Cat Lady, page 12
I look back out of the window. Holborn. The business course I did was in Holborn. I was twenty-nine. It took a year. Doing a business course is a generic knee-jerk reaction that a lot of people make to chaos. When in doubt, do a business course. When you weren’t blessed with the gift of ambition but need to do something, do a business course. When you have failed at anything you thought you might like to try, study business to make you employable. ‘Business’ is ‘business’, it doesn’t matter who you work for. Can you crunch numbers, set goals, use words like ‘profits’, ‘assets’, ‘margins’? Can you manage a team, sound like you know better even if you doubt that you do? If you do those things you can be in business. And then you find yourself with a job. Working for a business you find vacuous and uninspiring. The second in command to the creator who takes your good work and turns it into their own success. I didn’t know where that business course would take me. I just came here every day, to Holborn. I sat in a cold room with fifteen other people. Men in cheap suits, women in uncomfortable shoes and tight skirts. Everyone being all serious. Meaning business. I listened to a man a few years older teach me how to do things that didn’t interest me but that I happened to be good at. I got the soup and salad deal from a small café on the days that I didn’t make my own lunch.
Sometimes I got the Tube twelve stops and ate lunch along the way, just so I could go home and give Pigeon a quick cuddle before heading all the way back and I was never once late. That was the beginning of my relationship with order. Old habits like lateness or skipping meals became intolerable to me. I was attentive, alert. I learned what I had to do to live a better life. I programmed myself to live differently. I began to collect life goals. A job, then a marriage. I suddenly had value.
I didn’t share a room with my husband, is adultery the price I pay for that? Could he tell I loved my cat more than I loved him? Did he know this was a marriage that worked for me because I had to share him? That I never minded because any kind of family was enough to keep me away from chaos? The role of second wife and stepmother was just enough to stop me spiralling back to where I was. Like a drug addict needs a hit, I need focus. When I lose focus, who knows where I could end up.
The driver rings a bell, the sign says, ‘Last stop’. I am at Monument, apparently. I have avoided this part of London for a very long time, but here I am. Grounded here by circumstance. Not for the first time, I walk straight down King William Street and on to London Bridge.
Sometimes it’s hard to walk straight when walking across a bridge. It’s as if the water below is causing it to bounce up and down, twist side to side. I walk slowly, my arm out as if to balance myself. A few metres before the other end, I stand still and face the river. This was my spot. The place I made what I thought was the best decision of my life. The place I jumped.
I stand looking at the water. The bridge is higher than I remember. Maybe because the idea of the fall wasn’t so frightening then. How had I been so brave? Could I be that brave again?
My phone rings. It’s Tristan. Is he calling to tell me it’s over? He can’t be calling to have a trivial conversation like usual, that would be pure cruelty after what he’s just done. I answer without any feeling in my body.
‘Hello Tristan.’
‘What time will you be home?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, not letting on that I heard him eat his ex-wife’s marshmallow cunt in our kitchen just an hour ago. The strange family that I relied on now shattered. The return to chaos consuming me.
‘Well should I organise my own dinner or have you planned something?’
‘Organise it yourself. Feed Pigeon. A scoop of the biscuits. And fill up her water fountain.’
‘Well how long are you going to be?’
I hang up.
13
It took me four hours and thirty-seven minutes to walk from London Bridge to Acton. I didn’t rush. I had to take my shoes off and carry them from somewhere just after Hyde Park. My feet went through several stages of pain, ending in numbness. As I walk into the house, I realise I can’t feel them at all. Pigeon comes running to me in her usual way. I drop my bag and bend down to stroke her. I sit down on the doormat and let Pigeon lick me. Tristan comes out of the kitchen.
‘Where have you been? I kept calling.’
‘My phone died.’
With the kind of comedy timing you couldn’t make up, my phone alerts me to a text message from within my tote bag. I get it out. A message from Liz: I have a box of Dad’s old clothes. I’ll take them to the charity shop unless you want them?
‘Mia, your feet?’
‘What about them?’ Pigeon is purring very loudly. Poor thing had a terrible day.
‘They’re covered in blood. Where have you been?’
‘Walking.’
‘Where from, Scotland?’
I stand up, it’s harder than it should be. I walk past my husband and into the kitchen. I slip because my feet are wet with blood. As I fall, I smack my head on the corner of the kitchen island. I hit the floor hard and land on my bottom. It sends a bolt of pain up my back and I have to lie still for a few moments until it passes.
‘Jesus, Mia, what’s wrong with you?’ I put my hand to my head. More blood. ‘You could have had your eye out.’ Tristan wets a dishcloth and passes it to me, I press it against my head.
‘Are you drunk?’ he asks me.
‘No, but I’d like a drink.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Are you having some sort of episode?’
‘Are you?’
‘What?’
‘Are you having an episode? Or are you just one long bad movie?’ That sounded better in my head. My head that really hurts.
‘Mia, you’re being very strange. Why don’t you get up, have a shower and get into bed. You need to sleep off whatever you’ve taken.’
