Ghosts in the Morning Read online

  ‘So, what do you reckon to this Eurozone crisis, Matt? Must be affecting a lot of your clients in the city, I suppose?’ Piers said. He had a bit of rocket stuck between his teeth, I could see him worrying at it with his tongue.

  ‘Yes, it’s not helping, that’s for sure. About time those supposed European leaders sorted things out, to be honest, started earning their inflated salaries. Too busy snuffling their noses in the trough, bloody foreigners, eh,’ he laughed and roughly nudged Katherine’s elbow. A piece of scallop fell from her fork, but she duly joined in with the laughter.

  ‘Well, thank goodness we kept the pound,’ I said.

  Graham let out a patronising sigh. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Andrea. We may not be in the Eurozone in terms of the currency, but it still affects us. A lot.’

  Debbie giggled. ‘Shame, really. I love Milan. And I quite liked the idea of being properly European. It sounds so much more glamorous than “English” or “British”.’ She mimed the quotation marks with her fingers, like an impression of bunny ears, it made me want to strangle her. ‘What about here in Jersey, what do they call you?’

  ‘Rich bastards, that’s what they call you!’ boomed Matt, bellowing out a laugh. Debbie and Katherine joined in with a fluffy giggle. ‘Well, isn’t that true, Piers, it’s an island of millionaires, right?’

  ‘Er, not quite, Matt, not quite. As you well know, we have a very large finance industry and our economy is reasonably solid, but it’s not all champagne and gin palaces. It’s certainly not as Bergerac portrayed it.’

  ‘Bergerac’s in France, isn’t it?’ Debbie said, furrowing her plucked eyebrows. ‘What’s Bergerac got to do with anything?’

  David frowned. ‘Bergerac was the name of a detective in a programme. A series, set in Jersey.’

  ‘Oh, okay, I’ve never heard of it.’

  Lindy took a breath and lifted her chin. I could see a spot of olive oil sitting underneath her bottom lip. Floating on her thick makeup, there was no way that would soak through to her skin. ‘Going back to what you were saying, Matt...to be honest, I don’t really understand all of that Euro stuff but I do know it hasn’t affected my business, though, I’m still really busy.’ Lindy was a self-employed personal trainer – she had a small gym set up in one of the rooms in their large house. I had the feeling she was quite successful, too. But then, she did spend a lot on advertising, bankrolled by Piers, of course. There was a constant stream of adverts for her services in the local paper and on local radio. Photos of her looking smug as she gurned for the camera in the latest clingy gym wear.

  Lindy paused to glance at her flawless nails, then looked up again. ‘The thing is, I think personal training is fairly recession-proof – I mean, everybody wants to look after themselves these days, don’t they? Everyone wants to look good, take care of their body.’ Lindy glanced at me, and then looked away again quickly. I tried not to redden.

  ‘Well, this Eurozone crisis has been brewing for a while. I guess it was doomed from the start, I mean, if we look back at the origins of -’ Graham said and took a deep breath. I could see he was eager to impress with his summary of the history of the Eurozone. I knew he had heard some explanation at a conference that he liked to pass off as his inherent knowledge.

  But it was obviously man-dick on the table time, for Piers interrupted. ‘Yes, since the fifties, actually – ’

  Matt opened his mouth to speak but David spoke first. ‘The origins of the idea first surfaced after the second world war, at a time when the United States was experiencing significant economic growth and economic migration.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Matt close his mouth, proving that David was the top-dog at this table.

  ‘Various important people in Europe were taking notice of this, and were concerned that Europe could get left behind,’ David continued. He took a sip of red wine, and puffed his chest out, warming to his theme. ‘So they figured that they should think along the lines of America. I mean, in America, it was increasingly becoming the norm for certain cities to be known as the places to go for specific items or specialities. So, for instance, if you needed car manufacturing, you went to Detroit. Likewise, in California...well, Silicon Valley became famous for computer chips – ’

  ‘As well as boob implants,’ I said.

  ‘Er, that’s silicone, not silicon,’ Debbie said. Her lip was curled, her tone full of sarcasm.

