If only she had.
Once upon a time, my mother cooked a mean spaghetti bolognaise and knew how to dip strawberries in melted chocolate. I never had a dad. Mum just had lots of boyfriends who came and went. Mike, Steve, Francis, Robert, Sam, Jake and Rod. Rod was my favourite – funnier and kinder than the rest. He built a Morgan car with a kit, and sometimes took me for a ‘spin’ around the block in it.
I was happy back then. But happiness is a funny word. What does it mean? Is it an idea? A feeling? Is it real? Was it the warm contentment that began in my stomach and radiated through my body, because I had my mother and I knew she loved me? She was the pivot of my life. Maybe she still is, even though she is only a memory now.
The first day my life began to fragment I was walking home from school with my friend Geoffrey. He lived near me and every afternoon when school had finished we ambled along the road together on our way home until we parted at the third corner. Memory plays tricks. I remember sunny afternoons; frost, wind, and rain, all dissolve into oblivion.
On one such sun-dappled afternoon, we heard shouting behind us and turned around to see two boys from the year above marching quickly towards us, shouting, ‘Slag. Slag. Slag.’
Tommy Hall and John Allan. Tommy was large for his age with a broad slack face, always redder than it should have been. Always looking as if he had been running and was out of breath. John was wiry. Petite and mean. Boys to keep away from if you could.
‘Slag. Slag. Slag.’
Getting nearer. Grinning and pointing. Pointing at me. We turned away from them and continued to walk. But they stepped in front of us and blocked our path. Eyeball to eyeball. Eyes scalding ours.
‘Erica Sullivan, your mother’s a slag,’ Tommy said.
‘Like mother, like daughter – slag, slag, slag,’ John continued.
Geoffrey puffed out his pigeon chest and stepped towards them, chin up defiantly. ‘Shut up, you two. I hear you’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer. Leave Erica alone. She’s worth ten of you.’
Tommy clenched his fist, pulled his arm back and rammed his hand, like a hammer, into Geoffrey’s stomach. Geoffrey bent double. They ran away laughing, and shouting, ‘Slag, slag, pussy, pussy.’
I put my arm around Geoffrey’s bent shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘Just about, I think.’ There was a pause. ‘What a pair of knobs.’
‘Thank you so much for defending me.’
We began to walk slowly along the road, but Geoffrey was struggling, holding on to my arm. ‘Why do you think they said that?’ I asked.
He turned his head and pressed his eyes into mine.
‘Don’t take any notice of them – there’s always a few knobs about in life.’
We staggered to our parting corner.
‘Thank you again,’ I said. ‘I hope you feel better by tomorrow.’
He laughed. ‘I hope I feel better long before that.’
I watched him walk away, still holding his stomach. Then I turned and ran home to my mother.
My mother and I lived in a block of flats on the council estate, on the edge of the leafy part of town where Geoffrey lived. The same estate as Tommy Hall and John Allan. I ran through the under passage that crossed the A road, trying to ignore the rancid smell of stale human urine. Into our homeland of 1960s concrete. Solid and grey and ugly. Up the concrete staircase (the lift never worked), along the balcony to number 64, Bluebell Rise, our small, square, characterless flat. At least we had a bedroom each. Mum said we were very lucky to have been allocated that.
She was in the kitchen in her fishnet nightie dancing with Rod, the radio on full blast – a half-empty bottle of gin on the kitchen table.
So you see, Faye, life isn’t always easy when your mum is a slag.
Sitting in my office, tapping my carefully manicured fingernails together, thinking about you, Faye. On Saturday night you seemed so interested, so attainable. I think back to the moment we stepped out of Sophia and Ron’s house, anticipation crackling in the air between us.
I have been infatuated with you since we first met. During that time you have always been with Phillip, but I know deep down you are in denial and would rather be with me. Your eyes bubble when you look at me. A surreptitious smile plays across your lips when your head turns towards me.
Do you remember when Phillip went away on a business trip, before you were married? I took you out on a boat ride one hot summer evening, along the river from Twickenham, and we ate at a gastro-pub next to the Skiff Club, opposite Hampton Court. Watching the river meander past; ducks and swans ambling, and bobbing their heads into the water for food. An eight gliding proudly along, coach instructing the rowers with a megaphone from the safety boat. We were so relaxed and comfortable together. Time seemed to stop.
I ordered a full-bodied white burgundy. We downed one bottle and then another. As the sun began to set across the water, a million shades of ochre and orange melting into the horizon, you said, ‘Thanks for a wonderful evening, Jonah.’
‘How’s it going with Phillip?’ I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘I think it’s fine, but he has been rather distracted with his work recently.’
I leant across the table and took your hand in mine. You didn’t pull away.
‘You’d be better off with me,’ I said.
You frowned a little and smiled a slow smile. ‘I’m not after money. I’m after Phillip.’
But now, so many years on, you are tired of Phillip; otherwise you wouldn’t have betrayed him with me. It is my turn now. To date I haven’t had a meaningful long-term relationship, only short-term ones that have lasted a bit too long. I have only tolerated most of the women I have been with because I enjoy sex.
But, Faye, you are different. I love everything about you. The way you speak. The way you think. The way you move. And the sex I had with you was the best sex I’ve ever had. You wanted me so much. You made me feel I mattered when we were making love. Our destiny is sealed. From what you said to me in the car I know you are still in denial. But I know you have always wanted me, and at last this weekend you succumbed to your desires. Now you have tasted me, soon there will be no holding back.
I type your address into my computer. Drawings of your house begin to spread across my screen. Your bedroom. The place you lie with Phillip. Can he make you climax like I can? Has he ever heard you really, really gasp? Any man can impregnate you, give you children, like Phillip has, but it takes a man like me to make your mind and clitoris pulsate. Come to me. Get real, Faye.
I watch you as you unload the dishwasher. Your news today, the modelling job, has made you look different. It affects every muscle in your body; you even stand differently. You turn towards me, back arched, hand on hip.
‘And another thing that’s good is that Jamie Westcote’s model didn’t get the job.’
You step forward and