‘But you have good things in your life. Your –’ I’d been about to say ‘wife and kids’ but stop myself in time. ‘You’ve a great job at the Herald. Being features editor.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he mutters.
‘Wha-at? You get pride, satisfaction from it? Don’t you?’
‘I hate it.’
Christ. Everyone complains about their job, me included, but I thought a fair bit of Josh’s sense of self was tied up in his.
‘I hate the internal politicking,’ Josh says. ‘I hate the shite we publish. I hate the damage we do with our post-truth facts.’
Oh, my God …
‘And the worst thing is that I can’t complain – I’m one of the lucky ones with a job that pays okay.’
‘So that’s good.’ My voice is small.
‘I’m trapped. I’ve two kids, a mortgage, the usual.’ He sighs heavily. ‘I’m a mediocre middle-aged man. Look, Sackcloth, I’m not complaining. I’m no different to anyone else. Everyone slams up against these truths sooner or later.’
I don’t know what to say. I’d known he wasn’t ecstatic about his life choices but that he carries so much disillusionment is a shock to me.
‘I look at the rest of my life,’ he says. ‘I’m forty-two, and there’s nothing good ahead. I’ll just keep trudging through, being mediocre, fighting with Marcia, wishing the kids would leave home and be financially independent, but they won’t be, not the way that twenty-first-century capitalism works. Everything will go on being exactly the same until I get Alzheimer’s, like my dad, then die.’
I swallow hard.
‘All we can do,’ he says, ‘is take our hope and happiness where we can.’
I’m guessing that’s what I am to him.
‘What about you, Sackcloth?’
‘I’m probably the same.’ Although nothing like as depressed as he so clearly is.
‘What was your big dream?’
It’s hard to rally but I make myself, because this has to be rescued before we both drown in the brutally cold waters of reality. ‘I wanted to do something arty. Like design clothes or work in interiors. But I never did anything about it and now it’s never going to happen.’
‘I’m not even going to bullshit you and say, “It’s never too late,” ’ he says. ‘Because nothing happens for people our age. It happens young or it doesn’t happen at all.’
But not everyone can be Angela Merkel or Malala or Beyoncé, most of us have to be ordinary. If there weren’t so many ordinary people, the extraordinary ones wouldn’t stand out. And that’s okay with me, it’s not painful, or nothing like as painful as it clearly is for him.
‘Valentine’s Day is coming up.’ Abruptly he changes the subject. ‘Let’s go away for a couple of days.’
I’d read some article in Grazia about a woman who lived in Manchester having an affair with a man from Düsseldorf. Every month they’d meet in some city – Amsterdam, Prague, Madrid – stay in a fancy hotel, shag each other’s brains out, eat strawberries, drink Champagne and do some light luxury shopping, before returning home, sated and happy, to their clueless spouses. For a moment I wonder if I could emulate her. Mind you, I’d need better luggage …
Then sanity prevails. ‘Josh, get a hold of yourself. There isn’t money.’ Then, more gently, ‘It’s your wife you should be taking away for Valentine’s Day.’
‘I want to go with you, Sackcloth.’ He’s narky.
‘You can’t.’
‘It’d be hard to find a location grim enough to accommodate you and your guilt,’ he says. ‘Won’t stop me trying.’
‘I’m not going,’ I say. ‘And don’t ask me again.’
‘Why? Planning to go away with Hugh?’
‘Stop it.’ Now I’m genuinely upset. ‘Hugh and I are over.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Entirely. And please stop asking me about it, Josh. I don’t like it.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Then, ‘I’ve been thinking. To save money, instead of coming here every Tuesday we could go to your friend’s house? Druzie?’
No. Absolutely not. It’s Druzie’s home he’s talking about. Okay, she’s not always there, but sometimes she is. Me and Josh going at it hammer and tongs in the spare room, while Druzie does her laundry and cooks dinner, a few feet away? No. Wrong, every bit of it. I’d feel ill-mannered, ashamed, and like all boundaries were shot to hell.
