“Did I?”
“Maybe not in those words. But that’s what you did, leaving your job. The first time, anyway.”
Alone in my kitchen, I allow myself a small, unconcealed smile of pride.
“Does this mean early retirement, then?”
“No.”
“Yes!” my mother, hitherto latent, calls from the background: speakerphone strikes again. “We can access the pension in a few months’ time. We’ll be fine.”
“Hi, Mum!”
“We need to sit down and work out the budget,” says Dad. “I think I’ll need to do some consulting part-time. A colleague said he has some good contacts.”
“Still, you’ll have more time for yourself. Any big plans?”
“I might try and get the garden sorted.”
“No!” says Mum. “House first, then garden. We agreed! Claire, don’t mind him — he’s pulling your leg.”
“I think he’s pulling your leg, Mum,” I say. “Dad, you could take a course in something — architecture maybe? I’ll send you some links.”
“I’d be too old for that,” he says. “I’ll be dribbling onto my drawing board by the time I qualify.”
“Not to retrain,” I say, trying to banish the dribbling image. “Just for fun. Maybe I’ll sign up too: we can go together.”
“What about me?” says Mum. “Could we find something all three of us might enjoy? Ooh — flower arranging?”
“Um,” I say.
“Salsa? Bernadette’s big into her salsa and says it’s great fun.” There’s a stomp-clack noise, which I take to be her heels tapping out some moves on the kitchen floor.
“Cha-cha-cha,” says Dad.
Mum laughs, stomp-clacking again.
“I think that’s something different,” I say. “I think that’s the cha-cha.”
“Cha-cha-cha! Oh, hello, Mr. Snakey-hips! You should see him, Claire!” Mum hoots, and I give brief wordless thanks that I can’t. Then there’s a rustling noise on the line, and Mum starts to shriek, “Oh no! Stop that! Put me down!”
“I think you guys should go for it. Salsa’s more of a two-person thing anyway,” I say, over their breathless laughter.
Party time
Aunt Dee is hosting a birthday party for Grandma: the cousins are in our usual spot — crammed round a couple of folding tables in the hallway, with seats scavenged from throughout the house, while the adults live it up on coordinated furniture in the adjoining dining room. Sophia, one of the twins (perched on a linen chest), thanks me for organizing Grandma’s present from the family — an iPad, plus broadband installed in her home.
“No problem,” I say, waving a hand and propelling myself back and forth as much as limited space will allow. I’ve got the rocking chair, and feel every bit the wise elder at the table. “I thought it would help with the loneliness. Imagine having never been online — it’s a form of exile, when you think about it.” I’m conscientiously watching my wine intake, but I’ve had just enough to bring fire to my cheeks, and grand hypotheses to my tongue. My cousins nod, willing to grant me that one.
“Not it for teaching her how to use it,” Stuart says quickly.
“But you work in computers!” This is from Faye, who has had unfortunate wispy bangs cut, and who I still haven’t fully forgiven for blabbing about the Gum business way back in the first place.
“Last time I went over there, I tried showing her how to use Google on my phone.” Stuart rolls his eyes, segueing into a spot-on impression of Grandma. “ ‘Ask it my name…How old am I, then?…Should I have soup or sausages for dinner?…Well, I don’t understand how you can say it has the answers…No, I’m sorry, I really don’t understand how you can say that.’ ”
—
A cork pops in the dining room. “Children! Cake!” calls Dee, glugging champagne into flutes. We troop in obediently round the grown-ups’ table and I stand behind Mum, my hands light on her shoulders. Dad reaches back and puts an arm around my waist. We launch into a stirringly tuneful round of “Happy Birthday” to Grandma, who, clapping along — decked out in party sparkle and fake fur, thin white hair teased to soft peaks like whipped cream — looks all set to lift off from the table, powered by delight at the attention, plus the enormous helium balloons tied to the back of her chair.
Epilogue
Monday morning
I wake early to go for a run before work, kissing Luke on the shoulder when I leave; in sleep, he puckers reciprocally.
Outside, the air is cool, but the clear sky promises a scorcher. The streets are in shadow as I set out, overtaking street sweepers and dodging early commuters. I head east toward the canal, and on every street — exploding from buildings and gardens and railings — bright purple buddleia sprays bop in the breeze: clusters of supporters lining my route to cheer me on my way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank:
Thomas Morris, Jessie Price, Kiare Ladner and Thomas Eccleshare, for early readings and astute feedback.
Jane Finigan, for instant and enduring faith. Also, David Forrer at Inkwell Management and Juliet Mahoney at Lutyens & Rubinstein.
Francesca Main for boundless passion, eagle eyes and invaluable guidance. Also, her brilliant colleagues at Picador.
Kara Cesare at Random House, and Martha Kanya Forstner at Doubleday Canada, for editorial savvy and vital encouragement.
My family, for a lifetime of love.
Simon, for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LISA OWENS was born in 1985 and grew up in Glasgow and Hertfordshire. Not Working is her first novel. She lives in London.