Chapter 12 Brandy Number Four, Chairs for Two, and One World-Class Kiss
“God, that was embarrassing,” I say, holding my face in my hands.
“Could’ve been worse,” says Karim, shrugging. “At least you did it at the end when everyone was due to go home anyway.”
I nod in agreement. He’s right there. At least I didn’t ruin the whole night for everyone. I still feel trembly and weak, the physical remnants of an emotional wound. It was, of course, more than embarrassing—it was like a blow to the stomach. One minute I was watching Katie, feeling that now-familiar sense of connection to her, and the next, everything changed.
Every silly dream, every ridiculous hope, every stupid thought I’d ever entertained about her was shredded by that one sentence: “I was only two when I was taken into care.”
She was two when she was adopted. She was two when she left her old life and joined her new one. She was two—not a newborn baby.
Katie is not, never has been, never will be, my daughter.
I feel woozy, shaken, like I have just had my carpet of could-it-be pulled from beneath my feet.
I don’t think I’d realized how much it had become part of me—how quickly it had crept into my being, become almost fact, how well I had shaped it into what I wanted it to be. How many tiny ways I had allowed myself to start thinking of her as mine.
I have missed my baby girl every single day since she was taken from my arms in hospital. I have thought about her, and wondered about her, and grieved for the loss of her. I understand now that I am more injured by it than I ever let myself believe—why else would I have so readily embraced the idea that Katie was her?
I am a woman of facts, of dates and numbers and data, but on this one issue I hid away from them. I avoided finding out, I swerved around logic, I deliberately turned a blind eye to reality. I did all of that because I wanted so very much to be in her life again.
I’d been worrying about how to tell them that I was Katie’s biological mother. Planning scenarios, rehearsing speeches, even considering drafting letters. That’s how solid my conviction was, even if I never truly admitted it to myself.
I don’t just feel embarrassed—I feel devastated. Like part of me has been chopped off, and now all I have left is the phantom pain where my fantasy once lived.
Karim, of course, does not know this. He, like everyone else there tonight, simply believed me when I said I was fine. That I’d just been diagnosed as anemic, and that I was on iron supplements that obviously hadn’t kicked in yet. The lies just flowed out of me, easily, perfect little lies that left everyone reassured.
There had been some fuss about calling a first aider, some talk of getting me to a hospital, but I insisted that everything was okay. Another lie.
Karim had helped clear the room, students and families full of concern but also chattering in that hushed and excited way people do when they’ve been on the periphery of a drama. He’d loaded everything into his car and driven back around to the side of the dock to collect me, finding me huddled in my coat in the rain.
Erin had wanted to stay with me, to make sure I was all right, but I convinced her and Katie to leave. It wasn’t their fault, of course, but I couldn’t bear to be around them, not just then, when I was feeling so raw. So injured.
Katie had whipped the Wonky Cushion out from under her shirt and handed it to me to hold. I’d hugged it tightly, told them it was working its magic, persuaded them to head home. I needed to be alone, if only for a few minutes.
I’d sat on a low wall in the drizzle, watching them walk away, Katie so tall, her hair glinting under the streetlamps, Erin by her side. They walked closely, arms linked together, their bond so strong you could almost see it.
I watched them walk away, and I held back tears and told myself it was for the best. That it had all worked out the way it should. I wasn’t mother material, after all. I didn’t have the right skill set.
By the time Karim pulled up in his Nissan, I was able to fake it. Able to put on a brave face, to talk, to mock myself for being a delicate damsel in distress, to make jokes about needing to eat more steak dinners.
He was going to take me home, but I’d asked if we could stop off somewhere on the way. I just couldn’t face it, going back to my flat. To its emptiness, its tidy rooms, its bare walls. For years I’ve taken comfort in solitude, in living my life with minimal clutter, in keeping my various homes so uncomplicated that I could move out within a day without any bother like a character in a spy film who keeps a go bag under the floorboards.
Now I see that for what it is—fear.
I have a lot of thinking to do, about my life and the way I live it, about choices I have made and about how to move forward. I promise myself I will do that hard thinking—but I know I am not capable of it tonight.
