You Me Everything Read online

  “Hmm. Actually, it was kind of open. In fact, it was open. Ha!”

  He rubs his eyes.

  “So are you ready to go?” I ask.

  “I’m not dressed yet.”

  “Well, be quick about it. Lots to do. Come on, spit spot.” I have never said “spit spot” before in my life.

  At that, the door to Adam’s bedroom opens and he walks out, yawning and stretching in nothing but a pair of Paul Smith trunks. I blush to my roots. He grins. In fact, you’d think he’d just had a lottery win.

  “Morning, sunshine,” he says, ruffling his son’s head, pulling him towards him into a hug. I bite my hand, panicking that Adam must smell of sex. “Spectacular day, isn’t it?”

  “Morning, Dad.” William beams up at him. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Just glad to be alive, son,” he says, holding my gaze.

  I roll my eyes.

  “So,” says Adam, prying him away, “how about some bacon sandwiches for breakfast?”

  “We need to get back,” I say quickly.

  Adam opens his mouth to protest, then decides against it. “Fair enough. But you can stay over again whenever you like, both of you.”

  Oh, I want to throttle him. “You stayed over?” William turns to me.

  “Only on the floor.” Adam grins, clearly thinking he is doing me a favor. “Hope it was okay for you, Jess? I’d have put some nicer sheets on the blow-up bed if I’d known in advance.”

  Adam seriously needs to give up lying. He’s unbelievably bad at it.

  “You said you’d just got here,” William says, with an accusing tone in his voice.

  “Just go and get your clothes on.”

  He looks between the two of us. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing!” Adam and I say in unison.

  He turns into his room and gets himself dressed while I wait outside, thrumming my fingers against the table and completely unable or unwilling to engage Adam in conversation.

  Then William and I head back to our cottage in last night’s clothes, as a morning mist gives way to blistering sun and families emerge onto their steps looking bright-eyed, fresh and ready for the day ahead.

  It strikes me that I must be the first woman in history who’s done the walk of shame with her ten-year-old son by her side.

  Chapter 54

  Becky responds to the news that I’ve slept with Adam in a predictably low-key manner.

  “You’ve done what?” she splutters into her coffee. We are outside her cottage, as her two eldest children try to think of unique ways to break each other’s legs.

  I’m about to respond when Seb calls out from inside the cottage. “BECKY? THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.”

  Her chest rises. “He means Poppy’s got a dirty nappy and he’s run out of wipes,” she drawls, darting inside.

  She emerges three minutes later to separate Rufus and James, before rejoining me. “Why is it that men change nappies like they’re performing open-heart surgery? You’ve got to be on hand with all the correct implements to hand over, while the master is at work. Anyway . . . Adam. Christ on a bike.”

  “Don’t tell a soul, will you?”

  “Who am I going to tell?”

  “Seb, for a start.”

  “We barely have time to have a conversation about whose turn it is to make the coffee these days. Bloody hell, Jess.” A smile creeps to her lips. “How was it?”

  “Terrible.”

  Her face drops. “Seriously?”

  “I mean it was terrible that I did it. What was I thinking? I wasn’t even that drunk.”

  “I beg to differ. When you were playing boules you nearly decapitated Seb with the jack at one point. Seriously—was it awful?”

  I bite the side of my cheek. “What do you think?”

  Enlightenment spreads across her face. “It was awesome, wasn’t it? I bet you had half a dozen orgasms. I bet you were screaming from the rafters and swinging from the chandeliers and—”

  “Yes, all right, it was good,” I hiss. “Fantastic, in fact. Possibly in the top ten experiences of my life.”

  “Oh God. You swam with a dolphin once, didn’t you?”

  “I know,” I sob.

  “Ha! Brilliant!”

  A low groan escapes from my lips.

