Separation for beginners, p.26
Separation for Beginners, page 26
The clock given to my grandfather when he retired from the Prudential chimes for noon. He worked for them as a caretaker, for forty-nine years, except for five when he served in the Second World War. I have done nothing for the last hour but delete old emails and now I simply want to close this place down as quickly as possible. You spend a few years avoiding something and then want it done by teatime.
‘Guys . . .’ I say.
Si and Josie look up.
‘Tell me something. I’ve paid you both three months’ salary. It’s in your accounts. What I really want to do now is pack this place up, right now. I just want to get on with it. It’s not in your job description but, would you mind?’
‘It’s one month’s pay, my contract,’ Si says.
‘I know, but you’re both getting three.’
‘Thanks,’ Si says. ‘Are you sure, I mean . . .’
‘I couldn’t be more sure.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Josie says.
‘Let’s get stuck in then,’ Si says.
He’s like a different person. And it strikes me that he’s grateful. He might be the only person on planet Earth less motivated than me, or less capable of change. Perhaps he’s been wanting me to force his hand for years.
‘I’ve made a little list,’ I say. ‘Over the next day or two I’ll need you both to delete any personal emails from your inbox and change your password to something unconnected to you so I can have access to your client emails. But today, I actually want to shut this place down, physically. I want to tidy it up, send things to the tip for recycling or trashing, get anything we can sell up on Gumtree.’
‘Cool,’ Josie says.
‘I don’t know how to do that, by the way,’ I say.
Josie nods, in a way that confirms no one thinks I would know how to sell anything on Gumtree. ‘I can do all that,’ she says.
‘I wish we had blinds,’ I say.
We get down to it. I box up all the paperwork in the back office alongside a few boxes from my parents’ era that I have never thrown out. I make a pact with myself that if I haven’t needed to go into any of these boxes by the time someone else moves into the shop, I’ll bin them. Yes, deep down in one of them might be some photos of a trip, or a note to me from Dad or Mum, but I’m replete with good memories and even if I live to be a hundred, I shouldn’t make time to trawl through twenty boxes of the past.
Whilst Josie and Si are out getting a sandwich, I record an answerphone message.
‘Hello. This is Peter Smith. Smith’s Holidays has ceased trading and the shop is now closed for business. I have loved serving my community’s travel needs for many years but now is the time for me to begin an exciting new venture. My best wishes to you all and my sincere thanks to you for your custom over the years.’
I sound about seventy-eight years old.
The three of us work all afternoon at packing up. We get into a rhythm and, personally, I have not felt this good for a long time. I call Si into the back office at one point and apologise again. And I thank him for his attitude. His body language has changed slightly. It’s a subtle shift but it’s as if he is free to be himself and to like me a bit. He’s never said a rude word to me, never disagreed with anything, but neither has he ever said a kind word or looked happy to be here. My first thought is that it’s sympathy that is the difference, that you’ve just got to feel a little sympathy for a man closing down his family business, but then I suspect that what’s changed is that he’s let go of the resentment he brought with him to work every day, for me having him in this shitty job which, whilst it was still on offer, he dared not leave.
‘I’ve been thinking about this for ages,’ he says, ‘the fact that I don’t particularly like working with people, so I might go back to painting and decorating, my first job. I think I’d get loads of custom from my parents’ friends, and I like the idea of being on my own listening to podcasts, not being at a desk. People appreciate a job well done if you have a trade. I could learn a language whilst I’m working, which is pretty awesome.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say.
I’m smiling at him having said so casually that he doesn’t like working with people.
Later, I steal a moment with Josie too. ‘I’m sorry I can’t set you up in a new job.’
She shrugs, smiles and shakes her head to tell me it’s not my fault. (It is actually.)
‘I did wonder . . .’ she says. ‘Thing is, I think I do like selling holidays and stuff. And I suppose I wondered if you could recommend me to other travel agents, people you know really well, and you can influence.’
