Dirty Bad Wrong(41)

“It’s my mum. I need to take this.” Her face was apologetic, even though it shouldn’t have been.

“Take your time, I’ll get another bottle,” I smiled. I took our empty glasses back to the bar, moving slowly. She held back, avoiding conversation until she was certain I was out of earshot. I made sure to head for the side of the bar out of her eyeline, so she wouldn’t observe my return, I ordered quickly before taking up position at the side of some foliage by our table. I could just about see Lydia, but was positive she’d never see me. I could hear her just fine from my location. I soaked up every word.

“Calm down, Mum. Just breathe... breathe, Mum, I can’t hear you... Colin? You mean the new Colin? Left where...? Oh, Mum! He did what...? Well, how could he?” She leant forward against the table, fisting a hand in her hair. She looked pained, agitated, scared. My tongue felt too big for my mouth. “Please say you didn’t give him all of it? Oh God, Mum. Why? You’ll be ok, I promise, just calm down, okay? We’ll sort it out. I’ll sort it out. I’ll call them tomorrow, I’ll set something up... they aren’t going to throw you out, not over a few arrears. How many?! Jesus, Mum, why didn’t you tell me?”

So, Rebecca was right. Lydia looked around, clearly keeping an eye out for me. She returned to her call, satisfied I was still at the bar. “You’ll get over him, Mum, you will... Don’t say that! He wasn’t right for you, if he was he wouldn’t have done this... He’s just another loser, ok? You’ll meet someone better... You said you wouldn’t give him any money, you promised after Steve! I’m not angry... I’m not shouting... Mum, I’m not, I promise. I’ll sort it out, I’m away with work right now, but I’ll try and get some time in the morning... It’s not like that! I can’t come home right now, you know I can’t, I have meetings tomorrow, but soon, I promise... Don’t be like that, you know I care! Mum... Mum? Mum?” She sat with her face in her hands, shoulders hunched in misery for long, slow seconds before she pulled herself together and looked around again. Her breathing was frantic. I watched her chest rise and fall in short bursts. She tried her phone again, calling and recalling over and over. I found I was burning up, gripping the wine bottle in a vice, our two fresh glasses clamped tight in my fingers. I composed myself, pasting on a smile before I reappeared, as though I’d just sauntered back from the bar.

“Sorry, they had to go to the cellar,” I said. She smiled but it was empty, fragile. She looked on the edge, a delicate little sparrow dithering on a twig. “Are you ok, Lydia? What’s happened?”

“It’s um... it’s nothing,” she pretended, waving away my question. Her breathing was still shallow. “My mum is having some problems.”

“Nothing serious I hope?”

She smiled a horribly sad smile. “It’s always something serious.”

“I’m a good listener, Lydia, indulge me.” I handed her a fresh glass, poured the wine. She drank it down quickly and held her glass out for a refill. I topped her up. “Talk to me, Cat’s-eyes. Maybe I can help.” A shiver ran up my spine as I realised my offer was genuine.

She was about to wave it all away, I know she was. Her eyes sharpened as she choked back the upset, and I was losing her, losing the moment. I resigned myself to the inevitable, the public-facing Lydia Marsh, who pushed the pain deep inside and offered up nothing but slick-smooth persona, but something seemed to change in her. She stared me out for long seconds, so intensely it was almost uncomfortable. I kept quiet, sipping at my wine while she worked out her next move. It surprised me.

“I’m not good at talking,” she said “But I’ll give it a try.”

“Please do.”

“My mum is a very emotional person, always has been, as long as I can remember. She has problems coping with life. She’s a good person, but she makes stupid decisions.”

“What kind of stupid decisions?”

“Men, usually,” she said. “She falls in love every other week, normally with losers with no prospects and loose morals. I guess they see an easy ride, easy prey. They move in and use her up, then leave again when she’s all spent out. She falls apart every time, says she can’t take it. She’s suicidal at least four times a year, depending on how many relationships go down the drain. If I’m lucky she’ll be happy for six months straight, but that’s unusual. Her men don’t usually stay longer than a few months. She’ll replace this latest one with another, and another after him. I give it three weeks tops, but in the meantime she’ll be a wreck. She drinks and she gambles her money away on the slot machines. She claims she doesn’t, but it’s always the same. I bail her out and she falls apart again, over and over and over.” She paused, looking across at me with honest eyes. They pounded me in the stomach so hard it almost pained. “So, there you go. That’s my world.”