  “Why are you worried about this, Jess? Compared with everything else you’ve got to think about . . . how can mind-blowing sex cause any harm?” I open my mouth to answer, but she continues. “I’d give anything to feel like that again. Not that Seb isn’t good in bed; he is. His technique hasn’t changed, but now when he goes down on me I end up wishing he’d get on with it because I’ve got so much ironing to do. I’m sure he feels the same.”

  “Actually, I doubt that, Becky. Are you sure everything’s okay between you two?”

  “Oh yeah,” she says dismissively, taking a sip of coffee as her eyes blur. “Actually, I don’t know.”

  She places down her cup. “I’d thought a holiday would make all the difference. But everything’s just the same. The kids are still fighting, and Poppy, gorgeous as she is, never lets up. Seb and I are exhausted by it and . . . I think we’re taking it out on each other.” When her eyes meet mine, they are pink around the rims. “I sometimes feel like I’m not very good at being married with three kids. At heart, I still feel the same as I did when I was twenty-two, but everything’s changed around me. It’s as if I don’t know how this has all happened to me.”

  “Becky, lots of people feel that way. We all love our kids, but who wouldn’t find the idea of being young and free from all those commitments appealing? They were great times. And you actually got a lie-in every weekend.”

  “I’m not saying it to sound dramatic, Jess. But there have been moments when I’ve wondered if . . . if Seb and I will end up splitting up.”

  I’ll admit it: I’m shocked. “Is that what you want?”

  She frowns. “No, of course I don’t want it. But I don’t want to feel like I do either. I used to be good company. I was fun to be around; people liked me. Now, look at me. I’m a physical wreck, I spend my whole life shouting at the kids, I even gave Natasha hell the other day when she didn’t deserve it. I love my family more than anything. But sometimes I don’t . . . enjoy all this.” She closes her eyes and sniffs. “I feel like a total failure and a complete bitch, for even saying this. What kind of mother am I?”

  “A tired one,” I reply, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Becky. You’re allowed to feel worn out and fed up sometimes. It’s okay to feel as though it’s all getting on top of you on occasions. You’re human.”

  She draws breath and nods.

  “But the first thing you need to do is accept some help. Let Natasha and me babysit,” I continue.

  She groans. “We’ve been through this—this is your holiday too.”

  “They’re no trouble.”

  She snorts. “I adore those kids, but that’s one thing that could never be said for them.”

  “Well, I don’t care,” I insist. “Let us do it. No arguments.”

  She hesitates again and looks up at me uncertainly. “Okay. If you’re really, truly serious. I just hope you’re speaking to me afterwards.”

  I smile, satisfied, and reach out to pick up my cup of coffee. But instead of grasping the handle, my hand slips and tips it over, spilling hot liquid on the table. I leap up and start mopping with some of the tissues in my bag, while Becky runs inside for a tea towel. When she returns, she lays it on the surface, soaking up the mess, as I slump back in my chair and hold up my trembling hand, unable to take my eyes off it as despair rushes through me.

  I sometimes feel as though, if I look hard enough, I’ll be able to envisage what’s going on underneath the skin on my knuckles. To see with my own eyes if something is already happening inside my body, if
the HD is quietly taking hold of me.

  “You okay?” Becky whispers.

  I nod. “Yeah, fine.”

  But I continue turning over my hand, studying it, searching for the answer to a familiar question: was that the kind of accident everyone makes, or was it something more?

  I glance at the pile of tissues, engorged with cold coffee, then realize Becky is looking at me. “It was just an accident, Jess. It was nothing.”

  I nod stiffly, blinking away the tears I’m determined not to cry, grinding my teeth and swallowing the emotion swelling up inside me. She could be right, of course. It’s not as though I never knocked stuff over before. Anyone can be clumsy.

  I’ve experienced dozens of odd feelings over the last couple of years: tingling in my face, my legs feeling woolly, as though they don’t belong to me. A few weeks ago, I parked the car in Tesco, did a shop and when I came out had absolutely no recollection of where I’d left it. It took me five minutes to locate it, during which time I walked around the car park clicking my key fob, trying to give the impression to passersby that I was taking a casual stroll in the teeming rain, for the hell of it.