  ‘It was a joke,’ I said, but nobody around the table was smiling. I felt myself redden and shrink.

  ‘Er, yes, as I was saying – ’ David sighed turning his glance back to the table, away from me, away from this dumb, fat woman at the end. ‘These prominent Europeans were worried that Europe would be left behind, that it would be beneficial to try and emulate America, to have a sort of “United States of Europe”.’ He paused and took another sip of wine, leaving a red ring around his lips.

  ‘Hmmm, some chance,’ Matt said. ‘How can all those bloody foreigners integrate, with all those different languages, all those different cultures? I don’t mean to be racist in any way, of course, but some of those buggers are barely civilised.’

  ‘Precisely, Matt, precisely,’ said David, jabbing his fork forward. ‘Though I don’t necessarily share your views on, er, the civilisation or otherwise of some European countries, you’re correct in saying that the integration of these different cultures would be difficult. The idea was to follow the American model so that Europe could also have, er, well, centres of excellence, I suppose-’

  ‘Would that include Amsterdam as a centre of sex-cellence?’ Matt sniggered.

  David ignored him and carried on, ‘So, just as an example, Rome could be the European hub for car manufacturing, Sheffield for steel, that sort of idea. But it’s clear that that would never really work in reality. I mean, your average Northerner interested in working in the car industry is hardly going to up sticks and go and live in a country where the people speak a different language, with a completely different culture. So economic migration was never going to be the same in Europe as it was in America.’

  ‘Yes, and then this ridiculous idea was further compounded by the introduction of the Euro back in the year 2000,’ Piers said.

  ‘Er, it was 1999 actually. Although the actual physical notes and coins didn’t come into circulation until 2002.’ Graham sat there, a ghost of self-satisfaction on his face.

  ‘1999, 2000, whatever,’ Piers said, ‘But the point is – ’

  ‘The point is –’ David interrupted, obviously unwilling to relinquish the spotlight, ‘– the introduction of the euro removed the fundamental methods that the adopting countries had for controlling their economies. They no longer had the ability to play around with their exchange rates, and even worse, their interest rates. In fact, at around the time of the euro’s introduction, some leading political figures even went so far as to suggest that the inequalities that could arise between neighbouring countries could potentially lead to war in Europe.’

  ‘Do you think we could be on the brink of war, then?’ Katherine said. She sounded nervous.

  ‘No, no, of course not, it was just a hypotheses put forward at the time.’

  Lindy let out a dramatic sigh. ‘Well, I hope not, I mean it’s bad enough watching all those bodies going through the streets, you know, where they used to carry them through that town. What was it called, now, um, Worcester Bassett, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, you’re getting mixed up with the sauce,’ I mumbled under my breath, but it must have come out too loud, because Graham shot me a stern glare.

  ‘It’s Wootton Bassett,’ Graham smiled at Lindy, then switched off the smile to glare at me again.

  I gathered up the plates and headed to the kitchen to sort out the main course. I had revisited my original idea of sea bass and instead had prepared salmon fillets, coating them in a chilli and ginger crust. A good dollop of dauphinoise potatoes accompanied the fish, together with some fresh sweet corn. It was going t
o be asparagus, but I didn’t like the way it made my pee smell.

  The remainder of the evening passed in a bit of a blur. I noticed Debbie and Katherine surreptitiously trying to make it look as if they had actually eaten some of the potato – they were shuffling it around their plates with their forks, and Debbie attempted to subtly bury some of it under her sweet corn. I could feel Graham’s eyes lasering into me each time I put my wine glass to my lips, so I stayed silent for the rest of the meal, nodding occasionally at the fatuous talk between the bimbos - fake tanning, clothes and palates seemed to be the main topics – as the men droned on about audits and banking regulations and derivatives, and which team was going to win the Premier League, or maybe it was the Champions League, but I didn’t care either way, and I could feel my eyelids grow heavy. It was a relief as I cleared the dessert plates; I had chosen to make my special homemade tiramisu that I was immensely proud of - I knew it was good as one of Graham’s Italian clients had once come round for dinner and pronounced it ‘bellissima’ - but I noticed that the girls didn’t touch it. They didn’t even lift their spoons to their sour little mouths. ‘Moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips,’ Debbie had squealed, and I thought I should push mine away too, but then I thought sod them, and I had cleaned my plate, every last little bit.