I can do one of two things here: promise her I will and get her hopes up, knowing already I can’t, or come clean.
‘Josie, I already have. I called my contacts and none of them are looking for people.’
‘Oh.’ She smiles bravely. ‘That’s so kind of you to do that.’
I watch her taking the display panels off the walls. I ought to be able to send that woman into three or four meetings with exciting travel companies, but I have not kept those professional ties watered and fed, I have not nurtured and re-booted them with new information and fresh ideas. What if I am failing to do that with Susie and Erland too? The thought of stagnating with them terrifies me. I write the letters E and S on the back of my left hand, the sort of temporary tattoo that teens use to remind themselves to do their homework reminding me not to mess up with my children.
We get into a rhythm and get a lot done. Maybe I could shut down family businesses for a living. I order pizza, beer and wine, and we work late.
‘Are you going to write about this?’ Si asks Josie. (He’s initiating conversation now; the world’s gone mad.) ‘Are you going to do stand-up about us, the sad old bastards at the firm that closed down?’
‘Thanks for that, Si,’ I say.
‘Um . . .’ Josie says, looking confused. ‘Say something funny about you? I’m a stand-up, Si, not a magician.’
I walk home at nine in the evening, feeling tired and slightly drunk. I call Mrs H and am relieved when I hear it go to voicemail. ‘It’s Pete. I got things badly wrong today, should have talked to you about it first and given you time to get used to the idea and to help me if you wanted to. I apologise, I’m really sorry.’
Having left the message, I don’t feel concerned about how she responds. After what she said to me earlier, she’s a different person to me. I’ll find it easy to get on with her if she turns up tomorrow, and I’ll not lose sleep if she doesn’t.
I’m pleased Niall is home when I get back. I’m pleased he notices that I look worn out and I like that he gets up off the kitchen sofa and offers to make me tea. I wash my face with cold water. I light the fire. I sit there and wait for Niall. He enters the living room like a cat tentatively checking out a new home.
‘You’ve got a living room,’ he says.
‘I know! Nice, isn’t it?’
I tell him about closing down the business. He listens without interrupting and doesn’t seem to consider it big news.
‘Good idea,’ he says, throwing his legs up over the arm of the sofa he is on.
I am sitting on the rug, my back against the other sofa, watching the fire and drinking my tea.
‘Why would you possibly need a premises or staff to sort people’s holidays out for them?’
I nod, my way of defending how I’ve done things up until today whilst implying that I agree.
Niall sits forward, goes as far as to put his cup of tea down, such is the importance of what he wants to say to me. And he does that weird thing of his where he stares at me and waits for me to see him. I’m wise to it, though still slightly unnerved by it, and enjoy avoiding eye contact for as long as possible.
‘So, you are in this amazing position now,’ he says. ‘Your master plan can be to use all your travel contacts to create a world trip, a silver-top gap year—’
‘I’m not grey – my hair’s not bad for someone of my age.’
‘An environmentally friendly mega-trip, over land and sea where possible, but some flying, fuck it, life’s too short, writing a blog with all your experience and knowledge about the trip and setting yourself up as a very experienced travel guru for elite clients. Get followers and start trending.’
‘Yeah . . . I could pretend I was trying out places for a new venture, use all the air miles I’ve got and get loads of discounted travel and accommodation if I made out that it was a blog for a new travel company, ethically sound scuba or something like that.’
‘Yeah,’ Niall sighs and throws himself back on the sofa, ‘you could pretend you were doing this as part of setting up an ethically sound scuba travel company, or . . .’
He stands up.
‘YOU COULD ACTUALLY FUCKING SET UP AN ETHICALLY SOUND SCUBA HOLIDAY COMPANY!’
‘Keep your hair on,’ I say, what with it being 1950 and everything.
‘And have, you know, the coolest job in the world!’
‘Sit down, Niall.’
