She needed her head examined. That’s what she needed. She needed a frontal lobotomy. Last night they’d kissed. He’d put his arms around her and kissed her. It was the following day. She’d had a lie-in. It was gone eleven. She spat toothpaste into the bathroom sink and wiped her mouth. Maybe if she told someone. Maybe if she heard it out loud it would vanish.
She couldn’t tell her analyst. He wouldn’t understand. She examined her face in the mirror. There was no way she could confide in Peter and Diane. She’d already made that mistake; she’d told them she’d been doing Freddy’s tea. Peter had said, You want to watch that. Man on his own. Wife in a state, and Diane had chipped in, You certainly have chemistry on stage. She’d replied, God, you two. Will you credit me with a little maturity? I’m not fourteen, and Peter had said, If you were fourteen I’d tell Scott to stand well back. She pulled her cheeks gently away from her mouth with the tips of her fingers. Fucking jowls. One of God’s cruel jokes. The more you laughed, the worse they got. She could almost pass for fourteen, or maybe twenty-five, if she had a nip and tuck. But what was it Joan Rivers said? You could choose old or weird. Young was only available to the young. She applied another layer of Neil’s Yard Rejuvenating serum to her eyes, ruffled her hair loose from its scrunchy, went down to the kitchen, let the dogs out, and while the kettle boiled for coffee, she rang Clare.
*
They met in Cowdray café. Clare, already at a table by the window, waved and half got up when she saw her, then changed her mind. Ros shrugged off her coat. They both looked at the board.
Clare said, “what are you having?” She was her usual harried meets straw, cheeks rosy, hers weren’t sagging, maybe it was all that fresh air.
“I don’t know.” Ros unwound her scarf. “Maybe the soup.”
The café was an add on to the shop, a revitalisation of old buildings that had once stored grain and tractors, now done up to make Londoners feel safe. Enough dirt, but not too much, chalkboards telling of provenance and nurture, it served what the shop sold; wonky heritage carrots and Brian’s grass-reared steak, pock-marked fruit, and local cheese, each turned into glazed this and thinly sliced that, wooden platters with hunks of Sussex brie, bowls of thick green soup that cost as much as a burger on the high street.
Clare went to order while Ros stared out the window. Mud and leaves, weak winter sun, a carpark of Range Rovers and personalised number plates spelling K8TEE and B3RT. Harold had promised to get her one. He never had. A few spattered pick-ups. Clare’s Subaru. A Land Rover like Scott’s except not zebra- striped; she found she was looking for it everywhere. A child refused to put on its boots by an open hatchback, a mother struggled, a dog, trailing its lead, ran loose.
Clare came back with two large, thick rimmed cups spilling cappuccino froth onto saucers. “To keep us going.” She lowered them carefully to the table.
Ros mopped hers up with a napkin. “How’s Nance?”
“Recovering.” Blonde hair in her eyes, Clare swiped it away with the back of her hand leaving a smudge of mud on her forehead. “Did Molly tell you?”
“You told me.” Ros passed her another napkin and pointed at her own forehead, almost doing the spit and wipe as if Clare were a child. Sometimes she felt like a child to Ros, liking everyone, everyone liking her, sailing along free of worries; she had them, of course she did, her daughter who she talked about, her love life which she didn’t, but none of it seemed to rock her. She was like a tiny boat with an enormous tiller, steering a course no matter how rough the seas, skimming the waves no matter how big. It was irritating. Ros wished she could scupper her, just for a minute, just to see what lay beneath.
“Not about the break-up. The Facebook stuff.” Clare scuffed the napkin over her forehead sending mud dust crumbling into the froth of her coffee. She absently stirred it in.
Ros felt slightly revolted. “Molly doesn’t tell me anything.”
“He was trolling her, or something, whatever it’s called. She blocked him. I had to tell school.”
“Poor Nance.”
“It’s a fuck of an age to be a teenager, all this tech, cyber, social fuckery. It’s everywhere. They can’t escape it.”
“Being a teenager is a nightmare full stop. We suffered the same.” Ros ripped a tube of sugar.
“We didn’t have our suffering plastered all over the internet, though, did we. We weren’t cutting ourselves.”
“Is Nancy cutting herself?”
“No, but there are girls she knows.”
Ros sat back. “I was sniffing glue at the back of the science lab.”
“I was going to clubs,” smiled Clare. “How’s Moll? Have you spoken to Fuck Face?”
“I emailed him.”
“Do you think he’ll kick up a fuss?”
“I don’t care if he kicks up a fuss. They’re not going skiing with him. Moll will be right in the middle of her mocks.”
“They’re not till May.”
“She’ll be revising for them.”
“I can’t understand how he’s even allowed to see them.”
Ros tried to remember what she’d told her. Had she been specific? She’d been so hungover, and it was ages ago, she couldn’t really remember. All she knew was that she’d had a feeling Clare’s ex used to beat her up. Why else wouldn’t she talk about him? Why such secrecy? She’d said as much to Tessa once. Tessa had said, isn’t that a bit racist? She was only joining the dots.
Ros waved it away, as if she too, didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t, anyway. She wanted to talk about Scott.
Their soups arrived, slopping and frothing in the same green porcelain. Two thick-cut pieces of seeded granary bread on a plate between them, a slab of butter in a little white dish. Clare took a slice, tore off a piece, buttered and dipped it. The café was loud with the clattering of dropped cutlery, tills ringing, and children running, crammed with mothers wiping snot. Mostly women. Nearly all women, thought Ros looking around. Young ones with toddlers, not quite middle-aged ones like her and Clare, a few roaring fifties deep in the menopause, and heaps of olds, crunched at pine tables getting carrot ribbons caught in their teeth. They should have had the soup too. Ros picked up her spoon. Pea and mint. She chewed a strand of parsley.