Now I find myself at a small corner table in a quiet pub in the city’s Georgian Quarter. As we drove through the damp streets, along glistening cobbles and past graceful gardens, the hulk of the cathedral and the elegant townhouses that surround it, I mentally recited the facts: planned by John Foster Senior in 1800; Gambier Terrace, former home of John Lennon; Canning, named after former Prime Minister George; St. Bride’s Church, neoclassical. It is beautiful, and it is timeless, and it is the home of many very fine pubs.
Karim is sipping a Coke and has placed a brandy in front of me. Several packets of crisps and nuts are on the table, bags torn open so we can help ourselves—“Scouse tapas,” he calls it.
I sip my drink, feel the initial burn turn into liquid heat, and say: “I’ve only ever had brandy three times in my life. Four now.”
“Seriously—you even keep track of how many times you’ve had a drink of anything?”
“Don’t be silly. That would be impossible—I don’t keep track of water!”
He shakes his head, but he does it with a sense of amusement, as though he finds my personality traits endearing. That, I think, is how it starts in my experience—at first it’s an amusing quirk. That’s before the irritation sets in, and the petty quibbles, and the small frictions that build into a fire that burns down the whole relationship. Admittedly, I might have a one-sided view, as all my relationships have gone up in smoke.
“Are you seriously all right?” he asks. “And no jokes allowed.”
I pause, let the warming effects of the brandy take hold, and wonder how to reply. Again, I find that I do not want to lie to him, even though it would be so much easier. I like him, and I respect him, and at the very least he is a friend—possibly much more.
“I’m not completely all right, no,” I say eventually. “There is a thing going on in my life that is causing me some—I don’t know, let’s just call it anxiety, shall we? It’s a complicated thing that I don’t want to talk about just yet.”
“The stuff you mentioned a bit ago?”
“Yeah, the same stuff—or an evolution of the same stuff anyway, which now sounds like something from a horror film. Anyway, it’s all linked to what happened tonight.”
“So you’re not actually anemic or anything?”
“Nope. I’m just a frighteningly good liar.”
He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Good to know,” he replies. “And thanks for being honest about the fact that you were lying.”
We both laugh at that one, and I feel a slight easing of the tension that has been clamped around my skull for the last hour. Maybe it’s the brandy. Maybe it’s Karim. Who knows?
I enjoy his company but still feel slightly uncomfortable about it all—I am not sure if I am capable of making a relationship work, but I am also not sure what it is he’s looking for. I am not arrogant enough to assume he is planning on asking for my hand in marriage, but there is a vast array of possibilities between our current gentle flirting and that. I don’t even know what I want, never mind what he wants.
“Why do you like me, Karim?” I ask. “Really, why do you bother?”
He stares at me, takes a sip of his Coke, and answers: “You do realize that’s a completely fucked-up question, don’t you?”
“Well, maybe I’m a completely fucked-up person—which makes the question even more relevant. I avoided you for ages. Then I said I wanted to use you as a distraction, and now I’m still not telling you things you clearly want to know. I can be frustrating to be around, in a million different ways. You’re a great bloke, funny and decent and, yes, before you butt in, you are also extremely good-looking—so why bother? You could find any number of women who’d be thrilled to be with you.”
“Well,” he says, “there’s the flippant answer—that I fancy you rotten—and there’s the obvious answer—that I’m a competitive kind of guy and I like a challenge. Then there are a few other things. I like the way you’re so committed to your job, how you always see the positives about it even after a long day that ends with more work. I like the fact that you offer those extra catch-up sessions to the students who’re struggling, on your own time. I like the fact that you look after your neighbor Margie, but at the same time make out that you do nothing at all for her. The way you pretend to be all tough but your actions say different.
“I like the way you listen to everyone respectfully, even if you don’t agree with them. I enjoy your lists and your dates and your other coping mechanisms, and the way you’re weird but open about it so it doesn’t even feel weird. I like the way you bundle your hair on your head in that odd bun that looks great, even though you don’t care. I like that you go for runs with me. I like that you know about my childhood and reacted sympathetically but didn’t treat me as a pitiable motherless baby-man. I like the way that sometimes you’re quiet but you’re never shy. I appreciate your advanced knowledge in a pub quiz. I am intrigued by you, I find you funny, you’re gorgeous, and I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Does that answer your question at all?”
