“You’re also an idiot.”
There will be other battles. There’s not much point in fighting this one, when all the evidence is conspiring against me.
“I can see why you say that. Look, I’m sorry. I really am. The last thing I wanted was … that’s why I went, because … I lost it, and I didn’t want to blow my top in there, and … look, Laura, the reason I slept with Rosie and mucked everything up was because I was scared that you’d die. Or I was scared of you dying. Or whatever. And I know what that sounds like, but … ” It all dries up as easily as it popped out, and I just stare at her with my mouth open.
“Well, I will die. Nothing much has changed on that score.”
“No, no, I understand completely, and I’m not expecting you to tell me anything different. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She’s making no move to start the car.
“I can’t reciprocate.”
“How do you mean?”
“I didn’t sleep with Ray because I was scared of you dying. I slept with Ray because I was sick of you, and I needed something to get me out of it.”
“Oh, sure, no, I understand. Look, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. You get back, and I’ll wait here for a bus.”
“I don’t want to go back. I’ve thrown a wobbler too.”
“Oh. Right. Great. I mean, not great, but, you know.”
The rain starts again, and she puts the windscreen wipers on so that we can see not very much out of the window.
“Who upset you?”
“Nobody. I just don’t feel old enough. I want someone to look after me because my dad’s died, and there’s no one there who can, so when Liz told me you’d disappeared, I used it as an excuse to get out.”
“We’re a right pair, aren’t we?”
“Who upset you?”
“Oh. Nobody. Well, Liz. She was … ” I can’t think of the adult expression, so I use the one closest to hand. “She was picking on me.”
Laura snorts. “She was picking on you, and you’re sneaking out on her.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
She gives a short, mirthless laugh. “It’s no wonder we’re all in such a mess, is it? We’re like Tom Hanks in Big. Little boys and girls trapped in adult bodies and forced to get on with it. And it’s much worse in a real life, because it’s not just snogging and bunk beds, is it? There’s all this as well.” She gestures through the windscreen at the field and the bus stop and a man walking his dog, but I know what she means. “I’ll tell you something, Rob. Walking out of that funeral was the worst thing I’ve ever done, and also the most exhilarating. I can’t tell you how good and bad I felt. Yes I can: I felt like a baked Alaska.”
“It’s not like you walked out of the funeral, anyway. You walked out of the party thing. That’s different.”
“But my mum, and Jo, and … they’ll never forget it. I don’t care, though. I’ve thought so much about him and talked so much about him, and now our house is full of people who want to give me time and opportunity to think and talk about him some more, and I just wanted to scream.”
“He’d understand.”
“D’you think? I’m not sure I would. I’d want people to stay to the bitter end. That’d be the least they could do.”
“Your dad was nicer than you, though.”
“He was, wasn’t he?”
“About five or six times as nice.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Sorry.”
We watch a man trying to light a cigarette while holding a dog lead, a newspaper, and an umbrella. It can’t be done, but he won’t give up.
“When are you going to go back, actually?”
“I don’t know. Sometime. Later. Listen, Rob, would you sleep with me?”
“What?”
“I just feel like I want sex. I want to feel something else apart from misery and guilt. It’s either that or I go home and put my hand in the fire. Unless you want to stub cigarettes out on my arm.”
Laura isn’t like this. Laura is a lawyer by profession and a lawyer by nature, and now she’s behaving as though she’s after a supporting role in a Harvey Keitel movie.
“I’ve only got a couple left. I’m saving them for later.”
“It’ll have to be the sex, then.”
“But where? And what about Ray? And what about … ” I want to say ‘everything.’ What about everything?
“We’ll have to do it in the car. I’ll drive us somewhere.”
She drives us somewhere.
I know what you’re saying: You’re a pathetic fantasist, Fleming, you wish, in your dreams, etc. But I would never in a million years use anything that has happened to me today as the basis for any kind of sexual fantasy. I’m wet, for a start, and though I appreciate that the state of wetness has any number of sexual connotations, it would be tough for even the most determined pervert to get himself worked up about my sort of wetness, which involves cold, irritation (my suit trousers are unlined, and my legs are being rubbed raw), bad smells (none of the major perfume makers has ever tried to capture the scent of wet trousers, for obvious reasons), and there are bits of foliage hanging off me. And I’ve never had any ambition to do it in a car (my fantasies have always, always involved beds) and the funeral may have had a funny effect on the daughter of the deceased, but for me it’s been a bit of a downer, quite frankly, and I’m not too sure how I feel about sex with Laura when she’s living with someone else (is he better is he better is he better?), and anyway …
She stops the car, and I realize we’ve been bumping along for the last minute or two of the journey.
“Dad used to bring us here when we were kids.”
We’re by the side of a long, rutted dirt road that leads up to a large house. There’s a jungle of long grass and bushes on one side of the road, and a row of trees on the other; we’re on the tree side, pointing toward the house, tilting into the road.
“It used to be a little private prep school, but they went bust years ago, and it’s sat empty ever since.”
“What did he bring you here for?”
“Just a walk. In the summer there were blackberries, and in the autumn there were chestnuts. This is a private road, so it made it more exciting.”
Jesus. I’m glad I know nothing about psychotherapy, about Jung and Freud and that lot. If I did, I’d probably be extremely frightened by now: the woman who wants to have sex in the place where she used to go for walks with her dead dad is probably very dangerous indeed.
It’s stopped raining, but the drips from the trees are bouncing off the roof, and the wind is knocking hell out of the branches, so every now and again large chunks of foliage fall on us as well.
“Do you want to get in the back?” Laura asks, in a flat, distracted voice, as if we’re about to pick someone else up.
“I guess so. I guess that would be easier.”
She’s parked too close to the trees, so she has to clamber out my side.
“Just shift all that stuff on to the back shelf.”
There’s an A-Z, a couple of empty cassette cases, an opened bag of Opal Fruits, and a handful of candy wrappers. I take my time getting them out of the way.
“I knew there was a good reason for putting on a skirt this morning,” she says as she gets in. She leans over and kisses me on the mouth, tongues and everything, and I can feel some interest despite myself.
“Just stay there.” She makes some adjustments to her dress and sits on top of me. “Hello. It doesn’t seem so long ago that I looked at you from here.” She smiles at me, kisses me again, reaches underneath her for my fly. And then there’s foreplay and stuff, and then—I don’t know why—I remember something you’re supposed to remember but only rarely do.
“You know with Ray … ”
“Oh, Rob, we’re not going to go through that again.”
“No, no. It’s not … are you still on the pill?”
“Yes, of course. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I didn’t mean that. I mean … was that all you used?”
She doesn’t say anything, and then she starts to cry.
“Look, we can do other things,” I say. “Or we can go into town and get something.”