“Yes, I’m here. I was only thinking: you might want to set fire to it.”
But I was thinking I might want to leave it be.
Season’s greetings
An email from Dad. Subject heading: Christmas.
Mum said what about a cruise. 7 nights Canaries with her mother. Something different. We thought you wouldn’t be interested — you’d want to spend Christmas with Luke. Let me know as I’ll need to book asap. Love, Dad
I reply:
OK, seems you have it all worked out. Don’t worry about me. I’ll look after myself. C
Half an hour later, he’s back in my in-box:
Great — all booked. James Bond theme Christmas Dinner, five courses including Champagne. Lobster supplement £15 extra per head. Mum and I may do this but will decide on the day. Grandma won’t want to get bogged down with the claws. I will have to pack a tuxedo. Love, Dad
Hair
There is nothing on this earth I can do to my hair to make it look better than fine. My younger self had no idea how much of my life would be spent despairing about it: how limp and flat it lies on my head, how abundantly it sprouts elsewhere.
“You had a great head as a baby,” my mother said to me. This was last Christmas, before Gum died, back when she was still talking to me. She’s always been big on hair, big on big hair, the bigger the better, and mine can only be a disappointment to her.
“A great head of hair?” I asked, surprised, because in all the pictures I look pretty bald.
“No,” she said, “a great big head. Huge. I had to get six stitches!”
And the two of us screeched and gasped so long my father was moved to come down from his office.
“Share the joke?” he said in the doorway, and with tears standing in our eyes, my mother and I shook our heads and smiled, exhausted.
Second chance
I ring Sarah, in need of a friendly voice, but Paddy answers instead.
“Oh, hi, Paddy. Is Sarah around?”
“She’s in the shower.”
“Could you tell her I called?”
“Okay.”
I decide this is the perfect opportunity for him to prove me wrong about my poor early impression of him. “How are you doing? It’s Claire, by the way.”
“I know.”
“Work going well?”
“Yeah.”
“Any nice plans for the weekend?”
“Not really.”
I knew I was right, I think — never doubt yourself. But for Sarah’s sake I press on.
“Sarah said you guys might go up to Hampstead Heath. I love it there.”
“Really.”
“Maybe the four of us could go together sometime. You guys and Luke and me. There are ponds you can swim in. We could take a picnic.”
“Yeah…I’ll have to check with Sar.” His tone conveys grave misgivings about this plan.
“Not this weekend. I meant in the summer. No rush. Whenever. It was just an idea.”
“Okay.”
“Well, listen, Paddy, it’s been great catching up. I’d better not keep you — see you soon, I hope.”
“Bye.”
Sisters
We’re having friends round, so I’m in the big supermarket and naturally join the wrong checkout line. Ahead of me are two wild-haired women whose groceries, excepting a six-pack of beer, consist entirely of orange-stickered items: yogurts, sliced turkey, meat pies and coleslaw, all past their best.
“That’s 9.76,” says the checkout guy, and the women launch into a livid debate about who should pay.
“I lent you a tenner for the bookies!” says one.
“No, no, no, no!” the other shouts back — an unconvincing but heartfelt defense. This back-and-forth continues for some time, and behind me, the growing line sighs.
“You pay!” shouts the first, walking away with the bags. “I’ve had enough! You owe me! I’m done here!”
Muttering, the other one pulls a fistful of cash from her coat pocket and slams it in the bagging area.
The checkout guy gives a rueful smile as they traipse off. “Sisters. Always in here, always fighting.”
At the bus stop, I see them across the road, settling into a doorway. From their coat pockets, they produce real metal cutlery and tuck into their picnic, chatting away. Before the approaching bus obscures them, they clash their beer cans in a sloppy toast and I find myself wishing that I had a sister to grow old and mad with.
Entertaining
Luke gets in as I’m prepping the starter for dinner, smoked trout on brown bread.
“Yum,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. He stays watching as I try to fit fish slices to bread squares: an exact and fiddly operation. “Why are you doing it like that?” he asks. “Why didn’t you put the salmon on whole slices first and cut them into squares after?”
“Trout,” I say. “Shows how much you know.”
It isn’t fair that he’s spent the day saving lives and gets to come home and be right about this too.
—
“Everyone should learn the Heimlich maneuver! It should be a legal requirement!”
The meal is done, we’re four bottles in, and passions are running high.
“So how do you do it, then? Teach me,” says someone.
“This is my point! I don’t know!” I say.
“I’ll show you,” Luke offers, stacking the plates.
“You shouldn’t have to! This is what I’m trying to say! You don’t listen; no one is listening to me!”
—
My feet are soaking wet: there’s water everywhere, but the dishes at last are done.
“Do you think they had a good time?” I ask.
“Sure,” says Luke from the kitchen table, head in his arms.
“Was I too much? I think I might have been too much.”
“No.” This said on the exhalation.
“Did you like the dessert? I liked it. There’s some left. We can have it tomorrow.”
“It was fine,” yawns Luke.
“Only fine,” I say, and march to the fridge, take out the cheesecake and dump it — dish, spoon and all — in the bin.
—
In the morning, my blood is charged with regret and bad feeling.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Luke. “I’m a horrible person.”
“No, you’re not,” he says into his pillow. “Go back to sleep.”
“I am. I’m sorry. I love you,” I say, kissing his head, his warm neck, his velvet-smooth back.
Problem
I used to think the problem was I didn’t like my job; but now I see the problem is that wasn’t the whole problem.
Multitasking
Today’s mid-afternoon game-show contestants include a marketing executive for a Web development company, a business analyst for a stockbroker, a body-combat teacher and a statistician for the pharmaceutical industry. So by the end of the episode I’ve learned not only the capital of Lesotho (Maseru) and the key ingredient in a sidecar (cognac), but also the existence of four more career paths I don’t think I want to pursue.
Dawn to dusk
Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, wine, wine, wine.
Collateral damage
“Do you want to know the worst bit about my mum not talking to me? I’ve run out of hand cream and can’t go home to restock.” My mother has been buying luxury hand cream in bulk for years, ever since hearing a rumor at book club that her favorite brand was about to be discontinued. The fact it has remained widely available is, she insists, due to the change in her own personal consumer behavior, so substantial and dramatic as to have falsely inflated the perceived demand. I’ve been in no hurry to explode her theory, since the ever-replenishing supply meant I could help myself every time I went home, assuaging any niggling guilt with the knowledge that, if anything, I actually saw more of my parents than I would were moisturizer not a factor in the timing and frequency of my visits.