State We're In Page 2

  The room could do with an airing, but the window was jammed.

  The kitchen was Eddie’s Room 101. Not a cage of rats put on his face, like in the George Orwell novel, but death by domesticity. In this kitchen they did not talk about the strikes, David Bowie’s music or even the perm or the Chopper bike. The sort of conversations Eddie and Diane limited themselves to (if they spoke at all) were ones about this child having taken a fall and got bruised, the other having a funny rash, or Diane would moan that she needed a few more quid to buy a new breadbin, her aunt had been round, her aunt thought they needed new curtains, her aunt wondered when he was going to get a job that was better paid. Depending on how much she’d had to drink, Diane might yell that she wondered as much too. He was a graduate, for God’s sake. He had a degree, why was he wasting it being a writer? Writing didn’t pay. She should have married an accountant. That was what her aunt said; that was what she thought too.

  Eddie knew men who hit their wives. He never had. That wasn’t his thing. Hitting your woman didn’t sit well with reading the Tribune. But sometimes when she went on and on and on and on, he could imagine grabbing one of those dirty tea towels that lay screwed up on the kitchen surface and shoving it into her mouth. He didn’t want to choke her, not exactly. He just wanted to stop her going on.

  He glanced down at his fat gold wedding ring. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it would be. He was suffocating.

  1982

  2

  Clara

  Clara snapped off the TV with impatience. There was never any good news; just bombs, kidnappings, the threat of strikes. She only watched the news for the bit at the end when they told you what the Queen was up to. Had she visited a public garden, or perhaps some youth centre? Clara would never know, because she’d switched off before they got to that bit today. They were saying there were three million unemployed now. Three million! Couldn’t someone find them something to do? They should, because nothing good ever came from idle hands. The thought stung. She knew how destructive boredom could be. She’d said to Tim that perhaps they should make these doleys join up. The soldiers and sailors and what-have-you were being so brave out in the Falkland Islands right now. They were doing a fine job, but no doubt they’d welcome a helping hand, a few more buddies. Clara didn’t really know what was going on out there; in fact she hadn’t known exactly where ‘out there’ was until she’d checked in the atlas, but Neil Todd’s father at the school gate said she wasn’t to feel bad about that, hardly anyone did know. All that was clear was that there was a lot of bombing and burning and young men coming home with shocking injuries. Thinking about it, maybe the doleys were better off at home after all. Clara sighed. She didn’t know what to make of it; she didn’t like to think about it.

  Instead she turned her attention to how she should kill the next few hours before she had to start the school pick-up. What should she do with her afternoon? Had she anything on video to watch? It was her guilty pleasure to watch recorded episodes of Dynasty when the children were at school. She had tried, but found it was impossible to give the TV her full attention in the evenings. The children would invariably squabble their way through an entire episode, or worse, they pestered her with irritating or inappropriate questions. Normally, she was a very patient mother. She was quite prepared to answer endless enquiries about Barbie dolls and Danger Mouse (no, she did not know that Barbie’s full name was Barbara Millicent Roberts, but yes, she did think Barbie Millie was cuter, and yes, she did believe Danger Mouse had trained with James Bond; certainly the same school, if not the same year), but it was significantly trickier explaining the saga of the wealthy Denver family who had made their money in oil.

  ‘Does Daddy have much to do with oil?’ Joanna had asked thoughtfully, when they’d last watched the programme together.

  ‘No, stupid. Daddy is a banker,’ Lisa had replied, harshly dismissing her younger sister. Although there was less than two years between them, the gap seemed wider, as fourteen-year-old Lisa had now clambered into the teenage world that allowed access to DM boots and black eyeliner, while twelve-year-old Joanna was quite innocent, still content to dress up her dolls.

  ‘Perhaps he should do more with oil, because then we’d have a house as big as Krystle’s,’ Joanna had added, her childish lisp not quite hiding her fully formed ambition to marry well. Joanna lived for the Cinderella fairy tale.