  And it was a relief too, when I cleared the coffee cups and I knew that the guests would be leaving soon. I didn’t want to look at them anymore, didn’t want to have to make any more small talk, I was a little bit giddy, yes, for sure, a little bit drunk. I felt so inadequate in the face of these oh-so-clever men with their oh-so-pretty, oh-so-skinny wives and I felt so small inside, yet so large on the outside. I was an upside-down iceberg.

  And just as they were leaving, just as I was checking in the dining room to see if dopey Debbie had left her purse in there - before she realised that it was in her coat pocket - I heard Matt’s arrogant voice.

  ‘So, Graham, do you still have that secretary, er, what’s her name now...?’

  ‘Er, do you mean – ’

  ‘You mean Nikki...Nikki with the big tits?’ Piers interrupted.

  ‘Nikki, yes, that’s the one, great pair of bazookas. Lovely arse, too, as I recall. Bit of a shame, I didn’t see her at the office today.’ Matt said.

  They were trying to speak in low voices, but they were using the whispers of drunk people, thinking that they couldn’t be heard, but I could hear them clearly. Every bloody word. Lindy, Katherine and Debbie appeared to be completely oblivious to the conversation, they were flapping about and giggling as they searched for Debbie’s purse, wobbling around on their silly high heels.

  ‘Yes, she’s not too bad a secretary either,’ Piers said. ‘I mean, I understand she’s very good at dick-taking, isn’t that right, Graham...er, sorry, Freudian slip there, I mean dictation of course.’

  Matt and Piers cackled simultaneously and then Graham’s voice. ‘Yes, very funny guys, very funny, but shut up, for God’s sake, that’s how bloody rumours start. You know what the bloody office grapevine can be like.’

  ‘Calm down, Graham, son, calm down. Well, in the words of the late, great Marvin Gaye, I heard it through the grapevine,’ Matt sung the phrase, and continued to hum the tune.

  ‘Found it!’ Debbie screeched. ‘Oh, what a silly wally I am! it was in my coat pocket all along.’ She giggled again and then she started to join in with the tune, but she was singing the words to the song rather than humming, and then Katherine and Lindy joined in, and soon they were all singing the song at the tops of their drunken slurry voices, Graham too.

  The guests left still singing as they walked down the drive towards their taxi, and the door slammed on its knackered hinges, and I went straight to bed.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Andy, it’s me. What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘I, um, I , um, hi Anita, I um, I don’t know, why, what –’ I glanced at the bedside clock, rubbing my eyes. I must have overslept, I was usually awake early, perhaps a little too much wine...

  ‘Good, so you’ve nothing planned. Right, we’re going out.’

  ‘What, I, well, no I hadn’t planned to, look I’m just awake, I’m-’

  ‘I’ve got a taxi booked for seven, so I’ll pick you up on the way at about quarter past.’

  ‘What? On the way...I mean, on the way to where?’

  ‘To town, Andy, obviously. You know, we mentioned it at lunch the other day, said we’d have a night out together. It’ll do you good.’

  ‘But, but – ’

  ‘Righto, must dash, I’ve got to pop in to town and get my hair done, maybe get a new frock. I’ll see you later, make sure you get yourself tarted up, Andy, us girls are on the pull tonight. Well, I am, anyway,’ Anita laughed, then the phone went dead.

  In the bathroom mirror I frowned at the face staring back at me. I looked old. I felt old. The puffy pillows beneath my eyes were ringed with thick, grey circles of smudge. I looked like a ghost, looked like I was from the grave. Ghosts in the morning; that’s what I used to call the working mothers that I saw every morning when my boys were young and I was dropping them off at nursery. The mothers that had the children of two and three years-old - the tantrum years. You could see the stress, the lack of sleep, the pressure of keeping a marriage together, etched into the faces of those mothers as they fought to keep their kids calm while they waved goodbye. You could almost hear their thoughts – ‘please God, please don’t let him scream now, please, I have to get to work’ – as they dashed back to their cars to fight their way through the traffic to their jobs. They would smile and wave to their little ones, desperate to keep the facade, desperate to display to the world that everything was fine, but the surface was thin, translucent. They were functioning on a physical level only, going through the motions, but they were too tired, too numb. Now they were just shadows of the bright young things they used to be. Ghosts.

