The image of you, p.6
The Image of You, page 6
Insecurity could be crippling. Many had an annoying habit of dismissing or underplaying their achievements. It bored him because manners dictated that he had to then bolster the perfectly adequate human being, pointing out her merits—merits that should have been obvious and a source of pride. It was a waste of time. It struck him that whilst he’d dated incredibly intelligent, passionate and beautiful women in the past, he hadn’t dated incredibly sensible ones. Anna’s sensibleness was novel and welcome.
He’d been expecting nothing; but this, well, this was possibly something.
This morning, ever since Nick had told Hal about spending the evening with Ivan, rather than going to the movies, Hal had amused himself by humming ‘Here Comes The Bride.’ Ha ha, very funny.
She’d been amazing last night. So calm, so reassuring. He’d noticed that it was not just when he was with her that he thought of her, she came to mind when she was nowhere about. The truth was, she was always on his mind.
Nick drew breath. Had he just had that thought? Had those words formed that exact sentence in his mind? Oh crap, he’d started to think in song titles! He’d even go so far as to say he was beginning to have some understanding of the lyrics, and he didn’t mean the songs he heard thrashed out in the bars and clubs he visited—the songs about bitches and asses—he meant the sort of sentimental stuff he’d heard dolloped around his own house when he was a very young kid. The revelation hit him like a blow.
He was falling in love. No? Yes? Hell.
Obviously, Nick had been in relationships before. A number of times. He was thirty, not thirteen, but none of the experiences had been especially scarring or especially momentous. Clearly, falling in love was a thing, there were endless books, films, songs and plays devoted to it. People drank themselves sick because of it, gambled, made themselves jobless or homeless, some people went totally mad for love; he just hadn’t felt the impact. His mother joked (somewhat desperately) that he’d been born without the necessary part of the brain that permitted a functioning, mutually beneficial, loving relationship. It was fair to say that he’d always found it quite overwhelmingly difficult to imagine sharing everything from his Krups coffee pods to the thoughts in his head, his bank account to his bed. Or, more accurately, he found it difficult to imagine doing that with just one person for the rest of his life. He knew his mother longed for grandchildren, and whilst she only allowed herself to admit it once a year (at Christmas, after a glass too many), she made it clear she couldn’t understand why there was no sign whatsoever that Nick might provide them one day. She worried less about his sister, Rachel, who was not dating at the moment but had at least had serious boyfriends in the past.
‘Your father and I have done our best to set a good example,’ she’d mutter, nonplussed. ‘It hasn’t always been easy, but nothing good comes easily. We’ve stuck at it and that’s what counts.’
She had no idea that this annual speech was part of the reason why Nick felt falling in love was a con. As far as he could gather, his parents appeared to exist in a state of wearied forbearance, rather than in everlasting ecstasy, which after all was what was promised.
When his friends announced they’d found someone special that they might want to move in with, possibly even marry, he’d always understood they’d been compelled by practicalities—shared bills, that sort of thing. No judgement. Obviously companionship was a motivator for some, just not for him. He was surrounded by people 24/7. Gobby, greedy, pushy, noisy people, much like himself. He liked alone time. He needed space. He also appreciated that some blokes met domestic goddesses, and that held an attraction. Those women filled the fridge, sorted out a bloke’s wardrobe and threw impressive dinner parties but Nick liked visiting restaurants and he earned enough to have all his shirts picked up from his home, laundered and delivered back to him. His domestic arrangements were fine, thanks very much, and they weren’t tied up in any way with sex or feelings, which was a bonus. OK, admittedly, he couldn’t procreate on his own still he wasn’t in a rush.
His private mobile buzzed. He glanced at the screen. It was his father.
He opened the conversation in his usual way. ‘Hello, Dad. This is not really a good time to talk.’
‘Right, son. Yes, yes, of course. Course not.’ His father sounded miles away. Distracted.
