There was nothing I loved more than going to a friend’s house, because their mothers were around. I loved my mother more than anything, but the house would be empty and quiet when I got home. I would help myself to something from the fridge before traipsing up the stairs to my parents’ master bedroom, pushing the door open to find my mother lying propped up on pillows. On a really bad day, the curtains would be drawn, the room in darkness. Often she’d be asleep, and I’d pad over to her side of the bed and stroke her arm. She’d rouse, giving me a sleepy smile, pulling me down for a kiss and a hug, wanting to hear all about my day, her only access to the outside world. I couldn’t stay long, though. She didn’t have the capacity for too much stimulation, and on those days, the bad days, I always saw the relief in her eyes when I said I had to go back downstairs to do homework.
Still, even during the darkest of times, I never doubted her love for me.
On a good day the sunlight would be streaming in through the window and she might be reading magazines, or a book, sipping a glass of iced tea. On those days I could stay for hours, or at least until my father got home. We both always knew, half an hour before he was due to arrive (and thank God he was always punctual), we had to maintain the status quo: The curtains had to be drawn again, the TV turned off. My father would go in to kiss her, and the metaphorical shades over her eyes would be drawn again. I saw it happen over and over, and I knew, even then, that it wasn’t glandular fever, or mono, as she said, but something else.
And I knew, even then, that my father was, if not the cause, a major contributing factor.
My father could be fun, but it always felt like an act. However light-hearted he might have seemed, it was entirely eclipsed by his need to control everything around him.
There were times when I felt loved by him, but only when everything in his environment, including me, was absolutely perfect. When my hair had been blown out and rolled into soft curls, held back by a pretty ribbon; when I was in a ruffled, feminine dress, patent Mary Janes, and lace-trimmed ankle socks; when I was quiet, well behaved, respectful.
The other Cat: the wild, tearing-round-the-garden-with-her-friend, disheveled, ample-thighed, growing into surly adolescent Cat? That Cat he hated. Perhaps hated is too strong a word for it, but from the moment I turned thirteen, I don’t remember ever feeling loved by him.
He would look me up and down, with little attempt to hide the sneer. “You’re going out in that?” he’d say, and I, who had looked at my new Doc Martens in the mirror with such pride, such excitement that I could show them off to my friends, would feel instant shame. “You look ri-di-culous.” He’d shake his head to himself and mutter, as my cheeks would turn scarlet, and I would want a hole in the ground to open up so I could disappear.
“You’re never going to get a boyfriend,” he’d say, behind his paper. “Wearing those ri-di-culous clothes. Can I remind you that you are, in fact, a girl?” And I would want to claw his eyes out in rage.
I hated him for how he treated me, and I hated him for how he treated my mother. He did exactly the same to her, telling her what to wear, berating her for saying or doing the wrong thing, so she made herself disappear in the best way she could, by going to bed. For years.
And me? How did I deal with it? With my friend vodka. And a whole host of other new friends if vodka wasn’t available. There was gin, with whom I had a brief but intense relationship while I was at university. Gin and tonics seemed the height of sophistication, but consuming the best part of an entire bottle of gin on its own was not. Even now, at twenty-nine, I can’t touch gin. The very smell of it makes me think of the hours and hours of deadly bedspins, the hours and hours of throwing up the next day. If not gin, there were many, many happy times with tequila, including, yes, the infamous worm on a beach in Mykonos one summer.
There was always wine, and beer, although somehow beer didn’t seem to count. My tipple of choice was hard: I would always choose a bottle of Jack over a bottle of champagne.
My father couldn’t stand my drinking. And I couldn’t stand him, so in that sense I suppose we were compatible. Once I finished university and moved up to London to do a journalism internship, which led to this job on the women’s desk at the Daily Gazette, I barely saw him.
My mother was a cook when I was very tiny, before my father had worn her down. She filled my toddler years with baked treats that reminded her of home: apple pies; muffins, and not the English kind, the American, cakey kind; chocolate chip cookies, which, to my friends who were being raised on chocolate Bourbons, Jammy Dodgers, and Garibaldi biscuits, seemed the height of glamor.
During the dark years, if she cooked, which wasn’t often, it was bland and dull, a reflection of her life with my father, a reflection perhaps of how she felt about him.
When my father was diagnosed with cancer, I had an immediate sense of him not lasting long. I have no idea how I knew. In the beginning all the specialists were saying things like prostate is the good one to have, very slow growing, etc., etc., but I knew he wasn’t going to be with us for more than a year.
I didn’t feel bad about it. Which I still feel bad about. I remember calling my mum one day from work, just a few weeks before he died, and he’d been rushed into hospital because he was spiking a fever. My mum had to go because he was barking at her about what to bring him from home, and I remember hearing his harsh voice in the background, and closing my eyes, just for a few seconds while I said a silent prayer: “Please put him out of his misery,” I said. “Please let this be the end.”
It wasn’t. He clung on for another three months. I went to see him a handful of times. It had been awkward between us for years, and the penultimate time I went to see him I had to fortify myself with booze or I might have ended up saying something I’d regret.
I had a bit more than I intended, and I’ll admit, I was extremely … happy when I walked in the room.
