Monday to Friday Man Read online

  ‘I used to help my brother, Nick. He’s so badly coordinated, always got it in a knot or did it the wrong way. There.’ I stand back and look at Guy, now my work of art. Then I cast an eye to his woolly hat.

  He backs away.

  ‘It’s like me wearing a wedding dress with trainers!’ I protest, marching towards him.

  ‘No, Gilly.’

  ‘Take it off! Flora will thank me.’

  He laughs, keeping one firm hand on his hat. ‘No.’ ‘Can I help?’ Adrian asks, bemused.

  I cross my arms and stare at Guy. ‘He won’t take off his hat.’

  Adrian surveys Guy, one hand on his hip. ‘I think it would look better without,’ he agrees.

  ‘I come with my hat. Take me or leave me.’

  ‘Right, I’m going then.’ I walk away and exchange a secret smile with Adrian.

  ‘Gilly!’ Guy calls.

  I turn.

  There is something achingly vulnerable about seeing Guy without his hat on.

  ‘I haven’t had the chance to dye it yet,’ he says gesturing to the grey at the side. His dark hair is wild, unkempt; he looks as if he’s been on a long coastal walk in blustering wind. Self-consciously he runs a hand through it.

  I brush a loose strand of cotton off his shoulder and turn his face to mine, noticing for the first time the colour of his eyes. They’re blue, not vivid like Jack’s but a soft gentle colour.

  ‘Better,’ comments Adrian. ‘Much better.’

  ‘You look handsome,’ I tell him.

  ‘You’re very privileged you know, I don’t take my hat off for any old person,’ Guy says.

  As we clutch our shopping bags (I bought a pair of black ankle boots that I’ve always hankered for – thank you, Monday to Friday Jack), Guy turns to me, saying that it’s my turn next; he’ll do whatever I want.

  ‘OK.’ I think. I look at my watch, it’s close to four o’clock. ‘Let’s pick up the dogs and then I’d like to visit someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  I lead Guy into St Mark’s Church, large and impressive, on the edge of Regent’s Park.

  ‘On Sundays we used to come here,’ I tell him. ‘Megan called it her church because she could see it from her bedroom.’ I point to a small window in the south transept. It’s modern and in the centre is an engraved monkey. ‘This is Megan’s,’ I say.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I wrote these stories for her, called Mickey, the Magic Monkey, and Mickey took Megan everywhere in her dreams. He’d dress her up like a princess and take her to palaces and parties and fly her on magic carpets to places far and wide, like Egypt and India . . .’ I stop. ‘That’s why Mickey is here, in this window, right where he should be.’

  ‘May I?’ Guy picks up a candle and lights it. ‘Hey, Megan,’ he says in a hushed tone, ‘it’s Guy here. I hope Mickey’s looking after you and you’re having fun. In the meantime, I want to tell you what’s going on down here. Well, I’ve met your big sister, Gilly, and she’s lovely.’ He turns to me and grins. ‘She’s just been helping me buy a suit. She’s very bossy, you know, telling me to take my hat off.’

  I nudge him. ‘Honestly, Megan, if you’d seen him with his hat on, you’d have done the same,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Anyway,’ Guy resumes, ‘we met in the park, dog walking. She’s got this cute little dog called Ruskin and my dog’s called Trouble. I know! Isn’t it a ridiculous name, that’s what I said to my girlfriend too. Well, Gilly and I are about to take the dogs for a walk up Primrose Hill, and when we get to the top we’ll wave to you, OK, so you’d better be looking out for us! Anyway, in case you’re worried about Gilly, she’s doing fine. I’m looking out for her, just as Mickey is looking out for you.’

  Guy and I make our way up the hill. It’s early evening; the sun beginning to set. When we reach the top, a few stray tourists are examining the information site.

  We wave to Megan, just as we’d promised. ‘It must have been hard,’ Guy says, ‘losing her when she was so little.’

  I nod.

  ‘How did you cope?’

