The night before it had felt so much easier. In fact, it was like luck was on her side, something that didn’t happen very often. She’d even prayed and thought, if there was a Him, then He must be responsible for the balmy euphoria which accompanied her dreams all night, but which however, had deserted her the next day. She felt differently this morning.
But after all it’s not a big thing, she tried to persuade herself. And perhaps it would give her direction, a direction that Karl was increasingly telling her she lacked. An awful thought entered her head. What if Karl was ashamed? Was ashamed that his girlfriend, living amongst ardent ex student anti-capitalists as they did, had never read Naom Chomsky, did not know or care about Julian Assange and Wikileaks or Edward Snowden, who steadfastly refused to protest against the imprisonment of Pussy Riot or march against the cuts in the NHS or LFB?
Was this motherhood thing to give her something to do, to give her a reason for everyone? [she didn’t need a reason but everyone else seemed to need for her to have one] When she had said no, Karl had stormed out of the house and Becky had shrugged. She didn’t realise that it could become a relationship issue and now, to save it, she was agreeing to get pregnant- something she was not sure she wanted.
Becky left her room and crossed the manky hall to the kitchen in the falling down house she shared with Karl and many others. Everyone living there, apart from Becky, wanted to think of it as a squat and treated it as such, even though a private landlord owned it. It suited their revolutionary tendencies but Becky thought, secretly, they used it as a convenient excuse. It was an excuse not to clean, not to boil the kettle [why should we pay electric? asked Sonja, the political filmmaker, in carefully crafted RP] and to use the heating sparingly, even when it was achingly cold. But this wasn’t because of money, Becky realized- everyone except Karl, who was an out of work actor afraid of his public school background, had a job. It was just that people didn’t want to cough up, or pay for other people’s use of the amenities. It used to make Becky laugh at the irony of it, these ardent anti-capitalists capable of such meanness themselves, but then it just made her bitter, and curl up inside herself. But we have to have heating, she argued, breathless at the thought it was not ‘can’t pay’ but ‘won’t pay’- a bureaucratic institution being seen as money grabbing, corrupt and therefore the enemy. But Sonja in particular argued against her, insisting she wear more layers of clothing and toughen up. Karl, who she knew liked to be warm, was strangely mute during this little exchange and when Becky looked at him for support, he studied his meticulously clean fingernails.
It was strange; Becky couldn’t help thinking, how remarkably well dressed and dapper all these anti- capitalists were. Not for them a military style uniform, theirs was the age of frivolity and careful grooming. And continually their shiny faces were lit up by the glaring screens of ipads or iphones [another irony making Becky grimace, she refused an iphone on ethical grounds] detailing them the dates and times of the next march or protest or face off with the feds [as they liked to call them].
Becky opened the kitchen door and carefully stepped around the floorboards made rotten by the water cascading down the walls every time someone upstairs took a bath- I’ll talk to the landlord, Becky said initially, and then outraged at everyone’s laughter, they all believed in ‘you get what you pay for’ but Becky thought, especially in terms of housing, this was unethical [another sticking point between her and Sonja who liked Boris, probably because, like her, he was a Russian refugee] just in time to see Sonja quickly slid away from Karl’s lap. Everyone was silent for a moment and Becky became aware she was holding her breath. Sonja hadn’t even moved quickly and Karl’s arms still trailed after her, of course they had heard her coming, it was deliberate. Becky went cold.
Sonja wants kids, said Karl.
That’s what she’d always admired about Karl- if he was in trouble, he didn’t run or hang his head like most men; he squared up to it and stared it down. But Becky wished he’d do anything but that right now, she wished he’d mumble stupidly or go bright red, then at least she could have something for the pain that was cutting right through her. But instead his cold authoritative clear blue eyes stared unhesitatingly into her own brown ones looking for- what? Anger, jealously, hatred? Becky thought with dismay. Dismay was not what she should be feeling, she realised. It did not match the quality of their relationship, her relationship with him, her feelings for him. Did this mean she didn’t love him, or was she in shock? Karl was a complicated man and excited complicated feelings in Becky. His at times hot headedness and headlong rush into things made him vulnerable – he left himself so exposed at times, so taken in by his feelings was he, so that Becky pitied him. If she could pity him now, if he showed vulnerability, then may be something could be salvaged. But at the same time, this emotional vulnerability was paralleled by an absolute belief that he was right in everything he said and believed, though his inconsistencies usually amused Becky, she could handle them. He thought nothing of going to a face off with the police for example, before racing off to be with his posh friends for a weekend in the country spent driving expensive sports cars.
‘If we didn’t take them out the rich banker pigs would’, was how Karl excused himself, forgetting that many of his friends were Financial Analysts, Hedge Fund investors and the like. She remembered an argument, the first one, where she attempted to reveal, in order to earn respect, that within her lay some latent political beast.