Were they on holiday? Had Dad lost track of the time difference? That would explain him calling during office hours.
‘Sorry, Nicholas, sorry to disturb you at work. But it’s your mother. She’s had a fall. She’s, they say—It’s not good.’
Eight
Zoe
It’s hard. There’s always a residue of guilt. The fact is, I was doing a lot of drugs and drinking when Anna first had her heart snapped at Yale. John Jones. That bastard’s name is etched on my soul almost as deeply and clearly as it is on Anna’s. John Jones. Such a boring, predictable name. He really oughtn’t to have had the impact he did.
He broke Anna.
Not just her heart. Her mind, her self-respect, her self-esteem, her ideals. All that was smashed to smithereens too. Even her moral compass started to spin uncontrollably; without the belief in a happily ever after Anna didn’t know how to negotiate her way through the world. It was messy, ugly. A waste. She trusted him entirely. She’d mistook high cheekbones, attractive eyes and floppy hair for something profound and momentous when really it was just a matter of a fortunate gene pool. It was humiliating, so very public. No wonder Anna felt she couldn’t complete her degree. With the benefit of hindsight (now older and, if not wiser, then certainly more experienced) I can, I suppose, see that the man was not evil.
He was just thoughtless, careless.
She went back home, crawled under the duvet and gave up. Not just her degree (although that was bad enough—you should have seen our parents’ reaction to that news) but for a time, a long time, she struggled to hold anything together. The days when she brushed her teeth and hair were seen as wins. She buried herself away. It took three years before she’d even go on a date with anyone else. And that is a whole other story (equally crap and gory). She found herself a little office job in a carpet cleaning company. It wasn’t what we’d hoped for.
Look, I’m not big into regrets but I do sometimes feel bad I wasn’t around much. Maybe, if I had been, I could’ve nipped it in the bud earlier—her excessive grieving for him. Look, maybe there was nothing I could’ve done. She’s always been overly sensitive.
There’s a widely accepted way to figure out how long someone should pine for an ex. You have to divide the duration of the relationship by two, not double it. Anna did not abide by those rules. Did not. Could not? I accept that the formula is a bit facile. I mean there ought to be some variance, reflecting how into him she was in the first place and the fact he was the guy who bagged her virginity (that was a huge deal to her) and that it ended when she walked in on him screwing someone else in her bed.
Even I accept that’s got to sting.
So she couldn’t keep to the lamenting schedule that suggested she’d be back in the game within eighteen months, tops, and that just depressed her more. She felt guilty and pathetic for feeling how she did, way after everyone else had expected her to move on. Honestly, to most people her grief for the relationship just seemed self-indulgent. Her friends stopped calling. They were busy getting on with their own lives. Yeah, they sent cards to mark the holidays but somehow they just made her feel worse because the holiday cards were stuffed with cheer and news about promotions, engagements, babies, progress. I guess she was pretty lonely. But, hey, I’m not her babysitter. I had my thing. We’re not conjoined. Being the person who is closest to her in this whole world, it might seem brutal when I say that I found her reaction exhausting and disproportionate. However, I do sort of understand it.
Anna is deep.
Extreme.
People don’t get that about her. They’re fooled by her good manners and outwardly cheerful demeanour. That’s her role. I’m the pain in the ass. People tend to be lazy, see what they want to see. Idiots. Fact is, she’s not so simple. She’s complicated. They left her to her heartbreak, pretended it was normal, pretended she’d get better. So it solidified into depression and ultimately manifested as bat-shit madness, by which I mean she went out into the world with a renewed and heightened zeal for finding The One; her one true love, her knight in shining armour.
Everyone thinks I’m the crazy one but, fuck, I’m not the one who believes in this fantasy.
I still think that if anyone had put in a bit of time and effort, like Ma and Pa for instance, or some of Anna’s supposed friends, they might have guessed she’d never be the same again. She remained upset about the break-up for—oh, I don’t know—for ever. She turned into the sort of person who couldn’t be expected to handle any more bad stuff ever. Of course, there’s always bad stuff. That’s why she needs me now. I look after her now.
