Psycho

‘I’m not being a misery guts,’ Janine says, sitting in the kitchen and mentally strangling her mother with the telephone cord. ‘I’ve got clinical depression.’

‘Oh, mumbo jumbo. Did I bring you up to believe all that? Anyway, you know Mrs Bates - the one down the road with one leg shorter than the other, who had her conservatory done with the money she got for suing the bakery, but she told me she used some of her savings from the post office, too.’ She pauses to take a breath. ‘Well, her son’s just moved back to Clevedon to help look after her. And guess what? He’s single!’

Janine closes her eyes, clenches her jaw. ‘I thought he might be,’ she says.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘About what?’

‘Meeting him, silly! You can’t wander around all day feeling sorry for yourself. Last time I saw you it was as if you’d been handed a life sentence. Such a dreary Deidre!’

‘Oh, well I’m sorry I’m such terrible company.’

‘Divorce doesn’t mean death,’ – that’s what Sheila at my card making class said.’

‘Has Sheila been divorced?’

‘Twice! And widowed. But she’s got the right attitude. ‘'If you fall off the horse...'’ Anyway, why are we talking about Sheila? What do you think about Mrs Bates’s son?’

‘I don’t know anything about him.’

‘And you won’t if you keep yourself cooped shuttered away like some claustrophobic.’

‘You mean agoraphobic.’

‘Oh, tomato, tomatoe. How’s Saturday for you?’

‘Does he know you’re doing this?’

‘Yes! He’s delighted. He’s never had a girlfriend before. He can’t wait to meet you. I showed him a photograph.’

‘Which?’

‘Your wedding picture. I cut Carl out.’

‘Well, that’s something I suppose. How old is he?’

‘Carl?’

‘No, Mrs Bates’s son.’

‘Oh! 44.’

Janine looks out at the garden where a cat that’s not hers is taking a dump on the lawn. She’s being set up with a 44 year old who’s never had a girlfriend. By her mother. Where did it all go wrong?

‘Are you still there?’ Her mother’s voice is louder than before, as if talking to someone hard of hearing. ‘Janine? Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m still here.’

‘I thought you’d thrown yourself down the stairs.’

‘I’m thinking about it.’

‘Oh, silly! So, Saturday?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What have you got to lose?’

My sanity, she thinks, but says, ‘I don’t know.’

‘So shall I tell him lunchtime? At the Moon and Sixpence? They do a lovely two for one menu. He’s just been made redundant, so that’ll suit him down to the ground.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Well, I’ll let him know. Oh! How exciting! A date!’

Janine is about to hang up when she asks, ‘What’s his name?’

‘Hm?’

‘What’s his name? I can’t call him Mrs Bates’s son, can I?’

‘Oh, silly! It’s Norman.’

Janine feels a smile lift her lips. ‘Norman Bates?’ She begins to laugh, a full, hearty laugh, and it feels like the first time in months.

When It Was Lost

When it was lost, there was nothing that either of them could do. Not he, nor she. The mornings were silent, no breakfast in bed; the evenings were empty, no end of day briefs. If what they had was glass, then it was shattered; if it was here, now it was gone.

Her friends noticed a change. What’s going on? they asked over Chardonnay. It’s like you’re a million miles away. And it was on the tip of her tongue to answer, to tell them everything. But then where would she be? She wasn’t the same in his eyes anymore, so she wouldn’t be the same in theirs either. So she shrugged and smiled. Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong. But it was only herself that she was trying to convince.

His friends said that he seemed different too, that he was drinking more, laughing less. Was everything okay? they wanted to know. Of course, he’d answer, opening another can. Hand me the cards, let’s have another game.

In three years, they had built a home together. They had stripped, painted and plastered. They had wandered through furniture shops, chosen the perfect pieces. They had talked about having children, a boy and a girl. Their single pasts had become a shared present. And now what of the future?

I think we should take a break, he said one evening over dinner. I’ll move out for a while.
You don’t need to do that.
It’s your flat.
But it’s your home too.
I don’t mind. We need some space.
Why do people say that? she wondered. Of all the things they needed, space seemed the last. She poured another glass of wine. Intimacy, closeness, reassurance. That was what she needed. But what did that matter? She’d put her needs first too much, hadn’t she? That was what had ruined everything.

So he moved out, to a friend’s two tube stops away.
What’s going on? his friend asked. Have you two broken up?
I don’t know, was his reply. I don’t know what’s going to happen.
He slept on the futon that night, imagined her alone in their bed. What had she been thinking? he silently asked the ceiling. Had she even been thinking at all?

It is another month before they speak again, a month in which they’ve gone about their lives as they did before they met.

The café where they meet is empty, the waitress looking over at them, and so they go for a walk.
It is autumn, and there is change in the air, the pavements a tapestry of red and gold leaves. But neither of them notice. They have too much on their minds.
How have you been? he asks.
Fine. Fine. And you?
Oh, okay, you know-,
I know.
They walk in silence for minutes, counting the pavement cracks until she says, About what happened-,
Please, he shakes his head. We don’t need to go over it again.
But-,
No.
Silence again.
I forgive you, he says at last.
Her heart swells with hope. She stops walking. Thank you. I-,
But I can't forget. I can’t look at you without imagining his hands-,
Tears sting the back of her eyes. Can’t I do anything?
I don’t think so. I’m sorry.
She looks at the ground. After all this, he’s saying sorry.

A year later, and now they live in different countries. He in Tokyo, she in London. And though they are miles apart, they are still looking for the same thing, the love that they had and then lost. But still neither can find it.