22

I don’t know how many times I can tell her, thought Michelle, and in how many different ways. She simply refuses to comprehend.

‘Virginia.’ She spoke firmly enough to break her mother-in-law’s flow. ‘Chad will not be returning anyone’s personal calls for another two weeks. Not yours. Not Lowell’s. Not even mine.’

‘But I left a message at his office.’

‘And there it will stay. Unanswered. For another two weeks.’

‘Surely,’ Virginia persisted, ‘if he is at work, then he must be contactable.’

‘Not by us.’

‘But I must speak to him.’

Even on the far side of the country, Michelle could feel her mother-in-law’s distress.

Join the club, she thought, then regretted it as unnecessarily heartless. Just because she was pissed off with Chad for being a gigantic dickhead, that was no reason to take it out on his mother. OK, so she did play some part in raising him — but then, Michelle was hardly that confident about how her own kids would turn out.

‘Is it something I can help with?’ Michelle asked.

‘Oh!’

Virginia sounded taken aback by the offer. Fair enough, thought Michelle. It was not like she’d been the greatest daughter-in-law thus far.

‘Oh, no.’ Virginia rallied herself. ‘Thank you, but — no.’

‘Is everything all right with Lowell?’ asked Michelle.

There was silence on the line. At least, that’s what Michelle thought at first. But then she detected a small sound, a dampish, muffled choking noise.

‘Virginia! Are you crying?’ Michelle gripped the receiver more tightly. ‘Jesus! What’s wrong?’

In her head, she swore furiously. Chad, you shit-wad! It isn’t just me you’ve abandoned. If you wanted to find out what it feels like to abdicate all responsibility, why didn’t you do it when you were freaking sixteen, like everyone else?

‘Virginia?’ she said. ‘Is Lowell ill again?’

‘No.’ The answer was barely audible.

‘No?’ Michelle was perplexed. ‘Well, what then?’ A thought struck her. ‘Christ! Virginia! He hasn’t left you, has he?’

‘Certainly not!’ The effrontery of the suggestion galvanised Virginia out of tears. ‘Lowell has never so much as looked at another woman.’

Right, thought Michelle. Sure. Whatever. But if it wasn’t adultery, and it wasn’t illness, than what the hell could be wrong?

‘I’m not sure if I feel comfortable discussing this.’ There was an uncertain quaver in her mother-in-law’s voice.

‘I’m married to your son and heir,’ Michelle pointed out. ‘I’m not the second scullery maid.’

‘Oh, dear …’ Virginia took a deep, shaky breath.’ I simply have no idea where to begin.’

Michelle glanced over at the living room. Harry was in front of the television, engrossed in Wonder Pets. Rosie was in her playpen, happily bashing together her Tickle Me Elmo and a hand-me-down Barney that had seen better days even before Rosie had got her hands on him.

‘Forget the prologue. Jump right to the action,’ Michelle advised her mother-in-law. ‘Trust me. It’s the only way.’

Half an hour later, she was just hanging up the phone when she heard the rattle of a key in the front door. Rapid footsteps heralded the arrival of a flustered Benedict.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late!’ he said.

‘Oh.’ Michelle checked her watch. ‘I hadn’t even noticed.’

‘I overslept. I’m sorry,’ Benedict pressed on. ‘I assure you it won’t happen again.’

Michelle held up her hands. ‘Chill,’ she said. ‘You’re late by fifteen freaking minutes. Hardly grounds for instant dismissal.’ She checked her watch again. ‘Nine-fifteen. At least seven hours too early to hit the booze. Bad luck. There’s nothing I’d like more right now than a big jug of margarita. And one glass, with my name on it.’

Benedict, Michelle noted, had gone a bit green at this suggestion. ‘Don’t tell me that’s the reason for missing the alarm. Did you get hammered last night?’

Expelling a long breath, Benedict pulled out a chair and sank down into it. ‘I don’t even drink,’ he said, ‘but last night I was driven to it.’

‘You don’t drink?’ Michelle pulled out a second chair and joined him at the table.

‘Is that bad?’

‘Unusual. For a guy your age, I mean.’

‘I’m not a teetotaller,’ he said. ‘I just — had a very bad experience once, and decided to limit it to — well, to special occasions.’

‘And last night was special?’

‘Oh my God.’ He dragged both hands slowly down his face. ‘You have no idea.’

Michelle regarded him for a moment. ‘Feel up to walking?’ she said.

He hesitated. ‘If I must.’

‘There’ll be coffee at the end of it. And breakfast. I’m buying.’

Benedict went green again. ‘Food? Thank you, but no. Coffee? Absolutely.’

Michelle got to her feet, walked around and patted him on the shoulder.

