Anyway, I let Roy gingerly wrap one arm round me in an awkward hug, and kiss my forehead, and then I ushered him into the flat and bringing up the rear was his latest woman. To be fair, it was the same woman he’d turned up with three months ago, so it was obviously serious. I couldn’t remember her name, but then Roy said, ‘You going to give your Auntie Sandra a kiss?’
He always talks to me either in a patronising voice like I’m seven or in a bluff, blustery way like I’m a proper adult and should act like one. I still wasn’t going to give Sandra, who was smiling nervously at me, a kiss. I settled for a half-hearted wave and led them into the lounge.
They both looked round and I knew they weren’t seeing the several metres of floor – not heaped with neat stacks of magazines – that I’d actually vacuumed. Sandra was looking at the exact spot on the sideboard where I’d set up the DustCam and when I graciously offered them a cup of tea and went to the kitchen, she ran her finger along the mantelpiece and showed the grimy evidence she’d uncovered to Roy.
It was excruciating but familiar. I gave Roy a tour around the flat so he’d know I hadn’t moved in a family of meth-heads or illegal immigrants. I showed him some coursework, though he and Sandra were very dismissive of my seascape. ‘You should have painted the beach at Margate,’ Sandra said, pursing her lips. ‘You get a lovely vista there.’ Then I gave him the pile of envelopes from boring places like British Gas and he wanted an explanation of how long I had the central heating on for every day.
When it was 6.30 and I’d told Sandra for the fifth time that I didn’t want to change and, yes, really, this was what I was going to wear for dinner, I hustled them out of the flat. We had to take public transport because Roy would want a drink, more than one drink, so he used the time to grill me about Michael.
‘How old is he? Where did you meet him? What’s he doing his A-levels in? Has he applied to university? What do his parents do for a living? Oh, so they’re not short of a bob or two?’
‘What does this Michael do in his spare time?’ Roy asked as we got out at Leicester Square tube station. In all his years of going to Garfunkel’s, Roy had decided that the one on Irving Street had the cleanest loos, friendliest staff and best-stocked salad bar. There was probably a spreadsheet involved. ‘Does he have the same hobbies as you?’
This was Roy-speak for, ‘Is this boy, who may or may not be trying to impregnate you, the same kind of weirdly dressed weirdo with weird pastimes as you?’
‘He’s just a friend,’ I kept grimly repeating. ‘A friend who, by some strange accident of birth, just so happens to be a boy.’ It occurred to me as we finally reached Garfunkel’s that Roy had asked far more questions about Michael and his likes and dislikes and future career trajectory than he ever asked about mine.
The object of Roy’s curiosity was hovering at the entrance to the restaurant. His face lit up when he saw us, because it was a freezing cold November night and Michael always turned up for everything at least ten minutes early and we were five minutes late. I wanted my face to light up too because, honestly, I was so pleased to see someone who wasn’t Roy or Sandra. I settled for gently punching him on the arm instead.
‘Michael, this is one of my secondary caregivers, Roy, and this is Sandra, Roy’s special friend,’ I said by way of introduction. ‘Roy, Sandra, this is Michael, who’s not, repeat not, a special friend. Just an ordinary friend.’
I squeezed Michael’s hand as he held the door open for us to show that he wasn’t just an ordinary friend and I was fudging the truth for appearance’s sake and, actually, to save him a world of trouble. He caught my eye and pulled a face but I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed with me or if he already realised that he was in for one of the most tedious evenings of his life, free salad notwithstanding.
There was a lot of fuss before we could sit down as the first table was too near the toilets and Sandra couldn’t sit with her back to the room because it made her feel dizzy but she did need to be able to see out of the window because she got ‘a touch claustrophobic’, but eventually we were all seated. Michael and I had our backs to the restaurant because we didn’t suffer from claustrophobia and Sandra and Roy were sitting opposite, a gin and tonic and a large whisky in front of them.
