The Men in her Life

wept.

    Holly was trying to decide whether or not she was hungry. She felt empty, but she had no appetite. She stared into the fridge as if there would be an answer inside if only she looked long enough, but there was only an unopened jar of chocolate spread and a bag of salad that she was about to open when she saw that half of it had melted into yellow slime. Picking it up by the corner, she dropped it disdainfully into the swing bin, thinking that she should have taken Mo out to dinner. She had put her mother into a cab and given her two ten-pound notes for the fare, knowing full well that Mo would wait until the cab turned the corner before stopping it and getting the tube. Or perhaps tonight she would not. It had been a strange day.
    When the phone rang, Holly was certain it would be Mo informing her that she was home. Instead there was a hollowness at the other end which told her immediately that the caller was speaking from a public phone.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Hello? It’s Clare...’

    By the time Clare arrived, Simon was there too. He had come round to check that Holly was OK, as he had done every evening since Jack had died. His presence eased the heightened awareness of having somebody in your home for the first time, which makes you see all the dust and cobwebs that are usually invisible. Holly made her bed and she and Simon sat on it whilst Clare sat in the collapsed armchair with the seat that slumped to the floor. Simon had brought a bottle of red wine, which the sisters drank while explaining their relationship to him, and then he volunteered to go out for more.
    ‘You are lovely to me,’ Holly told him, as he put his shoes back on and stood up.
    They sat in silence for a few seconds listening to his footsteps on the stairs and the slam of Holly’s front door.
    ‘Is he your boyfriend?’ Clare asked.
    ‘Simon?’ Holly said unnecessarily, ‘no. No, he is not.’
    ‘He seems very nice,’ Clare said.
    ‘Yes, he is. Very. Far too nice for me in fact...’ Holly laughed.
    ‘Hmm. I always went for bad boys too,’ Clare said.
    She seemed so sweet. Holly couldn’t quite believe that.
    ‘So, your husband, Josh is it?’
    ‘Joss.’
    ‘Joss. As in stick?’
    Clare laughed, ‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s short for Jocelyn. I remember thinking Joss was a tremendously romantic name when I first met him...’
    ‘Like all the blokes in Jackie were called Rick or Jake?’
    ‘Exactly.’ Clare’s eyes shone in recognition of a shared girls’ culture.
    ‘So, is he bad? Joss?’ Holly wanted to know.
    Clare thought before answering. If Holly had asked that afternoon, she might well have said yes, but now she only felt grateful to him for taking her away from London .
    ‘He can be,’ she said, cautiously, ‘what about you?’
    Holly sighed.
    ‘I’ve been having an affair for a while, but that’s over, and I don’t know what’s next. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have someone around, but I usually only think that when I’m struggling back from Tesco Metro with loads of bags... maybe what I really want is a shopping trolley...’
    At this point Simon appeared again with three more bottles of Burgundy in a plastic carrier, and looked slightly alarmed when both women fell about laughing.
    ‘There’s sex, of course...’ Holly continued, as Simon said that he had some phone calls to make, and disappeared again. ‘... tell me something, is it different after eighteen years or does it get a bit boring? I don’t think I’ve managed to have sex with the same person for more than six months ever... except Piers and that was different because sex was all it was, if you see what I mean...’
    Clare thought of the night before she had come up to London .
    ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Holly, ‘you’re blushing! Well, I don’t think I want to know any more... bloody hell, how come you got the cottage by the sea with the roses round the door, a naked bloody poet in your bed, and I just got a flat full of clothes...’ She waved her hand round the room.
    ‘I think it’s lovely here,’ Clare said, looking at the mess and jumble with unfeigned envy.
    ‘Mo would say that the grass is greener,’ Holly said.
    ‘Mo?’
    ‘My mum.’
    ‘Right. What is the story about your mum? Was she my father’s mistress?’
    ‘No, she was his first love,’ Holly said, dramatically-
    ‘Tell me...’
    ‘It was a bit like one of those Angry Young Man movies, you know, like Room at the Top or Saturday