‘You’ll change your mind once we get there,’ she told him. ‘There’s only one real cure for a hangover and that’s fried grease. Trust me,’ she added, ‘it’s the only way.’

 

‘Xavier recommends the chorizo and eggs,’ Michelle told Benedict as she handed him his coffee. ‘With plenty of Tabasco. Says it’ll cure your hangover, no problem, along with any other ailment you might happen to have.’

Benedict had settled Rosie in the highchair and given her her plastic hammer, which had a rubbery end that squeaked every time you hit it against a firm surface. Rosie loved her hammer, wielding it with such force that it often went catapulting out of her hand. This morning, the café was quite full and Benedict knew he would need to be vigilant if he wanted to prevent Rosie’s flying hammer connecting with any of their fellow patrons. It had happened before — hit a semi-retired real estate agent right in the hair plugs. The man had begun to puff and bluster about suing until Michelle had bent and whispered a few words in his ear. He’d then crumpled as swiftly and completely as if he’d been an empty soda can crushed beneath her heel. You couldn’t help being impressed, Benedict had felt, just as you couldn’t avoid a strong urge to place both hands over your crotch.

Harry had his colouring book, and was slowly and methodically filling in the blank spaces with felt pen. He had no sense of what colour should go where, Benedict observed, which meant his finished pictures resembled the more lurid Warhol prints, but he was a genius at staying inside the lines. Benedict wondered what Harry might end up doing for a living. Either a micro-surgeon, Benedict decided, or one of those men who spend their lives hunched over in a garden shed painting vast armies of model soldiers.

‘Oh, look,’ said Michelle. ‘There’s my landlord.’

Benedict glanced towards the door. ‘The barmy biker’s your landlord?’

Michelle was amused. ‘You two have met?’

‘Hola!’

The tall Spaniard chucked Rosie’s cheek. Rosie beamed and held up her hammer. ‘My!’

‘Why yes! It is yours. May I?’

To Michelle’s surprise, Rosie gave up her hammer willingly to Angel, who proceeded to wield it like a cigar, while beaming manically and making googly Groucho Marx eyes. Rosie let out a delighted shriek, which while not attaining the pitch of her angry outbursts was still enough to make an approaching Xavier almost tip chorizo and eggs onto Benedict’s lap.

Xavier recovered his poise and placed the plates safely on the table. He straightened up and crossed himself. ‘Madre de dio!’ they heard him say as he walked off.

‘Yes, she is full of fire this one,’ said Angel. ‘Much like the object of desire of the hot young lover here.’

Benedict threw Michelle a pleading glance — which she ignored.

‘As it happens, we were just about to discuss the hot young lover’s personal life,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you join us?’

‘With regret, I cannot,’ said Angel. ‘Malcolm and I, we are here to give the counsel to our friend Ron, who is on the horns of a financial dilemma.’

‘Indeed.’ Malcolm appeared at Angel’s shoulder. ‘Of course, we have no intention of actually offering any useful advice. We are here simply to enjoy watching Ron squirm.’

Michelle smiled. ‘There is something to be said for that.’

‘Thank you,’ said Benedict, under his breath.

‘In any way, our advice would do no good,’ said Angel. ‘Ron — he suffer from this most Jewish of curses, the fear of making a wrong decision. He prefer to squirm on the horn than to leap off one way or another. It is uncomfortable, but not so painful as failure.’

‘That’s because unlike you Catholics,’ said Malcolm, ‘we Jews don’t believe in second chances. We can’t run to Jesus and hide in his skirts.’

‘I think you make mockery of beautiful religion,’ said Angel. ‘But I forgive you. Jesus forgive you. Jesus’ mother Mary forgive you. If God choose to smite you still, you cannot say we did not try.’

‘That reminds me of a joke,’ said Malcolm. ‘Two Jewish mothers are walking down the street. One says, “My son, he is seeing a psychiatrist. Psychiatrist says he has an Oedipus complex.” “Oedipus Schmoedipus,” says the other. “So long as he loves his mother.”’

‘That’s terrible,’ said Benedict. ‘Though admittedly not as bad as the one about the Basques.’

‘Could be worse,’ said Michelle. ‘Could have been the one about the identical twins.’

Benedict frowned. ‘What is this identical twins joke?’

‘Ah!’ said Angel. ‘Here is Ron.’

A slightly built man in his late fifties was in the café doorway. He was dressed entirely in shades of brown, and was squinting around through a large pair of glasses. The impression was that of a fledgling owl that had been tipped abruptly out of the nest.

‘He look very anxious already,’ said Angel to Malcolm.

‘God is good,’ said Malcolm.

And the two walked off to greet the man in the doorway.

‘Is he really your landlord?’