I am, as he has just said, sometimes quiet—but I am rarely at a loss for words. My silence seems to amuse him, and he adds: “See? I’m deep, me. I bet you thought it was just because you have good legs.”
I shake my head and reply, “You are a very interesting person, Karim—and I like you too. I’m not going to compile a list, but I do. I just feel the need to tell you a few things first.”
“Oh no—are you on the run from the Russian Mafia? About to move to Japan? Actually gay and not at all attracted to men?”
“No to the mafia, no to Japan, and although I’ve had my wild moments, I’m definitely attracted to men. But—well, I think maybe sometimes I should come with a health warning, you know? Some kind of label that tells people I have issues. I’m not good with commitment. I love sex but I’m not great at intimacy. I tend to move around a lot, and I tend to live in my own little bubble as much as possible, and I’m . . . basically not a good bet.”
“You’re a woman, not a racehorse,” he answers, frowning. “I’m not interested in what the odds are. Nobody is perfect, and no relationship is either—or I wouldn’t be single at thirty-four. I undoubtedly have issues of my own, though perhaps I haven’t spent quite as much time cataloging them as you. I just think we’re good together. I just think we should both take it slowly, see what happens, keep an open mind, I don’t know, but how about this for a crazy plan: maybe not decide right now, before anything’s even happened between us, that it’s going to fail? Maybe just have some fun?”
I bite my lip and know that he has battered the nail right on the head. That is exactly what I’d been doing, and exactly what I’ve done in the past—it’s like I’ve gone through the motions of having partners but never really, truly tried to make a go of it. I’ve been so convinced that the relationships were going to fail—so convinced that that’s all I deserved—that I’ve always contributed to their demise. I’ve been rejecting myself on behalf of others for a very long time now, getting in there first before they have the chance.
It is a sad and defeatist way of living, I know. The way I have felt recently, despite the confusion and the worry and the what-should-I-do-next, has shown me that I am capable of feeling bigger things. Better things. Imagining Katie in my life in a permanent way opened me up, made me peel back some layers, forced me to become vulnerable.
All it got me, I suppose, was ending up collapsed on the floor in front of a roomful of people—but perhaps, eventually, when I am feeling less hurt and less bereft, it will have been something positive. And perhaps, as well, I need some fun—and it doesn’t come in much better packaging than Karim.
I nod firmly, as much to myself as to him. I glance at my watch, see that it is only just after 8:00 p.m., even though it feels as though I have lived a whole lifetime today.
Still, it’s after 8:00 p.m. And in my mind, 9:00 p.m. is a reasonable bedtime. I’m wild and crazy like that.
“Did you know,” I say slowly, as though I’m building up to something truly mysterious, “that on this day in 1066, William the Conqueror invaded England at Pevensey Bay in Sussex?”
“Of course I did.”
“You didn’t, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t. I’m just a PE teacher, you know.”
“You’re much more than that, Karim,” I reply. “And thank you. For looking after me. For listening. For being so kind and patient with me. Now I think I’d better get home.”
We make the half-hour drive back to the north of the city in a comfortable silence, windscreen wipers swooshing against the rain, roads streaked with neon. I cradle the Wonky Cushion on my lap for the whole journey, telling myself that its magic power is indeed seeping through me. That I will heal, that I will be whole.
Karim is content to leave me to my thoughts, and as he pulls up outside my flat, I hear Bill let out one welcome woof. He seems to know it’s me, even in a strange car—dogs are surprisingly clever for creatures that spend so much time with their noses near bottoms. I realize, as I sit unmoving in the passenger seat, that I am still not ready to be alone. I am still not ready to face the fallout of tonight’s revelations. Not ready to put myself and my failings under the microscope that I so bluntly wield.
That “fun” comes in many shapes and sizes, and just might involve being in the company of another human being. I realize that I have opened up to Margie in ways I never thought possible, and that I can change—that I am capable of living more fully than I currently do. I have to believe that.
