The A-Z of Us (32 page)

His ‘Ummm' while he thinks of the next thing he wants to say.

The way I always forget to check there's a towel in the bathroom, and the way he always admonishes me, but always brings me one.

The personal history of a couple that is like and unlike any other couple.

In that moment, sitting at my desk on a sundrenched Friday afternoon, I realize for the first time why I told my husband that I didn't love him. When I said ‘I don't love you' I was saying it to myself. My self-loathing.

I blamed myself for the lump in my breast. I felt it was my punishment for not being satisfied with my easy, luxurious life, when my sister and my mother had suffered so much. I hadn't been content with my handsome, successful husband, my fabulous four-storey house, and my job at one of the five best architecture firms in the country. So I had to be punished.

Molly was the one who was meant to succeed. She was the eldest, the good girl. Not me. I had upset the plan, I was wrong. And the tumour had appeared to tell me that.

‘You must be destroyed,' it had said, ‘because you are not worthy. Not only have you been granted these things in error, but you do not even appreciate them.'

And so I pushed Raj away. Because I was not worthy.

‘I don't love you any more.'

I realize more, as if understanding a language for the first time. I said those words in the hope that he would protest, that he would not leave, that he would stand up for his love, and force me to reveal why I'd said them. It was a test that I'd set for him, just as I'd tested Neil, so disastrously, all those years ago.

Is it because of my father's death? Do I have a deep-seated fear of being abandoned? Does this result in my subconscious need to test people, to ensure that they will not leave me?

Whatever the reasons, everything seems clearer now. Now I know.

I know for certain that a career is important and promotions are important, and that money is necessary and a nice house that will impress your friends and your relatives and your milkman is of value, and that holidays to new
and interesting and sunny places are indispensable, but that when it comes down to it, all these things don't mean very much, unless you have someone in your life whom you trust, whose flaws and talents are known to you more than anyone else's flaws and talents, and whose back fits into your chest when you curl into them in the darkest hour of the night.

I catch a cab to Moorgate. The receptionist recognizes me from an office drinks party and tells me to go through. I walk up to Raj's desk. I will not tremble, I will not flinch.

‘Hi.'

He looks up, and his mouth opens but no sound comes out. I look at him, and I picture him as an old man.

Perhaps this is the challenge in life. To make a decision to love someone and stick to it.

‘I have something to ask you.'

‘What, Gemma?'

He seems scared, as if this might be the end.

‘Will you come to the hospital with me?'

‘Why? What's the matter? Are you okay?' There's panic in his voice.

‘Will you come with me right now and be there whatever happens?'

He pauses before answering, seemingly aware that what I am asking is serious and big. I wait, knowing that the tone of his reply will tell me if I've been right to take this gamble.

‘Yes.'

He picks up his jacket and turns to a tall man I recognize as his boss, Peter Saville.

‘I have to go. I'll call in later.'

‘But the Samuelson report is due at the New York office by close of play their time, Singh…'

‘I'm sorry Peter. I have to go.'

‘Singh…'

But Raj is already walking away. I can't help a quick high laugh as we stride from the office.

‘Wow.'

Raj turns and smiles.

‘Maybe the leopard can change his spots,' he murmurs softly.

We walk out into the bright light, and I stumble slightly. His fingers brush against mine. He steps to the curb and shouts for a taxi, and as we wait for the black cab to pull up, I reach out and take his hand. I squeeze gently. His hand is warm. It feels like home.

Three weeks later.

I find the place. Page 30 of the London
A to Z
. Burleigh Street, Covent Garden. The coffee shop, Pietros, is halfway down, next to a Burger King and a branch of Pret a Manger. I wonder why he chose this place. Probably because of its old-fashioned Italian espresso machine and the wizened old man sitting in the corner. Authentic. That's what he'd call it.

I order a cappuccino and look at my watch. He's five minutes late. But I can forgive him that, after all that has happened.