  I didn’t have to rush off from the nursery, I didn’t have to rush off to a job. Graham’s wage was enough, kept us comfortable. Sure, the kids were still stressful, but I had the luxury of time, I could stay that little bit longer to reassure them if they were upset. As the kids got older, and the nursery journey morphed into the school run, you could see the transformation in the mothers. Older now, yes, but they had changed, they looked less tired now. Now, they were just busy. Impatient. I saw their children doing everything they could to distance themselves from their mothers, trying to look cool in front of their mates, like they weren’t bothered, and I wanted to shake them, to tell them how lucky they were that their Mums were picking them up.

  I never had that. Primary school was a five minute walk from home, and Mum was happy for me to do this on my own ever since I could remember. When it came to secondary school, I was on the bus, Mum always said that she couldn’t understand the point of kids being taken to school by their parents – ‘these kids are so pampered these days, no wonder the little buggers don’t know how to look after themselves’. But when I went to the home, it was worse. Most of the girls in the home went to the school that was nearby, just a short walk away. Not me, though; Social Services in their infinite wisdom felt that it would be more disruptive for me to change schools. My school was definitely too far away to walk to, but the problem was that Jersey’s patchy school bus service didn’t cover the area near the home.

  So, each morning, I was dropped off outside school in the minibus that belonged to the care home. It had the name of the home emblazoned down each side of the minibus. The caretaker, Mick, would drive me right to the school gate, leering at me with his good eye. I often wondered how he was allowed to drive considering he had a glass eye, but nobody ever said anything, and he never crashed. When we pulled up, I used to try and sneak out of the minibus, and then walk away to distance myself from it, pretend I had just walked up to the gate, but after a while I gave up. All of my classmates knew where I lived, I heard the names they called me, the whispers about the care-home girl. Sometimes they didn’t
even bother whispering, sometimes they just shouted names at me, and sometimes they hit me. Eventually, with a little guidance from Anita, I learned to hit back.

  I sat on the toilet and sighed at Anita’s assumption that I would go out with her tonight. Then I saw the spot of blood in the toilet. Great, my period had started too, no wonder I was feeling a little miserable. Perhaps I should go out with Anita, try and cheer myself up...or maybe I could just sit on the sofa, cuddle a bottle of wine and watch whatever talent show was on.

  In the kitchen I rubbed my eyes as the strong coffee brought me back to life. I drummed my fingers absent-mindedly on the table. I missed cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked for years, but I still felt that familiar craving whenever I had a cup of coffee. Felt it too with wine, if I were honest. Perhaps I should start smoking again, perhaps it would help keep my weight down, but I knew if I started again I would never stop, and I didn’t want to be a smoker, I didn’t want to be beholden to those little sticks again, and I didn’t much like the smell of stale smoke on clothes these days .

  ‘What the hell, maybe I will go out with Anita tonight,’ I said to myself, out loud. I spoke to myself out loud quite often these days, it seemed. ‘Yes, fuck it, I will go out!’ I shouted at the empty kitchen.

  It felt good to roar. I was still angry about the previous night’s dinner party. I was still angry with Graham, too, and I was glad he was out, I didn’t want to see his stupid, doleful face right then. He had gone to the gym, probably, he did that sometimes after a heavy night’s drinking. As if he could undo the damage by jogging on a treadmill for sixty minutes. It never did any good, never made any difference, his pot belly never shrank. In fact he was probably putting himself more at risk of a heart attack. You saw it all the time - fat, middle-aged men popping their clogs at the gym or on the squash court because they still thought they had “it”, still thought they were eighteen, their little brains in denial at the physical realities facing them in the mirror each day.