Now Luke
Now
Luke
Michael is in the States this week and there’s a holiday atmosphere at work. At lunchtime, we all disperse in different directions, some to the pub, some up to Wandsworth for an hour of retail therapy and me to Soho for a liquid lunch with Ben.
First to Liberty. It’s Hannah’s birthday in a couple of weeks and I’m doing a recce of ground-floor accessories: scarves, necklaces, bracelets, hats. She has unchanging but definite taste, which makes her easy to buy for; if it’s crafted and hand-made she is certain to love it. Almost immediately I find the perfect thing – a black beaded necklace with hand-painted wooden discs, slightly gothic, shades of Madonna in her eighties incarnation. Hannah will love it.
Without quite knowing why, I find myself taking the escalator up to the fragrance department on the first floor. The necklace was steep (￡130) and Hannah would be cross if I bought her anything else. Why then am I uncapping bottles and spraying my wrists, quick sniff, decisive shake of the head, no that’s not it, nope, nor is that, on and on until I’ve tried around twenty fragrances.
‘Can I help?’
The woman behind the counter looks kind; I think that’s the deciding factor. The truth blurts out before I’ve had time to recognise it.
‘I’m trying to find this scent I keep smelling. It’s driving me mad. But it’s none of these …’
I wave my hand at the ranks of Chanel, Guerlain, Dior.
‘Can you describe the smell? Who is wearing it?’
‘It’s nothing like these perfumes; they are all too sweet, too heavy. It’s light, lemony, spicy and smoky. Hard to describe. And it’s a woman I know who wears it.’
I hate the smile she gives me; I feel ashamed. She thinks I’m trying to buy the perfume of someone I’ve fallen in love with; perhaps she pictures me dousing myself in it each day like some kind of weirdo. One step away from wearing women’s pants to work.
‘Could it be cologne? Or aftershave?’
I nod, glad that someone is taking me seriously at last.
‘I think it could. But I don’t wear aftershave, so it’s nothing I recognise.’
She picks up a sheet of cardboard and begins spraying its corners – Dior Homme, Eau Sauvage, Gucci, Prada. It’s none of these.
‘Sharper,’ I say. ‘Fresher.’
She points to a bottle. ‘Long shot,’ she says, ‘but this is Acqua di Parma, an Italian cologne that’s been around for decades. A lot of women wear it.’
She uncaps the bottle and holds it out for me to sniff. And there it is, the scent of woodlands and lavender and cedar and lime; it is all of these things, but, critically, it is also the smell of my past.
‘That’s it!’
I’m not sure which of us is the more jubilant.
‘I’ll take it,’ I say, and while she wraps the bottle, I pick up the tester and dab it on my neck, my throat, my cheeks.
Of course, when I get to The Coach and Horses and find Ben at the bar, he steps back from me in surprise.
‘What the fuck? You’re wearing perfume.’
He looks so shocked, I can’t help laughing.
‘I’ve been buying presents for Hannah in Liberty.’
He hands me a pint.
‘Drink up. And man up while you’re at it.’
Oh it’s good to be here in the company of my oldest friend, the two of us quietly celebrating. Him the fact that he has just finished a couple of commissions – ‘Jude Law’s kids. Bit too pastel and cherubic for my liking, but it paid well.’ Me because Michael is away and I can take a longer lunch than usual. I’ve been working flat out these past weeks, desperate to clinch the deal with Reborn and keep Spirit safe. At night I dream about it; I dream of Michael appearing in my office, twisted and vindictive as he fires me. ‘You’re utterly hopeless,’ he tells me, ‘a complete waste of space.’ This happens night after night after night. Yet when I wake, I understand that the dreams are not about work, not really; on a deep level they connect to my concerns and fears about Alice.
Two pints turns to three in less than an hour. Lunch is two bags of cheese and onion crisps and a shared packet of KP nuts.
‘I’ve missed this,’ I say, raising my pint. ‘We never get a chance to go to the pub any more.’
Ben is silent, sipping his ale, watching. I don’t need to tell him I’m close to the edge; he’s been right here on the brink with me many times. At school, he was the only one I ever cried in front of when my acute homesickness cut deep. We were eight, if that sounds lame, incarcerated for weeks at a time. I’ve come to understand, as an adult with my own child, that boarding school is little more than abandonment on repeat.
‘It’s Alice, isn’t it?’ he says eventually. ‘Ever since she came into your life you’ve seemed … messed up.’
‘Hold it there,’ I say. ‘We need something stronger for this conversation.’
I return to the table with doubles of Jameson’s and more beer.
‘I don’t think Alice is in the slightest bit interested in me,’ I say. ‘All she really cares about is Samuel. Hannah can’t see it – or won’t see it; she needs it to work with Alice so she can carry on with her job. The one thing we know is that we are leaving Samuel in good hands each day.’
‘But what is it you want from her? She can’t be your mother again, not after twenty-seven years apart.’
‘It’s more that there’s no real connection between us. And that seems strange to me. She never talks about the weeks when we were together. Why not? It’s the one thing we have in common.’
‘What about Rick?’
‘What about him? We’ve had a couple of lunches. He’s great, but I haven’t got to know him. He doesn’t feel in the least bit like my real father.’
I see Ben’s hesitation. I know him well enough to understand that he is weighing up whether he should tell me something.
‘What?’ I say, impatient.
‘Elizabeth doesn’t think Rick is your father. You know what she’s like, she never minces her words. For a start, you look nothing like each other. Rick has blonde hair and blue eyes. Also he’s gay. It doesn’t make sense. Elizabeth doesn’t believe he was Alice’s lover.’
‘Why would Rick say he was my father if he wasn’t? Why would he be on my birth certificate?’
‘Just a hunch Elizabeth had. Probably nothing.’
‘Answer me this. Am I just being jealous and needy and insecure? Or do I have a point?’
Ben stands up.
‘More whisky needed, I think. And yes. You have a point.’
It’s almost six when our session breaks up; I remember nothing of the ride home, London blurring past. All I can think about, all I can feel, is a sort of disaffected rage, a venomous self-pity for my confused identity, my lone wolf-ness. Probably not the right state of mind in which to meet my birth mother, and it doesn’t help that I can’t get my key in the door. After a few minutes of scraping and scratching and rattling, the door opens and I lurch through it, almost toppling into Alice and my small son.
Oops .
‘Goodness,’ Alice says. ‘Are you OK?’
‘S’fine,’ I slur. ‘Sorr’m late.’
I reach out to take Samuel, and Alice actually backs away from me. What I see is the way she curves her arms protectively around him as if he is her child, not mine.
‘Why don’t you have a lie-down,’ she says. ‘I’ll wait here until Hannah gets back.’
‘Gimme m’son,’ I say, or at least I try to. I’m blind drunk, I realise now, without the fallback of Ben, who was so pissed himself we could communicate perfectly, a contrapuntal wave of sound unintelligible to all but us.
Alice shakes her head. ‘It’s not safe. You might drop him. I’m not judging you, don’t think that, just trying to make sure Samuel’s OK. Hannah will be home soon.’
And now I am inflamed with rage, hurt, disappointment, self-loathing, of course, and it makes me vicious.
‘Is my child, not yours. You gave yours away, remember?’
I am crying as I haul myself up the stairs, clinging to the banister, step by step, until I reach the bedroom and throw myself on the bed, and mercifully my world soon turns black. But in the countdown to unconsciousness, in those final seconds, I am sure I see Alice’s face at the door. My mother standing there, my child in her arms, silently watching.