I do really like Tim Popley, she said one day, hoping he would know whom she meant, which unfortunately he did.
Tim Popely! Public School corrupt bureaucratic prick! he sneered, forgetting his own background.
But why? asked Becky curiously.
He’s a fucking MP for a start, began Karl
But he does good for people, he helps people..
Helps people! How does he help people?
He tries to get better housing, he tries to make the Mayor regulate private landlords, he tries for better deals on heating for the elderly, he probably saves people’s lives!
What, is he a fucking paramedic now or something? He doesn’t go to people’s homes; he doesn’t see how they are really living, like in Barking for example. He just stays in his tiny office sipping cortardos or takes selfies..
Becky had been staring at Karl during this little speech and suddenly came to life.
You only hate him, she said in a rare moment of clarity, because he is public school, like yourself. You only hate him because he’s rich, and because that’s such a chip on your shoulder, you think it must be a chip on everyone else’s too and that no one whose rich can possibly come into politics with pure intentions.
Oh come, I thought we were having a mature discussion, said Karl in a raised voice for Becky had become passionate and emotional. Not some childish emotional debate!
You’re the one who’s childish, Becky thought but did not say, if you can’t abide politics being motivated by passion and emotions. Subsequently, further rows always reminded Becky of this one, though they both steered clear of rowing about politics. At least they had that sorted, thought Becky.
Sonja was standing with her back to them, doing something long and involved at the cupboard. Becky could not help it, her eyes traveled down to her pert bum, ready and waiting in her Levi’s. Her’s was always so nice and rounded, whereas Becky’s just stuck out, wildly somehow. Karl saw her envious look and followed up his advantage.
We’ve not had sex for months, he said and thought Becky with shock, he must have discussed this with her, otherwise he wouldn’t mind saying it. Further humiliation! But Becky realised that it wasn’t really just that. Sonja fitted more with what he wanted. She was a real refugee by proxy, coming with her sister, who was repeatedly bullied for being gay in Putin’s Russia. At 33 she was the right side of 35 and carving a life out for herself as a political filmmaker, trying to get her films about FGM and even Pussy Riot out on the festival circuit. She went to refugee camps in Africa, interviewed Londoners about exorcism and even filmed the protests her and the others went on. To Karl she was the real McCoy, using her art as a political tool but Becky was uneasy, thinking that Sonja just jumped on whichever political bandwagon was trending, hoping it would get her fame and contacts.
When had it started? Becky wondered but knew the answer immediately. She’d always known. It was the weekend she’d made that excruciating visit home. Visits home were always excruciating because her parents did not approve of her and could not quite believe that this was how their youngest child had turned out. They wanted her to visit but reserved their right to with hold love or not, depending on whether she was still shovelling popcorn at that god forsaken cinema (it was always gods forsaken). So that was when it happened, not even a month ago. Scorn, in the form of acidic bile, scorched the back of her throat.
I’m sorry Becky, said Sonja with a smile that said she wasn’t at all. Sonja was smoking one of those electric cigarettes. This is what they did now, no one seriously damaging their health for politics; it was all smoothies and yoga first thing in the morning. Christ.
The trouble was, that any kind of love that Karl and she held for each other, was not enough, Becky realised. Not for him. She had to be something in his eyes, something he could brag about to all and sundry. So he could bask in reflected glory no doubt. And Becky did nothing. She actively did nothing except thought quietly to herself and, in between working, took long walks. Karl never got the walking thing. Nor would Sonja either, Becky thought to herself, thinking that her purple Doc Martens had never seen mud.
I suppose I need to look for somewhere, Becky said.
Karl laughed in a high pitch and it was Sonja who answered, already throwing him a lover’s mutual look.
Well actually, I have a friend who really needs a room pronto..
Yeh she does, said Karl, who meeting Becky's eyes, quickly looked down and bit his lip.
Oh my God, said Becky.
Oh my God, mimicked Sonja. What does that even mean?
Sonja walked out and Karl finally hung his head. He wasn’t looking and looked like he wanted to run from her and that meant it really was over- he was scared of her!
Later, looking at her room, Becky felt she might cry. There was only her sister she could run to, who, whilst as disapproving as her parents, would not turn her away even so. It had happened before, too many times.
The trouble was, it all bored her, in the end. All these political games. She’d been there, done that, got the T-Shirt. Even answered the coded phone calls asking her if she wanted to "play badminton", to which she always responded no. She heard Karl and Sonja leave together, out on a protest against Russia in Ukraine. Sonja was taking her camera, later she’d upload the footage onto her you tube channel, Karl as the presenter, hoping to be famous. She knew they hoped she’d be gone when they got back.