  ‘We didn’t.’ I pause. ‘We knew she was going to die, but you can never be prepared for it, never. There was no structure any more, that’s what was so hard, the shape of our days . . . it just vanished. When Megan was around a lot had changed and it was hard for Mum looking after a child completely dependent on her. Our entire lifestyle, where we went on holiday, what we did at weekends, it all revolved around Megan, but I loved the security of knowing Sunday was a church and zoo day.’ I look ahead. ‘When she died, Nicholas and I prayed Mum would get out of bed, let alone do something with us at the weekends. Dad buried himself in his work, didn’t want to admit the family was falling apart. We might have had four walls around us, Guy, but they were made of nothing.’ Tearful, I stop, aware that I may have said too much, but am touched to see he’s listening to me, so patiently. I never really talked to Ed about Megan. He would tell me it was in the past.

  ‘What was your Sunday? Tell me about your family,’ I ask as we walk back down the hill.

  ‘My Sunday? Well, it was Dad’s one free day on the farm so we’d have a Sunday roast, and if we were really good, we’d have spotted dick and custard for pudding.’

  Back at No. 21 I ask Guy to stay on for supper, tempting him with the fresh squid that I’d bought from the fishmonger in Primrose Hill.

  ‘Lucky we’re not kissing anyone tonight,’ Guy says, raising an eyebrow when I’m chopping the third garlic clove for the mayonnaise.

  As the squid sizzles in the pan, Guy opens a bottle of wine and sets the table. This is what I miss, I realize. Being with someone. Today has flown by because I’ve been absorbed in his company and completely at peace.

  Perhaps this is where Ed and I went wrong. We began to spend too much time apart.

  Ed’s internet business was expanding. He set up an office in Singapore, which meant he was always away. I believed him when he told me his distance was due to stress at work, but maybe, in reality he was in turmoil, wrestling about whether he was making the right choice. Why didn’t I see these signs?

  I particularly recall one time when Ed had returned from a work trip. He had clambered into bed, exhausted. When I put my magazine down and reached over to touch him, he kissed me perfunctorily on the cheek, saying he was tired.

  I should have questioned him more. Why didn’t I? I remembered Mum telling me that her engagement to Dad was the happiest time of her life, though that didn’t exactly end up like a fairytale, mind you. Maybe I thought I was in love with him because I was desperate to create what my mother and father hadn’t had i.e. a happy future, but if I am honest I’ve never been passionately in love with any of my boyfriends, not even Edward. I enjoyed being with him but I’m beginning to see how I was hanging on to what our relationship was like at the beginning, not wanting to see that we’d run our course. I stand at the French doors watching Guy survey the garden. The evening light catches his face.

  Perhaps I’ve never been in love at all. What is love? I only caught glimpses of it in my parents’ marriage. I captured much more hatred.

  ‘Tell me more about your family,’ I ask Guy as we eat our squid. ‘Are your parents still together?’

  ‘No, my father’s dead. He died when I was twenty-three.’

  Guy pours me another glass of wine.

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘Very.’

  I lean towards him. ‘Was he like you?’

  ‘No.’ Guy smiles, as if the idea is far-fetched. ‘Dad was a farmer to start with. I didn’t even like living on a farm when I was a boy,’ he admits. ‘It smelled of manure and death and decay.’

  I continue to listen to Guy talking about his family. I love the way he talks. He speaks quietly, yet his voice tells the story with a liveliness and endearing honesty.

  ‘Dad was interesting, though. His true love was pictures, and when he retired from the farm he went to coll
ege and learned how to restore paintings. He wished he’d done that right from the beginning.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’

  ‘He had no confidence, just thought being a farmer was all he could do, like my grandfather. Not that being a farmer isn’t a good job,’ he’s quick to add, ‘and it’s hard work. If he wasn’t sleeping, he was working. He didn’t go to school, had no education or qualifications because his mother kept him at home. He was the youngest of eight . . .’

  ‘Eight! Are you Roman Catholic?’

  ‘Lapsed,’ he smiles. ‘Anyway, Dad’s mum wouldn’t let him go. I think she must have been unhinged by this stage. I mean, you would be after giving birth to eight children, wouldn’t you? So in the end Dad taught himself to read and write from home, but he had no experience in the outside world. He inherited his father’s farm and that was that. If you’re told that’s all you’re good for, that’s what you believe.’