  I was convinced after that: this is IT. This was exactly the kind of thing that happened to my mum in the early days, and that the HD patients on the forums report as their first symptoms.

  Then Becky insisted she’d done the same thing repeatedly over the last five years, including once when she actually phoned Seb up to come and rescue her, convinced her car had been stolen. He drove past their Ford Focus on the way in, where she’d left it by the recycling skips.

  Dr. Inglis says that, at present, she believes these incidents are nothing more than anxiety. She says I’m displaying no clinical signs of HD; my last MRI was consistent with that and, mutant gene or no mutant gene, I’m healthy. For the moment.

  The problem is when your future involves what my mother has had to endure, it’s not easy to put it to the back of your mind. So I can’t help asking the same question over and over again: when will this disease crawl under my skin and take away everything there is that defines me? The way I think. The way I move. The way I look. All the things that make me who I am.

  Chapter 55

  I get to talk to Mum on Skype later that morning. As the picture flickers on, I make the usual assessment of her physical state and feel a swoop of ill-placed optimism when she is still. Then I realize the screen is frozen. As it springs to life, her shoulder yanks upwards, and my stomach twists with a familiar agony.

  I smile. “Hi, Mum! How are things?”

  My dad is holding the iPad for her. There’s a moment when she tries to answer, but she can’t get her words out properly.

  “It’s been a busy morning,” Dad says eventually. “Gemma popped in for an hour or so.” Her friendship with Mum goes back to when they were teenagers. They were inseparable. In some ways, they still are. “Plus they had a visit from some local schoolchildren, and we’re seeing Dr. Gianopoulos later.”

  “Oh right, good.” Dr. Gianopoulos has been Mum’s consultant since the beginning, and she’s fond of him, mostly because he’s clever and supportive, but also, she once said, because he reminded her of Rob Lowe.

  “So . . . William’s playing soccer, Mum. Sorry, I should’ve waited till he finished and brought him over. He’s really enjoying the game these days. I’m not sure he’ll ever give Ronaldo a run for his money, but he’s at least getting stuck in.”

  She doesn’t answer. Her eyes seem vacant today, unable to meet my gaze through the screen, as her thin shirt hangs off her shoulders. Dad leans in, takes a tissue from his pocket and wipes away a droplet of moisture from the side of her mouth.

  “So what did the schoolchildren come for?” I ask her.

  She pauses for a long time, searching for the right word. Eventually, she says: “Singing.”

  “Oh, lovely.”

  “Tuneless,” she corrects me, and I manage to laugh.

  “So William’s spending every spare minute with Adam lately. He’s having a great time. I had my doubts about all this at the beginning, as you know, but I’ve got to hand it to you—they’re getting on like a house on fire.”

  She grunts. Then I make out: “Nice.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased. I’m happy too.”

  “No, you. Pretty today.”

  “Oh. Really? Thanks.”

  After another long pause she adds: “Happy.”

  I have no doubt that the bloom in my cheeks and air of well-being can be attributed to sleeping with Adam, but this is not information I’m inclined to share. “I’ve been . . . eating lots of fresh fruit,” I mumble.

  Once upon a time I’d have told her about the feelings I’ve been having about Adam. I know relationship talk is a step too far for some mums and daughters, but it always felt natural for us.

  I described the intense happiness I had when I first met him, and my internal meltdown when we came to an end. It was at that point, in the months after we’d broken up, that I realized how reliant I was on her. She was strong. She could see reason, when I couldn’t think straight. And she taught me, rightly, that no matter how broken I was, I’d rise from the ashes and manage without him.

  One evening soon after I’d moved back in with my parents, before I knew what she was going through herself, she gave me what I can only describe as a good talking to.

  “Jess, you are tough and clever, and you’re going to be a brilliant mother. Things haven’t worked out with you and Adam, but you’ve got so much ahead of you to look forward to. You can get through this.”

