Maggie Gee - Where are the Snows

Now I suppose I’ll have to tell him after all. Things are sadder than I thought. I’m wrong about things. I always was. And I’m still not safe — none of us are. Things can be snatched away in a moment.

This afternoon for about sixty seconds I hated Madonna more than anyone on earth. I still can’t think of her without a stab of anger. I don’t think she realises what she did. She never admits she’s wrong, Madonna. She did say ‘Sorry, sorry’ — but sulkily, as if placating someone mad, in the first few minutes when I was screaming at her and everyone in the centre was watching, shopping trolleys stalled, frightened faces… I didn’t give a monkey’s what other people thought, I only stopped screaming because of Becky; I actually wanted to slap Madonna.

I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive her. Every time I take my daughter shopping I’ll hear that desperate crying again.

Although Madonna moved out years ago to live with her dreadful Japanese billionaire, she still acts as if this house were her own, dropping in on me and Dad without warning and sort of claiming territory; she’ll go into the garden, or take a bath, without so much as a by-your-leave, and return with an armful of roses for herself or a dripping towel for me to deal with. She raids the fridge. She cooks herself meals. Dad is tickled by her, but I don’t care, after today that’s it, she’s had it.

I suppose things have been going wrong between us ever since Becky was born, after the first crazy exhilaration and Madonna’s dramatic exhibition of joy, arriving at the hospital with armfuls of lilies and staying till nightfall drinking champagne. Later her visits were less welcome. She never managed to grasp Becky’s bath-times or feeding-times; she got irritated when I was so busy with Becky that I missed the thread of her narrative. On the phone she was worse, never understanding that a screaming baby in the background meant I couldn’t talk to her, or that silence meant Becky was probably asleep, in which case my time was unspeakably precious.

This afternoon she did at least warn me she was coming, ten minutes before she came. I had to pick up a load of shopping, and said she could come with me, which she did, grudgingly, as if I shouldn’t have arranged to go shopping just in case she happened to visit me.

The traffic was appalling, as usual. We sat in a jam on the motorway with the fumes all round our heads. ‘I can think of better ways to spend an afternoon,’ said Madonna, as if I couldn’t. Becky was asleep in the back, and I wanted her to stay that way, but Madonna talked loudly and laughed a lot.

We started to talk about Dad, or she did. She’s always been so nosey about Dad. I suspect her of having a tremendous crush on him, which is an odd thing for me to suspect, given that he’s seventy-two and in major need of a haircut, and she’s only thirty-nine like me; but she’s so weird, Madonna; she loves old men. Luckily she’s already got a sixty-three-year-old, the Japanese software billionaire who left his wife and kids for her, so her interest in Dad is just recreational.

I think it is. It had better be.

I wasn’t entirely listening to her. Sometimes I don’t mind traffic-jams; they give you a chance to doze off, if Becky does. Suddenly I heard her saying, ‘You probably think I shouldn’t encourage him.’

‘Who?’

‘Christopher.’

I shot up in my seat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, with his virtual reality habit. Don’t bark at me. What’s the matter with you? You don’t use yourself, so I thought maybe you hated all that… And you’re so down on Alexandra… We’ve never really talked about VR.’

‘It’s your job, it’s OK, I’m not going to give you a hard time for doing it. I suppose you need some money of your own.’

‘Oh thanks very much. Thanks very much. Well we can’t all afford to work two days a week. We haven’t all got a rich father… sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to say that.’

We crawled in silence for another ten minutes. Then I remembered something she had said.

‘What’s Alexandra got to do with Dad’s games? You said I was very down on Alexandra as if she had something to do with it. Did she start Dad off on it, then? Doesn’t seem like her, somehow. She could never sit still, he was the screen junky.’

There was a pause. Then she said ‘Oh nothing’ in a deliberately infuriating way, letting me know as clearly as she could that there was something, but she wasn’t telling.

‘Madonna! Don’t play games!’

‘I’d tell you, but I think you might be upset.’ Licking her lips, a tiny smile. ‘Besides, your father might not want you to know.’

‘Madonna, I shall drive your side of the car into a lorry if you don’t tell me whatever it is. ‘ The car jerked into life for a brief minute. ‘On second thoughts, don’t bother. I don’t want to know Dad’s little secrets. I’m happy he’s happy, and that’s it.’

What a fool I was; that’s never it. Nothing is really as simple as that.

‘I’d better tell you. You’d better know. Your father is still obsessed with Alexandra —’

‘Balls! He’s told me he loves Mary —’

‘Maybe he does. People are complicated. Your world’s so black and white. Even more so since you settled with Phil and had the baby. Your world’s less real than VR, actually.’

‘He hardly ever talks about Alexandra. The pictures have all come down from the wall. I just don’t believe you, Madonna…’

‘I can tell you where the pictures are. Don’t keep saying you don’t believe me. They’re all in a drawer in your father’s computer room. He’s totally addicted to her. He makes something called an avatar, with her face, but slightly different each time, a little on-line Alexandra, and they do things together —’

‘What do you mean? What sort of things?’

I took my eyes off the road and looked at her, and she looked at me pityingly, as if I were an idiot.

‘Well. They travel together of course. He uses the Globesweep programme. He’s got the gear for three quarters of the world…’

‘And?’

‘Well. I don’t want to upset you. But there are other things users do to the avatars they create. Little boys shoot their teachers and their fathers. Big boys — darling, boys will be boys.’

I drove on grimly, my stomach turning. I’m not a puritan, I’m not, but I don’t like to think of my father… I’ve never even liked to think of him and Mary, but I certainly don’t like to think of Dad down in the basement endlessly doing that… Besides, how does Madonna know about it? If he tells her that, then she’s flirting with him, talking dirty with him, I know she is…

‘I haven’t upset you, have I?’

‘Nope.’

‘In any case, your Dad is so moral. He’s only used Alexandra for years. I’ve been telling him off about that. It seems to me a bit claustrophobic, know what I mean?’

‘Don’t tell me any more.’ I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. ‘I’ve got to pick up one or two things from the Personal Shoppers, OK? I left a few things off the list…’

‘Can I take Becky out of the car?’ Madonna asked, and I wanted to say No, don’t touch my baby, don’t touch my father, but I said Yes, because after all, I didn’t want to be unkind, I knew she was lonely. I’d been lonely myself. Yukio would not divorce his wife, Madonna was no nearer to having her baby.

When she holds Becky she gets a really weird, possessive look, as if she was going into a trance, not particularly endearing to Becky who likes people to smile and talk, but I know what it means — Madonna wants her. On the other hand, she knows nothing about her. She’s never shown herself remotely competent with nappies or with feeding bottles.