I read this study from the University of Berkeley to try to understand what she was going through. It said that when you are in love (assuming you believe in that toss), then your brain is wired for reward, the reward being interaction with the object of your affection. When you split up and stop seeing your lover the reward isn’t coming but that doesn’t stop your brain from wanting it, from trying to get it. Can be a nasty thing, the brain. Quite the adversary. I guess she experienced some painful withdrawal. I get that.
I suppose it felt like her cold, dying heart was pumping gritty, grey ashes throughout her body, poisoning her bloodstream with disappointment and despair.
I guess.
Nine
Nick
In the time between his father calling him and then him getting through to his mother on the ward, Nick googled the injuries. He’d been told she had various cuts and bruises, a concussion and a fractured hip. The fractured hip was the thing that concerned him the most. His father said she had a break in the top neck of the femur, inside the socket of the hip joint. ‘They’ll need to operate today,’ he’d muttered fearfully. Nick was left to imagine plates, screws, rods, cement. Pain.
When he finally did get through to his mother she, quite predictably, insisted that he didn’t need to worry or fuss and that he certainly didn’t need to drive all the way to Bath to see her.
‘You’re a busy man, Nicholas darling. I won’t hear of it.’ Her words were determined although her tone didn’t match up. She told him that she was seeing all the best doctors, consulting with experts. No, he certainly didn’t need to make inquiries in Harley Street; she was getting the most marvellous care available, right there in Bath.
He wasn’t reassured, he knew that she’d never make a fuss and her needs always came quite far down the list of priorities if she was the one drafting the list. A nurse was holding the phone to her ear. She hadn’t broken her arm but she was in too much pain to move even her upper body.
‘They’re operating in the next hour or so.’
‘A general anaesthetic?’
‘No, darling, a spinal anaesthesia. You know, an epidural, like they sometimes give you if you’re having a baby.’ She tried to laugh but the sound was shot through with discomfort. Nick hated the thought. It sounded risky, dangerous. ‘They tell me an epidural has less chance of complications.’
Her bravery impressed and horrified him. He didn’t want there to be a need for her bravery. ‘What were you thinking, Mother?’ He normally called her Mum but shock and concern made him aggressive.
‘Well, the gutters needed cleaning. We thought there was a nest.’
‘Why didn’t you get someone in, or wait until I came to visit?’ If he was honest with himself, it was a hollow offer. He had no idea how to clean gutters; he’d never once helped his parents with an odd job around the house or garden. It wasn’t that he was unwilling to do so, it just hadn’t ever occurred to him that they needed him in that way. They were his parents; they did the looking after. When did they become vulnerable and unsure?
‘Your father and I have always managed.’ His mother sounded irritated. Possibly with herself, possibly with the entire ageing process. ‘He holds the ladder and I climb.’
Nick couldn’t understand what had possessed his normally sensible parents to stubbornly insist on doing this for themselves.
‘Maybe we should have got someone in. But, well, you read such awful things, don’t you? About men coming round with their ladders yet they’re not clearing out the gutters as you’re paying them to do, they’re sizing up the place. I’ve read about it, in the local paper. Tricksters.’
Nick would have preferred that the house was emptied of every stick of furniture than have his mother end up in this state. He felt awful that she and his father had been hostage to these miserable tales about conmen. He dreaded reaching the time of life when he’d not only see a threat at every turn but also feel unable to conquer it.
His mother pushed on, valiantly. ‘The doctor said that prompt surgery and a tailored rehabilitation programme, which starts as soon as possible, can significantly improve a person’s life.’
He wondered, what did that mean? ‘Improve a person’s life.’ It meant that the quality of her life was in doubt.
