Bleed For Me

‘What a show, eh? Utterly brilliant.’

He’s wearing boating shoes and one of those thermal skiing vests that zip up to his throat.

‘It started as a film, you know.’

‘What did?’ I ask.

‘Thoroughly Modern Millie. Julie Andrews played the lead. It also had Mary Tyler Moore in it. It was nominated for seven Academy Awards and won best musical score.’

I should have guessed - Harry is an expert on Hollywood musicals.

‘The score was written by Elmer Bernstein, not to be confused with Leonard Bernstein - they weren’t even related, but they were given nicknames on Broadway. One of them was West Bernstein and the other East Bernstein.’

Harry laughs.

Maybe he’s gay.

Having finished his anecdote, he smiles at me. Apparently it’s my turn to add something to the conversation but I can’t think of anything to say. After a long pause he suggests that we should play a round of golf some time. I could come to his club.

‘I don’t play golf,’ I remind him.

‘Of course. Tennis?’

‘Not much these days.’

Harry tugs at his earlobe. After another long silence he closes the gap between us and whispers, ‘Do you think the two of us can ever finish up being friends?’

He asks the question so earnestly I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

‘I don’t think so, Harry.’

‘Why’s that, do you think?’

‘Because all we have in common is Julianne and eventually, if we become friends, you’ll feel it’s all right to talk about her with me and it’s one thing to lose her and another thing completely to discuss her like she’s a shared interest.’

Harry tugs harder at his earlobe. ‘You made her very sad, you know.’

‘I also made her happy for twenty years.’

‘I guess people change.’

Jesus wept!

‘I’m going to try to make her happy,’ he announces.

I can feel my arm hairs prickle and a chill run down my spine. Irrespective of his size and physical condition, I want to hit Harry now. I seem to be developing a taste for it.

‘I don’t want there to be any ill-feeling,’ he says, completely ignoring all the signs, my body language, my tone of voice, my fingers curling into fists. Then he mentions something about not treading on toes and there being no winners or losers.

A guttural sound springs from my throat.

‘Pardon?’ he asks.

‘I said that’s bullshit.’

‘Oh!’

His eyes widen.

‘Let’s face it Harry, you don’t give a flying fuck about my toes or my feelings.’ I’m talking through gritted teeth, trying not to attract attention. ‘You like trophies. You have a trophy house full of trophy cabinets full of your golf trophies and your squash trophies and your framed thank you letter from Margaret Thatcher for donating to the cause. Now you want my wife.’

Harry blinks at me, completely lost for words. The colour rises from his neck to his face. I want to go on. It takes every bit of my willpower to stop saying what I want to say. I want to tell him that he’s not Frank Lloyd Wright or Norman Foster and that designing some telemarketing millionaire’s ski chalet at Val d’Isere is not going to get him a knighthood, just like pulling his trousers up high doesn’t make him look thinner and gelling his hair doesn’t make him look younger and the chunky silver bracelet is gangster chic rather than evidence that he’s comfortable wearing jewellery.

I want to tell him these things but I don’t, because I’m not even interested in hating Harry the way I should. I’m not truly angry. I’m sad and I’m lonely and I’m fed up with not being able to help people who need me.

Julianne appears beside him.

‘Wasn’t that terrific?’

‘Brilliant,’ I reply.

Emma lets go of her hand and comes to me.

‘I wonder what happened to Annie Robinson,’ says Julianne, looking at me. ‘She did all the sets and costumes and didn’t turn up.’

‘Maybe she had something more important,’ I say, but I can’t convince myself.

‘Charlie is going to the cast party.’

‘Will Gordon Ellis be there?’

‘It’s just for the kids. One of the mothers is getting them pizza. Can you pick her up later?’

She gives me the address. ‘I told her eleven o’clock. I know she’s supposed to be grounded, but she was so good tonight and I don’t have the heart to play the bad cop on this one.’

‘I wanna go with Daddy,’ announces Emma.

‘No, sweetheart, we’re going home in Harry’s car.’

‘I want to go home with Daddy.’

Julianne tries to convince her that Harry has a really nice car. ‘It has leather seats and that lovely smell, remember?’

Harry puts his hand on her head. ‘I’ll open the sunroof, if you’d like.’

Emma twists away and swings her arm. One of her fists collides with Harry’s groin. His body jack-knifes and he sucks in a painful breath. Still doubled over, he groans - or at least it sounds like a groan from a distance, but up close he clearly says, ‘Fuck me!’

Emma hears it too. ‘Harry said a bad word.’

Julianne tells her to apologise.

‘But, Mummy, it was a really really bad word.’

‘Tell Harry you’re sorry.’

‘It was an accident.’

‘I know it was an accident, but you should still say that you’re sorry.’

Harry still can’t straighten completely. ‘It’s OK. It doesn’t matter.’

‘He said the f-u-c-k word,’ says Emma.

‘Don’t you ever say that!’ responds Julianne.

Emma points at Harry. ‘What about him?’

‘He didn’t mean it.’

‘He should get in trouble too.’

Harry interrupts. ‘Just let her go with her father.’

‘No,’ argues Julianne. ‘This is about setting boundaries. Emma has to learn to do as she’s told.’

Emma clutches her stomach. ‘I feel sick. I think I’m going to vomit.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Julianne, who is fully aware of Emma’s dramatic displays of hypochondria (and even more dramatic feats of projectile vomiting).

‘Maybe she should go in Joe’s car,’ says Harry, thinking of the Lexus and his leather seats. ‘He could drop her home.’

Julianne fires a look at him.

Meanwhile, Emma drops to the ground and launches one of her famous ‘you’ll-have-to-drag-me-out-of-here’ tantrums. Julianne does her best to ignore her, but Emma’s limbs seem to liquefy and she’s impossible to pick up.

We’re not so much drawing a crowd as dispersing it - driving parents towards their cars.

Julianne looks at me. ‘Please just leave.’