Behaving Like Adults (26 page)

‘Why don't we play a game?' I said, before the mood deteriorated. ‘Eden, what would you like to play? I-Spy?'

‘No, that's for babies. I want to listen to my tape of
Peter and the Wolf
. Peter tells lies and the wolf eats him.'

I wasn't sure if this was true or Eden's wishful thinking,
but I didn't dare argue. I did as I was told and switched on the tape.

Claudia peeled open the tube of Wine Gums. ‘Bug—shi—bother! There's not a single red one in the whole packet! Are they allowed to do that? Isn't it illegal? So unfair. I'll have a black one instead.'

There was peace for thirty seconds while she chewed. Then, ‘Hmph! Weird. These have got a before taste – sort of like envelope glue –
and
an aftertaste. The middle taste's quite nice though.'

‘Cordia, will you please be quiet, I can't hear Peter and the Wolf, I missed a bit. Mummy, rewind the tape!'

‘No, Eden,
you
be quiet. I'm older than you. I'm a grown-up. I can talk when I want.'

Issy turned round busily in her seat. ‘Claudia. As you seem to be under the curious impression that you're an adult, do you think you could try not to pick a fight with a four-year-old?

And so on, ad nauseam (I had to stop the car for Eden to vomit seven fairy cakes on to the pavement) until we reached Penge.

Mum was doing her best
not
to peer down the garden path. Dad was peeling potatoes in the kitchen. I felt myself soften as I walked in. Everything about their house was comforting. From the crooked line of rose bushes on each side of the garden path and its carefully tended square of lawn, to the grandfather clock ticktocking loudly at the end of the hall. The yellow velveteen sofa clashing cheerfully with the orange shag pile in the lounge, my mother's collection of blown glass animals on the mantelpiece, the white hand-crocheted tablecloth, the sound of local talk radio from the kitchen, the receding smell of fried bacon. Theirs was a home to give the editor of
Elle Decoration
a heart attack, but it boasted an aura that few interior designed properties could – contentment.

‘Hello, Granny, I've just been sick, can I look at the photographs?'

‘Oh dear! Were you car sick?'

‘No, she was cake sick,' replied Issy, with a sharp glance at Claudia.

‘Well, darling, she takes after her mother. I never saw a child with a sweet tooth like yours – you wouldn't leave the table unless we provided pudding – and remember when you nearly missed being a bridesmaid for cousin Neville because you ate three Mars bars when Leila took you ice skating and got a terrible tummy upset? We were a little late to the ceremony because of it – we decided you'd change when we got there in case you had another accident on the way – and the bride's mother was in such a tizz she tried to undress you in the hall. I seem to recall you kicked her bad leg – but, well, it never did you any harm in the long run.'

‘Debatable,' murmured Issy. My mother was already leading Eden by the hand into her study, an Aladdin's Cave of crinkle-edged photographs, ancient yellowed copies of
Women's Realm
, and fusty-smelling story books for children of the fifties. Personally, I've looked through the
Monster Book for Girls
and it's one long riot of racism and sexism. But Eden likes the stiff pages and old-fashioned pictures, and happily the text is too advanced for her. I think if my mother actually
read
some of the stuff she's hoarded since puberty, she'd pale and throw it straight in the bin (or in the recycling unit by the library, at least). My mother's motto is ‘live and let live', she has no patience with prejudice.

Claw dropped her bag in the hall and trotted into the kitchen to talk to my father, probably about caravans. Secretly, I think she's his favourite, although he'd die before admitting it. I gazed after her. Her moods seemed to dip and swing, almost by the minute. I supposed I should confront her, ask her straight out what was bothering her, but I was too afraid of the answer. If it was to do with me, I didn't want to know, and if it wasn't, I wasn't sure I was capable of dealing with even one more problem, itty-bitty or not.

Issy had stomped outside to have a smoke in the garden. I hovered in the lounge, knowing that Mum would return in a second to offer cups of tea and a plate of the cakes she liked, dry swirls of pastry stuck together with jam and raisins. Nige would have had a fit. I'd bought a book to read but I didn't feel like reading it. The brief sense of relaxation was wearing off. I sat down and flicked through a copy of
Gardeners
'
World
. I had no choice, whatever it did to them – and I felt in my heart it would kill them – I had to tell my parents about Stuart.