  ‘We’re very lucky as it is, darling,’ Clara had reminded her daughter, as she often reminded herself. ‘We live in a much bigger house than nearly all our friends.’

  ‘What does Krystle do in that house all day anyway?’ Lisa had demanded as she’d turned back to her homework.

  Joanna had shrugged, unconcerned by the glittery woman’s inertia. Then a thought struck her. Horrified, she’d asked, ‘I don’t understand. Why has Blake been married to two ladies?’

  Clara had tried to explain. ‘Well, Krystle was his secretary but now she’s his wife. Alexis was his wife before.’

  ‘What is she now?’

  ‘His ex-wife.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’ Jo had asked, stricken. In her protected world – the leafy suburbs of Wimbledon – it meant very little; she had no idea that divorce was run-of-the-mill in other postcodes. In Wimbledon, people stuck it out. Clara, more than anyone, knew that.

  ‘She’s not just “his ex-wife”, she’s the boss of an enormous multimillion-, possibly billion-dollar company,’ Lisa had muttered, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Which wife do you like best, Mummy?’ Joanna had pursued.

  ‘Krystle. She’s so patient, serene and composed,’ Clara had replied, even though secretly she was sure Alexis had all the fun. The insipid second wife wasn’t half as exciting as the feisty first one, who had a string of younger lovers, but Alexis Carrington wasn’t a role model Clara Russell could openly aspire to. Not openly.

  ‘Why didn’t they look more for Adam? If someone kidnapped me, would you look lots?’ Mark, her youngest, had asked fearfully. He’d hopped on to Clara’s knee, and she’d enjoyed his warmth and chubbiness.

  ‘Yes, darling, I’d keep searching until the end of time and as far as the end of the world.’

  ‘The world is round, so strictly, it doesn’t end,’ Lisa had pointed out.

  ‘He’s five, Lisa.’

  ‘So you shouldn’t fill his head with rubbish.’ Lisa had nodded pertinently in the direction of Joanna whilst continuing to glare coldly at Clara. Clara knew that Lisa firmly believed that Joanna needed to be weaned off the romantic fairy tales she’d been allowed to believe were gospel, and that Lisa did not consider Clara a particularly good role model for dreamy Jo.

  Was she a let-down? She had tried so hard. Nearly always done the right thing. Even though doing the wrong thing was so much easier, so much more fun. Clara was confident that she was a superb homemaker. That wasn’t up for debate. The house was spotless, their food home-cooked, their clothes carefully ironed (even nighties, petticoats and Tim’s underwear), but Lisa would no doubt have preferred it if Clara was a career woman; the sort that wore shoulder pads and carried fat, impressive Filofaxes. When Joanna had started school, Clara had worked, briefly. Through an old school friend she’d found a rather fun position at the BBC; it was mostly typing and filing but it had got her out of the house for a couple of hours a day and she’d met such exciting people. Too exciting. Dangerous. So after that foray, Tim wouldn’t hear of her working again. He said that working was not for women like her, ones with children and a husband, and he had a point. Tim rarely got home before nine most nights of the week; sometimes he was much later. How would it work if they both had careers?

  Clara often felt uncomfortable under Lisa’s gaze; literal and metaphorical. She suspected that Lisa knew much more than she should. Did she know, for example, that Mark was a patch-up baby, after, well … Clara’s difficult period at the BBC? She’d insisted on him, she’d needed him to anchor her. Did Lisa know that, despite trying not to have favourites, Cl
ara enjoyed the company of her son far more than she enjoyed the company of her daughters? It wasn’t that she liked one child more than the others. Not as such. It was just that he was so easy. He was confident, independent and somehow ‘other’; the girls seemed to be mixed and meshed with Clara in a more fundamental, primal and confusing way. It was probably something to do with the endless comparisons people made between mothers and daughters. The girls were said to be either funnier or not as funny as she had been, prettier or not as pretty, more confident or not quite so. She felt a burdensome responsibility towards them that for some reason did not extend to her son.

