very ambitious once but it hadn’t helped me get anywhere. What stopped me these days? I’d written one book and it had been published and been fairly successful, but then I’d rested on that little bit of success as though it was a sign that I’d made it. I lacked motivation and drive and when Viv had come along she did enough of that for the two of us. I reverted to ‘child.’ It was an awful moment to realise that I regressed when we moved into together. She had met a cheerful, outgoing, slightly cocky, go-getting writer and I had become …..what? Why couldn’t Mum come forward now with her wonderful witticisms to help me? The fact is that in my head I was still fifteen waiting for her to come home. But she hadn’t come home had she? She gone and parked herself in that stupid hospital and lined herself up to die. Her wonderful Alastair hadn’t been able to save her. I couldn’t go on like this, feeling so angry. It bubbled inside me at the very pit of my stomach.
To see mum go so thin and lose her hair, when she had been so beautiful was more than I could bear! Alastair hadn’t deserved her. Only I witnessed my mother crying after their petty arguments; usually after some woman or other had pursued him. His father had always played the victim as though he couldn’t help being so irresistible and charming. That was the thing. His father always wanted all her attention and he’d got it. Even when she had been dying she had been more concerned about whether he’d take up with another woman than leaving me.
“What about me mum? I mopped up your tears - who mops up mine?
I knew I was crying. My face was wet and my eyes water filled enough to distort my vision. I could hear people walking past me pushing prams and talking about their plans for the day. Some people alone and silent probably listening to music through earphones and casting me sideway glances. I knew I was still a little pissed and that I look like a tramp. I was destined to remain a loser and Viv had been right to leave me. I felt parched, my lips were dry and cracked and my hair was matted.
“You’ve got Spanish hair.” My mother used to say. “Jet black and curly.”
“Oh dear God! How many bloody nationalities are there in me?”
“The Spanish took over Ireland and pinched all the lasses, hence the beauty of the Irish.”
I never argued with my mother when she was like this, nor did I doubt her, there was always a little truth in everything she stated.
Taking myself back home and realising on the way that my diet was that of a slob, I purchased some fruit intending to eat it, but I chose instead to have creamed cheese on a bagel. “Sod it”. Perched at my breakfast bar I looked again at the state of the apartment and realised that almost everything in it was Viv’s. She’d taken only a few personal items and left lots of things behind. I hadn’t touched a thing of hers since she’d left and I understood that I was keeping the apartment a shrine to her. It was time to put things into boxes.
I meant to start with the scarf that the girl had draped over the lamp. When I noticed that the bulb had scorched a hole in the silk I felt distressed. I picked it up and sniffed it hard. “Oh Viv”. The smell of her enveloped me and I slumped into ‘the big chair’ as we had called it. It was no use. I couldn’t live without her. I didn’t look forward to the future without Viv. I’d intended for us to be married and for us to become old together and have kids. Hadn’t she realised that? Had I shared that with her? I realise not. I had been so busy living in the present that I forgot to explain to her how much the future frightened me. Viv couldn’t know that to me the future meant loss and facing up to the fact that anyone I loved would most certainly die. So what’s the point? I couldn’t dare to consider happiness beyond what I experienced in the hour, hence my lack of ambition and my inability to write. I’d lost my imagination because the colour had been taken away the day my mother died. My lights became dimmed. The shutters came down. Until Viv everything had been black and white and even her colour had been muted, vague even. I hadn’t let her into my big bubble of pain.
By that evening the apartment looked bare. The supermarket had given me some boxes. I’d needed to pack everything away because soon I would have to move. Where would I live? The only thing left out was the kettle, microwave and my lap- top. It was all I needed. I liked the bareness it matched my mood, which was now what? Empty! There wasn’t even a title to give to my emotions. Joe had said I could move in with him (he was married now with two children), until I found somewhere to go, but I didn’t want to. Alastair had a property in Scotland I could go to when the current tenant’s lease ran out but I didn’t want to do that either. I felt like a petulant baby. I wanted Viv. Where was she? What was she doing now? When would she be coming home?
“She’s not coming back son.”
I faltered unsure of myself.
“Please Mother …don’t always put things into words … stay quiet just now.”
I went over to the laptop and began typing. Rubbish really but at least my fingers were moving and I could kid myself I was being industrious. My writing style was cynical these days reflecting the bitter and twisted way I felt.
“Fight back.” Said mother.
“I can’t win.” Was my reply.
Night descended upon me and I was soon a full bottle of wine down. I’d directed myself not to drink while I had actually been pouring it down my neck. Interesting! I had no willpower. I’d pulled off the sheets and was lying on a bare mattress. Viv had done all the Laura Ashley stuff. I didn’t do the washing. I was a lazy bum! What did I do? I loved her. Always chased her. Never shouted at her. Cooked for her. Took her about. Thought up little surprises. Spent all my money on her. Gave her everything I had and more. Got into debt for her. We laughed together. Went to the pictures. Went on holiday all the time. I met up with her at lunchtimes and we went for walks. In my eyes it had all been good. Why did she want - a fake plastic guy? A ‘Radiohead’ disc! That would cheer me up – not! Still I went ahead and then started crying again. I tried Frank Sinatra and then a bit of Ella. By two a.m. I had planned my funeral. I fell asleep.
I was awoken by a strange sound. It took a few moments to understand what the sound was as I hadn’t heard it for so long. It was my landline. Everyone contacted me by mobile. I stumbled from the bed. Was it Alastair? When I answered there was no one at the other end. I looked around to find the clock, which stupidly I had packed away. I hadn’t my watch on and the curtains were closed. I sensed it was early morning but in London one rarely heard birds except in parks. I lived high-rise so I could see birds and I liked that. Hold on there was a sniffle sound. Oh no! That girl, she knew this number. I was about to put the phone down. As yet I hadn’t spoken because by nature I am suspicious of people who are not up front. My mother had always said to people on these occasions.
“You were calling me were you not?”
I was as stubborn as my mother.
“Ralph?”
It was Viv. She was crying.
“What is it”, I said, shoving the joy I felt at the sound of her voice aside along with finding it incredible that she had actually phoned me.
“Can you talk?”
“Of course I can.”
“Can I come over?”
“Yes.”
There was a voice in the background. A man was shouting and it sounded as though he was throwing things around. He was swearing and I heard my own name mentioned alongside the word ‘bastard’.
“He’s the bastard!” I shouted. My hackles were up and adrenalin was surging through my body. “Is he hurting you?”
“No. He’s just upset. He wants to come over too. May he?”
“What the hell is going on Viv? I don’t want him here. You come. Come alone.”
“I’d better let him come it’s only fair.” The phone went dead.
I didn’t know what to do. I began to tidy up rapidly. There wasn’t much to do. I found some old tea bags slopped in the sink, which I squeezed and winged in
to the bin. In a demented state I circled the kitchen island twice. I lunged forward to close the bedroom door, no need for tawdry displays and then positioned myself on my guitar stool, legs crossed, aiming to look nonchalant as though reading a magazine without a care in the world. It would be good if they could find me like this, in a supposed calm state.
“Will they be walking through a closed door son?”
She was right! I ran the tap and filled the kettle. I was making a fool of myself. There was nothing I could do to prepare myself for what might be coming, literally. I couldn’t imagine what was going on. Viv had sounded sad, frightened, flat and immune to everything. They were half an hour away from getting here. I had time to nip out to get some fresh coffee and a few provisions. I didn’t want to look impoverished in front of him at least. I regretted having packed most of her things away.
Back from the shops when I got out of the lift they were outside my door. Viv was staring at the closed panel as though willing the door to open with super hero powers and he was standing behind her staring at her back angrily.