‘Are you aware, dear Mother, that he’s in love with me?’ I asked.
‘Of course I’m aware, I’m not stupid.’
‘So…?’ I said, shrugging and raising my eyebrows in a way that invited her to think it through.
‘I’m… Is… Look… is that supposed to be a downside?’ Mum asked. ‘Is the fact that you’ve got a lovely bloke – because I think even you’d have to admit, he’s a lovely bloke…’
I waited for her to continue. ‘Go on,’ I said, eventually.
‘Admit it,’ she said, ‘and I’ll go on.’
‘OK, he’s a lovely bloke! So what? He also happens to be the ultimate creepy stalker!’ I glanced back at the TV. On the screen Jimmy Savile was sliding his arm round a teenage girl onTop of the Pops, and I admitted to myself that Rob perhaps wasn’ttheultimate creepy stalker.
‘So you need somewhere to live—’
‘Only I don’t,’ I interrupted.
‘Only you do!’ Mum said, nodding at me insistently. ‘And you’ve got this lovely bloke who absolutely worships the ground you walk on, who loves Lucy to bits, offering to rent you some rooms.’
That conversation was repeated incessantly, albeit with slight variations, and it was repeated multiple times daily. But because it was what Wayne would call an ‘unsolvable equation’ it never got us anywhere new.
In the end, ten days later, I threw some things in a bag and chucked it down the stairs into Rob’s waiting arms.
Both he and Mum looked so pleased with themselves that I’m sure they believed they’d finally won, that they’d finally convinced me. Rob definitely thought he’d gained far more than he had, and I saw him hide his surprise when, on arrival, I carried my bag of clothes up to that top room rather than to the master bedroom, in which he’d generously offered me ‘wardrobe space’.
But the truth of the matter is that I was exhausted from not sleeping, from breastfeeding and dealing with nappies and puke. I was sick, too, of arguing with Mum and Wayne about the same things over and over again. I was feeling miserable about my life, about how radically things had changed since that exciting camping trip with Billy.
In my absence, my brother would doubtless excel in his exams and go to college and do just about whatever the hell he wanted – just like Billy, who was at college learning stuff, having fun and doing whatever the hellhewanted.
But me? I actually shrugged as I thought about it all. I’d become Little Miss Zero Options, stuck with an angsty crying baby in someone else’s house, with no excitement, no joy, no surprises coming my way at all. I thought of Wayne’s jibe. ‘You’re an unmarried teenage mother. Congratulations!’ he’d said. Congratulations indeed!
The only thing easing any of this was the fact that I was so utterly exhausted and so thoroughly depressed that I was beyond caringwhereI lived.
* * *
Living at Rob’s turned out to be wonderful. It took me about a week to let myself admit it, but it was truly, totally brilliant.
I was vaguely suspicious of his motives at first, so I took Lucy in with me and locked the door. But Rob didn’t try to sneak into my room to ravish me during the night and, if anything, it seemed his interest in me actually waned. It was as if all he’d ever wanted was for us to be safe and sound under his roof and, now we were, he could relax.
He was incredibly busy, too, those first few weeks, and that no doubt relieved some of the pressure. He’d been flat out getting the house ready – ultimately, forus– but now he was working fourteen-hour days trying to catch up with all his normal jobs.
So during the daytime, and for much of the evening, I’d find myself alone, in that big house, with Lucy.
I’d actually been scared of being alone with her, I realised, but surprisingly it turned out to be easier than sharing with Mum and Wayne. I could negotiate with myself about just how long I could get away with between feeds or nappy changes without the shame of knowing I was being judged. Even Lucy’s crying became less stressful once I knew the only person it was bothering was me.
We quickly settled into a routine, the three of us. I’d get up and eat the breakfast Rob had laid out for me before leaving for work, and then I’d put Lucy in the pram and take her for a push along the blustery seafront. After that, we’d have a snooze together, and then I’d tidy the house a little and do my best to rustle up an evening meal – my way, I suppose, of thanking Rob. I was a pretty rubbish cook back then but, as Rob’s tastes went no further than a fry-up or a reheated pizza, I coped, and he was always grateful no matter how bad the result.
Shelley, who visited often, once joked that we were like an old retired couple. None of them had sex either, she said; and in a way that was exactly how things felt.
In the evenings, we’d sit and watchHave I Got News For You, and we’d laugh together at some joke and I’d glance across at Rob and think a warm sort ofthis is all right, isn’t it?feeling, and then have to fight myself to avoid the thought going any further.
But love’s a funny thing, really, isn’t it?
I remember once, in school, they taught us that in French there’s only one word for bothlikeandlove, and there was some discussion in the common room about how stupid the French must be to not even have come up with a proper word forlike.
But I’ve thought about it from time to time since, particularly during those first few weeks at Rob’s, and in a way it made sense to me. Because what was the difference between the way I felt about Shelley – who I loved to bits and who made me laugh so much I’d almost wet myself – or my mum, who I’d die trying to save – or calm, collected Rob, sat beside me chuckling atMasterChef?
When I thought of Billy, I’d thinkno! That’s bollocks!Because real love, which perhaps really just means love + sex, is a completely different kettle of fish, isn’t it?
