Chapter Fourteen
Misery Really Does Love Company
After Mr Lemane’s party James was constantly on channel F for frown. He edged away if I passed within an inch and tried to avoid being alone with me. Did he regret our dance and the revelations that had followed? Or had he hashed out the past with Francesca and now blamed me for exposing her deceit? I didn’t want to believe James could be so unfair, but where I was concerned I feared that he could.
I preferred to think one of our snooty clients complained about me. I had become pretty nifty at “tax liability minimisation” procedures but I found myself triple-checking everything I did. Of course, being James, he was as pedantic about supervising my work as ever. My tolerance threshold for supercilious lawyers is low at the best of times and his cool broodiness was seriously testing me.
I’d had to come up with a plan of action so James would look at me like he had after the party, frank and open. I told myself that I wanted him to speak to me only because of Ryan and my mind grumbled uneasily. I ignored her. My desire to see Ryan was strong and my purpose clear. Penetrating looks and sudden frowns weren’t going to knock me off target.
James looked up from his desk and I turned away, almost getting caught staring. I shrugged off my awkwardness and decided to put my plan into action.
Step One: Elicit friendly, relaxed James via non-confrontational topic of conversation.
I didn’t make it to Step Two.
What the hell did he want from me? I had tried joking with him but I should have known better since I’m crap at being funny. Next I talked about films but James belongs to an alternate reality where there’s no such thing as a cinema. Finally, I resorted to the weather.
No change.
My strange melancholy grew heavier, filling my days with hopelessness. I didn’t need or want to cross-examine myself because it could only mean one thing: I was never going to hold my son again or be a part of his life.
I watched James smile and talk with Velma and fumed. You won’t talk to me but dancing is okay? Flirting with me, pressing against me and making me breathless?
Oh for crap’s sake!
I had to do something, but what? The old Paisley would have cut to the chase, taunted James into revealing what his problem was and laughed if he insulted her. That brash eighteen-year-old girl was still a part of who I was, but she now shared space with someone else entirely. Someone I couldn’t layer with toughness or paint with indifference. My only hope was that she wouldn’t sprout from my body and show herself to James.
Vulnerable and afraid.
I had run out of ideas to break the communication barrier but there was no way I’d do the new African magic that Kahlu suggested. Although...
No, it was out of the question.
It’s called “secret weapon” and she swore it worked but she also stressed that it should be used with extreme caution. My cheeks got hot as I remembered Kahlu’s advice. She’d been at the checkout counter, swathed in an African tribal print of black on yellow, her face kind as she asked me why I looked so glum. When I told her she’d clucked sympathetically.
Her yellow plastic bracelets hit the counter as she leaned in to give me advice, glancing at where her husband, Remy, was restocking pot noodles.
“You find de tea leaves your boss likes de most,” she said, sotto voce. “And then you make ‘eem a cup.”
I was disappointed. “That’s it?”
She looked at Remy and back again, leaning in further. I met her halfway.
Her voice was a whisper. “You strain ‘ees tea through your knickers.”
My mouth dropped open, my face grew hot and I burst into giggles. Kahlu tapped me on the hand like a mother would a disrespectful child.
“Your boss will become addicted to you and eager to make you happy. That is how I got my Remy to propose.”
“You are shi—kidding me, right?”
“I had to beat de man off with a stick. Ee was so hot for me.”
“No sugar magic?”
She straightened and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Only de natural honey should sweeten this tea.”
So now I couldn’t help it. Every time James had a cuppa of his poncy Harrods tea leaves I imagined him sipping Paisley Tips, getting on all fours and panting after me like a randy dog. I would titter and he would frown and sip, sip, sip his tea.
Today I felt positive. A satisfied client of James’s had gifted us with two tickets each to Les Miserables on Saturday and I was planning to sort of, maybe, kind of in a roundabout way ask James if we could meet there. Not a date, mind, just two people who share a son watching a play so we could talk about said son.
Every time I was about to broach the subject the phone would ring or Greg would come back from a meeting and demand my attention. Finally we were alone, James munching on my Hobnobs and talking on his mobile to someone called Vanessa. She was staying in London for the weekend and he was sending the chauffeur to Heathrow to pick up her up. I turned up the volume on Classic FM—James’s station of choice—and didn’t listen to their conversation.
Hold on a fu...fudging minute, James was making dinner for this Vanessa woman? I glared at my screen until the little black letters merged together. Caroline had never said anything about James cooking, had she? Was he one of those smooth-talking “come to my place and I’ll feed you some meat” types? And where was Ryan when James was seducing women?
Ignoring his son so he could have sex wasn’t right, was it? And something else that wasn’t right was James taking Vanessa to Ryan’s rugby game on Sunday. My heel tapped on the floor. Francesca exerting her grandmotherly influence over Ryan was understandable, but Vanessa? Who the hell was she? What if she was only pretending to like Ryan so she could become the next Mrs Scott-Thomas? An image of James at the altar with a beautiful blonde flashed through my mind and I quickly replaced her features with my own.
Whoa!
