I turned back to her sitting next to me.
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s disgusting. She doesn’t deserve to own that beautiful dog.”
“She comes by here all the time … Always the same, always so aggressive. We can only live in hope that one day the dog will come to its senses and fight back.”
“Is that what you really think?”
“Yes, of course, all the time.”
As she said these words, up above, an Airbus 310 travelling to Heathrow began to wind down. Its engines let out a howl that could be heard for miles around. I looked up: the plane was banking over the city; it was quite low in the sky, well below the thick cloud. It looked colossal, a massive floating machine. I momentarily thought of the twin towers, and where I was that day, but the image soon passed. I followed the plane’s trajectory as it curved around the city, banking to its right, eventually straightening out to follow the route of the Thames westwards to the strip of reinforced concrete it was due to land on. Planes follow these same paths, to greater or lesser degrees, day and night, and no one bats an eye-lid, no one finds it at all remarkable. Often I would point out the moment the plane’s engines could be heard winding down for the final approach to whomever I was with at the time. Most would utter Oh or Yeah but none would enthuse like me, none would see the beauty in this. I would point out the plane as it banked in the sky, but no one seemed interested. Sometimes when I looked up the plane seemed to be stationary, floating, hanging there in the sky, dangling with nothing to do, like a beautiful painting before me. Then I would look around to see if anyone else had noticed this and no one else would be looking up at it, everyone else would be in transit, oblivious, getting on with their business. No one was ever interested. They’d only be interested if the plane was hurtling towards oblivion or something — like that time in New York. Then everyone would stop and look. But it’s still the same plane. It’s still the same plane.
“I have a son.”
“Pardon?”
She inched up the bench so that she was sitting beside me, our thighs nearly touching. A perfectly plucked eyebrow raised itself above her left eye. Something shot through me, like some sort of charge. I felt like a breakthrough had been made.
“I said I have a son.”
“Oh. I mean wow, that’s great! Isn’t it?”
“A son.”
“What’s his name?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“How old is he?”
“Old enough to know that I’m his mother.”
“So, why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t love him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I wish he didn’t exist, that I didn’t fall pregnant with him, that I didn’t give birth to him … That’s what I mean. Like that lie I told you about. I wish it could all be forgotten about.”
“Why don’t you love him?”
“I don’t know … All I know is that I feel nothing for him.”
She leaned closer to me; she looked me in the eye. Her eyes tightened and wrinkles appeared around them like oyster shells. I noticed a faint mole on her cheek. Her lips were thick.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”
“About you not feeling anything …?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know?”
“That I don’t love him?”
“Yes …”
“I guess so … He’s a bright lad. He’s not stupid. There’s a book out … Have you read it? It deals with …”
“No. I don’t read that many books.”
“Oh.”
“Why are you telling me these things?”
“Because I don’t know you … I find it easier to talk to strangers, real strangers, not some pathetic voice on the end of a phone. Unlike my friends, the few I have, I don’t care what you think about me.”
“Do you feel you’ve got a lot to talk about?”
“No more than everyone else … I don’t know. I just feel like talking.”
“That’s fine by me …”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes. I could tell that you would listen. Plus, bored people will listen to just about anything.”
“Right … How do you know I’m bored?”
“You told me.”
“Right.”
We both stopped to watch a narrow boat pass us by. It was called Angel. It was probably the smallest I had ever seen. I remember thinking that it would be pretty horrid living on it. No space to breath, to move. The man at the steering wheel didn’t notice us. He just sat there, motionless, without a care in the world. He was deep in thought and smoking a pipe. I liked him.
“It was strange …”
“What was?”
“The pregnancy … The birth. I’d wanted him so much. I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms. I couldn’t wait to touch his soft skin, to do all the things a young mother dreams of. And then it happened …”
“It?”
“I gave birth to him. The very moment I held him in my arms I knew I would never love him, that I would never want him …”
“Why? How?”
“I just knew … A gut feeling.”
“But … Surely you could grow to love him?”
“Too late.”
“Why?”
“He’s gone … He doesn’t belong to me.”
“But don’t you ever think of him?”
“Yes, but not much.”
“What about now?”
“What about now?”
“Well, you’re thinking about him now …”
“No, I’m not. I’m talking, not thinking. Just talking about him as I would that man on his bike over there. Or that bus on the bridge, or that beautiful tree there. He’s nothing to me.”
“But you gave birth to him. You carried him in your womb for nine months.”
“I know I did.”
“But what about …”
“What?”
“The father?”
“What about him?”
“Well, surely he had something to say about … you know …”
“Him? He couldn’t understand much at the best of times.”
“But, surely he must be angry with you? Just not caring, wanting nothing to do with your … with his son?”
“He didn’t concern me either.”
“Is he the same …”
“… Man I told you about? The same man I lied about being pregnant to?”
“Yes.”
“No, he’s not. The father of my son is a kind man, a man full of love, a man any woman would be proud of … I just don’t love our son, that’s all.”
“Are you …”
“Still with him?”
“Yes …”
“No. He left me. He took our son with him. See?”
“Yes. See what?”
“I told you he was a nice man.”
We fell silent again. I was hungry. I felt hot. I felt that it might have been her causing it, but it was most probably due to the hunger — but, to be honest, I’ve never felt that way since. It was an odd feeling deep in my stomach. I felt light. I felt like I was floating. I wanted steak. A rare steak. With Roquefort cheese melted on it. Good thick sirloin. Only the best. I wanted to go to Elliot’s Butchers on Essex Road and purchase their finest cut. Or maybe a corn-fed free-range chicken, roasted and stuffed with lemon and garlic. I would have eaten the whole thing. I began to think about roasted squash with whole, unpeeled garlic cloves and roast potatoes, roasted in goose fat. I think I began to salivate in front of her. I’m not too sure. I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead again, looking towards the snazzy flat-screen monitors. She yawned a couple of times, brushed the hair from her face, cowered slightly from the breeze. I tried to see what it was she was looking at — there were only a couple of the office workers left now. They had all gone out for lunch together or something. The man in the shirt and tie who liked to spend his working day walking back and forth from his desk to the other, over and over again, was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. I couldn’t see enough of him to gauge what colour tie he was wearing. He looked tired, troubled somewhat. But it was hard to tell. For all I knew he could have been asleep; he certainly looked like he was. He definitely had something on his mind. Maybe she was looking at him? She was certainly looking at something.