  Besides, by the time Mark came along, she’d been significantly less innocent and pliable; perhaps that helped her to be a more confident mother. After all, she’d only been nineteen when she’d had Lisa. Still a child herself.

  Attempts at watching her favourite show with the children were brought to a definite halt when Joanna asked, ‘Why doesn’t Steven have a wife? Does he want to marry that man? Is that allowed?’

  After that, Clara had bundled the children straight up to bed.

  So. How to fill the afternoon? Clara had nothing left to do. She’d prepared chilli with jacket potatoes for tonight’s supper. She’d made it relatively mild, but to further induce the children to eat it, she’d also baked a chocolate fudge cake. They knew that pudding was only allowed if they could show her a clean plate. Rita, their cleaner, had changed all the beds; the sheets were hung on the line right now, snapping in the wind. Tim thought Clara was insane, but she liked to keep her hand in with the domestic duties around the house, even though she could have left everything to Rita; it gave her something to do. So she’d dusted all her Lladro figurines – there were twenty-eight of them, so this was no small task – and now she glanced around her sitting room wondering whether there were any other outstanding chores to tackle.

  It was immaculate, dust-free and the height of fashion: a mass of pastels, cream, peach and salmon hues placed side by side, swirling and morphing. Her father-in-law had once said that coming to their house reminded him of visiting a French brothel. She’d chosen not to dignify his comment with a response. He couldn’t have visited a brothel ever, could he? Perhaps he had; parents were people too. Her father-in-law had a tendency to be very coarse; Tim didn’t take after him at all.

  The carpet was a pale beige colour. She’d quite fancied cream but hadn’t thought it practical, not with three children utilising the patio doors to the full. They were constantly running in and out of the garden, trailing mud, so she had settled for beige. She’d taken a risk with the floral pastel three-piece suite, though; one spilt glass of orange squash and it would be ruined, so she didn’t allow the children to bring drinks into this room. The wallpaper was another floral pastel design, but it was a slightly smaller, tighter flower than the suite. The paper stretched just halfway up the wall; there it met with a very impressive – almost regal – border. The top part of the wall was painted peach and then ragged with an iridescent gold paint. Clara was very proud of the ragging; she’d done it herself, even though Tim had said she could get decorators to do the job. It had been a challenge – by the time she was finished, there’d been as much paint on her overalls and hands as there was on the walls – but every time she looked at it, she felt a swell of satisfaction, knowing that she was responsible for it.

  Hung on the wall above the television was a picture of a river and some hills. Clara didn’t know the name of the artist, but she had seen the original painting in the National Gallery and then bought the print in the shop. The colours were more muted on the print compared to the real thing, but that didn’t really bother Clara, because the paler colours matched better with everything else. There were two brass chandeliers, and other than the dark, dreary bar in the corner (Tim’s folly), the room was perfect. It was exactly the sort of room Clara had always imagined she’d preside over as wife and mother. It was everything she hoped she’d have as a married woman.

  She hated it.

  Clara sighed and picked up the Radio Times. She combed it carefully as she always did, scouring for his name. She’d spotted it twice in six years and she’d seen it on the credits of three different TV programmes. Each time it had caused a small spark to flicker deep between her legs. Wasn’t it strange that a name, written down in print, could have that effect? She didn’t regret her choice. What would be the point in regretting? Her lover was trouble. Her husband was kind. She preferred kindness to trouble; it was as simple as that. Yet there were always the sparks.

  Clara was delighted to find an article about Harrison Ford. Goody. She hadn’t been able to get the man out of her head since that first Star Wars film. It was the way he wore his gun slung so low. The thought made her smile all over her body. She’d seen Raiders of the Lost Ark twice. Once with Tim but the second time she’d gone on her own. She’d never let on to Tim. He’d have thought she was silly but it had been such fun. Sitting in the dark, alone with her thoughts and fantasies. Little secrets were fine, harmless. Little secrets were allowed. She’d bought popcorn but had hardly been able to eat it; Harrison certainly could wear a fedora, and a whip in his hands, well, my … Yes, she’d jump to it.

