Seventeen 1 страница

Two

How cool was Will Freeman? This cool: he had slept with a woman he didn’t know very well in the last three months (five points). He had spent more than three hundred pounds on a jacket (five points). He had spent more than twenty pounds on a haircut (five points) (How was it possible to spend less than twenty pounds on a haircut in 1993? ). He owned more than five hip-hop albums (five points). He had taken Ecstasy (five points), but in a club and not merely at home as a sociological exercise (five bonus points). He intended to vote Labour at the next general election (five points). He earned more than forty thousand pounds a year (five points), and he didn’t have to work very hard for it (five points, and he awarded himself an extra five points for not having to work at all for it). He had eaten in a restaurant that served polenta and shaved parmesan (five points). He had never used a flavoured condom (five points), he had sold his Bruce Springsteen albums (five points), and he had both grown a goatee (five points) and shaved it off again (five points). The bad news was that he hadn’t ever had sex with someone whose photo had appeared on the style page of a newspaper or magazine (minus two), and he did still think, if he was honest (and if Will had anything approaching an ethical belief, it was that lying about yourself in questionnaires was utterly wrong), that owning a fast car was likely to impress women (minus two). Even so, that gave him… sixty-six! He was, according to the questionnaire, sub-zero! He was dry ice! He was Frosty the Snowman! He would die of hypothermia!

Will didn’t know how seriously you were supposed to take these questionnaire things, but he couldn’t afford to think about it; being men’s-magazine cool was as close as he had ever come to an achievement, and moments like this were to be treasured. Sub-zero! You couldn’t get much cooler than sub-zero! He closed the magazine and put it on to a pile of similar magazines that he kept in the bathroom. He didn’t save them all, because he bought too many for that, but he wouldn’t be throwing this one out in a hurry.

Will wondered sometimes—not very often, because historical speculation wasn’t something he indulged in very often—how people like him would have survived sixty years ago. (’People like him’ was, he knew, something of a specialized grouping; in fact, there couldn’t have been anyone like him sixty years ago, because sixty years ago no adult could have had a father who had made his money in quite the same way. So when he thought about people like him, he didn’t mean people exactly like him, he just meant people who didn’t really do anything all day, and didn’t want to do anything much, either. ) Sixty years ago, all the things Will relied on to get him through the day simply didn’t exist: there was no daytime TV, there were no videos, there were no glossy magazines and therefore no questionnaires and, though there were probably record shops, the kind of music he listened to hadn’t even been invented yet. (Right now he was listening to Nirvana and Snoop Doggy Dogg, and you couldn’t have found too much that sounded like them in 1933. ) Which would have left books. Books! He would have had to get a job, almost definitely, because he would have gone round the twist otherwise.

Now, though, it was easy. There was almost too much to do. You didn’t have to have a life of your own any more; you could just peek over the fence at other people’s lives, as lived in newspapers and EastEnders and films and exquisitely sad jazz or tough rap songs. The twenty-year-old Will would have been surprised and perhaps disappointed to learn that he would reach the age of thirty-six without finding a life for himself, but the thirty-six-year-old Will wasn’t particularly unhappy about it; there was less clutter this way.

Clutter! Will’s friend John’s house was full of it. John and Christine had two children—the second had been born the previous week, and Will had been summoned to look at it—and their place was, Will couldn’t help thinking, a disgrace. Pieces of brightly coloured plastic were strewn all over the floor, videotapes lay out of their cases near the TV set, the white throw over the sofa looked as if it had been used as a piece of gigantic toilet paper, although Will preferred to think that the stains were chocolate… How could people live like this?

Christine came in holding the new baby while John was in the kitchen making him a cup of tea. ‘This is Imogen, ’ she said.

‘Oh, ’ said Will. ‘Right. ’ What was he supposed to say next? He knew there was something, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was. ‘She’s…’ No. It had gone. He concentrated his conversational efforts on Christine. ‘How are you, anyway, Chris? ’

‘Oh, you know. A bit washed out. ’

‘Been burning the candle at both ends? ’

‘No. Just had a baby. ’

‘Oh. Right. ’ Everything came back to the sodding baby. ‘That would make you pretty tired, I guess. ’ He’d deliberately waited a week so that he wouldn’t have to talk about this sort of thing, but it hadn’t done him any good. They were talking about it anyway.

