State We're In

by Parks, Adele

  I love my parents’ house. I think it’s the epitome of success, order, elegance and romance. It’s the sort of home every woman admires but few dare to aspire to. Every room is thoughtfully compiled and there’s rarely a thing out of place. Yet despite the tidiness and sophistication, it’s a comfortable home and people love to receive an invite to visit. My family has thrown numerous parties and countless dinners here; they’re generous and impeccable hosts.

  The only place in the entire house that ever causes me a moment’s discomfort is the master bedroom. The damson-coloured room at the top of the house is pure decadence. It spreads over an entire floor; there’s an ornate superking-size bed slapped in the centre and a stunning freestanding rolltop bath in the corner. There’s an antique crystal chandelier, an abundance of scented candles and numerous aged mirrors that Mum picked up at Portobello Market. It’s the most romantic, sensuous, dreamy, intoxicating room imaginable, which is why it makes me feel uncomfortable. Even as a grown woman, I don’t really like to associate my parents too closely with any of those adjectives. It’s all a bit embarrassing.

  I ring the bell, but there’s no answer. Mum’s car is on the drive but it’s possible that she has ambled into town on foot; possible but unlikely. Mum’s a creature of habit and she likes to walk to the shops on a Monday. Tuesday is art class, Wednesday is yoga, Thursday Pilates, but that finishes by 11.15, and Friday is a visit to her hairdresser’s in Covent Garden. She should be at home. My parents’ house also boasts a long garden full of mature trees. They make the most of it and often enjoy a morning coffee, lunch or an early evening cocktail out there. There’s a chance that she’s doing a spot of weeding, or simply admiring the majestic trees; they have endured a cold winter, but now their tight buds are unfurling and will soon develop into fleshy leaves. I check; she’s not there. The house and garden are both serene and peaceful. Normally I take on their dignity and idealism by osmosis, but today, when I find the back garden empty, I return to the front, hammer impatiently on the door and yell through the letter box, ‘Let me in!’

  A couple of moments later, the door swings wide.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ My mother holds the door open but keeps one hand on the handle and the other stretched to the door frame, effectively creating a barrier.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ I ask frantically.

  ‘Well, actually, this isn’t a good time. I was just—’ I push past and stride into the hallway. ‘It’s so lovely of you to pop by and say happy anniversary, but Joanna, darling, it would have been better if you’d called. This is not a great time, because—’

  ‘It’s your anniversary?’ I stop and turn to my mother. She nods. I shrug an embarrassed apology. ‘Oh, happy anniversary. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘So that isn’t why you are here, then?’

  ‘No.’

  My mum clocks my clothes (crumpled black dress, no tights, unsuitable, dangerously high evening shoes) and my face (bleached white, evidence of crying, no make-up). ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she says.

  I follow her into the kitchen.

  ‘Wow, you’ve redecorated, again,’ I say, trying to take a polite interest, since I’d forgotten about their anniversary.

  ‘Yes, we’ve just finished it.’ Mum glances impassively around the blue-gloss, high-tech, minimalist kitchen. It isn’t clear from her expression whether she prefers this experiment with modernity to the four-year-old ribbed-wood country kitchen that it has replaced. I think the change is a mistake but don’t say so. Sometimes Mum’s passion for interior decorating gets out of hand; she regularly guts a seemingly perfect room and redecorates. But then, what’s the harm? Dad earns enough to indulge her hobby; indeed, he’s also interested and they often spend an evening together happily poring over interior decorating magazines. I’ve read enough dating self-help books to know that all couples need a shared interest.

  I take the white mug Mum’s proffering and hoist myself up on to a high black leather bar stool, then immediately begin to tell my mother about the disastrous twenty-four hours I’ve just endured. I confess to getting ‘close’ to Jeff. Mum is astute enough to not only comprehend exactly what that means but also to refrain from commenting on either the idiocy or the repetitive nature of this particular sort of bad judgement call. Instead she offers up a large plate of home-made chocolate biscuits and makes reasonably sympathetic clucking sounds whenever I pause in my recounting.

