M Word, page 14
Meaning don’t bother us again.
‘Night,’ she goes.
‘Night,’ Davis goes, giving Mum a stupid wave on her way out. If we were actually boyfriend–girlfriend I’d call him a dick with a punch, then envelop him by playing a game of human rash.
Davis fumbles around my music; he better not balls up my alphabetical order.
Larry’s sitting on my pillow, judging; I yank him to my chest, hug him until his button eyes bulge. Sometimes I just want him to be my Larry again and nothing else. Can cuddly toys be exorcised?
You told her, didn’t you? Moya goes.
Told her what?
You did – you told your mum that that rocket did the dirt on me, didn’t you?
I told her nothing, Moya.
Well, she was giving me the pure pity eyes.
Rubbish.
Pity eyes! Mum’s haven’t been that way for weeks now. Sad, sunken and full of suffering, yes. But not lately.
You’re making my life sound like a reality TV show, Mags.
Me?
You know what I mean.
Look, I’m sorry your boyfriend turned out to be a dick ten times over, but some of us have other things on our mind right now.
Layers of guilt smother me, but what could I have done? Honestly, what the fuck could I have done?
I pick up my phone and type ‘school bully gets battered’ into YouTube. Watch one video for twenty-nine seconds. Some loudmouth gets smacked and falls to the ground like a sack of spuds. Davis puts Young Fathers’ new album on.
‘This OK?’ he goes.
‘Fine.’
‘You OK?’
‘I’m OK,’ I go. ‘You?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you think Mum was dressed like a tart?’ I ask him.
‘Erm … not really … erm … I thought she was dressed nice … but I didn’t really notice.’
‘Sure you didn’t. You had your pure MILF radar on. Don’t lie.’
Poor guy looks totally mortos. I don’t push it. Why do I do this?
Then I remember:
‘Did she use the word “we” before she left?’ I ask him.
‘Eh?’
‘As in “we’ll be in the kitchen”? She said that, right?’
‘That’s cos there are two of them in there,’ Davis goes.
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw him when I was coming back from the bog.’
‘Him?’
‘Him.’
‘Not him him?’ I go.
‘The very him.’
‘Sure it was him?’
‘Hundred per cent.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘No way?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, I just can’t get my head around it, that’s all.’
‘Well, I think you’d better.’
‘What do you think they’re doing?’ I go.
Davis shrugs.
We open the door and listen a bit.
‘Relax – they’re just having cup of tea,’ he goes.
‘How do you know?’
‘Heard the kettle.’
We finish our snoop.
I switch Young Fathers off and sit on the bed beside Davis. Have myself some thinking time; unsure how I feel about some interloper cutting about my gaff, slurping tea and tearing into our dry biscuits.
We all know what he’d like to be tearing into, don’t we?
I really want Mum to be normal for once. I do. Loosen her shoulders.
I thought it was just an innocent night out at the flicks and then back to separate homes. Who was I kidding?
Mean, I’m the one who instigated all this make-Mum-happy claptrap and now, when she’s the balls to wrap her arms around it, I’ve a face on me like a singleton on prom night.
After Mum dropped the depression bombshell, she took herself to the doctor; a couple of weeks after that she asked for Ian’s details.
‘I need that poor man’s number, Maggie,’ she went.
‘Why?’
‘To apologise.’
‘For what?’
‘For having a ridiculous daughter. This is someone’s life you’re mucking around with here, not some teenage house-party fling.’
Honestly, she really needed to stop believing she’s still in the nineties. And stop watching repeats of Friends, too.
‘What, you’re just going to pure phone him?’ I went.
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’
‘Mum …’
‘Tell him it’s been all one big misunderstanding.’
She was calling my bluff, I knew it. ‘Give me the number,’ she went, flipping her fingers at me to come across. ‘Give.’
I handed it over. Let’s see who’s calling whose bluff.
And know what she did? She only went and called it. I thought I was going to have a mad eppie.