‘He is,’ said Michelle. ‘He owns several properties around here, and a café in Puerto Vallarta. He also has a small but profitable sideline in second-hand cars.’

‘Not to mention very strange taste in bicycles,’ said Benedict, ‘and a slight but pronounced sadistic streak.’

‘No, that’s all talk,’ said Michelle. ‘They’re the best of friends. They’ll give Ron exactly what he needs — a chance to vent. They will tease him, for sure, but he needs that too. Angel believes people take themselves and their problems way too seriously. “Let it out and lighten up” is his approach. He’s kind of like a Spanish Dr Phil.’

Benedict pushed the scrambled egg around his plate before giving up and setting down his fork. He leaned back in his chair, only to find Michelle was fixing him with a stare.

‘Must I?’ he said.

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m still not entirely comfortable talking about Aishe behind her back.’

‘Won’t you feel better if you tell someone?’ said Michelle.

Reluctantly, Benedict nodded.

‘And do you have anyone to tell besides me? No? Well, then.’

Benedict looked pointedly at Harry. ‘Some of it may not be suitable for small ears.’

‘That’s the reason we invented the euphemism,’ said Michelle. ‘Just avoid the ones about trains in tunnels, and we’ll be fine.’

 

On the way back, with Benedict in charge of Rosie’s stroller and Harry preferring to hold his hand, not his mother’s, Michelle was free to dawdle along, staring up through the canopy of trees at the bright blue-white sky.

‘This place reminds me of home,’ she said. ‘New Zealand, I mean, not Charlotte. It’s the light, I think. The way it makes everything absolutely pin-sharp right to the horizon.’

‘Greece has light like this, too,’ said Benedict. ‘Makes you believe you can see for thousands of miles. Whereas in England,’ he added, ‘you’re lucky if you can see to the end of the street.’

‘I always thought the landscapes in my mother’s Constable prints were soft-edged because that was more painterly,’ said Michelle. ‘But no, that’s what it’s really like. Like the whole country’s shrouded in a giant tea-cosy.’

Benedict glanced at her. ‘You said your mother. No father?’

‘I have a father,’ said Michelle. ‘He lives in Canada. He left us when I was twelve.’

‘What was that like?’ said Benedict. ‘If you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I don’t. I’ve actually been thinking about it. I’ve never bothered to do that before now, so it’s a new experience.’

Michelle glanced down to see if Harry was listening. He had dropped Benedict’s hand and was concentrating instead on a horse chestnut that he’d picked up from the pavement, tapping it with a fingernail to see how hard it was. She lowered her voice anyway.

‘I started wondering what would happen if these two were left fatherless. How might that change them? How might it change me? I wasn’t at all bothered when Dad buggered off, but I suspect that was mostly due to the fact he had never really been more than a background figure anyway. A nice enough man, my father, but not exactly present, if you know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ said Benedict. ‘Mine was the opposite. You felt his presence even when he wasn’t there.’

‘He sounds interesting.’

‘That’s certainly one way to describe him.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Last year.’

‘Here?’

‘No,’ replied Benedict slowly. ‘As it happens, in a Moroccan brothel.’

‘Snap!’ said Michelle. ‘No, just kidding. It was a Starbucks in Vancouver. In 1998. We had absolutely nothing to say to each other.’

‘Our conversation,’ said Benedict, ‘was also somewhat limited.’

‘Lucky for you, I feel I’ve dragged enough personal information out of you today,’ said Michelle. ‘Otherwise I’d demand that you tell me more. But in the meantime, this goes back to my point. Your dad clearly had — and still has — a big impact on you. Whereas mine had no influence at all over my sense of self. I didn’t need him emotionally. So I didn’t miss him. Simple as that.’

‘Did your mother feel the same?’

‘She missed being respectably married,’ said Michelle. ‘I’m not sure she ever missed her husband.’

‘But you’d miss yours,’ Benedict said. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

Michelle hesitated. ‘He’s gone off because he’s not sure what he wants,’ she said, ‘which, for me, has raised one huge, hairy-arsed question. Even if he comes back happy and things go back to exactly the way they were, I now know how vulnerable I am. I thought being a wife and mother was all I wanted, but now I know I can’t guarantee that’s all I’ll ever be. And if I can’t be that, what else is there?’

‘Is that the hairy question?’

‘No,’ said Michelle. ‘The hairy question is this: whatever I do, I have to commit to one hundred percent. But how can I recommit wholeheartedly to the wife and mother gig when I know now that it might end at any moment? I’ve never had a Plan B before — it’s been Plan A or nothing, with failure not an option. And the way I do things, having Plan A and Plan B will be like straddling two speeding locomotives, one foot on each, and praying that they’ll just keep on running in the same direction.’