But I mean, that was then.
That was them.
‘Audrey . . .’ Mum’s face is strained and I feel sorry I’ve ruined her nice evening of MasterChef and Grand Designs or whatever.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I reassure her.
‘Do you want to call Natalie? Is that it?’
The name Natalie makes me shrink away a little. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to talk to Natalie. But nor do I want to give anything away to Mum.
‘Maybe.’ I shrug.
‘Audrey, I don’t know . . .’
I know why Mum’s sensitive on this issue. I mean, believe me, I’m sensitive too. (In fact, I’m over-sensitive, which basically the whole world has told me.) But I’m not giving in. I feel resolved on this. I should get a phone.
‘Audrey, be careful. I just . . . I just don’t want you to be . . .’
‘I know.’
I can see a few grey hairs among Mum’s vivid brown highlights. Her skin looks kind of thin. I think all this has aged her. I’ve aged her.
‘Dr Sarah would tell me to get the phone,’ I say, to make her feel better. ‘She always says I can text her any time. She says I’ll know when I’m ready. Well, I’m ready.’
‘OK.’ Mum sighs. ‘We’ll get you a phone. I mean, it’s great that you want one, darling. It’s wonderful.’ She puts a hand on mine as though she’s only just seeing the positive side. ‘This is progress!’
‘I haven’t used it yet,’ I remind her. ‘Don’t get too excited.’ I sit properly on the sofa and shift up a bit. ‘What are you watching?’
As I’m moving the cushions around, I see a book nestled in Mum’s lap. It’s entitled How to Talk to Your Teens by Dr Terence Kirshenberger.
‘Oh my God.’ I pick it up. ‘Mum, what is this?’
Mum flushes pink and grabs it. ‘Nothing. Just some reading matter.’
‘You don’t need a book to talk to us!’ I flip through the pages and see lots of lame-looking cartoons, then turn to the back. ‘Twelve ninety-five? You spent twelve ninety-five on this? What does it say? I bet it says, “Your teenager is a person too”.’
‘No, it says, “Give me my book back”.’ Mum grabs the book before I can stop her and sits on it. ‘OK, now, are we watching TV?’
She’s still pink, though, and looks kind of embarrassed. Poor Mum. I can’t believe she spent £12.95 on a book full of crap cartoons.
She read it! She read the £12.95 book!
The reason I know is that on Saturday she suddenly starts talking to Frank at breakfast like she’s speaking a foreign language.
‘So, Frank, I noticed you left two wet towels on the floor of your bedroom yesterday,’ she begins, in weird, calm tones. ‘That made me feel surprised. How did it make you feel?’
‘Huh?’ Frank stares at her.
‘I think we could find a solution to the towel issue together,’ Mum continues. ‘I think that could be a fun challenge.’
Frank looks at me, baffled, and I shrug.
‘What do you think, Frank?’ persists Mum. ‘If you were running this house, what would you advise about towels?’
‘Dunno.’ Frank looks a bit unnerved. ‘Use kitchen towel and chuck it away.’
I can tell Mum is a bit frustrated with that answer, but she keeps on smiling this weird smile. ‘I hear you,’ she says. ‘Interesting idea.’
‘It’s not.’ Frank looks at her suspiciously.
‘Yes it is.’
‘Mum, it’s a stupid idea I invented to piss you off. You can’t say “It’s interesting.”’
‘I hear you.’ Mum nods. ‘I hear you, Frank. I can see your point of view. It’s valid.’
‘I don’t have a point of view!’ Frank snaps. ‘And stop saying “I hear you.”’
‘Mum read a book,’ I tell him. ‘It’s called, How to Talk to Your Teens.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Frank rolls his eyes.
‘Do not swear, young man!’ Mum snaps straight out of her Stepford Mum mode.
‘Oh, for futtsake!’ chimes in Felix joyfully, and Mum inhales furiously.
‘You see? You see what you did?’