“You’re drunk,” he managed to sneer, through the tubes. I just looked at him, the booze having exactly the intended effect. His comment floated over my head, and I kissed him on the cheek, steadying myself on the bed railing because I very nearly fell on top of him, all the while having no reaction at all.
The last time I saw him was awful. In the three weeks since the last visit, he had shrunk to half his size. His hair had gone, leaving a few wisps of white; his face entirely sunken. He was in a drug-induced coma by then, the pain medication knocking him out most of the time, although occasionally he would rouse for one of the nurses to feed him ice chips to assuage his thirst.
I had absolutely no idea what to say to him, this man I had struggled with my entire life. I wanted something seismic to happen at the end. I wanted him to wake up so we could somehow forgive each other, say we loved each other, move on with some sense of closure, for I knew this would be the last time I saw him, but he didn’t wake up, and nothing was said. I just sat awkwardly in a chair I pulled up next to the bed and looked at him. After a while I slipped my hand into his and stroked it, remembering how strong I thought he was when I was a little girl, how much I had loved him when I was tiny, when he thought I was perfect, before I grew old enough to fill his life with disappointment. I remembered slipping my tiny hand into his when I was small, how he looked at me, his eyes filled with … well. Not love, exactly. Sometimes love, but it was always mixed with a little confusion.
“Who are you?” he’d sometimes say, affectionately. “Where did you come from?”
“This is my changeling,” he’d introduce me to people, which made me feel special until I grew old enough to read fairy tales myself and realized a changeling is a fairy, elf, or goblin baby who’s put in the crib to replace the stolen, perfect baby.
I did cry, though, that day in the hospital, holding his hand. Horrible as this is to admit, I think I cried less because my dad was dying than for the dad I had never had. I cried for the missed opportunities, for not having a dad who loved me unconditionally and unreservedly. I cried for not having a dad
who accepted me exactly as I was.
And I think, in amongst the tears, I cried with relief.
My mother grieved appropriately for a woman who had lost her husband of almost thirty years so tragically, and then, after six months, she blossomed.
Looking at her now, you would never imagine she had ever experienced a day’s unhappiness in her life.
Two
The first thing my mother did after my father’s death was put our big old house in Gerrards Cross on the market and buy herself a gorgeous, light-filled flat on Marylebone High Street.
My mother has come alive again. She has filled the roof terrace with terra-cotta pots, geraniums and honeysuckle spilling over, clematis climbing up the trellis that hides her from her neighbors and allows her to sunbathe naked, which she does whenever the weather gives her the opportunity.
She has a cat (my father hated cats, which, really, should have been an instant warning sign—never trust a man who doesn’t like children or animals, and it seemed to me that my father didn’t particularly like either), a wardrobe of beautiful clothes, most of which are picked up downstairs in the Whistles sale, and a busy social life with her new townie friends.
We have plans to meet this morning at Sagne, which is something of a tradition on a Saturday, even though I am usually, as I am this morning, suffering the effects of the morning after.
It wasn’t quite so bad last night, though. No parties. I had dinner with Jamie, my on-again, off-again person. I can’t call him my boyfriend, because he is most definitely not my boyfriend, but he’s also most definitely more than a friend. What he is, most of all, is convenient. Jamie’s the person I can call, anytime, if I’m feeling horny, or talkative, or simply bored. I still can’t quite figure out why we haven’t been able to take the next step, because we do have great sex (although, honestly, most of the time I barely remember), and we do have great conversation, and it seems this should be enough, particularly given that neither of us seems to be able to name the one thing that is missing that would seal this deal.
He’s already left, for which I am grateful. I know what I look like first thing in the morning after a night of drinking, and it isn’t pretty. Although Jamie’s seen me like this many times before, I keep thinking I won’t do it again, and because he and I both know that’s not true, he’s taken to leaving while I’m still asleep. It slightly protects our integrity.
Last night we walked down to Regent’s Canal and had dinner in that restaurant that’s on a barge. It was lovely and romantic, and I wish to God I hadn’t polished off the martinis and all the wine, because the streets along the canal are at their most beautiful at this time of year, and I really would love to have strolled through, enjoying them.
If I recall correctly, it was more of a stumble than a stroll. Jamie had to keep catching me and steering me straight. I have no idea whether we had sex or not, but he says he usually stays now just to make sure I’m okay. Of course I’m okay.
Hang on. Something’s coming back to me. Last night. We had a fight. On the way home. Oh God. I groan and bury my face in the pillow, as if that will somehow make this memory go away, but it won’t; it’s still here, and I wish I didn’t have to remember.
Jamie is worried about my drinking. He started to tell me I was drinking too much, and I went ballistic on him. I shouted at him all the way along Blomfield Road. I don’t remember what I said, only his stricken face.
He didn’t stay the night. Now I remember. He said he wasn’t going to do this anymore, that he couldn’t watch me destroy myself in this way. He said all of my friends were worrying about me, and that at twenty-nine I was still acting like I was ten years younger, and it was time for me to grow up and start becoming responsible.
I remember screaming something about being responsible, I owned a flat, for God’s sake, and I had a steady job, and he knew nothing about me.