Tristan starts cleaning awkwardly. He wipes down the kitchen surface with a damp sponge. I pull myself to standing then sit heavily on one of the stools so I can watch. The sponge is leaving trails of water behind it. Water mixed with Belinda’s juice from her big marshmallow vagina. He starts humming to himself, as if there is nothing to see here. But I see it. I see his fear that he’s left a clue. That he smells of her.
‘How was your day, what did you get up to?’ I ask him, all chatty.
‘Work. The usual.’
Lies. Or maybe fucking Belinda in the kitchen is usual for him. It’s probably been going on for years.
‘Why do you keep me?’ I ask him.
‘Keep you? What do you mean?’
‘I mean, what purpose do I serve? You have your son, Belinda, why bother with me?’
‘You’re my wife.’
‘Why?’
‘Mia, what’s this about?’
I walk up to him. My eyes seductive. I wonder if his beard stinks of her or if he’s had time to wash it. Will I taste her if I kiss him? Will she taste of dirty shoes, like I imagine she will? He turns to the sink to wring out the sponge, then throws it towards the plughole and walks off..
I get a fabric tote bag from the cupboard under the sink. He stands back from me and looks out of the kitchen window, pretending to gaze longingly into the garden he takes zero interest in maintaining. He can sense that I am up to something, so starts to whistle an ear-piercing tune to pretend everything is OK.
I open the kitchen utensil drawer and fill the bag. He is watching me out of the corner of his eye. Too scared to ask me what I am doing. When the bag is full, I start rattling it violently.
‘Mia?’ he says, nervously. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m just interested to know what a bag of kitchen utensils feels like.’
He looks around him. Like I’ve planted cameras.
‘It’s funny, because it doesn’t sound like it would make a man wail the way you wail when we have sex.’
‘You are drunk, you must be.’
‘Look at your phone.’
He slowly reaches to his back pocket as if someone is about to jump out of a kitchen cupboard and tackle him to the ground.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Have a little look at the last time you called me.’
He presses some buttons. The blood drains from his face.
‘You called me at 3.34 p.m. and the call lasted sixteen minutes. During that time you described me as a bag of kitchen utensils, performed oral sex on your ex-wife and then stood by while she violently pushed my cat to the ground. I heard everything. I was sick on the floor and tried to cuddle a woman on a bus.’
‘The cat was walking its dirty feet across the kitchen surface, I have told you repeatedly how that upsets me,’ he says, as if that is the most important part of what I just said. He found the only part of it where he could shift the blame away from himself and on to me. Classic man. I pick Pigeon up and put her on the kitchen surface.
‘There have been dirtier pussies than her on here today.’
Tristan walks to the other side of the room and stands in the corner, which is very odd. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asks. ‘You won’t sleep in my bed. I can only touch you when you come to me. Otherwise it’s hands off, or you recoil like I am revolting to you. I always liked your oddness. You intrigued me. The way you seemed to have your own life, it worked. Didn’t it? For both of us. I could still have my family, but I also had you. But you don’t seem to ever want me. You give me so little.’
‘I made Oliver all of those sandwiches.’
‘I’m talking about me, not lunchboxes.’
‘I cooked you meat even though it made me sick.’
Tristan huffs as if he’s getting nowhere.
‘You told Belinda my vagina smells like a dead cat. Does it?’
An eyeroll. ‘Of course it doesn’t. She needs to hear those things. She’s not a secure woman, you know that.’
‘What is a secure woman? A woman who is lied to so the truth doesn’t destroy her?’
‘I suppose a secure woman is someone who doesn’t need to be told how good she is compared to other women. I have to do that for Belinda, she needs that.’
‘Gosh it must all be so hard for you. Your two wives that you get to fuck. Having to tell us horrible things about each other to make us all happy.’
‘We can’t go on like this.’
‘Oooh, but it’s so fun for me.’
I have found a bottle of white wine in the fridge. I drink directly from it.
‘You need to be alone, you’re happier alone, Mia. You’re not the marrying type. You’re not a mother.’
‘How dare you!’ I say, hurt. Wondering if the thick skin I convinced myself I had is in fact transparent. Can he see right through me?
Pigeon rubs against me. Her purrs are so loud, like a rocket preparing for take-off.
‘I never sent Oliver to school with odd socks. That’s harder than you’d think. I kept all of the single ones and when I found the other I tied them together as a pair. Sometimes it was weeks before I’d find a match. But I never threw one away, and he never once wore odd socks.’
Tristan exhales as if I am just too exhausting.
‘I can help you find a place to live.’ Tristan’s voice is becoming distant to me now. Blah blah blah. Something about me being easier to move than him. LA LA LA. This is Oliver’s home, it’s a family house. Pigeon’s purrs are louder. The rocket is launching. I pick her up and storm to the front door. Sore feet, sore head, but determined. My slippers are in a basket. I slide them on. Relief. I pick up my tote bag. I go to leave but then realise this won’t work. I put Pigeon and my tote bag down and open the cupboard under the stairs. I throw things over my shoulder and push things out of the way until I reach it: Pigeon’s carrier case. I try to shut the cupboard door but I’ve made too much mess. Not my problem. I put my cat in her bag, pick up my tote and leave.
