Swimming Upstream

7

I moved house on a Sunday in late July. On the Saturday, Catherine came over to help me pack. We stood in my tiny kitchen drinking tea while Catherine went through my cupboards.

“You mean you’re not taking any of this?” she asked, opening and shutting the pine cupboard doors and peering inside.

I shook my head. “No. Let them have it. I don’t care. And anyway, Lynne’s got stuff.”

“But you won’t be there forever. You’ll need plates, and cups and cutlery at some point. And saucepans,” she said, clanging two pans together as she pulled them out of the cupboard. “Hey, this is a good frying pan. You can’t leave this.”

“It’s a wok. And I can’t cook anyway.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll get it all new. Or from a boot sale or something. It’s no big deal.”

Catherine shrugged. “I’d take the lot.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I laughed. “You say that but you’re soft really. And anyway, it’s his stuff too. How do we decide who gets what? Two knives, two forks and one saucepan each? I don’t want to seem petty.”

“Petty? You’re hardly that. He’s throwing you out of your home. You’re taking it really well.”

“He’s not throwing me out. He’s buying me out.”

“Whatever.” Catherine sipped her tea. “I can’t believe he got her pregnant that quickly.”

“It was an accident, apparently.”

“For him, maybe. I bet she did it on purpose. I bet he still loves you.”

“Who knows? But one thing’s for certain, he’s made the decision for us both. There’s no going back now; it’s too late. They’ve got a connection, now, forever, whatever happens in the future they will always have their child. It’s over for me and him. It’s time to move on.”

Catherine nodded. She levered herself up so that she was sitting on the work surface and poured more tea from the pot next to her. “What about the teapot?” She grinned.

“No.”

“Go on. Take the teapot.”

“No!” I laughed.

Catherine pulled a face and stuck her bottom lip out. “I can’t believe you’re leaving. I’ve only just found you again and now you’re going. What am I going to do without you?”

“I know,” I said. “But I’ll be back. I’m still going to be working here. I’ll be coming back here almost every day. And you can come and stay.”

Catherine looked doubtful.

“Can’t you?” I persisted.

“Sure.” Catherine picked up a piece of bubble wrap and with her thumb and forefinger started to burst the bubbles, one by one. I jumped up onto the work surface opposite.

“That’s if he’ll let you, you mean,” I added.

Catherine looked up, crossly. “Of course he’ll let me. He’s okay, you know. I know he can be a bit moody sometimes but he’s been through a lot. He had dreams. They got smashed when he had that accident.”

“I know. But…”

“He’s never quite got over that, not being able to compete any more. And sometimes it frustrates him, that’s all. But he’s a good person. He helps other people. You should see how he is with the kids on the junior swimming team. Really caring. And he loves me. I’m sure of that.”

I didn’t answer.

“What, you don’t believe me?” Catherine pushed her hair out of her eye and frowned. “You don’t think he loves me?”

I sighed. “I’m sure he does love you. Why wouldn’t he? You’re gorgeous.”

“But?”

“Well…”

“Go on.” Catherine spoke gently as she always did, but I could tell she was getting angry. “Say it, Lizzie. Say what’s on your mind.”

When people say that they never actually mean it. The last thing Catherine really wanted was to hear what was on my mind. “Nothing,” I said. “It’s nothing. I’m just going to miss you, that’s all.”

“When I first met him I had nothing,” Catherine continued, ignoring me. “I was living like a student, in a shared house, in a rough part of London. And I was on the dole…”

“You had just finished drama school. You were looking for acting work.”

“But I wasn’t getting any! At least, I wasn’t getting paid for anything I did. I was just bumming around. Martin sorted my life out, showed me that I needed to work, helped me get a job...”

“You hate your work, Catherine. You’re a trained actress and you’ve settled for being a secretary.”

“I’m a PA, not a secretary. And I don’t hate it. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with being a secretary, Lizzie. Not everyone has to be a high flier like you.”

