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15

Melanie

Sunday 25th February

I look up from chopping carrots as Ben walks into the kitchen. He’s wearing the Paul Smith shirt that I got him for his birthday, like I told him he should, with new jeans (that still look a little stiff) and his Ted Baker brogues, which he normally keeps for the office as he generally prefers Adidas trainers at home. He’s handsome, no doubt about it. When I’m walking in the streets with him, out shopping or whatever, I always feel secretly pleased, smug. I often see women check him out. He either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, for my sake. Bless. Today he puts me in mind of the new, neat bay trees outside our front door. A little too formal, out of place and stiff.

‘Maybe you should put on a T-shirt,’ I suggest.

‘You told me to wear this,’ he replies with a confused and slightly frustrated shrug.

He glances about. I have the lunch ingredients out of the fridge but nowhere near in the oven. Even though I’ve been up since six thirty when Lily came into our room and asked if I wanted to see a puppet show. There are approximately a hundred things – including toys, homework, stray socks, breakfast pots and a hairbrush – scattered across the table. I’m obviously not what anyone would describe as on top of things. My head aches and I’m so pale I’m transparent. I’m too old to stay up drinking until two a.m.

One of the very many lovely things about being married to Ben is that we are a partnership. I don’t have to nag him to help out or do his share. If he sees something needs doing, he invariably does it. Maybe not exactly as I might have done it, but he gives it a go and I’m grateful. Normally, he lends a hand with notable affability; right now, he gathers up the debris from the kitchen table and then clatters down the cutlery in a distinctly irritated manner. He didn’t like me suggesting what he should put on today and, having complied, he likes me changing my mind even less. I can hear his frustration in the clinking of the knives and forks.

‘I know I did but—’ I’m about to say it looks a bit over the top, when Abi interrupts.

‘You look fabulous Ben, ignore her.’

‘Oh, Abi, I didn’t realise you were there.’ I’m embarrassed that she’s caught our conversation and wonder whether she noticed the slight testiness in the air. I want everything to look effortless, seamless and – most of all – blissful. Nagging my husband about the formality of his wardrobe is none of those things. It’s too late to get Ben to change now. I shouldn’t even expect it. Her compliments make me feel shallow. I’m also embarrassed that she’s here before I’ve managed to transform the kitchen. I wanted to have set it with a vase of tulips, a bowl of olives and wine. I have a very specific image of how I want to present things for Abi.

Clearing the breakfast pots would have been a start.

She looks around too. Her gaze is unreadable. She might be thinking we’re charming, or she might be thinking we’re revolting. ‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asks with convincing gusto.

‘Oh no,’ I reply automatically, although why? When another pair of hands would obviously be useful. Instead I find myself saying, ‘Ben, why don’t you show Abi our holiday photos from last summer?’ Turning to Abi I add, ‘We visited the Edinburgh Fringe.’ Ben looks startled.

‘Are you interested?’ he asks Abi with some scepticism. ‘It’s a bit throwback. People haven’t actually thought it was entertaining to show others their holiday snaps since circa 1979, have they?’

‘Yes, yes, she is interested,’ I insist.

Abi backs me up. ‘I love the way Mel still goes to the effort of printing photos and putting them in albums. With the tickets of the places you visited, and maps and such. Works of art, really. History in the making. Who does that?’

‘Who indeed?’ says Ben, mildly amused. He thinks my photo albums are a bit of a waste of space and money and prefers keeping things digitally, but he indulges me. He has even promised that if there is a fire or flood, after the kids and the cats, he’d save my albums. Exactly how he’d do that isn’t clear, since I have about two dozen.

‘I’ve shown Abi loads of old albums already,’ I say.

I’m eager to encourage them both to get out of the kitchen, so that I can rush about and pull the place into some semblance of order. I want the kitchen to myself. I don’t feel up to coordinating making lunch and having a conversation.

Somehow, when the doorbell rings at one o’clock, lunch is almost ready and the table is dressed with our best glassware and pretty paper napkins.

‘Will someone get that?’ I yell. No one reacts. ‘It will be Tanya.’ I hear Liam gallop down the stairs with enthusiasm.

‘Someone’s keen,’ says Abi, amused; she and Ben have wandered back into the kitchen, ready to take their seats or at least refill their glasses.

‘I’ll say. The only other person who can get him to move as quickly as that is the pizza delivery man,’ jokes Ben.