‘Well, stop talking to me like a bloody robot!’ shouts Frank. ‘It’s totally fake.’
‘Bloody robot!’ echoes Felix.
‘That book cost twelve ninety-five,’ I tell Frank, who gives an incredulous laugh.
‘Twelve ninety-five! I could write that book in four words. It would say, “Stop patronizing your teenager”.’
There’s silence. I think Mum’s making an effort not to lose it. From the way she’s crushing her napkin into a tiny ball, I think she’s finding it quite hard. At last she looks up with a smile again.
‘Frank, I understand you’re frustrated with life at the moment,’ she says, in pleasant tones. ‘So I’ve found you some occupations. You can do some jamming with Dad today and next week you’re volunteering.’
‘Volunteering?’ Frank looks taken aback. ‘Like, building huts in Africa?’
‘Making sandwiches for the Avonlea fête.’
Avonlea is the old people’s home in the next street. They have this fête every year and it’s quite fun. You know. For a thing in a garden with old people.
‘Making sandwiches?’ Frank looks aghast. ‘You’re joking.’
‘I’ve volunteered our kitchen for the catering. We’re all going to help.’
‘I’m not making bloody sandwiches.’
‘I hear you,’ says Mum. ‘But you are. And don’t swear.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I hear you, Frank,’ says Mum implacably. ‘But you are.’
‘Mum stop it, OK?’
‘I hear you.’
‘Stop it.’
‘I hear you.’
‘Stop it! Jesus!’ Frank brings two fists to his head. ‘OK, I’ll make the bloody sandwiches! Now, have you finished ruining my life?’
He swings away from the table and Mum gives a tiny smile.
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY
The camera approaches the garage doors. Inside we find Dad dressed in leathers, holding a guitar connected to a massive amp. Frank is standing nearby, holding a bass, looking dismal.
DAD
(enthusiastically)
So let’s jam. Just play around, have some fun.
He plays a showy guitar riff.
DAD
You know ‘For Her, For Me’?
FRANK
What?
DAD
‘For Her, For Me’. It’s our best-known song.
He looks a little hurt.
DAD
I sent you the link? I have a solo on that track.
He plays another showy guitar riff.
FRANK
Right. Er . . . I don’t know it.
DAD
What do you know?
FRANK
I know the theme tune to LOC.
He starts to play it, but Dad shakes his head impatiently.
DAD
We want to play real music. OK, we’ll just jam over the chord structure. Keep it simple. Intro – C, E, F, G, chorus in double time – D minor, F, C for two beats, chorus repeats with a G chord for a pickup to go into the verse.
Frank stares at him in panic.
FRANK
What?
DAD
Just feel it. You’ll be fine. A one, a two, a one-two-three-four.
A cacophony of music hits the air as both start playing. Dad starts singing in a screechy voice.
DAD
(sings)
For her . . . for meeeeee . . . Comin’ round again . . .
(shouts above music)
You do backing, Frank.
(sings)
For her, for meeeee . . .
He launches into a solo. Frank stares wildly at the camera and mouths ‘Help’.
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWO
OD CLOSE. DAY
Mum is making lunch in the kitchen as Dad enters, all fired up. She looks up.
MUM
So? How was that?
DAD
It was great! We jammed, we bonded . . . I think Frank really enjoyed it.
MUM
Great! Well done!
She gives him a hug.
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY
Frank sits at the top of the stairs. He addresses the camera.
FRANK
Oh my God. That was the single worst experience of my life.
AUDREY (VOICE-OVER)
No it wasn’t.
FRANK
(scowls)
You don’t know. Maybe it was.
He sags against the banister.
FRANK
Why does Dad want to play old-man rock with me? Why?
AUDREY (V.O.)
To stop you playing computer games.
Frank gives her a dark look.
FRANK
Thanks, Einstein.
AUDREY (V.O.)
I’m just telling you. They want you to have other interests.
FRANK
(explodes)
I don’t want any other interests! What’s wrong with gaming?