‘And if you still don’t get any sex even with a job like that, you’ll finally just know that you are primordially unattractive.’
‘It’ll be nice to have that confirmed.’
‘Stop living hypothetically! This is it. You’re on. The clock is ticking. At least go somewhere. Your adult life has been travel – doing it, then selling it. You have no idea what to do with your life now, so just go on a trip. Anywhere. Go somewhere and see what happens.’
‘Can you stop talking?’
‘Who knows? I’ve never tried.’
I watch the flames. Incredibly, Niall remains quiet for an extended period of time. At a certain point he leaves and later he calls out, ‘Goodnight.’
‘Come here a sec,’ I call back.
He returns.
‘Do something for me?’
‘Sure.’
I watch the glow of a dying fire and can’t believe I am about to admit this to him, but I need to go, and I can’t trust myself to do so.
‘I have an appointment at two o’clock tomorrow with a hypnotherapist.’
I wait for him to laugh.
‘I have to go to it, but I’ll not want to.’
‘Cool, cool,’ Niall says. ‘Night.’
I have no idea what ‘Cool, cool’ means and I’m nonplussed by his lack of shock at the seismic admission of weakness that I need therapy. It’s as if it’s no surprise to him at all.
Chapter 21
I discover what Niall means by ‘Cool, cool’ the next day when he walks me to my appointment.
‘This is fine, Niall,’ I say, as we walk along the river. ‘I’ve got it from here.’
‘I’ll come in with you.’
‘Incorrect.’
‘Moral support.’
I stop dead. ‘Thanks for walking me into town. Now go away. And don’t tell anyone about this. Not my daughter, not my ex-wife, not anyone.’
‘Can I tell the estate agent?’
‘No! Christ!’
‘He talks to me quite a bit. I like him. And I really hate keeping secrets.’
‘When? When do you even see him?’
‘At viewings. He does viewings and tries to tiptoe in. See? I can’t keep a secret. I’ve bumped into him showing people in a few times.’
I bow my head and take a deep breath. ‘Niall, are you listening?’
‘Yup.’
‘Don’t, please, don’t—’
‘I can hear a sand martin.’ He swivels round and looks at the riverbank.
‘Are you listening, Niall?’
‘Yuh . . .’ he says, studying the water’s edge.
‘Don’t tell my ex-wife’s estate agent I’m seeing a hypnotherapist, okay?’
‘Sure.’ He doesn’t move.
‘You turn back, I’ve got this.’
He looks at his watch. ‘You asked me to make sure you don’t skip this. I’ll see you to the door then I’ll go.’
He’s not going to back down, so I walk on. When we get to the high street, I stop in my tracks. On the opposite side of the street, a building that has been inhabited by a stream of pound shops and pop-ups for the last decade, is being refitted. I recognise the deep-blue and mustard-yellow paintwork on the shopfront and on the large poster pinned to the window announcing, CAFÉ DES VIEUX AMIS, COMING SOON!
I watch three men fitting out the restaurant interior, and a man and a woman on the pavement applying shiny gloss paint to the ornate frames of the large shopfront windows. I gaze at the poster, with a picture of the interior of the other Café des Vieux Amis, in Shepperton, the one Claire and I knew well. I feel a little bit sick.
‘What is it?’ Niall asks.
‘Nothing,’ I say. But I don’t move.
‘Really, what’s up?’ Niall says.
‘Nothing,’ I mutter. I walk away. Niall follows and sees me to the door, where I turn to face him and look as if I’m really grateful, then say, ‘Fuck off.’
He laughs. ‘Sure you don’t want me to come in with you?’
‘You haven’t asked me why I’m here.’
‘I like to mind my own business.’
‘But seriously.’
‘I’m not shocked. Let’s leave it there.’
I hate that.
‘It’s a shame you’re not a smoker,’ he says.
‘Why?’
‘Two for the price of one,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Kill two birds with one stone. Make two friends with one gift. Two needs, one deed.’