  That was her attitude about everything in life: don’t moan, don’t dwell, just get on with it and make the best of what you’ve got. She never wavered from it.

  * * *

  —

  In William’s last year of preschool, he performed in the nativity play, and I took Mum and Dad along to see it. This was in her pre-wheelchair days, but the chorea—her involuntary movements—was by then so pronounced that it was enough to cause a hush in the room when she stepped in with stiff, jerking strides.

  “Come on, Mum. There’s a seat over here,” I said, nodding hello to a couple of other parents and the head of the PTA.

  “Jess, can I sell you a raffle ticket?” Diana, the mother of William’s friend Oliver, appeared, waving a booklet. “There are fantastic prizes up for grabs—three bottles of Buck’s Fizz, a mixed meat platter and an electric foot spa. Don’t be put off by the shop-soiled packaging. It’s brand-new, I promise!”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, taking out my purse as her eyes darted to the stranger at my side. I handed over the money and realized that she wasn’t looking at me any longer. Instead, her gaze kept diverting to my mum, the way her face twisted into crooked grimaces. To those who didn’t know about her condition, she was probably a monstrous sight. Diana’s reaction was a common one, and I never got used to it. And although I was sure I’d vaguely mentioned to Diana once that my mum wasn’t well, it was clear she wasn’t prepared for this. She hadn’t had time to settle her features into a “relaxed” look.

  “Thanks, lovely,” she replied awkwardly, as I decoded a spectrum of emotion behind her eyes: bewilderment, alarm, disgust.

  Dad took Mum’s arm, and we headed for three seats near the back, trying to squeeze past the milling crowd.

  “Out of the way,” whispered one woman, as she pulled her young daughter towards her, clearly afraid after she’d seen my mum that she was drunk. Or, as one other child later asked William, “Did your nana come from the loony bin?”

  The play started, and despite our tucked-away chairs, the inhuman noises that escaped from Mum’s mouth remained audible as I prayed for her sake that they’d start another rousing song to drown her out. Afterwards, mince pies and mulled wine were served in the canteen. I’d wanted to go straight home, but William was desperate to stay.


  “No, let’s head back, sweetheart.”

  “It’s fine,” Mum interrupted. “We can hang on for a little while.”

  We’d only been there a minute before Mum spilled a drink over William’s new form teacher, who’d been handing out half-full plastic cups of wine.

  Miss Harrison was sweet, kind and clearly stunned by how one minute she’d been chatting to parents about King Herod’s enthusiastic performance and the next she had hot crimson liquid steaming off her chiffon blouse.

  Mum dealt with it with typically phlegmatic humor. “I’m sorry, love, my coordination is terrible.”

  “Oh, it’s quite all right,” Miss Harrison insisted, reddening.

  “I’ll happily pay for your dry-cleaning,” Mum added. “I’m their most loyal customer these days.”

  I snap out of my thoughts and glance back to the Skype screen.

  “Well, Mum. I’d better go.”

  My mother looks at me, her head continuing to jerk as she tries to focus. Then her face twists again into what may or may not be a smile. I leave the room choosing to believe that it is. That in the dark mess that her brain has become, sometimes it’s still possible to turn on a light.

  Chapter 56

  I head to the soccer pitch after I’ve finished my call, to find Natasha watching William and the boys.

  “Very good call of yours to suggest we babysit,” she tells me. “I’m looking forward to it. I’ve been thinking about activities for this afternoon.”

  “We don’t need to put too much thought into it. They’ve got games there. We can just play with them.”

  “I managed to download a copy of Toddler Taming earlier,” she continues. “I’ve only had a flick through, but it’s useful. Are you okay? You seem distracted.”

  I focus on William as he attempts to tackle a German boy half his size and who looks as though a strong sneeze would blow him over. My son never gets anywhere near the ball, instead managing to trip over his own feet, stumble towards the ground and pull himself up at the last minute.