AUDREY (V.O.)
I didn’t say anything was wrong with gaming.
FRANK
Gaming develops your reaction times, it helps teamwork and strategy, it teaches you stuff . . .
AUDREY (V.O.)
(sceptically)
It teaches you stuff? What stuff?
FRANK
OK, you want to know? (He counts off on his fingers.) Minecraft – architecture. Sim City – how to manage a population and budget and shit. Assassin’s Creed – ancient Rome and the Borgias and, like . . . Leonardo da Vinci. Everything. All the history I remember comes from Assassin’s Creed. None from school. All from gaming.
AUDREY (V.O.)
What have you learned from LOC?
FRANK
(grins)
Mostly Korean curse words.
(suddenly shouts)
SHEEBSEKEE!
AUDREY (V.O.)
What does that mean?
FRANK
Use your imagination.
From downstairs, Mum calls.
MUM
Frank! Audrey! Lunch time!
Frank doesn’t even seem to hear.
FRANK
You know, in lots of countries LOC is a spectator sport? You know they have arenas?
AUDREY (V.O.)
I know. You told me, like, a million times.
FRANK
You know in the States they have LOC scholarships at some universities?
AUDREY (V.O.)
You told me that too.
FRANK
LOC is sophisticated. It has its own language. It has rules. It’s like . . . it’s like fucking Latin. That’s what it’s like. Latin. And Mum and Dad are, like, ‘Oh it’s so evil.’ What if I was addicted to Latin?
A long pause.
AUDREY (V.O.)
I honestly can’t imagine that.
So Mum’s bought me a phone. That was step one. I’ve got Linus’s number off Frank. That was step two. Now I need to call him.
I input his number and stare at it for a while. I try to imagine how I’ll start the conversation. I write down some useful words and phrases I might need. (Dr Sarah’s tip.) I visualize a positive scenario.
But I still can’t bring myself to call him. So instead I text.
Hi Linus. This is Audrey here. Frank’s sister. I still need to do my documentary and you said you would be interviewed for it. Is that still OK? Could we meet?
Thanks, Audrey.
And I’m expecting no reply, or at least a long wait, but the phone buzzes straight away and there’s his response:
Sure. When?
I hadn’t thought about that. When? It’s Saturday evening, which means we’ve got all day tomorrow.
Tomorrow? Do you want to come round here? 11 am?
I press SEND, and this time there’s a bit of a wait before he replies:
No, let’s meet at Starbucks.
A jolt of panic goes through me like white fire. Starbucks? Is he nuts? Then a second text comes through:
You have to go there anyway, right? Isn’t that your project?
But . . . but . . . but . . .
Starbucks?
Tomorrow?
My fingers are trembling. My skin feels hot. I’m breathing in for four counts and out for seven and trying to channel Dr Sarah. How would she advise me? What would she say?
But already I know what she’d say. Because she’s said it. I can hear her voice in my head, right now:
It’s time for some bigger steps.
You need to push yourself, Audrey.
You won’t know till you try.
I believe you can cope with it.
I stare at the phone till the numbers blur in front of my eyes, then type the text before I can change my mind.
OK. See you there.
I know what it’s like to be an old person now.
OK, I don’t know what it’s like to have wrinkly skin and white hair. But I do know what it’s like to walk down the road at a slow, uncertain pace, wincing at the passing of people and flinching when horns beep and feeling like everything is just too fast.
Mum and Dad have taken Felix out for the day to some garden show and at the last minute they took Frank with them too, to ‘broaden his horizons’. So they have no idea I’m doing this. I couldn’t face the whole big deal of telling them and Mum fussing and all that palaver. So I waited till they left, got my key, got my money and the camera, and just left the house.
Which I haven’t done for . . .
I don’t know. So long.
We live about twenty minutes’ walk from Starbucks, if you’re striding. I’m not striding. But I’m not stopping, either. I’m going. Even though my lizard brain is poised to curl up in fright, I’m managing to put one foot in front of the other. Left, right. Left, right.