Lunch is loud and lively. I’ve put the meat and multiple vegetables in bowls on the table so everyone can help themselves. There is the inevitable hassle when Lily says she’d rather die than eat peas but I put them on her plate anyway. Again, Abi entertains us all. This time with stories about famous people she’s met and interviewed. Her stories are hilarious, informative and sometimes risqué. The girls – giddier than ever because they have both Tanya and Abi to play to – are near hysterical when she tells them she’s met Selena Gomez. They squeal at a constant, high pitch and, for fun, I join in. Ben jokily covers his ears and yells at us all to shut up. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’

Quick as a flash I say, ‘You think with your head? Wow, you are quite a special man.’ This gets a big laugh from Abi and Tanya, the girls too, although they probably didn’t even hear the joke, let alone understand it.

Smiling, Ben turns to Liam and bemoans the fact they’re outnumbered. ‘More than ever. We’re going to need to get soundproofing.’

‘You can’t say that,’ says Liam with a distinct note of embarrassment. ‘You two are so politically incorrect.’ He can be an outspoken kid and his opinions are generally quite well researched but normally he keeps his discussions and deliberations for the college debating society; today he seems to want to peacock in front of Tanya.

‘Can’t say what?’ asks Ben, genuinely mystified.

‘Mum can’t say that men think with their . . . ’ he glances at his sisters, who are hanging off his every word. He corrects himself. ‘She can’t say men think with anything other than their heads. It’s sexist.’

‘It was a joke,’ I say, still giggling. Quite pleased with myself.

‘It’s a cliché,’ replies Liam. ‘What are you saying? All men are dumb, led by instinct rather than intellect. Clichés always lead to sexism.’

I sigh because this may be true but it’s so damned sad. ‘Clichés used to lead to jokes, I’m pretty sure of it. We used to be better at laughing at ourselves,’ I comment, defensively.

‘Sexist jokes. I’m surprised at you, Mum.’ Teens do have occasional forays into bouts of self-righteousness. Normally, I ride them out. Today, I wish Liam hadn’t decided to so abruptly change the atmosphere. We were having fun. I pick up the tureen that still has some roast potatoes left in it and offer them to him – he can usually be side-tracked by roast potatoes, but he shakes his head impatiently. ‘And Dad, you’re no better, implying that women are nothing but pointless chatter and noise.’

Ben looks horrified. ‘Mate, I’m pretty sure that’s not what I said.’

‘The thing about soundproofing.’

‘I’m not being sexist. I’m being accurate.’ Ben winks at me and I throw a balled-up napkin at him. ‘The women in our family are more garrulous and the men more circumspect, on the whole.’ Although not right now. Liam seems determined to make his point. Ben is walking the thin line of taking him seriously and yet fuelling the debate that would be better closed down. ‘We work in a world full of clichés and assumptions but there’s nothing wrong with that. Those things are stabilising, helpful. We need to be able to categorise and order,’ adds Ben.

Liam shrugs because he can’t bring himself to agree. He’s too young for such heavy-handed certainty. He still sees nuance and complication everywhere. His world is delightfully in flux. ‘I bet you never relied on cliché, Abigail, when you were interviewing and stuff,’ Liam declares. I smile inwardly. He may be feeling argumentative with his parents but he’s remembered to be polite to our guest.

‘I’m sure I’m guilty of slipping one in on several occasions,’ admits Abi, diplomatically.

‘Abi used to be a TV presenter in the States,’ I explain to Tanya, in case Liam hasn’t told her.

‘Less of the past tense, if you please,’ says Abi. I can hear that she’s trying to sound amused but isn’t.

‘Oh, sorry,’ I mutter, colouring.

‘You’ve gone red,’ Imogen points out, unnecessarily.

‘It makes the stripe in your hair look totally and absolutely white,’ declares Lily. I want to kill her.

Instead I run my fingers through my hair and try to sound unconcerned. ‘I meant to pick up a kit yesterday when I was in town but work was hectic; I only got a thirty-minute lunch break.’

‘A kit?’ asks Abi. Then she understands. ‘Oh. Wow. Do you dye your own hair?’ Her tone is incredulous. I’m embarrassed but maybe my expression comes across as one of irritation because Abi quickly changes her tone. ‘Oh my God, that is so impressive. I honestly thought you must pay a fortune in some fancy salon. You look amazing.’

I do not enjoy the process of dying my hair. I don’t like the smell or the waiting around, plus I’d like to be the sort of woman who can afford to go to a salon for the job, but mostly I feel cheated that I’m already turning grey, even though I’m still in my thirties. It doesn’t seem right. Grey hair is for grandmas and I am nowhere near that stage. No rush at all. I’ve no desire to age gracefully; I do what I can to push back the inevitable.

Tanya, bless her, picks up the conversation. She asks the girls which is their favourite Disney song. Soon, everyone joins in. My grey hair and home dye kits are forgotten as people shout out, ‘Let it Go,’ ‘A Whole New World’, ‘Circle of Life’.