  I admit that I’ve been fired, which gets her attention.

  ‘Oh Joanna! No.’

  ‘In many offices, worldwide, there’s a phenomenon whereby the golden girl – or boy – slowly but surely transforms into something much more lacklustre in the eyes of their employers.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And sometimes it is not their fault; they’re victims of their circumstances. A change of personnel or a change of policy might bring about someone’s downfall.’

  ‘Right.’

  I sigh and realise there’s no point in lying to her. Or myself. I come clean. ‘But in my case, I think I’m at least partially responsible. The truth is, my dream job has silently yet insidiously transformed into a bit of a nightmare. Month after month of documenting my disappointment as I’ve failed to meet Mr Right has taken its toll.’

  ‘Well, yes. That’s understandable, although you must have known that the column was finite,’ she adds. ‘You were no longer in a position to write with any authority.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You were writing a young woman’s advice column about the opportunities and pitfalls of being single.’

  ‘Well, I’m perfectly placed. I am single.’

  ‘Yes, but darling, you’re no longer actually …’ Mum pauses, then clearly decides I need to hear it and adds, ‘You’re no longer young. It was becoming silly. Some of the women who read your early columns are not only wives themselves now but possibly mothers. What were you planning to do? Rebrand and keep writing it as a cougar column? “Snaring Mr Right”? Would you still be writing it as an OAP? A column on geriatric sex?’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Joanna. I don’t want to sound cruel, but working for this bridal magazine was never supposed to be it. It was supposed to be a spring board. That’s what you always said.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I can’t remember ever saying any such thing. What could I have meant? ‘I probably meant until I went to Chicago with Martin.’

  ‘Well, until you found something else you were passionate about, other than planning weddings, at least,’ says Mum. She pushes the plate of biscuits an inch closer to me. I’ve already eaten four. Mum never eats biscuits, or any snacks between meals, come to that. She’s horribly disciplined.

  I keep my eyes on the plate. Hot tears slip down my face, but by keeping my head down I hope my mother won’t notice. It’s humiliating. I’m too old to be weeping in my parents’ kitchen. I try to sniff silently and will the tears to stop. It’s confusing that whilst I feel pure fury towards Mum for speaking out like that, all I want is to be tightly wrapped in her arms. I want her to make it all better, make it all go away. Isn’t that what mothers are for?

  Truthfully, I know that my mum has never quite provided that unconditional succour that’s supposed to flow from a mother to her daughter, not even when I was seven and lost my favourite teddy, so she’s unlikely to do as much now that I’m thirty-five and have lost my only means of income. I don’t associate Mum with overly indulgent comfort or cuddly warmth. I adore her, but when I think of my mum, I think of a graceful, sorted, practical woman. She would lend me her last pound (although she’d never be down to her last pound, as she sets great store by efficient financial planning) and could teach me to bake faultless filo pastry without getting into a flap, but she’s unlikely to ever hold the tissue while I blow. She’s the sort of woman I aspire to be but not the sort of woman who understands what I am. I don’t want to be a snotty, sore mess, gulping regretfull
y into my tea. I’m sure that if I’d met and married and had the support of a faithful, loving and romantic man for countless years – as my mother has – I too would be chic, in control and, if the occasion needed it, aloof. It’s a matter of confidence. It’s a matter of luck.

  ‘You know Martin gets married on Saturday,’ I venture.

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘In Chicago.’

  ‘How exciting.’ I glare at her, because she’s missing the point, but my glare falls flat as she has turned her back to me; she’s chopping fresh mint to make more tea.

  ‘I’m invited.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘So I’ve got this hairbrained idea of flying out to Chicago to stop the wedding.’ I try to sound as though I’m entirely joking, but I don’t think I am.

  ‘I always liked Martin,’ Mum murmurs.

  ‘I know you did.’ I drop my head into my hands.

  ‘I said you’d regret it,’ she points out accurately, but unhelpfully.

