishe could not look at Gulliver, but could sense his eyes on her. There was a pendant silence, as if everyone had drawn in a breath. Which, Aishe supposed, they probably had.
Patrick went on. ‘I talked with Jenico. His daughters have all left home now. Tyso’s still there, but Jenico’s about to kick him out. Anyway — there’s a good private school not too far from there. Not a snooty one, one into arts and music and all that. The family, Jenico, me — we’ll pay the fees. Gulliver can live with Jenico, do a few odd jobs to earn his keep or a bit of busking, whatever. We’ll send him home for the holidays. Or—’ Patrick paused. ‘We’ll fly you over.’
The silence was airless, a vacuum.
‘No,’ said Aishe.
Gulliver made a noise, but Patrick held out his hand to quiet him.
Then he said, ‘Aishe, look—’
‘No,’ she said again. She shook her head: small, distracted movements. ‘No.’
‘The boy wants to go,’ said Patrick, softly. ‘If you keep him here . . .’
She’d regret it, thought Aishe? Regret was such a limp, flavourless word. Grey and flaccid and shrunken. Regret was a feeble, crippled old man in a wheelchair in the path of a twenty-ton juggernaut, a scrap of dry leaf in a kiln. Don’t try to suggest she’d regret anything. Regret wouldn’t even touch the sides.
‘I’m not a charity,’ she said to Patrick. ‘I’ll pay his way.’
She heard Gulliver’s intake of breath, in which there was both shock and triumph.
Patrick frowned. ‘I thought you were a bit strapped?’
Aishe met his eye. ‘I’ll sell the house.’
‘Oh,’ said Gulliver. ‘I like the house . . .’
His voice tailed off as he realised now was an excellent time to keep his mouth shut.
As Aishe turned away from them, to gaze at the restaurant’s far wall, she caught a glimpse of Michelle’s face. Her expression suggested that she was inclined to give Aishe a hug, but was thinking the better of it. If she had been anyone else, Aishe thought, Michelle probably wouldn’t hesitate. But perhaps it was obvious to everyone that all she had left was her little shield of spiky pride, and if she lost that, she might collapse inwards like a punctured balloon and shrivel to nothing before their eyes.
‘Well!’ Michelle clapped her hands.
If an atmosphere needed lifting, Aishe thought wryly, Michelle would be the one to do it. Not diplomatically, but effectively nonetheless.
‘I can’t speak for you good folk,’ Michelle went on. ‘But, by jingo, I could really go for some dessert!’
It was after midnight when Michelle got home. She assumed Chad would be in bed, but he was in the living room, waiting for her. Michelle felt her heart sink.
She flopped down into an armchair and briefly, wearily closed her eyes. Then she opened them, and said, ‘OK. Lay it on me. What’s the next bit of bad news?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Chad said.
‘No guessing games,’ said Michelle. ‘Haven’t the strength. Tell you what?’
‘About my father.’
Slowly, Michelle sat up. ‘You’re freaking kidding me, right?’
Chad’s mouth was compressed, his jaw taut. ‘You should have told me.’
Michelle stared at him for a long, pointed amount of time.
‘Oh boy,’ she said, finally. ‘If I wasn’t so bushed, I’d be yelling now. But I won’t. I’ll stay calm. I’ll spell it out calmly, one word at a time. Here we go. Ready?’
She didn’t wait for an acknowledgement. ‘OK. You told me not to call you except in an emergency. You described an emergency as a matter of life and death. You were, in fact, very specific about that point. Life and death, you said. That is all.
‘Your father is not dying. He may be planning his death, but he’s not actually there yet. Your mother may be near insane with worry but she also is quite firmly alive. I know this because she calls me every day. She calls me because she cannot get hold of you. Because you have consistently refused to take her calls ever since we arrived here. I did not tell you because you told me not to. The life and death thing again. Is there any part of this that is not crystal clear?’
‘I’ve been back since Sunday,’ said Chad. ‘You could have mentioned it between then and now.’
Michelle knew he had a point. She’d kept it from him deliberately because she’d wanted to teach him a lesson. She had been motivated by nothing but petty revenge, and right now that made any moral high ground she may have attained feel shaky.
‘You’ve been at work,’ she said, feeling attack to be the best form of defence. ‘And besides, I only found out about the Viking boat palaver this evening. I haven’t had time to keep it from you.’
Chad turned his head towards the television. The sound was muted, but Michelle immediately recognised a repeat of Inspector Morse. Chad liked Inspector Morse. Liked his moral character.
‘She’s standing by him,’ Chad said.
‘Who?’ Michelle frowned. ‘Your mother? Of course, she is! She has no identity other than that of Mrs Lowell Lawrence! How could she give that up? Who could she possibly be without him?’
‘You don’t think it’s because she loves him?’ said Chad.
Michelle was suddenly wary. She’d had the same feeling a few times before, in arguments with other lawyers — a small, niggling warning that their questions were leading her unwittingly onto dangerous ground, wherein lay hidden mines or a bandit horde waiting to ambush.
‘I’d like to see you have this conversation with her,’ said Michelle.
‘She wants us to go over there for Thanksgiving,’ said Chad.
‘Thanksgiving! Holy cow. I’d forgotten all about it.’ Michelle sank back in her seat, then sat bolt upright again. ‘That’s next week!’
‘Yes,’ said Chad. ‘A week today.’ He checked his watch. ‘Yesterday.’
‘What did you say to her?’ said Michelle.
‘I said I’d talk to you.’
Michelle felt a wave of fury. ‘Could you not take responsibility just once!’
‘I know what my responsibilities are, Michelle. And I’ve not reneged on any of them.’ Chad’s voice was low and measured, but there was a distinct tremor of anger in it.
He stood, ready to walk out of the room. ‘But I’m not sure whether my definition of responsibility and yours agree.’