“Would you . . . like to come in?” I say, trying not to sound as eager as I feel. “Though I have to admit, I am using you as a distraction again.”
“I’ve been used for worse,” he says simply, switching off the engine and helping me carry the boxes of history project props up the stairs. I consider letting Margie know I am home, but she will already know—Bill has woofed, and she will hear my feet on the stairs. She will, knowing Margie, also hear Karim’s feet on the stairs and be full of questions in the morning. I smile at the thought of how excited she will be to interrogate me as I open the door.
He follows me in, puts the boxes down, and looks around with interest.
I follow his gaze and see my flat through his eyes: neat, clean, orderly. No pictures on the walls, no knickknacks, no clutter. Everything perfectly set up for one person to live a simple life. I know, because I am that kind of person, that I have four forks and four knives and four plates and four everything else—but most of them have never come out of their respective cupboards and drawers.
I feel the thread of some kind of cutlery-based analogy coming on, about how I have everything it takes within my grasp but have simply never chosen to use it.
“Nice place,” he says. “Better than mine purely on the basis that it doesn’t smell like unwashed socks.” I smile and potter around. I light the scented candle, put on some music, get out an extra glass. I pour myself a glug of white wine that’s been open in the fridge for a bit too long, ask him what he would like, and laugh when he requests a glass of milk.
The rain has died down a little, and I open the French windows to the balcony. I grab us both a blanket and lead him outside. There is, as usual, only one chair—because I have never invited anyone here before.
That has never felt strange to me until tonight, but now I decide it is. I have lived here for a long time, and the only other person who has been inside was a plumber fixing a leak in the shower. Margie struggles with the stairs, so I always visit her, and none of my other so-called friends have ever felt significant enough to bring home. I know the other teachers at the school hold book clubs, dinner parties, sleepovers for their kids—all of that has seemed superfluous to me before.
Now, as I drag an extra chair outside for Karim, I wonder if it isn’t superfluous at all—or if the casual connections that other people make so easily simply scare me.
We settle together, blankets wrapped around our shoulders, chairs close enough together that our thighs touch. We look out at the water, at the bright red lights of the cranes and gantries, at the distant harbor, at the dark and windswept beach.
The foghorn is blaring, a single solitary note that always sounds like mourning. A sound so specific to this place that I will never hear it again without thinking of this view, this small corner of the world.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, sounding slightly awestruck. “I grew up in the Midlands, and I never get tired of this—this feeling that we’re looking out at the whole of the universe laid out before us.”
“It is beautiful,” I reply, smiling, “and that was very poetic for a PE teacher.”
“I have my moments,” he says, smiling back.
We sit, and we look, and we drink our drinks. Eventually, I feel his hand reach for mine, and our fingers entwine. It is a simple thing, a simple human thing, but it is what I need. I hold on tight, and wonder how I have convinced myself for so long that I need nobody.
I still feel a deep sense of loss about Katie—about my actual daughter, I suppose. About Baby—beautiful Baby, wherever she may be.
But I also feel a sense of discovery, of taking tentative steps into the possibility of a different kind of life.
The music gently floats out from the living room, swirling around us. It shuffles on to Florence and the Machine. “Never Let Me Go.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding his head wisely, “Florence. I think I once told you this was going-to-bed music.”
I stroke the skin of his palm. I look out at the whole of the universe, laid out before us.
“Well,” I reply. “Who am I to argue?”
I stand up, and he joins me. He reaches out, strokes my hair back from my face. His touch is gentle, warm, fingers tracing a soft path along my cheekbones, down to my neck. I lean into him and feel the solidity of his body pressed against mine. He is here. He is real. He is gazing at me in the darkness, his eyes intense, a small smile on his lips as his hands settle on my shoulders.
I smile back and, for once, neither of us has anything to say. He kisses me, and it is a sublime kiss. A kiss that blanks out the rest of the world. A kiss that will not allow me to worry, or be sad, or even to count.
A kiss that promises the whole of the universe—at least for tonight.