Page 45 of Maybe
Four days and fourteen hours in without a cigarette, I felt on edge and was unaccustomed to it. Isaac was at work, no doubt bestowing that diffident smile on some other bugger undeserving of it, instead of on me. I pictured him, chewing on his lip as he examined an X-ray or a set of blood results, and laughed to myself. I’d given up one addiction only to replace it with another—loving Isaac.
I studied the grand house. Why was I putting myself through this? Isaac didn’t know I was here. I might have urged him to draw a line under what had gone before, but taking my own advice was tough, even if most of the time I pretended to be unaffected. But our damaged selves didn’t stay in the past. Mine hid all around me, deep within the layers of today. As much as I wanted things to be otherwise, my childhood was tucked into the back of my heart, its sting coming and going, but never fading for good, no matter how often I swallowed it down. And I’d bet my life it would faithfully escort me into my future too. Even Jonty and the love of a good man wouldn’t get rid of the fucker that easily.
But though I was destined to always be a bitter, twisted old sod, Isaac didn't need to be. No way would I put up with him endlessly wibbling on about the brothers-can’t-be-lovers thing, or awkwardly slipping out to visit his mother when he didn’t think I was around. I’d decided to put a stop to it. Starting right here. Right now. With bloody Janice.
I began with buying a bunch of flowers. Not a massive bouquet—the price of cut flowers was astronomical. They all fucking perished after a week in a vase of water, anyhow, whether a cheap spray of carnations or a bunch of perfect Juliet roses.
She opened the door with a face like the postman had deposited a turd on the doormat.
“Morning.” I thrust the flowers towards her. “My behaviour at the memorial service was unacceptable. I apologise.”
An uncomfortable few seconds of silence ensued, the flowers dangling between us. “You’ve got a nerve, coming here.”
“Yes,” I conceded. “But then you had a fair bit of nerve being as nice as pie to my mum all those years you were shagging her husband.”Way to go, Ezra.Great start to a friendly resumption of relations. “Generously, I’ll consider us even.”
At least she didn’t slam the front door in my face. Instead, she turned on her heel and marched towards the kitchen. The cheap chrysanths avoided the bin, but only because she’d have had to ask me to move out of the way and didn’t fancy getting that close.
The view from the kitchen window hit me hard, mirroring the one from my childhood bedroom on the floor above. As Janice made a fuss of carelessly dropping the flowers in the sink, I was once again sprawled on my bed. Though I gazed out, I saw nothing, Dad’s voice droning like a propeller in my ear.Your mother’s funeral is tomorrow, Ezra. We’re not going to make a big deal of it. We’re having a simple service down at the crematorium. Family flowers only.
Whoever said nostalgia blunted the unpleasant, roughened edge of childhood hadn’t grown up in this bloody house. Painful memories beating inside me like a second heart, I accepted Janice’s begrudging offer of tea. I took up a stool at the breakfast bar, next to the same flowery biscuit tin that had always sat there. It looked as enticing as ever, like it should hold tempting shortbread fingers or other, equally delicious, sweet treats. As a hungry teen, I’d been perennially disappointed with low-salt crackers.
It took me a minute or two to pick up on it, but I’d watched Janice make tea on autopilot hundreds of times. Something about her was off. She’d aged, of course, like everyone, but she was still only late fifties, sixtyish. Unscrewing the lid of the tea caddy, she peered inside—evidently empty—then closed it again. The tinny lid rattled as she misaligned it. Changing tack, she stood in front of the sink for a moment before turning the tap, as if unfamiliar with the task.
A glass tumbler of water sat at my elbow, next to today’s copy of theDaily Mailand a pair of reading glasses. As she fumbled with the kettle, her back turned, I gave the liquid a quick sniff. Then dipped my finger in, to be sure, and checked the time. Yep, still only barely after ten.
“You not having a cuppa, Janice?” I enquired, as she pulled out a single mug, then ferreted at the back of a cupboard for teabags. Once, Twining's Earl Grey ran through her veins, when the kettle barely had time to cool between cups.
“Why? Hoping for a tea party?” she said, sourly.
Recovered from my initial apprehension, I studied her properly. The parts I used to detest were still present: basically, she was a cut-price version of my mother. But her dishwater blonde hair, historically blow dried by a woman called Sandra on Tuesdays and Fridays, sported grey roots. A small orange stain marred the front of her blouse, where it used to be immaculate. Her manicure was chipped.
“If you’re here to apologise, Ezra, then you’d better repeat it to Michael, Vanessa, Charlie and Jemima.” With a vinegary expression, she rattled off names familiar from my childhood—my father’s colleagues and family friends. She plonked a drink in front of me. “And Isaac, of course.”
Before answering, I sipped, trying not to grimace. The worst cup of tea not simply in my life, but possibly since the inventionof agriculture. “Isaac’s cool. We’ve been seeing a lot of each other since the memorial service. And getting on as well as ever.”
Her pursed lips told me that stung. “No wonder he’s being difficult, with you whispering in his ear. You’re here to ask for money, I take it?”
“No. I have enough to provide for Jonty.”
She frowned. “How old is he now. Nine? Ten?”
“Do you care?”
Her glassy gaze slid to the half full glass, closer to me than her. “Do you see him regularly, or pay child maintenance?”
“He lives with me.” The touch of pride in my voice was unmistakable. “Always has done.”
She nodded. “And has Isaac met him?”
“Briefly. He will, properly, when the school holidays come around. Isaac doesn’t have a lot of time.”
“I hope you’re not interrupting him from work.” That vinegary look returned. “Like you used to. This is an important time for him—he doesn’t need a distraction like you turning up at all hours. He was exhausted at the memorial service. All those hours he works and his exams to study for.” She nodded to herself again. “He’ll make a good cardiac surgeon with that attitude.”
The woman sounded like a bloody robot. And she was slurring. “You think?” I didn't attempt to hide my irritation. “You don’t think maybe he’s struggling under the heft of all that expectation and could do with a bit of support?”
“What I think is you have no right to come into my house and tell me how to parent my own son. And you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“To make friends,” I said, acidly. “Can’t you tell?” As I slipped off the bar stool, I pushed the glass ofwaterover to her. “And I would go a bit steadier on this stuff, babe, if I was you. Makes your hands all wobbly.” A thought occurred to me. “Or is thiswhy you’re avoiding your own son? Don’t want him to know your hobby has got out of hand? Spoiler alert: he’s already guessed.”