John came in with a tray and three mugs of tea.

‘Barney’s gone to his grandma’s today, ’ he said, for no reason at all that Will could see.

‘How is Barney? ’ Barney was two, that was how Barney was, and therefore of no interest to anyone apart from his parents, but, again, for reasons he would never fathom, some comment seemed to be required of him.

‘He’s fine, thanks, ’ said John. ‘He’s a right little devil at the moment, mind you, and he’s not too sure what to make of Imogen, but… he’s lovely. ’

Will had met Barney before, and knew for a fact he wasn’t lovely, so he chose to ignore the non sequitur.

‘What about you, anyway, Will? ’

‘I’m fine, thanks. ’

‘Any desire for a family of your own yet? ’

I would rather eat one of Barney’s dirty nappies, he thought. ‘Not yet, ’ he said.

‘You are a worry to us, ’ said Christine.

‘I’m OK as I am, thanks. ’

‘Maybe, ’ said Christine smugly. These two were beginning to make him feel physically ill. It was bad enough that they had children in the first place; why did they wish to compound the original error by encouraging their friends to do the same? For some years now Will had been convinced that it was possible to get through life without having to make yourself unhappy in the way that John and Christine were making themselves unhappy (and he was sure they were unhappy, even if they had achieved some peculiar, brain-washed state that prevented them from recognizing their own unhappiness). You needed money, sure—the only reason for having children, as far as Will could see, was so they could look after you when you were old and useless and skint—but he had money, which meant that he could avoid the clutter and the toilet-paper throws and the pathetic need to convince friends that they should be as miserable as you are.

John and Christine used to be OK, really. When Will had been going out with Jessica, the four of them used to go clubbing a couple of times a week. Jessica and Will split up when Jessica wanted to exchange the froth and frivolity for something more solid; Will had missed her, temporarily, but he would have missed the clubbing more. (He still saw her, sometimes, for a lunchtime pizza, and she would show him pictures of her children, and tell him he was wasting his life, and he didn’t know what it was like, and he would tell her how lucky he was he didn’t know what it was like, and she would tell him he couldn’t handle it anyway, and he would tell her he had no intention of finding out one way or the other; then they would sit in silence and glare at each other. ) Now John and Christine had taken the Jessica route to oblivion, he had no use for them whatsoever. He didn’t want to meet Imogen, or know how Barney was, and he didn’t want to hear about Christine’s tiredness, and there wasn’t anything else to them any more. He wouldn’t be bothering with them again.

‘We were wondering, ’ said John, ‘whether you’d like to be Imogen’s godfather? ’ The two of them sat there with an expectant smile on their faces, as if he were about to leap to his feet, burst into tears and wrestle them to the carpet in a euphoric embrace. Will laughed nervously.

‘Godfather? Church and things? Birthday presents? Adoption if you’re killed in an air crash? ’

‘Yeah. ’

‘You’re kidding. ’

‘We’ve always thought you have hidden depths, ’ said John.

‘Ah, but you see I haven’t. I really am this shallow. ’

They were still smiling. They weren’t getting it.

‘Listen. I’m touched that you asked. But I can’t think of anything worse. Seriously. It’s just not my sort of thing. ’

He didn’t stay much longer.

A couple of weeks later Will met Angie and became a temporary stepfather for the first time. Maybe if he had swallowed his pride and his hatred of children and the family and domesticity and monogamy and early nights, he could have saved himself an awful lot of trouble.

