Chapter 9
NINE
I wait to see if he’s going to turn around and come back.
One minute. Five.
Nope. He’s not coming back.
I consider my options. Hike back up the canyon to essentially search for a needle in a haystack and risk death by rattlesnake? Not very appealing. Call a tow truck? Years ago, I had a tow truck driver put his hand up my skirt, so I’m not overly fond of tow trucks. Call the rental car agency – who will probably tell me to call a tow truck.
Call Harriet.
I click on our last message string, where I was spectacularly failing to win the award for her number-one favourite person, and decide that, if I call Harriet, I will need some explanation as to why I went hiking when she knows I hate hiking. I am not very good at lying so I give up on the idea of calling Harriet and call an Uber instead.
Thirty-eight dollars to Santa Monica! Highway robbery! But it’s not as though I have any choice. While I wait for it to get here – and seethe – I call Frank. The second he picks up, I say, ‘Thanks for your kindness. Thanks for being a gentleman. Thanks for leaving me to die out here in the blazing sun without food and water. In fact, just copious thanks all round.’
He responds by turning up the volume of his classical music. Pavarotti’s ‘O Sole Mio’ blasts my ear hole. I have to hold my phone away from my face.
When it’s clear he’s not going to turn it back down, I yell, ‘Lovely to have a conversation with you. Really great that you’re so keen to hear my point of view and you?—’
He drowns me out by accompanying Pavarotti in the chorus: ‘Laaaaaaaa-laaaaaaa! La Mio ! La, la, la, la…’
‘Oh you’re so funny. Yeah, you’re so funny and clever?—’
‘La, la, la, dee, dah. Dum, dum, dum, dee…’
Okay. Might as well sing along with him, then. ‘You fuu… cker! Oh la, la, la…! You rotten piece of shit. Dum, dee, dee dee…’
‘Sorry, were you saying something?’ he turns the volume down. But he doesn’t let me get a word in. ‘Spectacular ride down the Pacific Coast Highway! Thanks for travelling along!’
Then he turns up his music again and ends the call.
No sooner do I get into my apartment, than I turn back around and walk out again. I’m not even sure what I’m doing, or where my legs are taking me; it’s like they have a will of their own. They take me all the way down Broadway to Ocean Avenue. Down the cliffside steps of Palisades Park. Over the pedestrian bridge that straddles the noisy Pacific Coast Highway. Onto the beach path. They take me across the pristine, unpopulated sand, to the water’s edge, where there are only a few seagulls strutting their stuff, and a gathering of sandpipers to hear me… scream.
I scream until my throat is razed, until my jaw is locked in agony. I scream like no one is listening. The noise that comes out of me sends tiny long-legged birds flapping into the air. They fly away in fast formation, keeping low to the water, then disappear in a glitter of sea spray and sunshine.
I just scream the goddamn primal scream. Two months’ worth of bottled-up rage and confusion, plus a mere two hours of Frank. And then I feel great. A new flock of sandpipers lands on the sand beside me. They hurry towards the breaking waves with their skinny legs, then scatter away before the water can catch them. Normally I would sit beside them, all of us like birds at church gazing in our meditative state at the ocean. But I feel like my reflecting days are over and it’s time to start acting.
I turn around and clamber back across the sand. Back to the beach path where cyclists fly past me obliviously. Back to join the human race again. I cross back over the Pacific Coast Highway footbridge and walk back up Broadway, all nineteen city blocks to my apartment.
I make a nice cup of tea because my throat is still sore. Then I sit down in a patch of sunlight on the sofa, and punch into Google: ‘The challenges of growing up rich’.
Oh lovely. There are loads of ’em.
I have a quick read down the list. Get this. They literally all apply to Aiden. Freaky, really. As Harriet’s mother, it’s my duty to ensure she’s aware. So I pull up our last text conversation again, type: Harriet. Just came across this. Love you. Mum. x
And then I send her a few.
With a little healthy paraphrasing.
Children of successful parents feel an unhealthy degree of pressure to succeed. The pressure can be so intense it can lead to anxiety, depression, substance abuse, even AN INABILITY TO HOLD DOWN A ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP.
Children of successful parents may appear normal but they are NOT NORMAL. Nope. Not even a SMIDGEN NORMAL. In fact, they are the epitome of ABNORMAL.
Children of successful parents feel pressure to conform to the expectations of their parents. So if their dad is an irrational, meddling asshole who judges people before he even knows them, his son will be expected to be the same.
Children of successful parents often desire to follow in their parents’ footsteps (especially sons and fathers). So while the son might sound like he’s pursuing his passion, he’s really only trying to do what his dad did, so he’s unlikely to have an original bone in his body.
Children of successful parents try so hard to convince everybody that they’re not snobs that the very act of humbling-down becomes a reinforcement of how they truly see themselves.
I make the last one up and am pretty impressed with myself, I must say. I change children to offspring , just because. Then I press ‘send’.
Oh. It’s been an oddly productive afternoon.
Cathartic.
It’s around two in the morning and I still haven’t fallen asleep, when I get a Ping! But it’s not Harriet. It’s…
Oh no. It’s the man who left me in the middle of nowhere to get eaten by mountain lions.
Guess what’s in my pocket? he writes, like that little phone call in his car never happened.
Out of date condom?
Try again.
You know what? I think I’ll pass.
Your car keys!
I bolt upright in bed.
Found ’em when I got home. My pocket of all places.
His where?
No idea how they got there. Must have rolled out of your bag when you fell. I must have picked them up intending to give them back to you but accidentally kept them. Got an appointment in Santa Monica tomorrow – coincidentally. Want me to drop them off at your place?