I stopped pretending to type. Marcia was right. I had to start dating regardless of my freaky ability because my mind was playing tricks on me. What did I care if James had just invited Vanessa to Les Miserables tomorrow? Or if they were going to a Moroccan restaurant for a pre-theatre meal?
I couldn’t breathe. I had to filter some air though my lungs and the only place I could do that was the kitchen. James’s deep voice followed me out of the office, full of the sort of charm and warmth he never graced me with. When I got to the kitchen I opened the cupboard and stared at my Hobnobs pack. Before I knew it I’d whacked it on the counter a few times and flung it into the bin.
It was just as well I hadn’t asked James to Les Miserables. What was I thinking? He considered himself above me; he always had and he always would. Wanting to win James over so I could see Ryan was one thing; asking him out was plain ridiculous. I would find a real date and forget about James and his...whatever she was. That wouldn’t be too hard, would it?
* * *
Cambridge Circus, the heart of London’s theatre land, was alive with people eating out before a show, meeting friends for drinks or queuing for theatre tickets. I looked at the sad, elfin face on the Les Miserables billboard. Tonight I would find out if a former Valencian colleague was right.
Ana Lucia thought misery was enjoyable—an oxymoron if ever I heard one. She read books and watched films specifically for their misery factor. Crying her heart out made her feel better about her own life, she said, and we should all get sad deliberately because it’s an emotion we don’t pay enough attention to.
I told her she was pretty sad herself but that didn’t go down too well.
Ah, my date had finally arrived. Marcia crossed the street and walked toward me. Her hair was back to her natural shade and she’d had it cut into a sleek bob. She was dressed “elegant butch” as she called it, in a tailored shirt and trousers that accentuated her female form but somehow made her look masculine. There was a spring in her step and her eyes were sparkling as they used to, giving me a surge of happiness. She looked behind me and her smile faded.
“Vanessa isn’t the dumpy midget we decided,” she said. “Don’t turn around.”
I turned around.
James was escorting a sultry Latina in red. He was in a stylish black leather jacket and dark trousers, looking so handsome he should have received an on-the-spot fine. It’s not fair for the rest of us if people like him and Vanessa are allowed to walk around making everybody else feel inadequate.
James was oozing charm, talking to Vanessa as she preceded him into the theatre. And he was smiling, damn it!
I sighed. “How pathetic am I? No boyfriend and no hot date.”
Marcia was indignant. “What the hell am I?”
“You’re my equally pathetic friend except you’re scary and bitter.”
She grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Don’t forget lesbian.”
I rolled my eyes. “You are not gay, Marcia. If you were, I’d be telling you to find some pussy because you seriously need to sweat out some issues. You’re scared of men and you think women won’t hurt you. But you’re wrong—we’re all bitches.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, deepening her voice. “Well tonight you’re my bitch. James is not going to flaunt his floozy while you slum it with a single mum.”
“Whatever, as long as we avoid him. The theatre is small, so let’s stay outside until—Hey!”
That bone structure I mentioned comes paired with wrestlerlike strength. She’d grabbed my hand and was pulling me into the theatre.
“You’re not getting apple crumble tomorrow,” I hissed at her back.
Once inside, I zoned in on James immediately.
Marcia jabbed me with her elbow. “Stop drooling. You’re on a hot date, remember?”
I squeezed her hand so hard she cursed. My whole body felt tight and stretched, as if I needed only a flick to snap out of control. Oh crap, this was bad. I thought I’d subdued the jealous savage squatting where my mind used to be years ago, but it seemed she was out of Prozac.
I wanted to yank James away from his gorgeous companion. They weren’t even touching but it didn’t matter, the irrational desire to stake my claim was powerful. My hand clenched into a fist but I didn’t know who I wanted to hit—him or myself for wanting him. Her, definitely.
“We’re going over,” Marcia said, giving me no choice.
James barely looked at me. As we approached his eyes were on Marcia, making me feel invisible. My hot lesbian date planted a little kiss on my knuckles before she let go and extended her hand to James. Marcia enjoyed herself immensely, pumping his hand up and down in an exaggerated take on the masculine handshake. In full flirtation mode she kissed the brunette’s cheek and complimented her outfit. Then it was my turn.
“Nice to meet you, Vanessa,” I said.
I wanted to have a concrete reason to hate her but when I looked into her eyes I could see her kindness and gentle nature. Damn, she really was beautiful inside and out, not damaged and scarred like I was.
I sucked both lips into my mouth and then let go, realising how geriatric it must have made me look.
Marcia pulled me close and planted a smacker on my lips. “Shall we go in, baby cheeks? I’ll hold you if you cry.”
Baby cheeks? She wasn’t getting any lasagne either.
James didn’t take his eyes off Marcia. “Don’t let us keep you.”
I couldn’t get to my seat fast enough. The hole James burned through my back as we walked away felt as if it could tunnel straight through me. I forced my thoughts away from him while Marcia told me what Les Miserables was about. Call me uncultured but I’d never been to the theatre before. The bloody tickets were expensive, and besides, I preferred to spend what little money I had salsa dancing. In Spain I ate late and danced until early; in London I ate early and danced until late.
Marcia flicked my arm. “Pay attention, hon. James is jealous.”