102
Tuesday, 24 January
A week passes – another seven grim, gruelling January days – during which a grit of worry snags its rough way into my heart: I’m fretting about Josh.
The last thing I want is another mention of us moving our Tuesday nights to Druzie’s flat. There’s a world of difference between a night in a hotel and a night in a friend’s spare bedroom. One feels acceptable, but the other feels … sordid. This week we’ve just rolled away from each other, panting and gasping, when he says, ‘How often is your mate Druzie in London?’
My heart plummets, like a stone off a cliff.
‘Did you hear me?’ he asks.
‘Josh. It can’t happen. It would be wrong.’ He doesn’t speak, so I add, ‘I can’t do it.’
After a lengthy spell of silence he says bullishly, ‘Will you come away with me for Valentine’s Day?’
‘Josh.’
‘What?’
‘No. The answer is no. Please don’t do this. Our time together is so short.’
He sighs, lifts his pillow from behind his head, punches it into shape, slings it back on the bed and flops down on to it. He sighs again, and I start wondering if I should leave. What’s to be gained by lying here with my stomach on fire with dread?
‘Hey,’ he says, and I jump. ‘Is that your mum who was in today’s Mail? The one who got inked? Is that your daughter’s site?’
‘Oh. Yes. Right. It is.’ God, Josh knows about it!
‘I recognized her name.’ He’s smiling now. ‘You must be really proud.’
‘Ah, yeah.’ In the eight days since the Guardian first picked up on the vlog, Neeve and Mum have got a lot of attention. ‘It’s been lovely. Neeve has worked so hard. And now she’s gone viral – well viral-ish. Zoella has no immediate cause for worry. It’s great.’
‘Maybe I should have a word with my team.’ He gives me a sly smile. ‘We could pull off a juicy exclusive, seeing as I have unparalleled access to a member of the family.’
‘You’d want to be quick about it.’ I’m glad his mood has improved. ‘They’re going on This Morning on Friday, and after that, maybe even I’ll have to make an appointment to speak to them.’
103
Friday, 27 January
‘So you spent a lot of your life in hospital?’ Holly Willoughby gently questions Mum.
It’s Friday morning and Alastair, Tim, Thamy and I have the telly on in the office to see Mum and Neeve being interviewed on This Morning.
‘Locmof looks fantastic,’ Alastair says.
Locmof does look fantastic – blonde and pretty in a shirt-and-skirt combo that is an outrageous Gucci copy.
‘All told,’ Mum says, ‘I probably wasn’t in hospital that long, but whenever I was discharged, I knew it was just a matter of time before I was readmitted.’
‘How did that affect you?’ Phillip Schofield chips in.
‘I suppose … it made me into a bit of a scaredy-cat,’ Mum says.
‘Scaredy-cat!’ Alastair yelps. ‘Love that word.’
‘What was life like as a scaredy-cat?’ Phillip asks.
‘I never took part in anything,’ Mum says. ‘There were things I wanted to do but I thought there was no point.’
‘Look at her,’ Alastair says, with huge admiration. ‘Sitting there, chatting away, not a bother on her.’
‘And what were some of those things you’d wanted to do?’ Phillip had clearly been primed for a researched ‘funny moment’.
‘I wanted to be a drummer in a band,’ Mum admitted, with a delightful little blush. ‘Girl drummers are cool.’
‘And all around the British Isles,’ Alastair says, ‘millions of people have just fallen in love.’
For some reason I’m finding him wildly annoying.
‘And you, Neeve?’ Holly says. ‘Your dad is none other than Richie Aldin.’ Quickly she adds for those who wouldn’t know, and that would be just about everyone, ‘He played for Rotherham United in the nineties. So you’re no stranger to fame?’
‘Weeell …’ poor Neevey has to dissemble madly ‘… Dad always stayed beneath the radar.’