  ‘Did he resent his mother?’

  ‘Oh yes. That’s why he used to tell me to get good qualifications so I could have the freedom to do something I loved. That’s why I got out of advertising in the end. My heart wasn’t in it. I became bored, stuck in a rut,’ he says, just as I’d said to Richard.

  ‘You needed a change?’

  ‘Exactly. I’d loved gardening since I was a little boy, and something was telling me to do it. I remember being so nervous about ringing the woman running the course. I kept on worrying about how Flora and I would manage without a second income, and did I really want to go back to school again? I nearly put the phone down, but I’m so glad I made that call. Isn’t it weird how one call can change your life?’

  I nod. ‘You found something that makes you happy. Your father would be really proud.’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t earn as much money,’ he says, ‘but yes, I’m happy. Most of the time,’ he adds. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

  I wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my jumper. ‘I know I’m lucky, Guy. I’m young . . . ish,’ I say, ‘have lovely friends, my own home . . .’

  ‘With a hot lodger,’ Guy reminds me.

  ‘Seriously hot,’ I add. ‘I have my loyal Ruskin.’ Ruskin is under the table, lying at my feet. ‘I’m healthy. There are people much worse off than me.’

  ‘So why are you sad, Gilly?’

  ‘I haven’t found my something yet.’

  Guy leans over to me and wipes a tear from my eye with his thumb. Without thinking, I take his hand and hold it gently, and our fingers link. Abruptly we free our hands and I sense Guy is asking himself the same question: what happened just then?

  ‘Let’s go out,’ he says, to break the tension. ‘I’ll take you for a drive.’

  ‘Have you noticed there’s no horizon in London?’ Guy comments as we drive over Lambeth Bridge. ‘Sometimes, when I’m tired and can’t sleep, I drive round here. I love the Embankment at night, with the bridges all lit up. It reminds me why Flora and I still live here.’

  ‘When’s she back?’

  ‘About five weeks now.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a tennis charity thing. She was wearing this cute pleated skirt and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.’

  ‘Off her legs you mean.’

  ‘Off her. Well, OK, she did have great legs. My partner blamed me for not concentrating.’ He smiles. ‘Anyway, after we were thrashed I asked her out.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘We had a couple of great months together . . . then she asked me to go to New York. She wanted me to meet a few of her friends who lived out there.’

  ‘And?’ I sense there is more to this story.

  ‘I was in the office, about to book the flight and all I can remember thinking is if I hit the confirm button, Flora and I will probably end up marrying. I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t just a holiday. I pressed the key and then ran around the office like a madman.’

  I laugh, picturing him.

  ‘I still think about it,’ he says.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What would have happened if I hadn’t gone to New York. I’m not sure we’d be together. Oh, I don’t know,’ he says quickly afterwards, perhaps fearing he came across as disloyal, ‘maybe we would.’

  ‘Well, I’m looking forward to meeting her.’

  As I look at the river lit up at night, I wonder if I am really looking forward to meeting Flora. We say so many things that we don’t mean, the truth hidden beneath the layers of what we ought to say. The thing is, when Flora returns inevitably my friendship with Guy will change.

  I look over to him and he smiles, asking me what I’m thinking about. I’m thinking about him lighting a candle today and the way he had talked to my sister. Today has been a one-off day that I shall always remember and treasure. A bit of gold found at the bottom of the ocean. I’m thinking that out of the blue, through Ruskin and the park, I’ve met someone unusual and special.

  ‘What a lovely day I’ve had,’ I say, ‘Thank you.’

  21

  ‘Evening,’ Jack greets me as my head is in the fridge, trying to work out what to eat tonight. ‘Hi, Ruskin.’ Jack strokes Ruskin, but my boy isn’t quite sure who he is yet. Often I find him in Jack’s bedroom, sniffing around or having the audacity to sit on his bed to mark his own territory.