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘But I’m not one to gloat.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Actually, she is a bit inclined towards feeling smug and frequently repeats the phrase ‘I told you so’, but I decide not to point out as much. I don’t have it in me to fight with her. It seems the whole world hates me as it is and I can’t afford to make any more enemies. Besides, I need somewhere to stay tonight. I really can’t face going back to Lisa and Henry’s sofa this evening; I need a room where I can close the door on the world.

  Out of the corner of my eye I spot my mother’s purple Carlton hard-shell spinner suitcase. Like all my mum’s possessions it is impeccably stylish, modern and boasting the latest convenient additions (an extendable handle, pass-code zip lock and four wheels so that she can swish through airports and hotel foyers with effortless chic). I know that the case will be full of carefully selected and co-ordinated outfits and accessories. My mum is the sort of woman who always looks impeccable. Envy slithers through my body. Obviously my parents are going on a romantic weekend to celebrate their anniversary. They’ve been married for an eternity and yet they still have a more romantic relationship than any I’ve ever had. It’s a big suitcase; maybe they’re going away for a week, or even a fortnight. It simply isn’t fair.

  ‘You have no idea how lucky you are,’ I say, not able to drag my eyes away from the suitcase.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Dad loves you so much.’

  ‘Well, we’ve been together for so long.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not just about how long you’ve been together, is it? I know other couples that have been married a long time but they aren’t as romantic as you and Dad are. You two are like some sort of fairy tale. I mean, Dad brings you flowers every Friday night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Always has.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mum shrugs. ‘He says flowers are a way to celebrate the fact that the weekend has begun.’

  ‘And he’s always booking you little treats. Weekends away, spa days with your girlfriends, trips to the theatre and shows.’

  ‘He’s a very thoughtful man.’

  ‘And he does everything with such style and consideration. You never go to the theatre without him ordering a bottle of champagne in the interval and buying a box of posh chocs. You have the perfect marriage.’

  Mum finally stops chopping the mint and turns to me. ‘All marriages require some—’

  I don’t let her finish. ‘Do you know, I sometimes think it’s the one thing that keeps me going.’

  ‘Our marriage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Joanna, you’re thirty-five.’

  ‘And?’

  Mum sighs. She might have wanted to say, ‘And your parents’ marriage shouldn’t be the most important thing in your life.’ But after some moments’ consideration she says, ‘Do you know what I think you should do, darling?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You should go to Martin’s wedding.’

  I gawp at her. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes. A break will do you good and you might find some closure. What have you got to lose? It will be an adventure.’

  ‘I’m not the adventurous type.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should be.’

  ‘But really, I can’t remember when I did anything more adventurous than watching a scary movie.’

  ‘Well there you go.’

  My head hurts. I need more sleep before I make a decision on this scale. I bury my nose into a tissue and blow loudly, which means I only catch some of what my mother is saying. ‘I mean, who is to say … what if you had married him … happier than you are now.’

  Unbelievable. My mum has just agreed that I should try to stop Martin’s wedding as I suggested. Well, I did not expect that, not in a month of Sundays. But why shouldn’t I? He loved me once, didn’t he? Yes, he did. And I loved him. Well, at least, I wanted to marry him, which is practically the same thing. I tune back into what Mum is saying. Something about it not being a good weekend to be here. No, it probably isn’t, not if my parents are going away on a romantic break. The last thing I want is to be on my own in this enormous house, pottering around like a lost soul. My mother is saying that a trip away will clear my mind; allow me to get some perspective.

  ‘Right? Isn’t it worth a try?’ she concludes.

