Manhattan in Reverse

again. Maybe I shouldn’t preach so hard. But then that’s Colin speaking.

‘How about toast?’ I pleaded as a compromise.

‘Okay.’

I couldn’t believe it was that easy. But he sat down at the table and waited with a smug look on his face while I put the granary bread in the toaster. God he does so look like Colin these days. Is that why he’s becoming more impossible?

‘What’s the prim?’ Olivia asked.

Today had moved on from sniping at the Prime Minister to cover the demonstration at Stansted.

‘Public Responsibility Movement,’ I said. ‘Now please finish your breakfast. Daddy will be here soon.’ He’d better be.

I put the toast down in front of Steve, and he squirted too much liquid honey over it. I didn’t chide. Both of them were suddenly silent and eating quickly, as if that would speed their father’s arrival.

I opened the flat’s back door in an attempt to let in some cooler air. Summer was so damn hot and dry this year. Here in Islington the breeze coursed along the baking streets like gusts of desert air. Desert air that had blown across a sewage plant.

‘Poooeee,’ Steve said, holding his nose as he munched down more toast. I had to admit the smell which drifted in wasn’t good.

Olivia crumpled her face up in real dismay. ‘That’s horrid, Mum. What is it?’

‘Someone hasn’t tied up their bin bags properly.’ Which was true enough. The pile of bags in the corner of De Beauvoir Square was getting ridiculously big. As more bags were flung on top, so the ones at the bottom split open. The Sky News and News 24 programmes always showed them with comparison footage of the ’79 Winter of Discontent.

‘When are they going to clear it?’ Steve asked.

‘Once a fortnight.’ Which was optimistic. Mass news media said that nearly ten per cent of the Army had deserted; the remaining political bloggers were putting the figure a lot higher. What was left of our armed forces was now having to provide civic utility assistance squads along with fire service cover, prison guard duties, engineering support to power stations. And a good percentage of the RAF was involved with the rollback from Afghanistan, getting the remaining ground troops out — much to the Americans’ disgust. We’d be lucky if the pile was cleared every month. I’d seen a rat the size of a cat run across the square the other day. I always though rodents that big were just urban legend.

‘Why can’t they take rubbish away like they used to?’ Olivia asked.

‘Not enough people to do that any more, darling.’

‘There’s hundreds of people standing round the streets all day,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s scary. I don’t like the park any more.’

She was right in a way. It wasn’t the lack of people, of course, it was money to pay them to work. The way sterling was collapsing while the rest of the world climbed out of the recession was chilling. What would happen when the true tax revenue figures for the last six months came in was anyone’s guess. Officially, tax received by the Treasury had only fallen by ten per cent since that little shit Murray opened his racist, fascist, arseholing wormhole. Nobody believed that. But, naturally, the first thing the Treasury had reduced was local government funding, with Brown standing up in Westminster and telling the councils to cut back on wastage. What was left of the opposition parties had rocked with laughter when he said it. Who could blame them? That phrase has been a Central Government mantra for fifty years whoever is in power. It never happens, of course. This time however things are different for all the wrong reasons.

As a way to finally get the UK to sign on for the Euro, the pound in Zimbabwe-style freefall couldn’t be beaten. We desperately needed a currency that wasn’t so susceptible to our traitors. Except that suddenly, France and Germany were blocking us from joining, saying that Greece and the Mediterranean countries needed to regain their pre-recession economic stability levels first. Bastards.

For once Colin actually turned up on time. He did his silly little ring tune on the front door, and both kids shot off from the table screeching hellos. Do they do that when I turn up to his place to collect them? I think not.

He came in to the kitchen wearing a smart new sweatshirt and clean jeans; his curly brown hair neatly trimmed. I hate that old saying that men just get more handsome as they get older. But they do seem to preserve themselves well after thirty. Colin hadn’t put on a pound in the last two years. Well, not since he started jogging and visiting the gym on a regular basis again. I suppose that teenage bimbo he’s shacked up with doesn’t appreciate a sagging beer gut. Damn: why do I always sound like a stereotype bitch?

Colin scooped Olivia up under one arm and swung her around. ‘Hiya,’ he called out to me. ‘Seen my daughter anywhere?’

She was shrieking: ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ as she was twirled about.

‘Don’t do that,’ I mumbled. ‘She’s just eaten.’

‘Okey dokey,’ he dropped her to the floor and collected a happy kiss from her.

‘Come on then.’ He clapped his hands, hustling them along. ‘Get ready. I’m leaving in five… four… three…’

They both ran downstairs to collect their bags.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Never better.’ I gave the kitchen table and its mess a weary look, the work surfaces were covered in junk, too; and the sink was a cliche of unwashed pans. ‘How about you, still servicing the rich?’

His expression hardened, that way it always did when he had to speak slowly and carefully to explain the bleeding obvious to me. ‘I have to work at the BUPA hospital now as well as my NHS practice. It’s the only way I can earn enough money after your lawyer took me to the cleaners in that sexist divorce court of yours.’

I almost opened my jaw in surprise — I was the one who always made the needling comments. He was Mr Reasonable through everything. ‘Oh fine, sure,’ I said. ‘I thought it would be my fault.’

He gave one of those smug little victory smiles. They used to annoy the hell out of me as well.

‘What time do you want them back tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘Um, in the afternoon. Before six?’

‘Okey dokey. No problem.’

‘Thanks. Are you taking them anywhere special?’

‘The reviews for Splat the Cat have been good. I’ll take them to that this evening if there isn’t another power cut.’

‘As long as you don’t take them for burgers.’

He rolled his eyes.

I glanced out through the window, seeing his new navy-blue BMW 4x4 parked on the pavement outside. The stupid thing was the size of an Army tank. I couldn’t see anyone sitting in the passenger seat. ‘Is she coming with you today?’

‘Who’s that, then?’

‘Zoe.’

‘Ah, you remembered her name.’

‘I think I read it on her school report.’

‘As a matter of fact, yes, she is coming with us. She took the day off to help out. The kids do like her you know. And if you ever find yourself someone, I won’t kick up about them going out with him.’

Oh well done Colin, another point scored off your shrew of an ex, especially with that emphasis on ‘ever’. Aren’t you the clever one?

The kids charged back into the kitchen, hauling their overnight bags along the floor. ‘Ready!’

‘Have a lovely time,’ I said, ever gracious.

Colin’s smile faltered. He hesitated, then leant forward and kissed me on the cheek. Nothing special, not a peace offering, just some platonic gesture I didn’t understand. ‘See you,’ he said.

I was too surprised to answer. Then the door slammed shut. The kids were gone. The flat was silent.

I had fifteen minutes to make the bus. I was going on a protest for the first time in years. Making my voice heard, and my feelings known. Doing exactly what Colin despised and ridiculed. God, it felt wonderful.