Rolled out of my bag? Straight into his pocket? I say a great big, ‘Pfiff!’ and spray myself with my own spittle.
My hands are shaking when I type: No thanks! Personal delivery of keys NOT required. Not if it means ever having to set eyes on you again.
Cool. Just checking.
I wait for more moving dots.
No more dots. Are you still there? I type. Then when that gets no reply: Did you pocket my keys deliberately? You did, didn’t you?
Ah! Dots again.
Why would I ever do that?
Hmm… Why would he, though? And I do need my damned keys. It pains me to need anything resembling a favour from him, but I type: You could give keys to Aiden to give to Harriet.
Could. But depends how badly you need your car. Won’t be seeing Aiden for a while.
Then he adds: He’s too busy having sex with your daughter.
The blood rushes to my face and pounds there. UGH!
Please bring me my keys. And bring your tactics for how we’re going to end this unpleasant little romance. It’s got to get decided tomorrow.
I shoot him my address.
He replies: It’s a plan, Stan.
The next day, I hold out my upturned palm, twist my head over my shoulder so I don’t have to look at him. He passes my keys through his open car window; they land in my hand. I turn to walk away, get a few steps, but then…
Right as he’s putting the car into gear, I rap on his window. He lowers it again, a smirk playing on his lips. ‘What can I do for you now?’ He takes off his sunglasses, looks me up and down. ‘Grocery run? Drop you off at your therapist? Your singing coach, perhaps?’
‘What about our mission?’ I plonk a hand on my hip, trying not to notice those damned red seat belts again.
‘Which is?’
I tsk. ‘The Break Up Harriet and Aiden one. Is there any other?’
‘Ah!’ He nods. ‘That one.’ In the strong sunlight his eyes look rather more blue than green and I don’t like the way they tick around my face and whatever he’s seeing seems to be causing him some mild amusement. ‘I don’t really have one,’ he says. ‘You?’
‘Given you’re the one who is so convinced Aiden’s marrying a green card grabber, I’m surprised you haven’t come with a briefcase, legal documents and a three-ring binder.’
He dips his chin to his chest for a moment, before looking up again. ‘I’m sorry I said that. I regret the way it came out.’
My hand is still on my hip. I move it away then plonk it back again for dramatic effect. ‘You know, if I’m being honest, I don’t really associate you with being someone who regrets a lot.’
He fixes me with his steady blue-green gaze. ‘Your honesty means a lot to me.’
‘Nice sarcasm.’
‘Are we done now?’ he says, like I’m a trying three-year-old.
‘Done?’
‘I’m illegally stopped. Don’t want to get a ticket. Maybe you should just invite me in.’
‘In? Why would I do that?’
‘I returned your keys. It’s the polite thing to do.’
‘Polite? You drove off and left me in the middle of nowhere. Anything could have happened to me. We’re lucky I’m standing here today, actually. It might have been a very different story.’
He sniggers. ‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’
‘What’s Ha. Ha. Ha mean? And who would do that by the way? I mean, seriously? Just drive off and leave a vulnerable woman without food, water, transportation…’
‘The way you were behaving, something could have happened to me if I’d let you in my car.’
‘Behaving?’ I look at his broad, tanned hand on the steering wheel, the curl of his thumb. ‘ Me behaving?’
‘I kind of like this, you know.’ He smiles. ‘The way that I say something, and you repeat it back to me. You’ve done it four times now.’
‘Four—?’
‘Five.’
I open my mouth to speak, but now I dare not say a word.
He rests his elbow on his door frame, his red seatbelt straining across his white-shirted chest. ‘As it happens, I do have an idea for how we can end this… what did you call it? Nasty little romance?’
‘Unpleasant.’
‘Yes.’
‘Continue.’
The edges of his mouth seem to be trying hard not to smile again. ‘I’m going to tell Aiden that you and I have had a little conversation. That you told me that from an early age all Harriet has wanted is to live in America. That you said it’s the only reason why she came here to study. That she actually hoped she’d meet someone and get to stay.’
The green card thing again! ‘But it’s not true.’
‘It doesn’t have to be true. It just has to be effective. Plant a seed of doubt.’ He glances me up and down, a little more ‘strip my clothes off’ this time. ‘I’m going to say you told me that Harriet has some mental health issues, and that’s why her behaviour can’t be relied on. That you wanted Aiden to know, but you don’t want him to bring it up with her. The topic distresses her. And if she gets distressed the doctors will have to up her medication.’
‘But she’s not on medication! You can’t say that!’ My heart starts to slam.
‘I’m going say, Look, son… you were raised to be a kind person, so you should continue to see her, but… find a way to let her down gently.’ He observes my gormless expression. ‘The gentle part is key. Because, you know… because of what happened to her last boyfriend.’
‘What boyfriend?’
‘The lad in England? That unfortunate business? When the police had to be involved?’ He searches my mystified face. ‘What she did.’ He upturns his hands. ‘Yeesh! Terrible business. Poor guy…’
‘W-w-w-w-w-w-w-wait a minute,’ I stammer. ‘I think it’s remotely possible that our tactics to split them up might need a little massaging.’
He puts his glasses back on, turns and stares straight ahead of him out of the window, drums his fingers on his steering wheel. ‘Coffee. Upstairs. We can massage.’ He turns to face me again, shrugs again. ‘My best offer. Otherwise, the plan goes live.’
I point to a parking meter and tell him it’s free until 3 p.m.