There was no way they'd break their agreement with him otherwise. They'd see it as a breach of honour. Right. I'd tell them . . . today. Some time this afternoon, Eden would ask if she could play house in the caravan and Issy would be forced to join her. Inevitably, Claudia would receive a call on her mobile from one of her many mystery friends (when I thought about it, I knew very little about Claudia's social life) and wander off to a far corner of the house so as not to be overheard. How long would it take to explain, five minutes? They didn't need to hear details.

‘Would anyone like some tea and cake?' called my mother on cue. (At any given point in the day, at least one horrible meal is being prepared in their house.) ‘It'll be in the lounge. And there are Marmite sandwiches if Eden wants,' she added, as Issy came in from the garden, frowning. Members of my family milled into the lounge like lemmings.

‘One can never have too much cake,' said Claudia. At least, I think that's what she said. What she
really
said – the sound was muffled – was, ‘Wuf can neger hag koo muk cake'.

I allowed my mother to hand me a bone china cup and saucer. No matter how often we say to her, ‘We grew up here, remember, you don't have to put on a show', she point blank refuses to serve us a hot beverage in a mug. But I like it, I like the ceremony. I notice she always gives herself the chipped one.

‘Stanley, dear, can you bring in the sugar and a coffee for Issy?'

Time passed gently, as the usual conversations progressed along well-trodden routes. Uncle Barry. Leila. Our work. Eden's progress in school.

There were, however, a few interesting departures from the norm. Claudia blurted, ‘So when Gran's money comes through, are you going to move to a big house in a nicer area?'

My parents looked startled and embarrassed. My mother said, ‘All our friends are here, dear. We don't need a bigger space. We're more than happy where we are.'

My father added, ‘It may take quite a while for probate to be granted, Claudia. But while it's wonderful of Granny to have remembered us, we don't feel it would be . . . I think it might be a little upsetting to your mother if we . . . we'd rather leave the, the proceeds in the hands of our lawyers, at least for now, until a rainy day.'

Claudia shrugged. ‘What about upgrading the caravan?'

‘Claudia!' barked Issy. ‘You heard what Dad said. Leave it now.' Her voice dropped to a low hiss, audible to everyone in the room. ‘You're making them uncomfortable. It's upsetting for them, you talking about Granny like she was a piggy bank!'

An unfortunate metaphor, considering that her wealth was built on pig farms. Claw put down her cup and saucer and snort-laughed elaborately.

‘Claudia!' shrieked Issy.

‘Oh, pardon me for breathing,' muttered Claw, pulling a face. It's amazing how, in the vicinity of our parents, we all regress about twenty years. I guessed I could really set the cat among the pigeons (as my mother would say) by mentioning Stuart. It was galling, how discreet my parents were about their financial affairs. What did they think we'd do, tell all our little friends in the playground?

‘And how's Frank, very busy at work?'

My mother's attempt at changing the subject and the
mood didn't entirely work. Issy snapped, ‘Isn't he always?'

‘What's that supposed to mean?' enquired Claw.

‘It means,' growled Issy, ‘that I don't know what the hel—er, what the hello is going on with him right now. Eden, go and play in the study. Here, take a sandwich and don't get crumbs on the carpet.'

‘Don't worry, Eden, I can Hoover up any mess,' said my mother quickly.

Eden exited the lounge with a fistful of sandwiches and an evil look on her face (not that anyone noticed except me). Issy's face crumpled. ‘He was on the phone the other night and when I came into the room he put down the receiver quietly but
fast
, and when I asked who it was he said a work colleague, ringing about a meeting. After he'd gone, I pressed 1471 but
he'd
made the call.'

My mother's face was a picture – to be precise, a struggle between reality and desire. ‘Issy, dear, there's nothing untoward about that. He must have forgotten who'd rung who, that's all!' She smiled, relieved to have unravelled the mystery and found it non-toxic.

‘Huf,' said Issy. ‘And that's not the only thing. He
said
he had to go into the office this weekend, but when I rang his direct line, there was no answer.'