Three

During the night after his first day Marcus woke up every half-hour or so. He could tell from the luminous hands of his dinosaur clock: 10. 41, 11. 19, 11. 55, 12. 35, 12. 55, 1. 31… He couldn’t believe he was going to have to go back there the next morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that, and… well, then it would be the weekend, but more or less every morning for the rest of his life, just about. Every time he woke up his first thought was that there must be some kind of way past, or round, or even through, this horrible feeling; whenever he had been upset about anything before, there had usually turned out to be some kind of answer—one that mostly involved telling his mum what was bothering him. But there wasn’t anything she could do this time. She wasn’t going to move him to another school, and even if she did it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference. He’d still be who he was, and that, it seemed to him, was the basic problem.

He just wasn’t right for schools. Not secondary schools, anyway. That was it. And how could you explain that to anyone? It was OK not to be right for some things (he already knew he wasn’t right for parties, because he was too shy, or for baggy trousers, because his legs were too short), but not being right for school was a big problem. Everyone went to school. There was no way round it. Some kids, he knew, got taught by their parents at home, but his mum couldn’t do that because she went out to work. Unless he paid her to teach him—but she’d told him not long ago that she got three hundred and fifty pounds a week from her job. Three hundred and fifty pounds a week! Where was he going to get that kind of money from? Not from a paper round, he knew that much. The only other kind of person he could think of who didn’t go to school was the Macaulay Culkin kind. They’d had something about him on Saturday-morning TV once, and they said he got taught in a caravan sort of thing by a private tutor. That would be OK, he supposed. Better than OK, because Macaulay Culkin probably got three hundred and fifty pounds a week, maybe even more, which meant that if he were Macaulay Culkin he could pay his mum to teach him. But if being Macaulay Culkin meant being good at drama, then forget it: he was crap at drama, because he hated standing up in front of people. Which was why he hated school. Which was why he wanted to be Macaulay Culkin. Which was why he was never going to be Macaulay Culkin in a thousand years, let alone in the next few days. He was going to have to go to school tomorrow.

All that night he thought like boomerangs fly: an idea would shoot way off into the distance, all the way to a caravan in Hollywood and, for a moment, when he had got as far away from school and reality as it was possible to go, he was reasonably happy; then it would begin the return journey, thump him on the head, and leave him in exactly the place he had started from. And all the time it got nearer and nearer to the morning.

He was quiet at breakfast. ‘You’ll get used to it, ’ his mum said as he was eating his cereal, probably because he was looking miserable. He just nodded, and smiled at her; it was an OK thing to say. There had been times when he knew, somewhere in him, that he would get used to it, whatever it was, because he had learnt that some hard things became softer after a very little while. The day after his dad left, his mum had taken him to Glastonbury with her friend Corinne and they’d had a brilliant time in a tent. But this was only going to get worse. That first terrible, horrible, frightening day was going to be as good as it got.

He got to school early, went to the form room, sat down at his desk. He was safe enough there. The kids who had given him a hard time yesterday were probably not the sort to arrive at school first thing; they’d be off somewhere smoking and taking drugs and raping people, he thought darkly. There were a couple of girls in the room, but they ignored him, unless the snort of laughter he heard while he was getting his reading book out had anything to do with him.

What was there to laugh at? Not much, really, unless you were the kind of person who was on permanent lookout for something to laugh at. Unfortunately, that was exactly the kind of person most kids were, in his experience. They patrolled up and down school corridors like sharks, except that what they were on the lookout for wasn’t flesh but the wrong trousers, or the wrong haircut, or the wrong shoes, any or all of which sent them wild with excitement. As he was usually wearing the wrong shoes or the wrong trousers, and his haircut was wrong all the time, every day of the week, he didn’t have to do very much to send them all demented.