  ‘I suppose,’ I mutter. I’m surprised. As a rule, my mother doesn’t encourage confidences and moochy, ethereal, ‘what if’ conversations. Oddly, despite enjoying years of happy marriage, she is not known for her endorsement of big romantic gestures. She always seems faintly embarrassed whenever Dad does anything flamboyant. I remember the time he bought her a custom-painted soft-top Mini Cooper in fuchsia pink for her fiftieth birthday. He had it delivered, wrapped in the most enormous silver ribbon; I was practically weeping with joy, but she made him have it resprayed to a more subtle silver-grey. A colour he could probably have purchased for a lot less cash and bother in the first place. I guess that’s what happens when you are faced with an embarrassment of riches. Mum’s practical, not idealistic, considered rather than impulsive, and yet here she is suggesting that I travel four thousand miles to stop Martin’s wedding taking place. She must think it will work. I feel a spike of elation. ‘Don’t marry her, marry me’ is the pinnacle in romantic declarations. This is the sort of moment I live for.

  11

  Dean

  ‘Zoe said it was a mistake me coming here.’

  ‘Zoe?’ For a moment Eddie looked blank.

  ‘Your daughter,’ Dean clarified, letting out a short, impatient sigh.

  ‘Of course.’ Eddie nodded his head a fraction.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Oh, forget it,’ Dean snapped; this time his sigh was despairing. He turned and looked at the wall. He read the health and safety notices which told visitors what to do in the event of a fire and warned them against adjusting the beds or touching medical equipment. He wondered whether he was the only relative who had ever sat there and fantasised about pulling the plug. The thought didn’t make him feel ashamed; it made him angry. His father’s actions had meant he’d grown up livid, but sadly he was not livid enough to be blind and impervious as to what a pity that was. Both men settled back into another silence. Dean was resentful, Eddie was exhausted. Dean breathed deeply. The important thing was that he must not lose it. He could not let Eddie destroy him again. It had taken too long to build himself up to what he was.

  Eddie grimaced and gestured to the syringe driver on the bedside table. Dean wanted to ignore him but he couldn’t. He put it in Eddie’s hands and the man pumped pain relief through his body again. He let out a low groan and then seemed to decide to give his son what he wanted. ‘How is Zoe? Doing all right?’

  ‘Good enough.’ Dean forced himself to look at his father and was surprised to see that Eddie had arranged his features into an expression of interest. The effort elicited more information. ‘She’s an accountant. She�
�s married.’ The fact that his sister was married was a great source of surprise to Dean as well as a great source of comfort and pleasure. Zoe had managed to trust. She’d found someone to love, who loved her back. A case of what Dean believed to be hope triumphing over experience, but he was glad. Her husband was a good man; solid and dependable. ‘She married young, over six years ago now, to a bloke twelve years her senior.’

  ‘Figures.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Father replacement,’ Eddie rasped.

  ‘Yes.’ Dean was stupefied by the man’s perception, combined with his indifference.

  ‘My other two did the same,’ added Eddie casually.

  ‘Other two?’ Dean felt his blood slow in his veins.

  ‘My other two daughters by my second marriage.’

  ‘You’re married?’

  Eddie coughed. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘I have sisters?’ Dean’s blood suddenly speeded up again, lurching around his body. He was dizzy. Of course he’d considered it, from time to time, when he was a child. It had seemed the most reasonable explanation for the fact that his father had never once contacted them, in all those years. It was clear that he’d written off his first family in their entirety. They’d been replaced. There was another family.

  It had always been a possibility, so why did the actuality still come as such a shock? He had two more sisters. What were they like? Were they anything like Zoe?

  ‘I have sisters?’ He repeated the phrase to see if it seemed any more real.

  ‘Yes. Well, half-sisters, technically, I suppose. One is shacked up with a bloke who has two teenage lads. She’s like a mother to them.’ Eddie struggled for breath. ‘Although she’s only twenty-three herself. The other is still at uni, I think, but the last I heard she was dating her tutor.’

  Where were these sisters? What were their names? Why weren’t they here? Dean did not ask these questions aloud, but Eddie must have read his mind, or at least followed his thought pattern.

  ‘Ellie, the student, lives in France with their mother. And Hannah, she lives down south, near the coast. Plymouth or somewhere. I can’t remember. We’re not in touch often.’