windowsill. And sits and sits, nose facing the garden, bum facing me. When I kiss his head, he gets up irritably and relocates farther along the windowsill. To be honest, he hasn’t been eating much all week, but I thought it was because the summer has suddenly turned summerish and he was hot. Possibly he’s sulking because he doesn’t like the fact I’ve abandoned him for work. “I work to keep you in Whiskas, you lazy pig,” I say before realizing I’m late and running out the door.
I brood all of Thursday morning about Marcus and Fatboy until the afternoon, when I call my mother. There’s no reply. So I start brooding about her. Since the funeral day, I haven’t been very attentive to my mother. That is, I haven’t seen or spoken to her. I should have. But I didn’t want to. I feel as warm and compassionate as a block of ice, I’d have been no good to her anyway. I won’t feel bad, I refuse. Why can’t I cut off for two, three weeks without it being a bloody great issue? Fuck it. I call her mobile. It’s switched off. “Please try again later.” Where is she? I call the house again and let it ring and ring and ring until finally it clicks over to the answer machine. I almost drop the receiver as a voice intones, “You have reached the home of Maurice and Cecelia Bradshaw. We are not available to take your call. Kindly leave a message after the long tone.”
My heart is hammering at such a rate I expect it to explode out of my chest— my father’s voice. I replace the receiver and dial again. Then I hunch over my desk, close my eyes, and relish my father’s deep powerful voice. “We are not available…” Mesmerised, I visualize him sitting in his favorite armchair in his study, blithely ignoring the ring-ring because he hates answering the phone. He could still be alive. I listen to his message one more time.
Finally, I leave a message. “Hello, Mum, it’s me. Hope you’re okay. Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve just been mad at work. Give me a ring. Okay. ‘Bye then.” Maybe she’s out shopping with her friend Vivienne. Or gone swimming. This is what I tell myself. But I don’t believe it. I am sitting at my desk and Laetitia is ordering me to ring the book critic to remind her that her copy is a week late and all I can think is that my mother is dead and it’s my fault. She’s had a stroke and is rotting away at the bottom of the stairs. She’s had a car crash and suffered fatal head injuries. (I inherited my driving genes from her.)
I am choked with dread and I just know. I am reminded of a story I skim-read in the Daily Telegraph about a man who was stabbed to death on a business trip to Switzerland. His girlfriend, in Sussex, had rung his mobile and he hadn’t answered. “I knew he was dead,” she told the reporter, “at that moment, I knew it, without a shred of doubt.” I read this tale when both my parents were alive and well and annoying and my reaction was, “Huh! She knew, indeed! Lucky chance!” Now, that woman is me. My mother is dead. I need air.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp to an amazed Laetitia and rush out of the office and into the street. I look about wildly, having no clue what I’m doing or where I’m going, run across the road, flop on a wooden bench—“In fond memory of Anthony Bayer, who loved London”—Oh, God, and try to breathe. I feel hot and cold and sick and faint. Five seconds later, Laetitia appears.
“Helen,” she says twitchily, “whatever’s the matter? Did you have a tiff with whatzisname, Jason?” I notice Laetitia stands at a distance so there is no danger of bodily contact.
“My mother is dead!” I whisper.
“You mean your father,” she says.
“My mother. I know it.”
Laetitia clears her throat. “Helen,” she says, “your mother just rang. She asked me to take a message.”
Shit. Laetitia never takes messages. Ever. How excruciatingly embarrassing. I breathe slowly, deeply, and sit up straight. “Thank you, Laetitia,
I brood all of Thursday morning about Marcus and Fatboy until the afternoon, when I call my mother. There’s no reply. So I start brooding about her. Since the funeral day, I haven’t been very attentive to my mother. That is, I haven’t seen or spoken to her. I should have. But I didn’t want to. I feel as warm and compassionate as a block of ice, I’d have been no good to her anyway. I won’t feel bad, I refuse. Why can’t I cut off for two, three weeks without it being a bloody great issue? Fuck it. I call her mobile. It’s switched off. “Please try again later.” Where is she? I call the house again and let it ring and ring and ring until finally it clicks over to the answer machine. I almost drop the receiver as a voice intones, “You have reached the home of Maurice and Cecelia Bradshaw. We are not available to take your call. Kindly leave a message after the long tone.”
My heart is hammering at such a rate I expect it to explode out of my chest— my father’s voice. I replace the receiver and dial again. Then I hunch over my desk, close my eyes, and relish my father’s deep powerful voice. “We are not available…” Mesmerised, I visualize him sitting in his favorite armchair in his study, blithely ignoring the ring-ring because he hates answering the phone. He could still be alive. I listen to his message one more time.
Finally, I leave a message. “Hello, Mum, it’s me. Hope you’re okay. Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve just been mad at work. Give me a ring. Okay. ‘Bye then.” Maybe she’s out shopping with her friend Vivienne. Or gone swimming. This is what I tell myself. But I don’t believe it. I am sitting at my desk and Laetitia is ordering me to ring the book critic to remind her that her copy is a week late and all I can think is that my mother is dead and it’s my fault. She’s had a stroke and is rotting away at the bottom of the stairs. She’s had a car crash and suffered fatal head injuries. (I inherited my driving genes from her.)
I am choked with dread and I just know. I am reminded of a story I skim-read in the Daily Telegraph about a man who was stabbed to death on a business trip to Switzerland. His girlfriend, in Sussex, had rung his mobile and he hadn’t answered. “I knew he was dead,” she told the reporter, “at that moment, I knew it, without a shred of doubt.” I read this tale when both my parents were alive and well and annoying and my reaction was, “Huh! She knew, indeed! Lucky chance!” Now, that woman is me. My mother is dead. I need air.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp to an amazed Laetitia and rush out of the office and into the street. I look about wildly, having no clue what I’m doing or where I’m going, run across the road, flop on a wooden bench—“In fond memory of Anthony Bayer, who loved London”—Oh, God, and try to breathe. I feel hot and cold and sick and faint. Five seconds later, Laetitia appears.
“Helen,” she says twitchily, “whatever’s the matter? Did you have a tiff with whatzisname, Jason?” I notice Laetitia stands at a distance so there is no danger of bodily contact.
“My mother is dead!” I whisper.
“You mean your father,” she says.
“My mother. I know it.”
Laetitia clears her throat. “Helen,” she says, “your mother just rang. She asked me to take a message.”
Shit. Laetitia never takes messages. Ever. How excruciatingly embarrassing. I breathe slowly, deeply, and sit up straight. “Thank you, Laetitia,
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