The rest of the lunch passes without incident. My sore head is easing but probably only because I’ve had two glasses of wine.

‘A Sunday roast: just what the doctor ordered,’ comments Abi as she puts her knife and fork together and leans back in her chair. This is the first hint she’s given that she might have been even a tiny bit hungover; I’m in awe, she’s superwoman. She’s the last to finish – she had the most stories to tell and besides, she eats the tiniest bites. Lily and Imogen have been waiting patiently, nailed to their seats through years of training that you can’t leave the table until everyone finishes. Lily immediately seizes the opportunity to hop down from her seat and climb on Liam’s lap. I see Tanya melt when he wraps his big arms around his tiny sprite of a sister. Lily likes sitting on his knee because when the adult conversation gets too boring for her to follow, but she doesn’t feel ready to slink off on her own, he keeps her amused by whispering in her ears. Silly jokes and sounds that send her off into peals of giggles.

‘I was wondering, how long are you staying, Abigail?’ Ben’s question is shot over the clatter of my gathering up the used plates. I shoot him a quick look of reproach, one I hope he sees but no one else does. He doesn’t catch it because he’s determined not to; he’s staring at Abi, not me. He’s smiling. He looks affable enough. There’s only me who would know he’s asking her to pack her bags. I get it. I know what he’s thinking – it’s been a fun weekend but tomorrow is Monday, we should get back to being normal. ‘We have a busy week ahead of us,’ he adds, as though it’s a simple observation.

Abi smiles – if she’s picked up on his hint, she doesn’t seem bothered by it. ‘Really? What’s going down?’

Ben must have checked the family calendar before we sat down to eat because he rattles off our commitments with impressive confidence. ‘It’s Imogen’s Brownie investiture.’ Abi pulls her face into a picture of awe to show she’s impressed, Immie beams back, thrilled to be centre of attention. ‘Lily has a school trip to a working farm and Mel is a parent volunteer, so is going along too.’ Abi gasps excitedly and claps her hands in glee, as though she can’t imagine anything more fun. ‘Liam needs to practise for his internship interview.’ Ben’s list obviously isn’t simply a point of information; he’s hinting she needs to get out of our hair. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I wish he’d drop it. ‘Mel has also got an extra shift to do at the shop because she needs to make up the time from Friday.’

‘OK Ben.’ He’s being rude now.

‘And I’m in the middle of a big audit at work.’ He turns to look at me, reminding me of as much, I suppose. I assumed Abi would stay for the weekend but she hasn’t made any noise about catching a train tonight or tomorrow. I suppose we do need to know her plans so that we can make our own, but I can’t stand the idea of shooing her out the house.

‘I haven’t quite decided,’ says Abi. ‘Mel, so sweetly, said I could stay as long as I needed.’

‘Of course, you’re so welcome,’ I gush. I mean this, at the same time as I know it really isn’t a helpful thing to say. I throw Ben a look that’s begging for his understanding. He relents.

‘Yes, absolutely. I’m just saying we’ve a very busy week next week. I hope you don’t think we’re rude if we’re not around too much to look after you.’

‘Not at all,’ Abi assures him with the broadest smile. It’s inscrutable. ‘I’m pretty self-sufficient. So, Liam, what is this internship?’

‘I’m hoping to work in the Houses of Parliament.’

‘Wow.’

‘But it’s really competitive.’

‘Well, you are gorgeous and principled and have the confidence to question your parents’ passive, institutionalised sexism – I’d say you’ll cut through the competition.’

‘Abi!’ I squeal, laughing as I know she’s joking. Liam reddens.

‘Just kidding.’ She turns back to Liam, ‘Maybe I could help with the interview practice,’ Abi offers.

‘Really?’ I ask.

‘I’m not saying I’m an expert but . . . ’ she laughs. ‘But my entire career is based on interviewing people. I do know how to carefully solicit particular information, even when a person doesn’t want to give it.’ She beams encouragingly at Liam; he’s looking at the table. ‘I know how to then present that information to make someone look erudite, original. I can coach you.’

Of course she’s an expert. This is great news. What an advantage. I glance at Liam to see if he hates the idea of Abigail helping but he shrugs, seemingly OK with the suggestion. I have a feeling Abi might be able to provide the zing and edge; help him stand out. I’m grateful.

‘That’s so kind,’ I gush.

‘Well that’s settled then, I’ll stay until after Liam’s interview,’ she says enthusiastically.

I daren’t look at Ben – the interview is not until the week after next. Instead I say, ‘Now who’s for pudding?’

‘Oh, me please, I can diet tomorrow,’ Abi says with a careless giggle.

Everyone, even Lily, says in unison, ‘You don’t need to diet, ever!’