Page 45 of We All Live Here
Lila arrives in the hallway and pauses on the last step. Penelope is sitting on a chair beside Bill, her hand on the piano music—she must have been in the middle of turning a page. Gene is standing in a leather jacket and jeans, his shoulders back and his legs slightly apart, a stance he only ever seems to use with Bill. Bill gets up, pushing the piano stool back on the tiled floor so that the wheels squeak.
“This really is too much. You cannot just help yourself to a man’s socks!”
Gene ignores him and switches his attention to Penelope. He bows theatrically, and holds out a huge hand. Penelope, unsure what to do, gives him her tiny slim one.
“Gene Kennedy, as Old Bill here is apparently too rude to introduce us. Delighted to meet you.”
Penelope, as all women do faced with the full force of Gene’s charm, blinks hard and smiles back, fluttering a little. Gene takes slightly too long to release her fingers and a slow pink flush stains her collarbone. “Penelope Stockbridge,” she says.
“I’m Lila’s father.”
This news obviously throws her a little, and she lets out a little “Oh!” of surprise. It certainly throws Bill, who sits down heavily on the piano stool and says crossly, “Do you mind? We’re in the middle of a piano lesson.”
“You’re the one who stopped it, pal. I’m just trying to be polite. Hey, Penelope, do you ever watch television? You may know me from—”
“Just stop helping yourself to my socks! And if you have any others hidden in that hovel you call a room, I’d be grateful if you’d bring them downstairs.”
“They’re just socks, Bill. Jeez. I’ve never heard anyone get their panties in a bunch about a pair of socks before. Here, I’ll trade you one of my Grateful Dead T-shirts if it bothers you that much. Don’t you think a T-shirt would loosen him up a little, Penelope? Lovely to meet you by the way. That’s a very pretty dress. I sure hope you come by again soon.”
Penelope flushes even more deeply, her fingers now unconsciously stroking the base of her throat. Bill sits very still on the piano stool, a tiny vein pulsing in his temple. Gene, having clearly decided he has won this particular battle, waits a moment, beaming, then saunters down to the kitchen. “Oh, hey, Lila! Had a good day, sweetheart?”
Every interaction between her two fathers, Lila has noticed, has lately morphed into a battle situation with a winner and a loser. Gene is the usual victor, a master manipulator at skewing any exchange to his advantage, his weapons natural charm and a visceral awareness of anyone’s weakness. She is not even sure he knows he’s doing it. Bill, who struggles with communication at the best of times, is often reduced to spluttering fury although he’s usually in the right. But she has only limited sympathy because it’s like living with two particularly recalcitrant toddlers. And if she challenges them, they will inevitably deny that there is a problem.
I didn’t do anything. If Bill has an issue it’s nothing to do with me.
Lila, I leave that man(Bill rarely calls him Gene)to do as he wishes. I’m just trying to mind my own business.
Both behave fractionally better in the presence of the girls: it is as if they’re in unspoken competition for their affections, and therefore aware that they shouldn’t be in open conflict in front of them. Gene has clearly won over Violet with their nightlyStar Squadron Zeroepisodes, and has made some headway with Celie since the evening in Soho. But Celie is old enough to understand what Bill has been to them, and inoculated with sixteen years of love from Bill and her grandmother, so is likely to be found sitting with him in what remains of the garden, or playing with the dog near him (she doesn’t talk much) while he chops vegetables for supper.
One unexpected outcome of her two house guests is that Celie tends to come down for supper most evenings instead of claiming she is not hungry and is staying in her room. It is as if their constant bickering is a form of distraction for her, taking her away from her thoughts—or perhaps it simply takes attention away from Celie: instead of relentlessly asking Celie what on earth is wrong, or trying to make sure she eats something, Lila is usually engaged in diplomatic discussions over whether chips can be counted as a vegetable, or whether Bill’s bust ofVirginia Woolf makes her look like she just had her arse squeezed behind Walmart.
“You really do play awfully well,” Penelope murmurs to Bill, leaning back in her chair so she can look at him as she speaks. “Your finger positioning is excellent.”
This seems to restore Bill’s good humor. “You’re very kind,” he says, his smile unexpected and sweet. “I have to say I’m rather enjoying the discipline of practicing every day.”
“I wish all my pupils were like you,” she says, and blushes again.
Lila watches them until they notice she’s there, then mutters something about tea and disappears into the kitchen.Everyone, she thinks,absolutely everyone is moving on apart from me.
And then,Something has togive.
Chapter Fifteen
He was dark-haired, with a slight Spanish accent, and when I walked into the bar, I saw him sitting at the table and was so nervous I nearly turned and walked out again. And then I heard my best friend’s voice in my ear. Come on, Lila, I told myself. You have to get out there again. Just treat it as an experiment.
Easy to say, but when you’re forty-two and have been in a monogamous relationship (at least on your side) for most of your adult life this is easier said than done. I had spent two hours getting ready, shaving legs that were positively Yeti-like, blow-drying my hair, and carefully applying makeup. I tried on and discarded seven different outfits, afraid that I looked too prim, too brassy, like I was trying too hard, or wasn’t trying hard enough. It was actual decades since I had been on a date. But it wasn’t what was going on on the outside that was the real challenge, it was my internal self: frightened of being judged by a strange man and found wanting, after my confidence had taken such a bashing; anxious that the date would go badly, and theconversation would dry up. I was basically terrified he would make a pass at me, and equally terrified that he wouldn’t.
Juan had been fun on the chats we had had online through the dating app. He was a lawyer. He had been divorced—amicably—for six years. He had had two relationships in that period, one serious, one not. He described himself as someone looking for “fun and companionship” and joked that this was his first time on an app and that he had put down the blandest thing possible because he genuinely didn’t know what to write.
“Lila,” he said, standing to greet me. His smile was so warm and his accent was so delicious that it made something in me give way. This, I told myself, was going to be okay.
We talked for two hours. I don’t usually drink, but had a glass of wine to steady my nerves. And then another because I was actually enjoying myself. And maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten, or perhaps it was his charm and his good conversation, but when he suggested we continue the evening at his place, I thought,Why not?He seemed like a nice person—he had shown me photographs on his phone of his children, his dog, his parents—he had given me his business card. He felt like someone I already knew. And as we left the bar, and he gently steered me to the taxi, his hand on the small of my back, something happened. I could feel the charge, the heat of his body against mine. I realized I wanted to be closer to this man.
From the moment we got into the taxi, everything changed. He started to kiss me—tenderly and then with increasing fervor. I might usually have been self-conscious in a taxi but I wanted it too. I let go of my anxiety, forgot everything that was around me, everything except his skin, his hands, his mouth. His kisses grew deep, punishing. I felt my body, pressed back against the seat, jolted by bolts of electricity
Lila stops, her hands on the keyboard. She stares at the blinking cursor. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she mutters. And presses delete.
There was little about Michael that would suggest how the evening was going to play out. On the outside, he seemed conventional. He worked in IT. He was younger than me, quiet and easy-going. He was tall, with the kind of broad shoulders that speak of regular gym attendance and an unassuming manner. We met for a meal at an Italian restaurant near my house and I realized I was doing most of the talking, which would normally have put me off. But there was something about the way he watched me, absolutely intently, that made me curious. Not just curious, a little aroused. It was as we left the restaurant, that he leaned over and murmured into my ear: “How do you feel about BDSM?”