Clare dipped another piece of bread. “Nance has never been skiing.”
“We should take them some time. Peter has a chalet.”
“I’ve never been either.”
“It’d be fun. We could get a bunch of us together.”
“Not Brian.”
“No of course not. Christ. Unless you want him to come?”
“Very funny.” Clare slurped at her spoon. “Have you seen Scott?”
“Yes, definitely Scott.”
“No, sorry, I meant have you seen him. He looks fucked.”
Ros had been dreaming of the slopes. And her soup had too much salt in it. She felt hot. “I expect he’s just tired. He said she never asks about Freddy.”
“When did he say that?”
“Oh, the other day. I was over there for dinner. I took Freddy’s tea round.”
“That was nice of you.”
“I’ve been doing it every Friday, actually.”
“Aren’t you the Samaritan.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“After what?”
“After nothing. I mean, I feel sorry for him, that’s all, and I took Tessa’s part, so it can’t be easy.”
“It’s just a play, Ros. Tessa’s really ill. I should get round there.”
“I’m happy doing it.”
“Has he been charming you? He’ll be wanting you to do his socks next.”
“I have been doing his socks.”
Clare buttered another piece of bread.
The first time, or the first time they nearly had, it was she who’d turned her face away and they’d both looked sheepish and laughed and he’d made some joke about getting her next time. Next time he had. Next time she hadn’t turned her cheek to him, she’d looked him dead in the eye as he’d grabbed her. Their lips had met, and the room had gone completely quiet, at least that’s how it had felt to her, her head so silent, her body caught in the absolute breakpoint of the moment. Afterwards Brian had clapped and said bravo and the rest of the cast, watching from the wings, had started talking as if there was a rush on. Clare had seen it too, she must have.
Ros stirred the remains of her coffee. “What I mean is, I think he’s handling it really well. Tessa’s really lucky to have him.”
“He’s no angel.”
“I never said he was.”
“I’m just saying, he’s not perfect.”
“I know he’s not perfect.”
Clare had nearly finished her soup and eaten most of the bread. She wiped a crust around the bowl. Ros pushed her own bowl away, folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “I’m just saying you should have seen the state of the place when I got there. I know Tessa’s no Martha Stewart, but still, there are limits.”
Clare was trying to put her coat on white still sitting down.
Ros said, “I’m only trying to help.”
“I’d better get going.” Clare stood up, taking the chair with her. There was a clattering as she disentangled her Barbour from stained yellow pine.
Ros stayed seated. “I don’t understand what I’ve done.”
Clare said, “It’s easy for people to think he’s so great and she’s so ill, you know? But he’s just a guy like any other.”
“What would you know about any other guys?”
Straw escaped her pockets as she searched for her car keys, she didn’t look up as she set off for the door, weaving between tables; Ros found herself scrambling after her. Cold air hit her with a swipe.
“I didn’t mean it, Clare, stop. I didn’t mean you don’t know him better. Or Tess. Of course you know them better. It’s just, going round there, I’ve got to know him.”
Through the shop carpark of stone walls, a fountain, wooden wheelbarrows of turnips and swedes and out into mud and Range Rovers parked in rows. Ros tied her scarf about her neck. “I can handle Scott.”
Clare opened her door to the wagging tail of her terrier.
“Fucking hell, Clare - I wish I’d never mentioned it. I’m just helping out.”
Clare stopped with one hand on her dog’s collar. The wind blew her hair across her eyes. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “It may not look like it, Ros, but Tess and Scott are solid. They’ve have had years of it. He might say he’s sick of it, and God knows he is, they both are, but it’s an illness, it’s not her, she doesn’t do it on purpose. I mean sure, there are things she could do to help herself; she could stay on her meds, she could tidy the fucking kitchen and stop going on about changing it,”
“Actually it really could do a with a bit of a,”
“It’s not the fucking kitchen that’s the problem, Ros. I’ve had years of it and they’re both as bad as each other, they both blame the outside when it’s the inside that’s the problem. They both have demons, they both drink too much. Why do you think he left Derry? Tessa isn’t the only one running. And Scott loves her. He might bitch from here till Sunday, but he married her. He knew what he was buying into, at least as much as anyone can know. You know she had her first episode on honeymoon? She threw their wedding rings in the Orinoco river. It’s not funny, Ros, it’s tragic. Fine, do his fucking tea, but don’t buy into the poor Scott routine, okay?”
“I wasn’t asking your permission.”
Clare got into her car and shut the door. Ros tapped on the window. Clare started the engine.
“Clare.” The Subaru was ancient. It took an age for the window to squeak open. “Clare, I didn’t mean it. I know you’re worried.”
“It’s fine.” It didn’t look fine.
Ros tried to hug her, arm snaked through window, elbow against steering wheel.
When she released her Clare said, “He loves her, Ros, he’s always loved her.”
“Of course he does,” Ros replied, giving her best conciliatory smile, but when she got into her own car she saw his eyes, his lips, the lazy range of his Irish limbs, and thought, you’re wrong.
That last line, what a secret retaliation. Love the tension you build in your dialog, nothing said but everything said.
A great scene with Ros and Clare, beautifully observed social observations and simmering resentments, with a good dose of misunderstanding thrown in. Top-class novel writing.