My mother laughed, nervously. ‘I'm sure there's an innocent explanation, dear. He must have nipped out for a coffee.'

‘I called him ten times, every ten minutes.'

‘Well,' said my father, ‘then he must have had a meeting in the meeting room!'

Despite my growing anxiety, I had to put him straight. ‘Boardroom, Dad,' I said. It bothered me, how he lacked even a
basic
knowledge of business.

My father smiled. Thankfully, he didn't see the correction as a reproach; he saw it as helpful. I glanced at Claw. She was staring, tight-jawed, at her tea. I wondered if she also had suspicions about Frank. I shifted my gaze to Issy. She sighed, seemed to collect herself. I imagine she'd
realised that short of whipping away a black cloak to reveal Frank writhing naked with another woman on my parents' coffee table, there was no convincing my parents that anything in the marital garden was less than rosy. And possibly not even then.

Issy stood up. ‘Is the caravan key by the door? I think I'll go and play housey with my daughter.'

My parents smiled, pacified.

Claw stretched her arms and legs without moving from her chair. ‘Mum, Dad, is it alright if I have a bath and wash my hair?'

Mum beamed, delighted to be on safe ground again. ‘Of course, dear. Stanley is the Badedas on the side?'

‘Yes, Linda.'

‘Great,' said Claw, jumping up. ‘I'll see you when I see you.' The words were jollier than the delivery. We listened to her clump heavily up the stairs. I swallowed. Now was my chance. I cleared my throat. My parents looked at me, hopeful smiles on their faces. I bit my lip.

‘I, er, I wanted to tell you something.'

My mother placed her cup and saucer on the table, rested her hands on her knees, and nodded. My father smiled encouragement. They looked old.

Oh God.

I couldn't.

I must.

I sighed. A short, sharp sigh of resolution. Where to begin? Background. ‘Mum, Dad. You know that, a couple of months ago, Nick and I broke up.'

They nodded, mouths drooping. Save it, I thought.

‘Well—'

deedle deedle doo, do do doooo!

‘Scooby Doo!' exclaimed my father, in a beam of recognition. ‘Do you hear that, Linda? These days they can do anything, can't they?'

I made a mental note to change my mobile ring tone to a tune with more gravitas. The
Scooby Doo
theme tune was
no longer appropriate for me and, frankly, hadn't been for the last two decades. I scrabbled in my bag where, apparently, the phone had morphed into thin air. Finally, it reappeared and I grabbed it just before it switched to voicemail.

‘Sorry, Mum, Dad. Hello?'

‘Holly. Where have you
beeeen?
' The voice was whiney, demanding, and made me twitch with irritation. ‘I've called the house nineteen times. Gloria finally answered. She said you were away, she was cat-sitting. She says when she gave Emily her insulin jab, Emily bit her. Where
aaaare
you?'

‘Nick,' I said aloud, before I could stop myself. My parents glanced at one another. ‘I'm at Mum and Dad's. What's wrong?'

‘Oh. Right.' Sulkily. ‘You could have told me, instead of sneaking off like that.'

I held my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Mum, Dad, sorry. I'll just take this outside.'

My parents nodded. They were both grinning. I marched into the garden. ‘Nick,' I said. ‘I did not “sneak off”, I just
went
.'

‘Yeah, without telling me where you were going. I can't believe you abandoned me. I needed to talk.' At least one word in every sentence was stretched to peevish self-pitying length. Fury pulsed. How
dare
he? He hadn't changed. He was still a baby, demanding that his needs were met instantly. I was doing him a favour here. We were no longer linked in an official capacity, I had no obligation to him. What kind of blithering fool maintains contact with their ex-fiancé after dumping him? I thought of the sex and shuddered. I'd behaved like a prostitute.

And so had he. Letting me, wanting me to comfort him in this way, as if words weren't enough. He had been utterly selfish, given no consideration as to what
I'd
wanted. He was a typical male, expecting the woman to serve him, make him feel good. He was another man who
never
heard
what a woman said, only what he wanted her to say. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got, until the mere recollection of his hands on my skin made me want to retch.

‘. . . now that we're back together I'd have thought that y—'