The Tube is busy. I smell, I am carrying a cat. People are trying not to look at me but failing terribly.
One woman is focusing on Pigeon instead of me, she’s more comfortable staring at the cat. She is well dressed with a nice handbag. She looks up at me.
‘What?’ I ask, boldly enough to surprise us both.
‘I used to have a cat who looked just like that.’
‘Well this isn’t it.’
‘No, I know that. Mine died. She was fourteen, my heart and soul. How old is yours?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Oh, well, my sister’s cat lived until it was twenty-two. You never know, really.’
I feel my heart thump. The thought of losing Pigeon isn’t something I need on top of the events of the last twenty-four hours.
‘You can get pets’ ashes now, you know. I have mine next to the bed, I kiss her goodnight every day.’
The train pulls into a station and the woman stands up.
‘Here,’ she says handing me a ten-pound note. ‘For the kitty.’
‘What?’ I say, taking it despite my confusion.
‘And I hope things improve for you soon,’ she says, before getting off. I see my reflection in the glass opposite. There is make-up down my face, my hair is a state. I look down at my feet, blood is seeping through the sides of my slippers. I feel like a Tracey Emin installation.
I arrive at my sister’s house an hour later, West Ruislip, right at the end of the Central Line. I ring the doorbell, but it doesn’t make a sound. Someone has drawn a cock and balls on the front door. It looks like someone else has tried to rub it off. I let myself in and shout, ‘Hello?’
The hallway is scattered with shoes of various sizes and Liz’s DM boots that she’s had so long I can’t believe they are still intact. The smell of food, joss sticks and old books fills the air. I step over a pile of Lego, then around a large T-Rex whose batteries are causing it to roar at nothing. The door to the living room is open and the TV is on. A kids’ show. No one is in there. Simon, Liz’s husband, shouts, ‘Hello Mia’ from his office off the hallway. The door is shut, he’ll be working on the manuscript he’s been writing for nearly fifteen years. Giving him constant excuses to step away from family life. Always home, but never present, is how I would describe him.
The sounds of loud lullabies drift from upstairs, which tells me my little niece, Layla, is in bed. My teenage nephew, Tommy, walks toward me holding his nose.
‘Hey Aunty Mia,’ he says. ‘You don’t wanna go in there.’
He is referring to the kitchen. He’s grimacing but also has a slight smile on his face so I’m not too worried about it.
‘How is school?’ I ask him.
‘Cool yeah, aced my exams,’ he says as he disappears up the stairs having maxed out on information sharing with a grown-up for one day. Luckily he didn’t look at me long enough to acknowledge the state I’m in.
I ignore his advice and head into the kitchen, a disorganised but homely space with pots and pans hanging off hooks and piles of plates on the side instead of being tucked away in cupboards. Liz painted the cupboard doors a ‘fun green’ herself, there are plants on every available worktop. A wooden rack hangs above our heads with laundry dangling from it. I couldn’t live like this, but Liz loves the madness of it all, making little or no effort to encourage schedules or order. I get a headache just thinking about it. To her this is the epitome of domestic bliss.
Wearing her usual grungy style clothes, as if she walked home from a festival in 1996 and never got changed, Liz sits opposite a little boy who is around Oliver’s age. She could be telling him his fortune, but on closer inspection I realise he is in trouble.
‘I know you’re hurting but we don’t do things like that in this house. Do you understand?’ my sister says to a boy who ignores her, gets up and runs past me and then heads up the stairs.
Liz sees me and smiles as if all is well and wonderful in her world.
‘He’s a particularly tricky one,’ she says, referring to the boy. ‘He won’t talk about what happened to him at all. Poor kid.’
My sister, despite having three of her own, fosters children. She is addicted to caring. Our abandonment and co-dependency issues have manifested in very different ways. Where I separate myself and need to be alone, Liz collects people. She and Simon have been together since they were sixteen. She had her first baby at twenty-four, her second at thirty and her third at forty. Over the past fifteen years she has fostered over thirty children. She’s been in countless scrapes with them. One left her with a giant scar across her left cheek. Another broke her arm. But nothing stopped her taking more in. She can’t have slept more than three hours in one night in eighteen years. She looks after Simon like he is another child. Delivering plates to him throughout the day as he keeps his head down, typing away at the novel that must be a million words long by now. He earns money by copywriting for various companies and Liz marks exam papers for universities. A job she can do from home while the kids watch TV. They also get some money for fostering, but that isn’t why they do it. For Liz, this is life at its best. She takes care of people who need her, that really is all she ever wanted. To be needed.
We have little in common other than the long childhood that we shared, where we had to be everything to each other because our mum died of cancer before we were ten and our dad drank himself into a narcissistic stupor until he also eventually died of rot just after I turned twenty-one. Liz and I went our separate ways after that. I went off on a solo rampage around the world. She got married and started making babies to ensure solitude would never haunt her. My sister cannot be alone, I would go as far as to say it is her greatest fear. I was pleased when she married young. It took a lot of pressure off me.
‘Mia, look at you. What happened?’
‘A lot. Can I stay the night?’