They both kept staring at Michael and I hoped Roy wasn’t going to say something really tactless like, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to a Chinese restaurant?’ For real. Once Bethan was seeing a black guy, shock horror, and Roy actually asked him where he was born and wasn’t happy when Martin said, ‘Chalk Farm.’
Thankfully that didn’t happen tonight and Michael wasn’t wearing his low-slung jeans that showed his boxer trunks to the world. He was wearing his dark blue jeans that stayed on his hips with a blue and white check shirt and his grey hoodie. Not the most exciting outfit in the world, but it was parent-and girlfriend-of-parent-friendly and so was Michael.
He politely answered all of Roy’s questions, giving the answers that we’d already run through, but Roy had only just asked Michael what his projected A-level grades were when Sandra tugged on Roy’s sleeve.
‘I think we should go to the salad bar now,’ she said urgently, her head swivelling in that direction. ‘They’ve just restocked.’ It shouldn’t have been possible for two old people to move so fast. One minute they were sitting there, the next they were on the other side of the restaurant. I rested my head on Michael’s shoulder for the briefest of moments.
‘Oh, poor Jeane, has it been awful?’
‘It’s been the absolute awfullest,’ I replied. ‘And I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to eat some salad.’
Michael grinned, though there was nothing to grin about. ‘If you eat all your salad then I’ve got you a special treat for later on.’
‘I thought you had to go home,’ I groused, because even though it was half-term and there were no school nights during half-term, Michael wasn’t staying over. It was stupid. He was eighteen. Legally he was allowed to stay over without his parents’ consent, or he could simply lie and say he was at a friend’s house, but he was too vanilla. ‘They’ll go up for at least two more salad refills and we’ll be here for hours and then there won’t be time for you to give me a special treat.’
I had no idea why Michael was still grinning. ‘I’m not talking about that,’ he said prissily, as if I had to beg and plead and cajole in order to be able to have my wicked way with him, which, not even. ‘I came up here early so I could go to Chinatown to get some stuff for my dad and visit my favourite Chinese bakery.’
‘Oh! Did you get the buns with the red sticky paste in them?’
‘I might have done.’
‘You know, if I did proper boyfriends and you were my proper boyfriend then you’d be, like, the god of proper boyfriends,’ I managed to spit out, because props were due. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this.’
Michael nodded. ‘If I’d known I was expected to bring my driver’s licence and last three report cards, I probably wouldn’t have agreed to it, but, hey, free meal!’ He frowned. ‘Is it free? Should I offer to pay my share?’
‘No! We’re not here of our own free will and if Roy expects us to pony up then I’ll pay for your dinner. It’s the very least I can do.’ I glanced over to the salad bar where Roy and Sandra were deep in conversation over their heaped bowls. ‘You know, it’s not too late. You could still make a run for it and I’ll cobble together some story about how you were taken ill or you had a sudden emergency and had to take your pet rabbit to the vet.’ It was Michael’s turn to punch me on the arm. ‘Lame. Very lame.’
‘Well, I’m stressed out and I stayed up all night cleaning and tidying. I haven’t even had a little bit of sleep and I can’t think on the fly when I’ve had no sleep at all.’
Everything that came out of my mouth was one gigantic whine but Michael was still sitting there next to me, knee brushing against mine. All large and solid and calm so I had to blink and shake my head because it made me wonder exactly why he was
sitting there next to me.
22
Jeane’s dad, Roy, was the saddest looking man I’ve ever seen. I don’t mean sad like in saddo, though he was wearing a really tragic cardigan and shirt and tie combo. I mean sad as in he looked like something terrible had happened to him at some stage in his life and he’d never got over it.
His lady friend, Sandra, also seemed to have suffered great misfortune. She twitched and fidgeted and smiled apologetically every time she spoke. Really, neither of them were that bad, even though they kept bombarding me with questions, but I think it was because they didn’t know how else to keep the conversation going.
Jeane wasn’t quite as snippy as usual. She didn’t even explode when she was told to go and put more salad things in her salad bowl instead of just bacon croutons and pineapple pieces. She’d also made an effort not to look like too much of an eyesore. Yes, she was wearing a glittery silver jumper and cardigan but at least they matched and probably most girls wouldn’t have worn a red skirt with yellow tights and black and white lace-up brogues (she insisted they were something called saddle shoes) but Jeane wasn’t most girls.