  She read the entire article but it was in fact quite dry; Harrison wasn’t prepared to say whether that amazing on-screen chemistry with Karen Allen was for real or not. But then he wasn’t the kiss-and-tell sort. Real gentlemen weren’t. The challenge was working out which were the real gentlemen.

  Clara carefully put the magazine back in the rack and wondered whether it was worth changing into her new top before she went to pick up Mark. Yesterday, she’d bought a shimmering silvery shirt from the brand-new store, Next. It had big puffed sleeves that were brought into line by a neat row of fabric-covered buttons running the length of her forearm. It was quite a dressy shirt, intended for a restaurant or even a nightclub, but Clara didn’t get out that often nowadays and so she figured she might as well wear it at the school gate. After all, it never did any harm to look your best, especially on a Thursday. On Thursdays Neil Todd’s father did the pick-up. He was such a friendly man. Very attentive. She wondered what he’d look like in a fedora. Would he be able to pull it off?

  Wednesday 20 April 2005

  3

  Dean

  ‘Dean, there’s a call from overseas.’

  ‘Is it Rogers?’ Dean grinned. A flame of excitement and aspiration licked his innards.

  Dean was a board account director at a huge international advertising agency, Q&A; however, the Chicago branch of the agency was unofficially viewed as the younger brother to the New York arm, and this was something that chafed at Dean’s keen sense of ambition and professional pride. The two offices were equally large, expensive and state-of-the-art. They each serviced approximately the same number of clients. The creative teams were similarly innovative, award-winning and obnoxious, but in the final analysis, when it came down to the numbers (and it always came down to the numbers), there was a sizeable difference between the revenues each office managed to pull in. The New York arm had been more profitable than the Chicago office for many consecutive years. Dean wasn’t sure how many exactly, but it was all the time he’d worked for Q&A. It irked, but he was sure that was all about to change.

  Rogers was the international marketing director of an extremely large confectionery company. For the last five months Dean had been leading a team of twelve in a pitch to win the company’s advertising campaign. The ad spend would be approximately $132 million. That sort of income would catapult his agency and his career; the board account director in New York would have to eat his dust. Dean knew he was on a shortlist of three agencies; success was within his grasp. Success was everything to Dean. He valued it over popularity, friendship and even love. Confectionery wasn’t normally what he considered to be his area of expertise – he was stronger on cars or gadgets – but he’d been pretty sure that his strategy was groundbreaking and the creative concepts he’d presented wer
e bold and exciting. Off-the-fucking-wall was how he’d described them in the pitch. Rogers was in London right now, discussing the pros and cons of the various agency pitches with his international team; he’d assured Dean he would call as soon as a decision was reached. Dean was not an unreasonably arrogant man; in fact, he was a realist. He’d led a harder life than anyone would imagine when they met him now, clad in Armani, driving an Audi TT. It was because he’d had more than his share of disappointments that he’d learnt how to judge carefully. His optimism was always curbed, but still he hoped, and almost expected, that the decision Rogers would reach would pan out in his favour.

  If Q&A Chicago secured the business, there might be a healthy bonus. He would treat himself to a trip to Vegas. Uncomplicated tits and ass, fun clubs and gambling, what was not to love? He deserved it. He had worked hard to win this pitch. Besides the endless hours needed to develop solid strategy and tease out some crazy concepts, he had invested a lot of time developing a relationship with Rogers. The promise that Rogers would call the moment a decision had been reached was elicited in a strip club that Dean had taken the marketing director to. Turned out that Rogers had never been to a strip joint before; Dean considered that a sin.

  ‘Get out of here!’ he had said, laughing and slapping Rogers on the shoulder.

  Rogers had initially appeared a little reluctant. ‘The expenses for tonight won’t turn up on the bill for the pitch, will they?’ he’d asked fearfully. Dean had pitied Rogers for his inexperience and slightly despised him for his inability to be a fearless man.