Christ.
He didn’t use the mirror before he came out of the bathroom, but he guessed that he was not at his best as he blinked down at Becky and hugged her in, because that was the comforting thing for a father to do and because it would prevent her from studying him like the wet, mad animal he understood himself to be.
Christ.
‘Daddy’s here. Dad’s here.’ Her arms being wiry and tight around him in a way that was a great relief and also a burden. ‘Dad’s—’
‘What’s the matter?’ Her voice was a reproach against his chest, hot. ‘What’s wrong?’ He’d made her worried, which was not his intention.
‘I, ah … Bad day. Bad week. It’s a funny time. And … I can’t.’ She was patting at the small of his back and that was nice, a kind gesture. His breath heaved a few times at the idea of it, but he kept steady thereafter. ‘Becky, I’m—’
‘Has Mum done something?’ He loved that she sounded protective.
‘What? No. No. She’s on holiday, remember? No. That’s completely …’ He gently disentangled himself and offered her an expression he hoped would pass, while he stared off to one side at a reproduction of a poster for the movie The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover which was on Becky’s wall — Helen Mirren in complicated underwear and some fruit.
That would have been Terry the wanker’s choice — trying to be shocking. I pity the poor bloody actors in a piece of crap like that … Suffering all round. The indignities required of any trade. Who needs it? I don’t need it. Dear God, I don’t need it.
And I don’t want it to have to be my fault.
‘I shouldn’t be bringing this here, not to my girl.’ Jon kissed the top of her head — hair smells as it always did, of love and home and peacefulness — and he felt like a swine for planning, while he kissed, how he would get back into the bathroom and retrieve his phone. ‘My girl is wonderful.’ He’d forgotten it.
I’m really not in a position where I can afford to forget anything.
‘You don’t look OK, Dad. You look thin.’
‘I am thin. I’m always thin. That’s me — thin.’ He felt something like a smile afflict him and then slink off before it failed close inspection. ‘I know this is shit of me, but I have to go in a while. In a not very long while. I’m so sorry.’
He braced himself for her disapproval, but — rather more horribly — she provided none, led him back to the living room as if he were elderly and damaged. ‘You should eat.’
‘Well, no — you should. You look tired, sweetheart. And you really should eat.’
The tray was still there on her coffee table, with the untried and now congealed soup and probably slightly dried bread. Rebecca lifted it all before he could stop her and told Jon, ‘I’ll make this hot again and get you some as well and then we will both eat and then you’ll go.’ She didn’t attempt to load the end of the sentence: this was simply a list of things that were going to happen.
He was forgiven, then.
Which left him to sit on the floor again, because for some reason he liked it down here, leaning back against one armrest of the sofa, and listening while there were tiny kitchen sounds: his daughter turning on the hum of the microwave, bustling, taking care of her dad.
I shouldn’t have seen Rowan last night — it’s thrown me off. The thought of someone cooking for me and busyness elsewhere and … I feel I am setting myself up for a fall.
He folded one hand around the other, clasped his palm over his fist, as if it were some live, clever stone that could help him.
Kneeling in Rowan’s bloody garden — a ridiculous thing to build, a whole garden made out of love — you can’t risk that. And I told him — stupid — told him I wanted Filya to have seen it all when everything was better and cleaned and … It’s insoluble. The waste of everything is beyond me.
I can’t say.
Jon rocked while some horrible shadow swung through him and he just …
I used to be, used to be a man who was all about preparing for solutions, about showing other people where solutions might be found and how they might be implemented. One can’t change one’s nature, particularly not if some element of it is functional and — one believes — beneficial and worthwhile. I can’t stop doing what I feel is necessary, not without changing myself and …
Jon heard Becky come back, her bare feet over the boards and the little slips of the spoon as it rocked against the bowl — he could picture it all, but not lift his head. He felt her shin rest against his side and press.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’ This was meant to be the start of a longer statement, but instead he could only agree to being her father. ‘Yes.’
‘Dad, you’re crying. Why are you crying?’
And now she has let him discover that he is — yes — crying, the force of it sparks in his lungs and almost chokes him and he can’t tell her why.
Even when she sets the tray down on the floor — or somewhere, just somewhere, he doesn’t see where, can’t see where — even when she kneels and holds him round his breathing, pins his arms in to his sides in a way that makes him drown slightly, just a bit — even then he can’t tell her why he is crying.
Because nothing is soluble any more.
Because it’s all ruined.
Because I am ruined.
Because an extraordinary woman called Filya is dead.
Because I never loved your mother properly.
Because I never loved you properly.
Because I am going to lose my job.
Because I am going to be destroyed.
Because I have a girlfriend.
I can’t.
Because I have never saved anyone.
Because I have tried and never managed to be as I should, act as I should.
Because I have Meg, but I can’t have Meg.
I can’t.
Here it is.
But, really, I can’t.
He kept on holding his own hand.
18:22
WELL FUCK THAT, though. I’m better than that. My name is Meg and I’m better than that — which is what people say, ‘I’m better than that,’ and I’m not very sure what it means, or how they’d know, but why not think it anyway, it sounds friendly.
I can imagine, I can assume that I am better than being in a pub and feeling lousy and wanting to do what any normal human being should do in a pub.
So fuck that. Fuck normal.
I’m not normal.
I’m better than that.
Meg had left the bar and was heading down Charing Cross Road, which was undoubtedly better than some things and some places, but not exactly at its best.
Although you never know with Charing Cross Road what its best is meant to be.
Its shops always managed to seem not quite in working order, a bit rubbish and quiet. Or else sleazy. It had an aura of louche dysfunction. Chinatown was a block away and doing its restaurants and stacks-of-vegetables-in-boxes and busyness thing, but Charing Cross Road wasn’t Chinatown. And just round the corner in Denmark Street were classy guitars and hard-fingered experts and hopes and prayers for the dispensation of blue, blue coolness — so Meg was told — but Charing Cross Road just wasn’t Denmark Street. And Soho was right over there and doing its clubs and raunch and posing and out-of-your-mind-on-whatever and up-all-night and no-knickers thing — but that wasn’t Charing Cross Road, either. Charing Cross Road was all shoddy offers and empty bookshops and tourist tat and places where you wouldn’t eat and shouldn’t drink.