Suddenly, I feel nervous, an anxiety fizzing through me. I sip the coffee which is thick and creamy. No more nerves, please, I think. No more terror.

But it's unavoidable. I am fretful, yes, I am full of fret, because I have no idea how this meeting will work out.

He called me. I listened to him, feeling a rush of conflicting feelings as he explained what had happened. We arranged to meet.

‘Hi, Gemma.'

I look up. He is standing there, by my table. He must have walked in as I was fretting. He looks well, better than I'd imagined. I beckon for him to sit down opposite me.

‘Do you fancy a coffee?'

‘Please. Espresso. They're really good here.'

I look at him, trying to divine what has changed in him. He has a vague tan, his hair is shorter, eyes are bright. He looks as if he's had a lot of rest. But I know any real changes will not be visible. They will have to be deduced.

‘Well…'

He looks worried.

‘Well…'

‘It's good to see you, Ian.'

He smiles.

‘It's good to see you too, Gemma.'

We order more coffee and I listen to his story, as I've listened to countless stories he's told in the past, and as I listen, my head nodding occasionally, my mouth interjecting ‘ummm' and ‘no way' at intervals, it is pleasantly familiar.

Ian tells me about eating the walnut, and losing consciousness, and the passenger who raced up the aisle with his own epi-pen of adrenalin, ripping down Ian's trousers and plunging the needle into his trembling thigh before anyone could stop him.

‘He saved my life. This undertaker from Oregon, in his forties, a little normal-looking bloke, you wouldn't look at him twice, and he saved my life. An undertaker. Isn't that funny?'

I nod.

‘Wait. It gets stranger. It turns out that he'd only been diagnosed with a bee-sting allergy three days before he was due to travel; it was his first ever trip outside the States, for this undertakers' conference in Slough, so he'd
bought the epi-pen because someone told him there were lots of bees in England. He'd never even used it before, but he said he was pretty used to sticking things in corpses. Morten Chambers. From Eugene, Oregon. I sent him a case of champagne. He's invited me to go and stay with him and his wife next time I'm anywhere near the west coast. They've got two small kids. I might go. It's strange. I feel this weird bond to him.'

‘Well he did save your life.'

‘Yeah. An undertaker saved my life. How strange is that?'

Ian explains how the plane was diverted to a Canadian airfield called Goose Bay, where he was taken to hospital for observation. Apparently the airline were great about it, as were the passengers. They clapped and cheered him off the plane.

‘It was like I was a hero. I'd cheated death.'

I nod and smile once more. Perhaps everyone glimpses their own mortality as their twenties end. Or perhaps Ian and I have been in some way privileged.

It's clear that now Ian has finished the story he's been so excited to tell, he is feeling uneasy. It's as if he's been racing up a mountain, and has stopped to see how far he's come, only to realize how far he has still to go. I sense my own discomfort returning, the gap between us expanding once more, like a pool of icy water freezing as it spreads.

I sip my coffee which is now cold and bitter. Ian picks up his espresso cup, then realizes it's empty and places it down. A car passes. There's laughter from someone on the street.

‘I was calling you… when I ate the nut.'

I look up at him.

‘What? From the plane?'

‘Yeah. I just wanted to say…'

His voice trails off. Suddenly I am terrified that he is going to tell me that he loves me and he wants me and that he'll do anything to have me. It would be too horrible. I don't want him like that. I was just lonely and jealous and confused, that's why I said those things about sleeping with each other. I don't want his passion. I don't want his love. I want him as my support, my diversion, my confidant, my friend. I want the old Ian, and the old Gemma. Too much in life is new and difficult. I want continuity, I want connections to everything that has gone before. Is that too much to ask?

He speaks again.

‘I guess I wanted to tell you that there were definitely a few times, at the beginning, when I wanted to sleep with you.'

‘It doesn't matter, Ian…' I interrupt him, quickly.