  Jack has been living with me for three weeks now, but so far we have been like ships passing in the night. However, I am getting more used to his presence. In the morning I can smell his aftershave in the bathroom and fresh coffee coming from the kitchen. I know we’re becoming less self-conscious about living together in that our bedroom doors aren’t quite so firmly shut any more and I don’t run all the taps in the bathroom before I’m about to go to the loo.

  Late at night when I’m in bed I find the sound of Jack’s key turning in the lock comforting. I imagine him knocking on my bedroom door and lying beside me, taking my face into his hands and kissing me. During the quiet moments in the shop, I find myself fantasizing about him, hoping our collisions on the landing or under the kitchen table are going to develop into something more 18-rated.

  ‘Did you have a good weekend?’ I ask him, shoving the remains of a quiche that needs to be eaten into the oven.

  ‘Weekend? That seems like years ago.’ He helps himself to a can of beer and joins me in the sitting room. I grab the television guide to see what’s on. ‘So, what did you get up to?’ I ask him.

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again,’ I demand, before explaining that my boss, Mari has got the part of Goneril in King Lear and we’ve been running through her lines together, so I’ve reread the play.

  He grins. ‘One of my mate’s children had a birthday party,’ he says, rolling his eyes.

  ‘It gets slightly boring, doesn’t it, when friends have children. Don’t get me wrong, I love them but . . .’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he says.

  When Susie had told me she was pregnant with Rose, of course I was happy for her, but there is no doubt I also knew our friendship would change.

  ‘I once went to this party,’ I carry on, enjoying the fact that Jack’s single and understands, ‘and was sandwiched between two mothers talking about where they were going to send their children to school. The only thing they asked me was if I could pass the horseradish sauce.’

  Jack laughs. ‘Why were you sitting next to two women in the first place?’

  ‘There’s always a shortage of men,’ I say. ‘Do you ever get stranded at parties where people flip open their mobiles and show you pictures of little Oscar and wee Nathaniel?’

  ‘So boring,’ Jack agrees.

  ‘I tell you what else can be annoying,’ I continue now with great gusto, ‘You’re telling friends a story and you’re about to get to the really juicy part and then little Olly has to go and drop his Mr Whippy ice cream down his jumper . . .’

  ‘Or throw your car keys into the pond,’ Jack adds.

&
nbsp; ‘I know I’ll be the same if I ever have children,’ I admit reluctantly. ‘Ruskin’s on my mobile and my screen-saver.’

  ‘Dogs are much simpler. I’d like a Ruskin,’ he says, scooping Rusk into his arms and tickling his belly. Ruskin wriggles away and jumps down.

  ‘What else did you do?’ I ask.

  ‘Um, I went to the movies Saturday night.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I can’t remember, it was so bad.’

  Drawing information out of Jack isn’t easy. ‘Aren’t you going to eat anything?’ I ask when I hear the oven timer beep. I take my quiche out. ‘You must be starving,’ I call from the kitchen. ‘Do you want some of this?’

  I join him back in the sitting room, grab the controls and turn on the television.

  ‘Hang on! I love The Tudors,’ Jack says, asking me to go back to the previous programme, where there is heavy breathing, bouncing bosoms and moaning. Shrieks of ecstasy now come from the television as Henry VIII beds Anne Boleyn. Jack glances across at me.

  ‘How was your day?’ I ask over the heavy panting.

  ‘Difficult. So, the theme for next week is love songs, right?’ Jack says, without averting his eyes from the screen, ‘and the judges are arguing about who’s having what song.’

  Come on, Henry. Get on with it.

  Anne Boleyn screams in ecstasy and the scene is finally over. Never before have I been so relieved to see credits on the screen.

  I throw Jack the controls and tell him to choose what to watch next. Jack zips through the channels at a mighty pace, racing past gardening and house programmes, cop and hospital dramas.

  Next channel is a woman with enormous bosoms talking about her vaginal problems and why she’s considering reconstructive surgery. ‘Move on!’ I demand.

  ‘Hang on.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re doing this on purpose!’ I laugh.

  There’s now a close-up of her . . . er . . . vagina . . . and I don’t know where to look. I stare at Jack, who is enjoying this. Forget about PG; there should be, NFL: NOT FOR LODGERS.