Page 30 of The Notecard
I push the button to open the front door.
Fuck.
‘Please be nice. It’s Dad’s birthday.’
‘I think I know when it’s Tony’s birthday, Megs. We’ve been married for thirty-one years.’
‘I know, Mum, I just meant…’
‘I think I know what you meant, Megs.’
This. Is. Horrible.
Laura is going to have a field day with this. I couldn’t even organise a party for Dad’s birthday without fucking it up. I hear their voices. Dad, Laura, and Simon. I look at Mum. I don’t know why, but she’s wearing a shirt that’s buttoned down so far, her boobs are visible. It’s a little more than suggestive. It’s suggesting that you should look at her boobs. It’s aggressively chesty. She’s also wearing a short denim skirt. Mum has good legs and can just about pull it off. I wonder what she’s playing at. Did she know about the party and decide to be a party crasher? The door to my flat is open and Dad walks in first, closely followed by Laura, and then lastly Simon.
‘Dad! Happy birthday!’ I say as cheerfully as I can. As if by some miracle it might make Mum disappear. It doesn’t.
‘What’s she doing here?’ says Dad.
‘Charming as always, Tony,’ says Mum.
Laura is giving me daggers. This might be the worst birthday in history. I don’t even think the hummus selection is going to save it. Fuck.
Nick
It’s May, and this year it will be the ten-year anniversary of Dad’s death. I know logically that it’s just an arbitrary date. It’s no different than it was last month or the month before that. It’s just more time that Dad has been gone. But there is something significant about ten years. It feels like it should mean something solid. Ten years. Mum and I haven’t spoken about it. We have no plans to do something special. We’ll visit the cemetery as we always do, but other than that life will carry on as normal. We’ll go to his grave, pay our respects, lay some flowers, and then spend the day in the pub. Mum and I have done the same thing religiously every year. It’s the one day I always get off work. I’m torn between wanting to mark the occasion with something meaningful, and just getting on with life because no matter what we do, Dad is gone and nothing will bring him back.
Molly rang yesterday and said she wanted to spend the day together. Needed to or she was literally going to burst. Those were her actual words. We’ve gradually been spending more and more time together. It started with that drink. A drink and then we slept together. A few drinks, the comforting ease at which we picked up again as if nothing had happened, was enough to get us into bed. After that (and without talking about it) we started seeing each other again. I don’t even know if it’s what I want. If she’s what I want. I know I’m being awfully shallow, but it’s easy with Molly. She’s always there when I want her, and she doesn’t complain when I’m working because she’s always working too. The sex is good, and I have things to do on my nights off. Molly is always at a bar or a restaurant after work. She works in PR and her life and her career sort of merge into one. It’s all about being social. Being out. Being seen. Molly gives me a reason to be out there too, and I like that. I feel like I’m actually living and a part of London. It’s easy when I’m just going to work and going home to feel like I only live in a two-mile radius. Work. Home. Work. Home. Sometimes Tesco. Molly changes that and I find myself dashing off to a new brewery in Battersea or an art gallery opening in Whitechapel. Her doctor boyfriend. The problem with Molly is that I don’t get the feelings. When I’m around Meg, I get butterflies in my stomach. I feel sick and my head gets fuzzy. With Molly it’s just easy. She doesn’t challenge me, and I suppose there’s something to be said for that.
Molly is laying on my bed. Since the last time we were dating, she’s had her dark hair cut shorter. It looks good. She’s in matching black underwear and she’s lying on her side, her head resting on her hand. She looks sexy. Molly is naturally thin. She eats horribly, hardly ever works out, and yet she’s skinny. She knows it annoys other girls, and she’s always referencing it. How she can eat whatever she wants and just can’t put on weight. As if it’s a millstone around her neck. Her biggest burden. Oh, poor Molly, she just can’t put on weight. She has a small tattoo of a snake on her left leg, just above her ankle. She has another tattoo behind her left ear of a circle. It represents life, she told me once. On our first date, actually.
It’s hard for me to focus on Molly or anything else today because something has happened. There’s a job in Nottingham. I heard about it from a friend of mine. Tom, he works in obs and gynae up there. We trained together. It isn’t just a job, it’s a promotion. I’d be a consultant. It’s what happens after the gruelling years of being a junior doctor. Nine years I’ve been training for this. Nine of the hardest years of my life. Being a consultant means more money, more responsibility, and it’s what I’ve been working towards. Eventually it will happen at my hospital, but there’s a position in Nottingham now. It’s a chance to start over. To move on up. The only problem is that it’s in Nottingham. But I keep thinking that maybe that’s a good thing. I can’t afford to buy a house in London, anyway. I’d have to move out at some point and then commute in. Hertfordshire, probably. I have nothing keeping me here but Mum, and maybe a fresh start is what I need. A new life in Nottingham. I talked to Tom a few days ago and I need to apply for it soon. He said he’d put in a good word for me. I just need to decide whether it’s something I want. Nottingham or bust?
‘We could have sex again,’ Molly says with a suggestive smile.
She unclips her bra. One breast falls loose. A small, dark nipple. I’m about to say that maybe we could do something else because we already had sex once this morning, and it’s almost the afternoon when her mobile rings. She leans down and picks it up from the bed.
‘Fuck, it’s Coco,’ says Molly, and she doesn’t wait for me to say anything before she answers. ‘Coco, what’s up?’
She’s sitting up with one breast in and one breast out of her bra. I’m just watching her. She nods and her face changes to one of annoyance and frustration as Coco speaks. Coco is a new girl at Molly’s PR office and is apparently useless. I’ve only heard bad things about Coco.
‘Jesus Christ, Coco, it’s not that difficult to coordinate an event like this. It’s basic stuff. It’s PR 101. A no fucking brainer. It’s exactly what I said. Yeah, like one hundred percent. You’ve got this. Move the mountain, Coco. Right. Just do it. Like Nike, yeah. Totally.’
I hear Molly have these sorts of conversations all the time, and I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s gibberish.
‘Right, gotta go, Coco. Literally topless, about to bang the BF. Yeah. Don’t mess it up. It’s a big one. Don’t screw the pooch, Coco. Right, yeah, see you, bye.’
Molly hangs up and throws her mobile back on the bed.
‘Bang the BF?’ I say.
‘Am I wrong?’ says Molly with a smile.
‘Actually, do you mind if we don’t?’ I say, sitting up.
She disappointedly clips her bra back up again.
‘What’s wrong, Nicky?’