Marcus knew he was weird, and he knew that part of the reason he was weird was because his mum was weird. She just didn’t get this, any of it. She was always telling him that only shallow people made judgements on the basis of clothes or hair; she didn’t want him to watch rubbish television, or listen to rubbish music, or play rubbish computer games (she thought they were all rubbish), which meant that if he wanted to do anything that any of the other kids spent their time doing he had to argue with her for hours. He usually lost, and she was so good at arguing that he felt good about losing. She could explain why listening to Joni Mitchell and Bob Marley (who happened to be her two favourite singers) was much better for him than listening to Snoop Doggy Dogg, and why it was more important to read books than to play on the Gameboy his dad had given him. But he couldn’t pass any of this on to the kids at school. If he tried to tell Lee Hartley—the biggest and loudest and nastiest of the kids he’d met yesterday—that he didn’t approve of Snoop Doggy Dogg because Snoop Doggy Dogg had a bad attitude to women, Lee Hartley would thump him, or call him something that he didn’t want to be called. It wasn’t so bad in Cambridge, because there were loads of kids who weren’t right for school, and loads of mums who had made them that way, but in London it was different. The kids were harder and meaner and less understanding, and it seemed to him that if his mum had made him change schools just because she had found a better job, then she should at least have the decency to stop all that let’s-talk-about-this stuff.

He was quite happy at home, listening to Joni Mitchell and reading books, but it didn’t do him any good at school. It was funny, because most people would probably think the opposite—that reading books at home was bound to help, but it didn’t: it made him different, and because he was different he felt uncomfortable, and because he felt uncomfortable he could feel himself floating away from everyone and everything, kids and teachers and lessons.

It wasn’t all his mum’s fault. Sometimes he was weird just because of who he was, rather than what she did. Like the singing… When was he going to learn about the singing? He always had a tune in his head, but every now and again, when he was nervous, the tune just sort of slipped out. For some reason he couldn’t spot the difference between inside and outside, because there didn’t seem to be a difference. It was like when you went swimming in a heated pool on a warm day, and you could get out of the water without noticing that you were getting out, because the temperatures were the same; that seemed to be what happened with the singing. Anyway, a song had slipped out yesterday during English, while the teacher was reading; if you wanted to make people laugh at you, really, really laugh, then the best way, he had discovered, better even than to have a bad haircut, was to sing out loud when everybody else in the room was quiet and bored.

This morning he was OK until the first period after break. He was quiet during registration, he avoided people in the corridors, and then it was double maths, which he enjoyed, and which he was good at, although they were doing stuff that he’d already done before. At breaktime he went to tell Mr Brooks, one of the other maths teachers, that he wanted to join his computer club. He was pleased he did that, because his instinct was to stay in the form room and read, but he toughed it out; he even had to cross the playground.

But then in English things went bad again. They were using one of those books that had a bit of everything in them; the bit they were looking at was taken from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He knew the story, because he’d seen the film with his mum, and so he could see really clearly, so clearly that he wanted to run from the room, what was going to happen.

When it happened it was even worse than he thought it was going to be. Ms Maguire got one of the girls who she knew was a good reader to read out the passage, and then she tried to get a discussion going.

‘Now, one of the things this book is about is… How do we know who’s mad and who isn’t? Because, you know, in a way we’re all a bit mad, and if someone decides that we’re a bit mad, how do we… how do we show them we’re sane? ’

Silence. A couple of the kids sighed and rolled their eyes at each other. One thing Marcus had noticed was that when you came into a school late you could tell straight away how well the teachers got on with a class. Ms Maguire was young and nervous and she was struggling, he reckoned. This class could go either way.

‘OK, let’s put it another way. How can we tell if people are mad? ’

Here it comes, he thought. Here it comes. This is it.

‘If they sing for no reason in class, miss. ’

Laughter. But then it all got worse than he’d expected. Everyone turned round and looked at him; he looked at Ms Maguire, but she had this big forced grin on and she wouldn’t catch his eye.

‘OK, that’s one way of telling, yes. You’d think that someone who does that would be a little potty. But leaving Marcus out of it for a moment…’

More laughter. He knew what she was doing and why, and he hated her.

Four

Will first saw Angie—or, as it turned out, he didn’t see her—in Championship Vinyl, a little record shop off the Holloway Road. He was browsing, filling up the time, vaguely trying to hunt down an old R & B anthology he used to own when he was younger, one of those he had loved and lost; he heard her tell the surly and depressive assistant that she was looking for a Pinky and Perky record for her niece. He was trawling through the racks while she was being served, so he never caught a glimpse of her face, but he saw a lot of honey-blond hair, and he heard the kind of vaguely husky voice that he and everyone else thought of as sexy, so he listened while she explained that her niece didn’t even know who Pinky and Perky were. ‘Don’t you think that’s terrible? Fancy being five and not knowing who Pinky and Perky are! What are they teaching these kids! ’

She was trying to be jolly, but Will had learnt to his cost that jollity was frowned upon in Championship Vinyl. She was, as he knew she would be, met with a withering look of contempt and a mumble which indicated that she was wasting the assistant’s valuable time.