‘Hello, is that Ian I’m speaking to?’ she went. ‘Hi, my name’s …’
I ran into the next room, couldn’t take it. Sat behind the door like someone off those Childline ads. Trying not to eavesdrop, yet totally eavesdropping.
I heard
her speak,
listen,
chuckle.
‘Oh, I know … what are they like … mmm … well, you must see it in your job all the time …’ Chuckle chuckle. ‘No, I’m not in the frame of mind at the moment to start anything new … mmm … mmm … no, it’s not that … well, actually it is … mmm … mmm …’ Chuckle chuckle. ‘Mmm … mmm … job loss … mmm … oh really?’ Chuckle chuckle. ‘Well, the one I have is feisty enough …’ Chuckle chuckle. ‘Good intentions, absolutely … Oh really? Mmm … that’s interesting … I guess it’s more popular than we think … mmm … mmm … that might work … let me consult my diary …’ Chuckle chuckle. ‘Mmm … mmm … perfect … and I’m sorry once again … yes … mmm … me too … OK, thanks, Ian … bye … bye … bye.’
Unbelievable. God, adults, who’d be one?
So, a couple of coffee dates later, one park walk and a trip to the flicks (well, half trip) and here he is sitting slurping a hot brew in our kitchen and blethering away with my big chick.
Obviously, I put the Smiths on. The moment’s crying out for them; crank up the volume cos I don’t want to hear them. Need to cocoon myself. I wanted this to happen, for her to be happy, to glow. They get on brilliantly, I can smell it. And it’s all my doing. So why am I suddenly feeling that she’s going to piss off into some corduroy sunset with him? Leaving me to fend for myself, living off stir-fries and cheap, shit mascara. She can’t. I’ve no cuddly toy to replace her. I’m delighted she’s able to see what a sunset looks like though. God’s honest. I’m just being a selfish cow, again.
So, what’s new?
Shut up, you.
‘I wish I could remember the name of that actor,’ I go to Davis.
‘Let’s look it up.’ He bounces off the bed, pulls out his phone.
‘Davis?’
‘What?’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure?’
He’s standing in front of me. Three steps away.
‘Do you think I can sing, like really sing?’
‘I think you’ve a brilliant voice, Maggie. Unique.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘Cheers, that means a lot.’
I turn three steps into two. My body is shaking; feels like my hair is sweating. I don’t blink. Neither does he.
‘Davis?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you think you could give me a hug?’
Two steps become one. He doesn’t move. Please shift, Davis. Just a toe. Give me something to dive on to.
We freeze.
‘Erm, I guess I could,’ he goes, clumsily opening his arms.
I do the same. Taking another half step.
We’re like a couple of cumbersome dancers at a school disco.
And it happens; we hug. Virgin magnets.
My head sinks into his neck; I could wet-lip his skin.
His hands belt my waist, few centimetres lower and he’d be on my arse. I’d let him. I want that.
I tighten into him.
Surely he can feel me against his chest? I’ve got some. He must feel them.
My breathing heats his cheek.
I want him to grow; I want to sense it on my hip, my stomach, the top of my leg. Should I just go for it? Just cash everything in?
But he’d love that, wouldn’t he? Slaggie Maggie, he’d love that. No, don’t think I’ll be giving you that green light, Davis. Not tonight. Not yet.
‘Thanks,’ I go, pulling away. ‘I just needed a hug.’ I give him the tiniest of pushes. May as well have been a sledgehammer though. His eyes! Shit, I’ve hurt him.
‘Erm … yeah. Well, we all do sometimes.’
I return to being three steps away. And suddenly we’re two ice sheets drifting apart. God, weirdness is so painful.
‘Want to do another song?’ I go.
‘I think I’d better shoot – it’s getting late, Maggie.’
‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’
Think I want to cry, not in front of him. But I know he knows. Told you, he’s not thick.
‘Probably see you tomorrow then,’ I go.
‘You will.’