I sighed. Here we go again, I thought. Where have I heard this before? “No they don’t,” I said. “And no, of course there’s nothing wrong with being a secretary if you want to be a secretary. Or a PA. It’s a good job. If that’s what your goal is. But it’s not yours.”

“It’s not what I want to do for ever, no, but…”

“When was the last time you performed?”

“I’m looking into that. I am applying for parts. But it’s tricky, because you can’t tour when you’re working and there’s a lot of competition for the local theatre parts. Anyway, we’re getting off the point. The point is that Martin has done a lot for me. I had nothing when I met him, now I’ve got a man who loves me, a home, a job…”

“Okay, okay,” I said, putting my hands up.

Catherine looked up at me. “When you are in a relationship there have to be some compromises, you know.”

“What are you saying?” I asked her. “That I’m uncompromising? That I should have tried harder with Larsen, given up more for him?”

“No. I’m not saying that. That’s you and Larsen. That’s different. You wanted different things. But this is what I want. Martin. Me. A life together.” She paused and neither of us spoke for a moment or two. “Look, I know you didn’t get a very good welcome when you came over that time, but he was just worried, that’s all. He came back late at night and I wasn’t there. He didn’t know where I was. And that was my fault for not leaving a note…”

“You weren’t expecting him back till the following day! Why would you leave a note?”

“Well, that doesn’t alter the fact that he was worried. Anything could have happened to me.”

“He knew you were going out with me,” I argued. “That’s what you told me.”

“Not till that late, though!”

I sighed.

“Look Lizzie, I don’t know what you’ve got against him. It wasn’t personal, him shutting the door on you like that. He likes you. When I told him I was coming over today to help you pack he offered to come and help too, straight away.”

I sighed again, lost for words.

“I said we could manage - and he had to go to work, so he couldn’t come, not really, but he offered all the same and was even willing to get his shift covered. To help you. I told him he didn’t need to, but he wanted to, that’s the point.”

The doorbell rang. I jumped down, grateful for the interruption, and went to answer it, moving a box of books to one side with my toe as I walked through the living room. Catherine followed me, padding softly across the carpet behind me. I felt upset and uncomfortable. I didn’t want my mistrust of Martin to drive a wedge between us, but I knew that Catherine sensed it and it was hard not to speak my mind. Until it was spoken about, the wedge was there in any event; it was hard to be close to a person when there was something you couldn’t talk about, especially something as important as the man she was going to marry.

I opened the door. Martin stood on the doorstep, smiling.

“Oh, hello,” I said. “Are you looking for Catherine? She’s here.”

“I’ve brought some more boxes,” said Martin, nodding towards the car. “They’re flat packed but I can soon put a few together.”

“Thank you,” I stood aside to let him in. “I don’t think I need any more, though. I haven’t got much more packing to do.”

“She’s hardly taking anything,” said Catherine.

“Don’t blame her,” said Martin, standing in my living room and looking around him. “Clean slate. Best thing.”

I followed Martin’s gaze round the room at the apple-white walls and the half empty bookshelves, down to the magnolia and fawn flecked carpet and across to the red corduroy Habitat sofa that Larsen’s mother had given us when we first moved in. At the black leather wingback armchair Larsen had found in an antiques shop on Mill Road one afternoon and had dragged all the way home, with Doug. And at the oak coffee table that we had splashed out on at Clement Jocelyn when I had first got my job at GCFM. I had removed Jude’s painting that had hung over the gas fire and had slid it down behind the sofa. That was one thing that was definitely not coming with me. “I don’t have that much that’s just mine,” I muttered.

Martin slid an arm round Catherine’s waist, pulled her to him and kissed her full on the lips. “Hello baby,” he said. “Pleased to see me?”

Catherine looked up at him adoringly. “Yes,” she said. “But what happened to your shift? I thought you were working till four?”

“They didn’t need me today, after all. Closed the pool. Some kind of problem with the heaters. Had to get the engineers in.” Martin kissed her again. Catherine put her arms round his neck and kissed him back.