Two days later, he found himself sitting next to the same woman in a caf& #233; on Upper Street. He recognized her voice (they both ordered a cappuccino and croissant), the blond hair and her denim jacket. They both got up to get one of the caf& #233; ’s newspapers—she took the Guardian, so he was left with the Mail —and he smiled, but she clearly didn’t remember him, and he would have left it at that if she hadn’t been so pretty.

‘I like Pinky and Perky, ’ he said in what he hoped was a gentle, friendly and humorously patronizing tone, but he could see immediately that he had made a terrible mistake, that this was not the same woman, that she didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. He wanted to tear out his tongue and grind it into the wooden floor with his foot.

She looked at him, smiled nervously and glanced across at the waiter, probably calculating how long it would take for the waiter to hurl himself across the room and wrestle Will to the floor. Will both understood and sympathized. If a complete stranger were to sit down next to you in a coffee shop and tell you quietly that he liked Pinky and Perky as an opening conversational gambit, you could only presume that you were about to be decapitated and hidden under the floorboards.

‘I’m sorry, ’ he said. ‘I thought you were someone else. ’ He blushed, and the blush seemed to relax her: his embarrassment was some kind of indication of sanity, at least. They returned to their newspapers, but the woman kept breaking into a smile and looking across at him.

‘I know this sounds nosy, ’ she said eventually, ‘but I’ve got to ask you. Who did you think I was? I’ve been trying to come up with some kind of story, and I can’t. ’

So he explained, and she laughed again, and then finally he was given a chance to start over and converse normally. They talked about not working in the morning (he didn’t own up to not working in the afternoon either), and the record shop, and Pinky and Perky, of course, and several other children’s television characters. He had never before attempted to start a relationship cold in this way, but by the time they had finished their second cappuccino he had a phone number and a date for dinner.

When they met again she told him about her kids straight away; he wanted to throw his napkin on the floor, push the table over and run.

‘So? ’ he said. It was, of course, the right thing to say.

‘I just thought you ought to know. It makes a difference to some people. ’

‘In what way? ’

‘Guys, I mean. ’

‘Well, yes, I worked that out. ’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not making this very easy, am I? ’

‘You’re doing fine. ’

‘It’s just that… if this is a date date, and it feels like one to me, then I thought I ought to tell you. ’

‘Thank you. But really, it’s no problem. I would have been disappointed if you didn’t have children. ’

She laughed. ‘Disappointed? Why? ’

This was a good question. Why? Obviously he had said it because he thought it sounded smooth and winning, but he couldn’t tell her that.

‘Because I’ve never been out with someone who was a mum before, and I’ve always wanted to. I think I’d be good at it. ’

‘Good at what? ’

Right. Good at what? What was he good at? This was the million-dollar question, the one he had never been able to answer about anything. Maybe he would be good at children, even though he hated them and everyone responsible for bringing them into the world. Maybe he had written John and Christine and baby Imogen off too hastily. Maybe this was it! Uncle Will!

‘I don’t know. Good at kids’ things. Messing about things. ’

He must be, surely. Everyone was, weren’t they? Maybe he should have been working with kids all this time. Maybe this was a turning point in his life!

It had to be said that Angie’s beauty was not irrelevant to his decision to reassess his affinity with children. The long blond hair, he now knew, was accompanied by a calm, open face, big blue eyes and extraordinarily sexy crows’ feet—she was beautiful in a very winning, wholesome, Julie Christie-type way. And that was the point. When had he ever been out with a woman who looked like Julie Christie? People who looked like Julie Christie didn’t go out with people like him. They went out with other film stars, or peers of the realm, or Formula One drivers. What was happening here? He decided that children were what was happening here; that children served as a symbolic blemish, like a birthmark or obesity, which gave him a chance where previously there would have been none. Maybe children democratized beautiful single women.

