“See?” I rub the back of my hand against Luke’s cheek.
“That’s rough,” he says.
“This one bled the other day. Look, I have scales.”
“So buy some more.”
“I can’t. Do you have any idea how much one tube costs?”
I tell him and watch as he blanches with shock.
“Maybe you should try calling her again,” he says, handing me my phone. “I think it’s high time you two worked things out.”
More time
“Hi, Dad.”
“Is that Claire?”
“Obviously. Unless I’ve got a secret sister you haven’t told me about.”
“What?”
“I’m the only person who’s going to phone and call you ‘Dad,’ is what I’m getting at.”
“I don’t understand,” he says. “What’s this about a secret sister?”
“Never mind. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.” There is a pause, which under ordinary circumstances would be filled by him calling unprompted for my mother. “Was there anything in particular…?”
“I was hoping to speak to Mum, if she’s there.” I listen for her in the background during another silence; picture her vehemently mouthing, “No,” shaking her head and slashing the air at her throat.
“She’s still not ready,” he says at last. “She’s…We are sorry, Claire, but she needs more time.”
“But I need to explain,” I say. “How can it get better if she won’t let me explain?”
“What is there to explain?” her voice comes, shrill but distant. Dad must have me on speakerphone.
“Could you tell her I’m sorry for upsetting her?” I say, pretending I haven’t realized, and then take a breath because my voice is about to split. “That I really didn’t mean to, and that I miss our chats?”
The line is quiet, like a vacuum.
“You could have been a wrong number,” says Dad.
“Huh?”
“Just now, when you said, ‘Hi, Dad,’ and I asked if it was you. It could have been a wrong number, another woman phoning for her father. That’s why I checked it was you.” He sounds pleased to have squared this one away.
“Okay,” I say. “I guess that makes some sort of sense.”
“I hear you have a buddleia problem — you need to get that removed immediately. They can cause a lot of issues if you don’t act quickly.”
I’m touched that this information must have filtered down from Grandma via my mother, but his tone makes me want to plant a thicket in the walls.
“It’s not that straightforward, actually: I’ve been looking into it.”
“Tell Luke I can recommend someone if you need scaffolding.”
I close my eyes. “Oh, I’ll be sure to pass that on.”
“Claire, I’m just trying to help.”
“Sorry — and thank you, honestly, for the concern, but I’ve got it in hand.”
“I’d ask how’s work, but…” says Dad. “Any news on that front?”
“Not yet. A few possibilities, nothing concrete.”
“Well, all the best, now,” he says. “Unless there was anything else?”
“No, just goodbye. Bye, Mum,” I say and hang up before she has a chance to say nothing in reply.
Good and bad
“As a nation we need to reassess what is objectively ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ ”
“Mm.” Andrea nods, eyes fixed on the device in her hand. She’s not really a friend, more a friend of a friend, but as a freelancer (something in social media), she’s available to hang out during the day, and together we tour interchangeable cafes peopled exclusively by Mac-users.
“This morning, right, the weather woman — weather forecaster? Does she forecast the weather or just tell us about it? Anyway, she said, ‘This fabulous weather is set to continue.’ But what about dying crops? What about shrinking reservoirs? I don’t think climate change is fabulous.”
“Ha,” says Andrea to her device.
“I mean it,” I say. “Why is it presumed to be the case that warm, sunny weather is good, when we know for a fact that rising temperatures are causing all kinds of mayhem? Do you think Somali weather forecasters are as upbeat about sunshine as we are?”
“Well, bad weather is linked to depression,” Andrea says. “Seasonal affective disorder — there’s a scientifically proven link between sunshine and happiness, and between gloomy weather and sadness.”
“You’re doing it too,” I say. “Bad weather, gloomy weather. We’ve just been conditioned to think that way. If we were taught to love the rain and the cold, we’d be a much happier nation.”
“Just imagine if you put all this time and energy into an actual job,” says Andrea. “Seriously, you’re wasted in…doing nothing.”
Mistletoe and wine
“What are you doing for Christmas?” I say, counterfeiting a yawn to suggest nonchalance, which in turn sets Luke off on a genuine one.
“I think I’ll be working — my parents and sister might come down to London, rent a flat nearby or something. Why?”
“What about if I spent it with you?”
He looks up. “This is quite the change of heart.”
I gnaw on a thumbnail. “We’ve been together seven years. If not now, when?”
“Wait,” he says, “is this about your mum? Are things really that bad? You’ve always said you could never leave your family at Christmas.”
I shrug. “I think she just needs some space. I’m sure they’ll work it out — they can have Grandma instead, go on a cruise or something.” I move in close so our noses touch. “Anyway. You are my family.” His face crumples into a silly, soppy smile — for which I would mercilessly mock him, if it weren’t the very mirror of my own.
That’s the spirit
In the park, a tiny dog trots by. In its mouth, a branch four times its size.
Destiny
In a fit of bored nostalgia, I Google a childhood friend with whom I’ve long since lost touch. She seems immune to the social-media pandemic that’s claimed most of my generation (or perhaps she’s wisely avoiding it), but at last I find her several pages into the search results. She’s working in Aberdeen, involved in the disposal of radioactive waste. Granted, when I saw her last, we were eight years old, but nothing — not her love of tomato ketchup, nor her peerless Sylvanian Families collection — gave the slightest indication this would be her path. Radioactive-waste disposal! Aberdeen! I try to imagine her life now and see: an office in a trailer, tea breaks with a gruff bearded colleague (the two of them like astronauts in their protective suits), air dense with drizzle, the dark drive home, a warm carpeted tract house tucked inside a cul-de-sac, a tabby rescue cat, husband in the kitchen with dinner in the oven, takeaway on Saturdays in front of the TV.