‘Niall, I understand what two for the price of one means. I just don’t get how it applies here.’
‘Hypnotists are good at getting you to quit smoking – he’d be able to sort that out too.’
‘It’s a she, and she’s a hypnotherapist not a hypnotist. And, yeah, it’s a real shame that I don’t have a life-threatening drug habit I need help getting over.’
Niall steps back and clasps his hands together in a courage-mon-brave gesture. ‘It’s like you’re changing but you’re still totally you,’ he says.
‘What is that meant to mean?’
‘Enjoy therapy,’ he says, and laughs as he goes.
I turn and look at the grey door. There are three buzzers and the top one reads, MARY BLAIR.
I am still climbing the stairs and breathing in the smell of incense when she calls out, ‘You did it! You’re here.’
‘It’s not too late to turn back,’ I reply.
But who am I kidding? I want to be here. I love the smell of the place and all this crap about not wanting to share my feelings is exactly that. I’m desperate to share them, I just don’t know who with.
The room is nice. It has the feel of a big, converted attic, largely due to it being a big, converted attic. I don’t know how to sit on my chair – cross-legged, upright, hands on thighs, hands under thighs, one arm over the back, all casual.
Mary hands me a clipboard.
‘The consent form, Peter. I’ve filled in most of it.’
Mary has filled in my name and address. I add ‘Flat 1’ to the address, and in a box inviting me to describe my reasons for being here I write, DIVORCE / WORK / GENERAL.
‘Sometimes,’ Mary says, ‘people come to a hypnotherapist with a specific concern or problem they want to address. Plenty of times, it’s not so clear.’
‘I want to feel happy,’ I remind her.
‘And even being able to say that is a heck of a thing,’ Mary says.
I shrug. I’m still trying to work out how to sit and where to look. Still and at Mary is the mature and rational choice but it’s not coming easily to me.
‘I’m going to describe what this process is, and, importantly, what it isn’t. And we’ll do some visual hypnotherapy, very gentle, aimed to help you view things differently. But it might be good to have time to talk today, so we can discover what you want.’
‘I want Claire back.’
‘And what you can actually have.’
‘Ah,’ I say.
‘You don’t look comfortable,’ she says.
‘I’m about to pour my heart out to our old babysitter. I’m not comfortable.’
‘I mean, that chair isn’t your friend.’ She leads me to a massive beanbag by the window. ‘Use that,’ she says. ‘I think it’s what you need.’
I lower myself onto the Jabba-the-Hutt-like beanbag with all the grace of a camel on a dinghy but none of the discomfort. I slouch, because the beanbag gives you no choice, and feel the sun on my face.
Mary pulls her chair across the room to me. This might be a tactical diversion which she uses, to start someone in an uncomfortable chair and then lead them to the beanbag of comfort, a way of creating an immediate problem which she can solve, of appearing indispensable to my well-being within five minutes of arriving. Clever? Manipulative? Who cares.
Or perhaps I’m over-thinking.
‘I’m getting me one of these beanbags,’ I say. ‘But I’m on the brink of moving Susie’s ex-boyfriend out of the flat. I cannot afford to get one of these in until he’s gone because if he sees this, he’ll never go.’
‘Is that a cause of stress for you, Susie’s ex?’
I look at Mary. ‘Don’t say this to anyone, but without him these last few weeks, I think I might have gone insane.’
‘Peter . . . what would you like to talk about, to begin with?’
‘There is something that’s come up, it might be a bit of an anecdote, a distraction, but it feels like something I could tell you.’
‘Sounds good,’ she says.
She is poised and comfortable in her chair. The clipboard and pen have been put aside, which I like.
‘There’s a café opening in the high street, called Café des Vieux Amis.’
She nods. She’s probably seen it. It might even vie for her attention with the Boatshed.
‘The people who run it have another Café des Vieux Amis, in Shepperton – it’s been there for years and years. Claire and I liked it.’