I made a face. “Don’t be ridiculous. Judging from the lovely Vanessa, he’s given up on golden girls in favour of brunette babes. Sweetness and light for real this time.”
Marcia grinned. “He hardly looked at you.”
“So of course that means he wants me.”
“Yup, I speak testosterone now, remember? James was sizing me up out there, studying his competition. The question is, do you want him?”
I slumped back, or at least I tried to. The seat was narrow and there was very little space to stretch my legs. “Nope, all I want is to see Ryan.”
She sniggered. “So why do you look constipated?”
“Because I feel like a teenager again, trying to understand what is going on, why I can’t control how I feel around James. I’m angry as hell and yet I want him to smile at me. I came back to London to see Ryan, not fall back into lust with James.”
“Lust?”
“What else? James is intransigent, impatient and high-handed—and just as superior as I remember. And what’s worse, he’s going to make Ryan a posh blue blood like he is, arrogant and heartless.”
Marcia let out a low whistle. “You are unbelievable,” she said disgustedly. “You told James he was the father of your child and now you’re angry he didn’t play the game your way. He didn’t hand over monthly support and let you—a drug-addicted teenager who couldn’t control her drinking—bring up his son. You want him to let you see Ryan, disrupt his life because you say you’re different so of course he should believe you. You’ve always been honest with him before, right?
“But for all your bitterness I don’t remember you giving up your life in Valencia to camp out on his doorstep until now. You stayed there, licking your wounds and getting your addictions under control. I’m not knocking you for turning your life around, hon, but James didn’t force you to do it in Spain. Or stay away for all these years.”
I gritted my teeth. “He got his revenge by taking my baby, making it impossible for me to stay.”
Marcia threw her hands in the air. “You can’t blame James because you were unfit to be a mother. He did what any responsible parent would, and if that constitutes revenge in your book then you haven’t grown up one little bit.”
I stared at her, hurt by her brutal honesty. “I’m Ryan’s mother.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake! Is that how you’ve been justifying your demands? No wonder James won’t let you see Ryan. I don’t blame him. Parenthood is twenty-four seven. It’s loving your child more than you love yourself and making sure you protect him. It’s preventing his heart from getting sliced and diced by a mother who’ll run off to Spain if she can’t cope. For seven years James has been there for Ryan when you haven’t, so I would cut the man a little slack.”
I wished she’d been shouting; then I could have got angry. Shouty Marcia was prone to exaggeration and divalike leaps from reality; quiet Marcia told it straight and to that there was no comeback.
For years I had shifted the blame onto James’s shoulders and now I had to face the truth, ugly as it was. It was my fault—and mine alone—that Ryan didn’t have a mother. No matter how much I had ranted about James’s actions or cried that Francesca had taken Ryan from me, after the sorrow and despair had turned to glum acceptance I had felt relieved.
Relieved I wouldn’t be a single parent and relieved that I could concentrate on getting clean and sober.
True, my mind agreed sadly.
The theatre lights dimmed and the play started. The opening score had a low, drumming cadence that suited my mood perfectly. Gut-wrenching and painful, just like the days after Ryan was born. Like my childhood and adolescence, when I’d felt as much a prisoner as the people on stage, chained to my awful reality. Once I was free I had fled and not looked back, too much a coward to face my past.
As the play progressed, I tried to push the sorrow away, determined to enjoy my visit to the theatre. But it seems that misery really does love company because Les Miserables resonated with my sorrow and it refused to budge.
Forget the French Revolution and the obsessed policeman with too much time on his hands. For me the story was about Fantine, the prostitute, and the miraculous twist of fate that saved her daughter from a life like hers.
Marcia and I held hands, crying our eyes out at the utter desolation of her life. All I could think was that I could have been her. Of course, I didn’t live in France in the seventeen hundreds, but still. What would have happened had I been left to my own devices? Drugs and alcohol? A descent into the misery I was watching from the discomfort of my seat? What would have happened to Ryan?
If not for James.
Looking at the actor playing Valjean almost undid me. He was tall and dark haired, and his rich voice filled me with a poignant cocktail of pain and pleasure. Valjean loved Cosette and tried to protect her, and he wasn’t even her real father. Of course, James thought he was Ryan’s real father, but I was sure he would have loved my son anyway had my sister been the sort of woman I could have entrusted him to.
Marcia was right about a parent’s love for their child, no matter the blood link. My mind had known it but my heart hadn’t wanted to accept it.
How could I expect James to let Ryan into my care on my say-so alone? Ryan was precious to him, even more than he was to me. James was the parent and I was...well, I was nothing. Just a womb that had filled and then emptied.
After the play we sat in gloomy silence as the theatre emptied. There was no way I was going to risk bumping into James and Miss Universe again. My eyes were swollen and my nose felt sore from sniffling.
Marcia stood up and extended her hand. “Let’s go home, baby cheeks.”
“If you call me that again you’re not getting any tonight.”
We didn’t talk any more about James but what Marcia had said dogged me for the rest of the weekend. I resolved to treat him differently, less like an adversary and more like a...
Lover, my mind whispered.
No! Like a hot man who happened to be my son’s father and who I should get to know better for that reason alone. Nothing more.