The bloody internet. What he read about hip fractures just sickened him. Left him feeling queasy. The internet informed Nick that hip fractures were depressingly common amongst the elderly, in fact they were classed as a major public health issue due to the ever increasing, ageing population. He didn’t find any solace in the statistic that around 75,000 hip fractures occurred in the UK each year. He felt indignant, cheated. His mother was only sixty-two; the average age for this sort of fracture was eighty. He’d read that recovery was precarious, slow. He’d read about the risk of infection, blood clots and pressure ulcers.
One in three people die within twelve months of fracturing their hip.
He rang off and then called Anna. Quickly, he brought her up to date.
She listened without interrupting. Only when he’d explained the entire situation did she ask, ‘So are you setting off now?’
‘Well, Mum is insisting that I don’t take time off work. She doesn’t want me to make a fuss. She says I’ll just be in the way.’ He waited a beat.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘Yes, please.’
* * *
Nick picked up Anna outside her flat. She was waiting for him because they didn’t want to waste time trying to get parked. She swiftly flung her small suitcase on the back seat and hopped in. He appreciated her efficiency.
She leaned towards him and put her hands on either side of his face. ‘It’s going to be OK. I’m right here by your side.’
It wasn’t just her efficiency he valued; her tenderness was comforting.
The traffic on the M4 was predictably, agonizingly slow and Nick drummed the steering wheel with impatience. Throughout the journey he tried not to imagine his mother sedated, lying on a trolley under the glaring lights, the surgeon’s cold, sharp knife, yet he thought of nothing else. Anna walked the tricky line between making decent, cheering conversation and allowing him to stay lost in his thoughts.
Nick hadn’t had many difficult times in his life. He was a middle-class boy born to two adoring parents, George and Pamela. He and his younger sister, Rachel, attended the local comprehensive school, which was listed as outstanding by Ofsted. He’d been Sports Captain, a position that guaranteed him popularity, and he’d always had a gift for maths and the sciences, so he did well in his exams. There’d been a frustrating point when, despite this, three of the five universities on his UCAS form turned down his application without even interviewing him. (His mother blamed the fact he hadn’t completed his Duke of Edinburgh awards and had refused to take up a musical instrument.) Despite everyone assuring him he only needed one offer, he’d felt like a failure; all his friends were being offered places in exciting, faraway cities. He locked himself away in his room until, at last, an envelope arrived inviting him to interview. He eventually secured a place at the London School of Economics. A very prestigious uni; indeed, his first choice. It had all come right in the end. However, this early disappointment set a pattern. From then on, Nick always had the same reaction to any period of uncertainty or poor luck; he would lock himself away, ride it out alone. If the markets dipped, or if a sport’s injury lingered, he didn’t want the well-meaning (often giddy) assurances that people always seemed to offer up. ‘You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth’, ‘It’s all for the best in the long run’, ‘Chin up’. Empty responses based on false assumptions. He preferred to be alone.
Until now.
Now, he found solace in Anna’s company. He kept glancing to his left and when his eyes fell on her smiling face and intelligent eyes, he felt fractionally better. Her perfume filled his car, something floral and old-fashioned; he liked it. He wanted to breathe her in.
They drove directly to the hospital and arrived in time to catch the last half an hour of official visiting hours.
He and Anna swiftly walked through A&E, wound their way through the corridors, looking for the correct ward, encountering some palpably confused patients, drifting about, searching for a bathroom or vending machine. He felt grossly uncomfortable. He preferred to surround himself with gorgeous, flourishing, robust people. He worked hard in the sort of industry that entitled him to sumptuousness, excess and pleasure. He didn’t know how to process the skinny, hardback plastic chairs, the endless tubes attaching people to machines and the distinct smell of disinfectant trying to erase infection and dirt.
He knew he was lucky. His mother could have killed herself. But he didn’t feel lucky, he felt terrified. Like a lost child. He just wanted to get to his mother’s bedside. ‘This is an awful place to bring you,’ he muttered to Anna.