The second round of drinks arrived and as we waited for our main courses Sandra started talking to me about her exhusband and how all he’d left her with was a mountain of debts and a peptic ulcer. As Sandra talked, I watched Jeane and Roy.
He’d say something. Jeane would reply with an answer so curt, it was almost, but not quite, downright rude. She also kept glancing down at her salad bowl suspiciously as if it might suddenly leap up and attack her. The lights glinting off the silver cardigan gave her face a ghostly hue and there was Roy with his tie and his comb-over and his sad, sad face and all I could think was, how could you two be blood relations? How could you have lived in the same house for sixteen years? How is it possible that you’re even sitting at the same table in Garfunkel’s?
Just then Jeane glanced up from her salad bowl and caught my eye. I’d never seen her look so lost before. She looked as sad as Roy and for a moment I was tempted to grab her and rush her to a place where she could sparkle and be gobby and eat huge quantities of Haribo.
‘This is hell,’ she mouthed at me. ‘Can we do a runner?’
I was definitely thinking about it but then our main courses arrived. There was a moment’s excitement when it looked as if they’d forgotten Sandra’s mashed potatoes but it was all sorted out so the four of us could eat our dinner in a tense silence.
As soon as the waiter swooped down to take away our empty plates, Jeane was on her feet. ‘I need a wee,’ she yelped, snatching up her bag and galloping for the Ladies’. I knew for a fact, like I knew exactly how many goals Robin van Persie has scored for Arsenal in his career, that she was going to channel her anguish into a tweeting frenzy. I gripped my dessert menu as if it were a life belt and smiled wanly at Roy and Sandra.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘She barely touched her omelette.’
‘Well, maybe she was full up after her salad,’ I said, though Jeane had only eaten the bacon croutons.
Roy shook his head. ‘She loved coming to Garfunkel’s when she was little. I’ve never seen a child so excited at the thought of a chocolate sundae.’
Jeane was still that girl. Some of her happiest moments were spent watching bad TV and rooting through a bag of sweets, but I don’t think Roy had seen that girl in a long time. Still, he ordered her a chocolate sundae and when she finally returned to the table she gave him a thin-lipped smile and said thank you, even though normally if anyone had ever tried to order for her she’d have spat out a ranty lecture about the complex, conflicted relationship girls had with their bodies and food and possibly something about patriarchy.
I thought I hated at least half of the bits that made up Jeane but I hated this sad-faced, quiet bit of Jeane the most. When she sat down I couldn’t help myself and I surreptitiously took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze and the worst thing was that she let me.
‘So, Jeane, we were thinking, Roy and I, that you might like to spend Christmas with us?’ Sandra ventured timidly, as Jeane ate her chocolate sundae with all the enthusiasm of a girl who was working on a chain gang. ‘There’s a lovely family moved into our apartment complex, they’re coloured even though they’re German but they’re very nice, and they have two daughters about your age that you can play with.’
Jeane didn’t say anything at first because she was struggling to scoop out a piece of chocolate brownie from the bottom of her sundae glass.
‘Now, I know you think the Costa Brava isn’t the most exciting place in the world but it will be nice to spend Christmas together,’ Roy said as he rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘I’ve got an old portable TV in the spare room so you can watch your programmes.’
‘That sounds nice, it really does,’ Jeane said in a voice that was flatter than Holland and I knew her now and the angrier Jeane was, the flatter her voice got, like she didn’t dare to let any emotion break through because then she might start screaming or doing something else that she’d normally think was totes uncool. She hadn’t actually told me this but by this stage I’d had plenty of field experience. ‘Ordinarily I would love to come but Bethan’s coming back to London for Christmas.’