‘I’ll tell you, ’ Angie was saying, although he had missed much of the cogitation that had brought her to this point, ‘when you’re a single mother, you’re far more likely to end up thinking in feminist clich& #233; s. You know, all men are bastards, a woman without a man is like a… a… something without a something that doesn’t have any relation to the first something; all that stuff. ’

‘I’m sure, ’ said Will, sympathetically. He was getting excited now. If single mothers really thought that all men were bastards, then he could clean up. He could go out with women who looked like Julie Christie forever. He nodded and frowned and pursed his lips while Angie ranted, and while he plotted his new, life-changing strategy.

For the next few weeks he was Will the Good Guy, Will the Redeemer, and he loved it. It was effortless, too. He never managed to strike up much of a rapport with Maisy, Angie’s mysteriously sombre five-year-old, who seemed to regard him as frivolous to his core. But Joe, the three-year-old, took to him almost at once, mostly because during their first meeting Will held him upside-down by his ankles. That was it. That was all it took. He wished that relationships with proper human beings were that easy.

They went to McDonald’s. They went to the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum. They went on a boat down the river. On the very few occasions when he had thought about the possibility of children (always when he was drunk, always in the first throes of a new relationship), he had convinced himself that fatherhood would be a sort of sentimental photo-opportunity, and fatherhood Angie-style was exactly like that: he could walk hand-in-hand with a beautiful woman, children gambolling happily in front of him, and everyone could see him doing it, and when he had done it for an afternoon he could go home again if he wanted to.

And then there was the sex. Sex with a single mother, Will decided after his first night with Angie, beat the sort of sex he was used to hands down. If you picked the right woman, someone who’d been messed around and eventually abandoned by the father of her children, and who hadn’t met anyone since (because the kids stopped you going out and anyway a lot of men didn’t like kids that didn’t belong to them, and they didn’t like the kind of mess that frequently coiled around these kids like a whirlwind)… if you picked one of these, then she loved you for it. All of a sudden you became better-looking, a better lover, a better person.

As far as he could see, it was an entirely happy arrangement. All those so-so couplings going on out in the world of the childless singles, to whom a night in a foreign bed was just another fuck… they didn’t know what they were missing. Sure, there were right-on people, men and women, who would be repelled and appalled by his logic, but that was fine by him. It reduced the competition.

In the end, the thing that swung it for him in his affair with Angie was that he was not Someone Else. That meant in this case he wasn’t Simon, her ex, who had problems with drink and work, and who, with a cavalier disregard for clich& #233;, turned out to be screwing his secretary. Will found it easy not to be Simon; he had a positive flair for not being Simon, he was brilliant at it. It seemed unfair, in fact, that something he found so effortless should bring him any kind of reward at all, but it did: he was loved for not being Simon more than he had ever been loved simply for being himself.

Even the end, when it came, had an enormous amount to recommend it. Will found endings difficult: he had never quite managed to grasp the bull by the horns, and as a consequence there had hitherto always been some kind of messy overlap. But with Angie it was easy—indeed, it was so easy that he felt there had to be some kind of catch.

They had been going out for six weeks, and there were certain things that he was beginning to find unsatisfactory. Angie wasn’t very flexible, for a start, and the whole kid thing really got in the way sometimes—the week before he had bought tickets for the new Mike Leigh film on the opening night, but she didn’t make it to the cinema until thirty minutes after it had started because the babysitter hadn’t turned up. That really pissed him off, although he felt he managed to disguise his annoyance pretty well, and they had a reasonable evening out anyway. And she could never stay over at his place, so he always had to go round there, and she didn’t have many CDs, and there was no VCR or satellite or cable, so on a Saturday night they always ended up watching Casualty and a crap made-for-TV movie about some kid with a disease. He was just beginning to wonder whether Angie was exactly what he was looking for when she decided to finish it.