I averted my eyes and picked up a roll of sellotape that was sitting on the coffee table and began picking away at it to find the end. I hated sellotape. It didn’t matter how many times you found the end, all it took was one snip of the scissors and it was lost again, your fingernails ruined. I lowered myself to the ground in front of the box of books and kneeled on the carpet.

“So, I thought I could help.” Martin said. “Where do you girls want me? Kitchen? Bathroom? Bedroom?”

“All of those,” said Catherine in a sexy, but loud, whisper.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Martin slap Catherine on the bottom. She let out a squeal. I located the end of the roll, and pulled a strip of tape with a loud screech. Both Catherine and Martin stopped grabbing at each other and watched as I taped up the box of books.

“It’s all done. Really. Like I said, I don’t have much.” I wrote “BOOKS” on the box with a marker pen, which was a bit pointless really since I didn’t have any other box to mistake it for.

“When are you leaving?” asked Martin. “You want me to start loading up?”

“Tomorrow. First thing. I suppose you could put these in the boot if you don’t mind. The rest can wait till the morning.”

“No problem. Here.” Martin bent down beside me and picked up the box. He followed me out to the car. I opened the boot and took out my map and my swimming bag to make room for the books. As I turned, my goggles fell out of my bag onto the pavement. Martin and I both bent down at the same time to pick them up. Our heads collided and we both crouched on the pavement for a brief moment, looking at each other awkwardly. I rubbed my head.

Martin grinned. “You okay ?”

“Fine.” I reached out and retrieved my goggles.

“Look…” said Martin. I waited. Behind him, Catherine appeared in the doorway of my house, a few feet away. She leaned against the door frame, watching us. I stood up and Martin, glancing over his shoulder, did the same.

“I never meant…” said Martin. “I hope we can...”

“Catherine’s waiting,” I said.

Martin gave me a look that I couldn’t decipher and slammed down the door to the boot.

After they had gone I picked up the phone and dialled the number for the pools complex.

“When are you going to be open again?” I asked.

“When are you looking to come?” asked the receptionist.

“Well, as soon as I can. As soon as the pool reopens.”

“Re-opens? What do you mean? We’re open now,” she said.

“Oh, great. I heard the pool had been closed today. Power failure. Heaters or something?”

“No, love,” said the receptionist. “You heard wrong. We’re open all day. Till ten tonight. Lane Swim only from seven though.”

“Thank you.”

I put down the phone and wandered round the house, collecting up items of clothing and bed linen from the upstairs rooms and throwing them into a big black bin liner. What was his game? I wondered. Was he making excuses to see me? Was that it? Or was he jealous of my friendship with Catherine? Afraid I’d pack her up in one of my boxes and whisk her off to London? In the living room I picked up a woollen purple throw with black and white crocheted flowers that my mother had given me from the back of a chair and put it in the washing basket which was sitting on the floor near the door. I paced the room, briefly switching on the telly and switching it off again. Whatever he was up to, Catherine was completely taken in. There was no point in trying to tell her something she didn’t want to hear. And maybe he was right; maybe it was none of my business. Maybe I was just jealous, after all. Maybe he had just wanted to spend the day with Catherine, whatever she was doing, whoever she was seeing. Maybe he really loved her. Maybe I was wrong.

I paused and looked up. In a corner of a book shelf above the telly was an old photograph of Larsen which I had taken soon after I met him. I wasn’t sure if that made it his or mine. I picked it up. He was stood on stage, smiling, his head bent over his guitar, wisps of his shoulder-length blond hair falling into his face. His beautiful face. My heart leaped; he still took my breath away. But he was gone. And now our home together was gone - packed up and laid bare, all ready for his new life with Jude. All bar the cot that would soon be in the spare bedroom, the Moses basket that would soon be sitting beside the bed. Our bed. The bed that we had rolled around in naked together. The bed that we had curled up in together, laughing and talking dreamily until sleep overcame us. The bed that would soon have Larsen back in it again - Larsen and his new family, lying tangled up sleepily together.

I put the photo back on the shelf where I had found it, laid down on the sofa and turned out the light.