‘Well, it would be lovely to see both of you,’ Roy said gamely. ‘Might be a bit of a squeeze but you and Beth could share the spare room and—’
‘Yeah, it’s just, like, we’ve already made plans ’cause Bethan could only get a few days off work and I’ve already booked us Christmas dinner at Shoreditch House. It was very expensive,’ she added with a frowny significant look. ‘But it was really sweet of you to offer. Maybe I could come for a really quick visit in the New Year.’
It was obvious that Jeane had no intention of doing any such thing but we all nodded and then Jeane pulled out her phone and began to type furiously. A second later my phone vibrated and under cover of the table, I read her text:
God, how much longer is this torture going to last?
Not much longer by the look of things. Roy signalled for the waiter and asked for the bill, then pulled a buff-coloured envelope out of the inner pocket of his anorak. ‘It’s a shame about Christmas.’
Jeane sighed. ‘Honestly, Roy, after six hours tops you’d be wanting to kill me, you know you would.’
‘Why can’t you make more of an effort to be normal? It would be so much easier for everyone,’ Roy said, shaking his head, and still Jeane didn’t lose her temper, though she was gripping her extra-long sundae spoon so tightly I was surprised it didn’t snap. ‘Now, do you have a thing that takes copies of photographs and puts them on your computer?’
‘You mean a scanner, right?’
‘Is it a home photocopier, Roy?’ Sandra butted in and I actually heard Jeane grit her teeth.
‘I’ve got one,’ she properly snapped for the first time that evening. ‘What do you want scanned?’
‘I had to sort through some boxes I had in storage … now that Sandra has done me the kind honour of moving into my apartment with me …’ Several very long-winded moments later, Roy finally handed over the envelope, which contained family photos. ‘I’m sure your mother would like copies. So can you turn them into photos once you’ve copied them?’
‘Yeah, sure, or I could just email them to you or put them on Flickr,’ Jeane suggested to Roy’s blank face. ‘Look, I’ll email them and print out copies on photographic paper – I’ll put them in the post with the originals.’
‘They might get lost that way, dear.’
‘That’s why I’m going to send them special delivery, Sandra,’ Jeane said in her flattest, dullest voice yet. It was official. She’d met the end of her tether, which was why she was standing up, then taking hold of the sleeve of my shirt so she could yank me to my feet too. ‘Thanks so much for dinner. It’s been great catching up, but Michael and I have to go now.’
I think Jeane put Roy and Sandra out of their misery too because they didn’t pretend
that they wanted to linger over coffee or see Jeane before they went back to Spain. Roy didn’t even stand up or make any attempt to give Jeane a goodbye kiss or a hug. He just nodded at her and said, ‘Let us know if you change your mind about Christmas. Have to be in the next week or so because we might go away if you’re not coming.’
Jeane didn’t comment but her jaw was working furiously as she gave a mock salute then marched out of the restaurant. She was halfway up the street before I managed to catch up with her.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked pointlessly, because it was obvious that Jeane and all right weren’t on speaking terms.
‘I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine? My dad came to town and took me out for a free meal. End of. I’ve got absolutely nothing to complain about.’
‘That’s weird ’cause you kinda sound like you’re complaining.’
‘Look, Michael, I know we have this whole thing where we bitch and take the piss out of each other but I’m really not in the mood right now,’ Jeane said. She came to a halt. ‘“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” I come from the unhappiest family since records began.’
I knew from when Mum’s book club tackled War and Peace that when someone starts quoting Tolstoy they’re not in a good place. But the thing was that I didn’t know how to get her to a good place.
‘Come on, let’s just go,’ Jeane said.
‘We could go and see a film if you like, or there might be a band on or—’
‘Let’s just go.’
We got the tube in silence. Waited for the bus without speaking. I could feel Jeane’s unhappiness as if it was a person coming between the two of us, wrapping us up in its misery. Jeane stared at the bus timetable, her lips moving soundlessly, arms folded, and suddenly I felt angry.
I’d given up a night to meet her dad and she hadn’t even said thanks. I’d let myself be interrogated and eaten food that I didn’t really like and had been there for her and now she was giving me the silent treatment. I wouldn’t have done half that shit for a real girlfriend.