My dark glasses are on, my hands are jammed in the pockets of my hoodie and I’ve pulled the hood up for extra protection. I haven’t raised my gaze from the pavement, but that’s OK. Most people walk along in their own worlds anyway.
As I reach the town centre the crowds become denser and the shop fronts are bright and noisy, and with every step I have a stronger desire to run, but I don’t. I push on. It’s like climbing a mountain, I tell myself. Your body doesn’t want to do it, but you make it.
And then, at last, I’ve made it to Starbucks. As I approach the familiar facade I feel kind of exhausted, but I’m giddy too. I’m here. I’m here!
I push the door open and there’s Linus, sitting at a table near the entrance. He’s wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt and he looks hot, I notice before I can stop myself. Not that this is a date.
I mean, obviously it’s not a date. But even so—
Mid-Sentence Stop. Whatever. You know what I mean.
Linus’s face brightens as he sees me, and he leaps up from the table. ‘You made it!’
‘Yes!’
‘I didn’t think you would.’
‘I didn’t think so either,’ I admit.
‘But you did! You’re cured!’
His enthusiasm is so infectious I grin madly back and we do a sort of mini-dance, arms waving up and down.
‘Shall we get some coffee?’
‘Yes!’ I say, in my new confident, everything’s-fine way. ‘Great!’
As we join the queue I feel kind of wired. The music on the sound system is too loud and the conversations around me are hitting my ear-drums with a force that makes me wince, but I’m going with it instead of resisting. Like you do at a rock concert, when your nerves get taken over by the force of the noise and you just have to surrender. (And yes, I appreciate most people would not equate low-level Starbucks chatter to a rock c
oncert. All I will say is: Try living inside my brain for a bit.)
I can feel my heart pumping, but whether it’s because of the noise or the people or because I’m with a hot-looking boy, I don’t know. I give my order (caramel Frappuccino) and the surly girl behind the counter says, ‘Name?’
If there’s one thing I don’t want it’s my name being shouted across a busy coffee shop.
‘I hate the name thing,’ I mutter to Linus.
‘Me too.’ He nods. ‘Give a fake one. I always do.’
‘Name?’ repeats the girl impatiently.
‘Oh. Um, Rhubarb,’ I say.
‘Rhubarb?’
It’s easy to keep a poker face when you’re wearing dark glasses and a hoodie and you’re looking off to one side.
‘Yes, that’s my name. Rhubarb.’
‘You’re called Rhubarb?’
‘Of course she’s called Rhubarb,’ chimes in Linus. ‘Hey, Rhu, do you want anything to eat? You want a muffin, Rhu?’
‘No, thanks.’ I can’t help smiling.
‘OK, Rhu. No problem.’
‘Fine. Rhu-barb.’ The girl writes it down with her Sharpie. ‘And you?’
‘I would like a cappuccino,’ says Linus politely. ‘Thank you.’
‘Your name?’
‘I’ll spell it for you,’ he says. ‘Z-W-P-A-E-N—’
‘What?’ She stares at him, Sharpie in hand.
‘Wait. I haven’t finished. Double-F-hyphen-T-J-U-S. It’s an unusual name,’ Linus adds gravely. ‘It’s Dutch.’
I’m shaking, trying not to laugh.
The Starbucks girl gives us both evil stares. ‘You’re John,’ she says, and scrawls it on his cup.
I tell Linus I’ll pay because this is my documentary and I’m the producer, and he says OK, he’ll get the next one. Then we take our cups – Rhubarb and John – and head back to our table. My heart is pounding even harder, but I’m on a high. Look at me! In Starbucks! Back to normal!
I mean, OK, I’m still in dark glasses. And I can’t look at anyone. And my hands are doing weird twisty things in my lap. But I’m here. That’s the point.
‘So you dumped Frank off your team,’ I say as we sit down, and immediately regret it in case it sounds aggressive.