I open one eye and look over at the right side of the bed, which is, unsurprisingly, empty. Of course he didn’t stay the night and creep out early. He made sure I got home, and—I look down at myself, in a T-shirt and pajama pants—yes, undressed me, and then he left.
I am awash with shame. I may be on my own, but my cheeks are burning. He’s right. I can’t stand this. I can’t stand waking up every morning feeling like shit. I can’t stand waking up every morning swearing that I will never do this again, that today is the day I stop drinking, and then, at five, or six, or seven o’clock, I tell myself it’s only one glass of wine, or one beer, or a quick drink, which surely won’t hurt, and then, bam! Cut to the next morning, waking up with spotty memories about what happened the night before, and always, always, feeling like shit.
I pick up the phone and call my mum. “Can we make it eleven?” I croak when she picks up the phone. “I’m not feeling so good.”
“Oh God, Cat. Again?” She’s used to these Saturday morning phone calls.
“I know. I’m sorry.” To my amazement, my eyes then well up with tears as my voice starts to crack.
“Mum? I think I need some help.”
* * *
An hour later I’m sitting opposite my mum in Sagne, fortified by several strong cappuccinos, four aspirin, and an almond croissant. I know they say the best cure for a hangover is a full English fry-up, but the thought of greasy bacon and fried bread, ever, is enough to make me throw up. A meltingly buttery almond croissant, with just the right amount of marzipan filling, does it every time.
“So,” says my mother, gazing at me with concern. “You need help with your drinking?”
Suddenly it doesn’t seem quite so urgent. When I spoke to her this morning my head was pounding, my mouth felt like three thousand squirrels had died in it, and I felt entirely desperate. Now, buoyed by painkillers, coffee, and sugar, I’m realizing that I completely overreacted.
“Sorry about that.” I am sheepish. “You caught me at a particularly bad moment. I was feeling like complete crap when I called, but I’m fine now.” I expect her to smile with relief, but when I look at her, she is frowning.
She is so very elegant, my mother. Her hair, dyed to within an inch of its life when my father was alive, was left to turn its natural salt and pepper once my father died and now, three years on, is a soft shade of whitish grey. She has it cut in an elegant bob, her skin still soft and smooth, her eyes that startling shade of green, which—thank you, God!—I have inherited, the one thing I have inherited from her.
It is no surprise that my father called me the changeling, because in truth I do not look like either of them, with the exception of my mother’s eyes. My father had that classically pale, wan British skin, a nose that was slightly beaky, although he always described it as aquiline, and thin lips.
My skin is naturally olive, hiding a multitude of alcoholic sins. Even when I am horrifically hungover, practically comatose with exhaustion, I never look pale or pasty or ill. My lips are full, and my hair is dark with streaks of gold that come out in the sun on summer holidays to hot places. As a child, I detested my looks, longing for mousy brown hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and thin lips. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, I am becoming more accepting, occasionally, only occasionally, looking at myself in the mirror and feeling both surprised and pleased at the face that stares back.
Still, it is not a face that resembles my mother’s. At twenty paces, and despite her having spent the vast majority of her life in this country, you would peg her for an American. Something in the way she holds herself, a confidence, her smile: and yes, she does have great big perfect white teeth (another thing, thank you, God, I have inherited).
She is slim and tall, and even in a pair of jeans and V-necked T-shirt, with an antique gold belcher chain around her neck and ballet flats on her feet, she is almost ridiculously elegant. More so now that she is able to dress as she wants. Her style is simple: she wears shades of greige, never a color, and always looks immaculate, even without makeup, even though she appears to make little effort.
I find it ha
rd to believe she is my mother.
But she is, and I know her, and I know this frown, which is not a good frown.
I take a deep breath. “I really am fine. I just had a bit too much last night, and I always wake up feeling awful, but I don’t need help. I mean, clearly I’ve been drinking too much.” She looks up then, surprised I have admitted it. “I know I’m drinking too much, and I’m going to stop. I can’t stand waking up feeling the way I’ve been feeling, so I’ve decided that last night was the last time. That’s it. Today no more alcohol.”
I wait for her relieved smile, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she is still frowning, and now she is looking down at the table, as if she is figuring out what to say next, and I know it’s something bad when she finally gives a big sigh before meeting my eyes.
“Cat,” she says slowly. “There’s something I’ve never told you. Something I should have told you years and years ago, but I could never find the right time. I am so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing for you, but now I think I’ve done you a great disservice in keeping this from you.”
My heart is pounding. What on earth is she talking about?
“What is it?” My voice sounds strange given the buzzing in my ears, the pounding in my chest. Whatever is about to come next, I have the strangest sense it will be life altering in the most unchangeable of ways.
She sighs again before looking up.
“It’s about your father.”
Three
London, 1969
Audrey gazes out the car window at the lines of redbrick semidetached houses, all identical, all built after doodlebugs dropped on London during the Second World War destroyed lines of houses, as she tries to suppress the tiny jolts of excitement in the pit of her stomach.
She turns to look at her husband, his large hands resting on the steering wheel, his elegant jaw as tense as always. “You must be nervous, darling,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road.