I lie next to Larry on the bed. Larry gets how I’m feeling. And I get her. I really do get her.
You OK, doll?
Yeah, I’m OK.
I get up in a raging mood, fuming that Mum brought Ian back to the house and didn’t even introduce us. I can hear her float about the kitchen. Clinks the spoon off her mug three times, which she never does. Thinks she’s making sweet music, total liberty. Obviously, she’s buzzing off some kind of post-sex thing. I don’t know what that feels like, but that’s what she’s doing.
Is this how it works? One cock and all your misery sails away? That it? Maybe I do need to try it then.
When I go into the kitchen, I’m fishing for a fight, feel it in my bones. I want to show my displeasure, have a proper old-time barney. There’s something wrong with me.
‘Morning,’ she goes, face ripe, sunbeam wide.
‘There’s no food,’ I go, opening and slamming cupboards.
‘I didn’t get a chance to go out, Maggie.’
‘What, too busy watching Loose Women, or being one?’
‘Excuse me!’
‘Whatever, I don’t give a—’
‘I don’t need this now,’ she goes, popping two pills into her mouth.
‘Yeah, you never need it. But I need food.’
‘There’s a tin of soup in there.’
‘For breakfast? Fuck sake.’
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Thought so.’
I leave, making sure I slam the kitchen door hard behind me.
‘Fuck sake,’ I go again.
‘I heard that, you know.’
Middle-finger the door.
Getting Better
I curl up with Larry, listen to ‘Hotel Yorba’ on a loop, play it dead loud to annoy Mum’s peace. Won’t be long until those pills take control and she’ll be zombiefied in the living room anyway.
I gently kiss Larry’s string mouth.
Let her be happy, Mags.
How can she be happy when I’m not?
It’s what you wanted for her.
You’re right.
As per.
It’s just hard, Moya, you know?
Just screw the nut, girl. Promise?
Promise.
I don’t cry. And, even though my conker’s thrashing and pushing me in that direction, I don’t hurt myself.
Still, maybe these selfish thoughts need to be punished?
1
I don’t punish; stare at the wall instead.
2
Improvement.
3
I hate myself sometimes.
4
But I’m getting better.
5
I must be.
6
I don’t draw blood.
7
So, I must be.
8
No yanking clumps of hair.
9
Really, I must be.
10
I’m pure poison.
But I’m getting better.
I don’t hurt myself, so I must be.
Fashion
Mum slips me twenty quid out of her ‘incapacity benefit’ as a kind of look-how-I’m-getting-better and sorry-for-everything gift. She must be stashing away her social payments.
‘Buy yourself something nice in town, Maggie,’ she goes.
Twenty quid to buy some new gear? I don’t have the heart to tell her that twenty quid won’t get you anywhere near a Topshop till. But, still, twenty quid’s twenty quid. Burger King or Primark?
Lee Alexander McQueen won’t be rigging me out with my twenty spons that’s for sure.
I love shopping for clobber, but it’s no barrel of laughs, standing in your bra and knickers surrounded by a three-way mirror. Every flab, flop, droop, stretch mark and scar on show to combust your self-esteem.
Worst part? Never having enough to buy the things you like.
It’s my first solo spree; talk about stress. She was brutally honest when I asked for her opinion:
‘What do you think of this, Moya?’
‘You can actually see the cellulite in your arse through that.’
‘What about this then?’
‘A jumpsuit! Seriously?’
I gave mine also:
‘This too short, Mags?’
‘You’d see your knickers if you bent down.’
‘Not a bad thing.’
‘I’d maybe go for a bigger size.’
When I return from town, Anna’s car is sitting outside our gaff. Small silver thing. Pensioner’s run-around. I haven’t seen her since our A & E meeting, which was ages ago now. Naturally I cack it. Big time. Seeing her car is like a hammer to the forehead. Is she playing nosy bugger? Is she spouting everything she knows to Mum? My sick mum. How sick is that? What does she want? Does patient confidentiality mean bugger all to her?