‘I mean who wouldn't? You're attractive, you're wonderful, of course I'd want to have sex with you…'

The old man in the corner peers over the top of his paper. The café seems deafeningly quiet as Ian continues:

‘… in some ways I've always been jealous of your boyfriends…'

‘Of Raj?'

‘Yeah. I guess so.'

I want to leave, things can never be the same again, I've been so stupid, so naive to think they can be.

‘… That's the curse of being male, I guess, sometimes you think with your dick.'

I glance up at the waitress, who seems to be smirking behind the cappuccino machine. My face burns scarlet. I cough.

‘Look Ian, maybe we should talk about this some other time…'

‘What I'm trying to say is that, you know… you're my best friend.'

He looks at me.

‘I love you more than I've ever loved anyone…'

‘Ian, please…'

‘Not romantically… not anything like that, but more as… I don't know… a sister. That's it. I feel like you're my sister, even though I've never had a sister, but I can't think of any other way to describe it, it's like you and I, we learn so much from each other, don't we? I mean we can… Look, Gemma, can we forget everything? Can we start again?'

I look at him. I want to laugh. He gazes back at me, blushing.

‘How about it? Would you be my sister?'

He is the old Ian, both frustratingly and inspiringly childish. I smile, a comforting yet reproachful smile that I know I've copied from my mother, but for once I don't care.

‘We can't choose our family, Ian.'

This seems to stop him in his tracks. He looks down at the table for a moment, as if trying to translate my words into a language he can understand. Then he looks up and smiles.

‘Yes we can. We have to. Because there aren't any rules any more. How many people turn their backs on their
parents, their brothers and sisters, their children? How many families end up divided, never talking to each other? The old ideas of family don't exist any more, Gemma. So we have to make new ones. We have to make a really big effort to choose, even our own parents, we have to look at them and say, yes, I choose you and I'm going to stick with you through everything, because I've made that choice…'

It makes sense, in a strange way, I suppose. I've rejected my own mother, my own sister. Perhaps Ian is right. Perhaps I have to choose them again. Perhaps I have to make a firm and happy decision to accept Susan and Molly Cook, and not constantly complain to myself that neither of them is right for me. They are who they are.

‘What do you think?' His voice is wavering, uncertain.

‘Maybe you're right.'

‘So… how about it? Will you be my sister? We could sign the deal here and now, on this napkin?'

He spreads out the napkin, and takes out his pen. I smile.

‘If I was your sister, that would make Molly your sister, which means if you tried to screw her again it'd be incest.'

‘Er…'

‘I'm joking, Ian.'

‘It was a mistake with Molly.' He sounds grave. I nod.

‘I know. I realized it wasn't personal. After all, you're just a guy.'

I push back my chair, standing to pick up my bag.

‘And she is a bit of a babe. It runs in the family.'

We walk on to Waterloo Bridge. It's almost lunchtime and office workers are hurrying towards the South Bank and
its sunny benches by the river. We do not speak, but I feel lighter, a weight lifted.

I think about the countless times people have told me that Ian and I should be more than friends. I have spent twelve years denying it, yet secretly wondering, the sexual tension flickering inside me like malevolent mercury.

But we have overcome it. Yes, I think, with a rush of excitement. We have been lucky. The kiss was an instant antidote, as powerful as the undertaker's adrenalin that saved Ian's life on the plane. Lips on lips for less than ten seconds and we knew. Sex was not going to happen, ever. That moment released everything. It was like some strange fairy tale, where the Prince and Princess kiss only to find they were never meant to be together.

We stop in the middle of the bridge. The river is gold, shimmering. I look back towards the Strand, as I always do on Waterloo Bridge, picking out the window that used to be my father's office where he greeted his two little girls with hugs, forehead kisses and presents of coloured paper clips that we put in our hair.

I wish Bill Cook were alive, I wish I could take the rickety elevator to the sixth floor and walk into his tobacco-musty office and sit in the green leather armchair and tell him about everything that has happened, about the hospital, about my job, about the house, about Ian. About Raj.