They’re drinking tea.
I smell ginger as soon as I open the door. Anna stands up, heads towards me with outstretched arms. Her lips smack my cheek.
‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you, sweetie. Just lovely.’
Anna looks at Mum, who I know has had a doctor’s appointment that very morning. Mum smiles. My legs jelly up.
‘What’s so lovely?’ I go.
Have they found a cure for Mad Mum Disease?
‘You’re a singer in a pop group?’ Anna goes.
I want to uppercut her, leave her sprawled out on the rug. Pop group? Inconsiderate cow. Has she met me? Pop group! How dare she? I muster a grin. Can’t believe Mum would’ve mentioned anything about that to her.
‘Yeah, it’s good,’ I go.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, ANNA? IN MY HOUSE? WE DON’T LIKE VISITORS OR INTRUDERS. SO, DO ONE! GO ON, BLOW THE SCENE.
Anna gives me one of those you-don’t-need-to-worry-your-secret’s-safe-with-me looks.
Let’s not unfurl our bras here, shall we?
She comes in for a tight hug. Me and Mum exchange our this-is-a-bit-weird eyes. I want Mum to give me a cheesy grin, let me know we’re on the same page, but she doesn’t.
‘I was just passing this way and thought I’d pop in to see how my favourite girl was getting on.’ God, she makes it sound as if I’m a pug.
Our bodies part.
‘I’m doing good, Anna,’ I go.
NOW BEAT IT.
‘Oh, you must be very proud of her talents, Donna.’
‘I am, Anna,’ Mum goes.
‘And you must be very proud of yourself, my darling,’ Anna goes to me. ‘Social activity is a step in the right direction.’
I shrug.
She is still talking about the band, isn’t she?
‘Oh, it is Anna,’ Mum goes. ‘She just doesn’t want to appear big-headed about her singing voice, that’s all.’
‘Your mum and I have been having a lovely chat, Maggie.’
KNEW IT! COULDN’T KEEP YOUR TRAP SHUT, COULD YOU?
‘And?’ I go, looking at my two conspirators. Mum’s pruned eyebrows shoot up and down.
‘And we feel that it’s important for you to begin a new course of meetings with me, if you wanted to. I’ve spoken to the powers that be, and they agree. It’ll be through the health board, so there’s no cost.’
I look at Mum for support.
‘Do I have to?’ I go.
‘Entirely up to you, sweetie.’
‘It’s your decision, Maggie.’
They both pure corner me.
‘But I thought we’d finished, like I’d passed that stage now.’
They look at each other as if I’m an hour away from a straitjacket.
‘Well, you could see it that way, but we feel, Donna and I, that there is still a way to go,’ Anna says. ‘But, as I said, it’s up to you.’
‘It’s a busy time for me, with art school and the band and …’ I’m about to say ‘with Mum’, but I leave that one hanging.
‘No, I fully understand that, sweetie, that’s why we would structure it around your schedule.’
Anna looks directly at me like she doesn’t want to let the thigh-slashing cat out of the bag. Is this a threat? God, is she blackmailing me?
‘It might help you settle with things, feel calmer, less stressed,’ Mum goes. ‘It’s always good to have another ear instead of just me and the people in your band.’ She coughs loudly, followed by three wet sneezes.
STRESSED? WHO’S STRESSED?
‘I really think it’ll be a good thing,’ she adds, then pushes herself up to fetch a hanky from the kitchen.
With Mum out of the way, Anna takes a step closer.
‘How are you doing, love?’ she whispers.
‘Fine,’ I whisper back.
‘Is your leg healing?’
‘Totally healed.’
‘That was a nasty one you gave yourself there.’
‘It’s fine now.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re on the mend. I was worried.’
‘You haven’t said …’
‘Don’t fret, I haven’t told your mum a thing. That wouldn’t be advisable under the circumstances.’
I swallow some saliva. Tense my toes.
