Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  Claudia shrugged. ‘What about upgrading the caravan?’

  ‘Claudia!’ barked Issy. ‘You heard what Dad said. Leave it now.’ Her voice dropped to a low hiss, audible to everyone in the room. ‘You’re making them uncomfortable. It’s upsetting for them, you talking about Granny like she was a piggy bank!’

  An unfortunate metaphor, considering that her wealth was built on pig farms. Claw put down her cup and saucer and snort-laughed elaborately.

  ‘Claudia!’ shrieked Issy.

  ‘Oh, pardon me for breathing,’ muttered Claw, pulling a face. It’s amazing how, in the vicinity of our parents, we all regress about twenty years. I guessed I could really set the cat among the pigeons (as my mother would say) by mentioning Stuart. It was galling, how discreet my parents were about their financial affairs. What did they think we’d do, tell all our little friends in the playground?

  ‘And how’s Frank, very busy at work?’

  My mother’s attempt at changing the subject and the mood didn’t entirely work. Issy snapped, ‘Isn’t he always?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ enquired Claw.

  ‘It means,’ growled Issy, ‘that I don’t know what the hel—er, what the hello is going on with him right now. Eden, go and play in the study. Here, take a sandwich and don’t get crumbs on the carpet.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Eden, I can Hoover up any mess,’ said my mother quickly.

  Eden exited the lounge with a fistful of sandwiches and an evil look on her face (not that anyone noticed except me). Issy’s face crumpled. ‘He was on the phone the other night and when I came into the room he put down the receiver quietly but fast, and when I asked who it was he said a work colleague, ringing about a meeting. After he’d gone, I pressed 1471 but he’d made the call.’

  My mother’s face was a picture – to be precise, a struggle between reality and desire. ‘Issy, dear, there’s nothing untoward about that. He must have forgotten who’d rung who, that’s all!’ She smiled, relieved to have unravelled the mystery and found it non-toxic.

  ‘Huf,’ said Issy. ‘And that’s not the only thing. He said he had to go into the office this weekend, but when I rang his direct line, there was no answer.’

  My mother laughed, nervously. ‘I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation, dear. He must have nipped out for a coffee.’

  ‘I called him ten times, every ten minutes.’

  ‘Well,’ said my father, ‘then he must have had a meeting in the meeting room!’

  Despite my growing anxiety, I had to put him straight. ‘Boardroom, Dad,’ I said. It bothered me, how he lacked even a basic knowledge of business.

  My father smiled. Thankfully, he didn’t see the correction as a reproach; he saw it as helpful. I glanced at Claw. She was staring, tight-jawed, at her tea. I wondered if she also had suspicions about Frank. I shifted my gaze to Issy. She sighed, seemed to collect herself. I imagine she’d realised that short of whipping away a black cloak to reveal Frank writhing naked with another woman on my parents’ coffee table, there was no convincing my parents that anything in the marital garden was less than rosy. And possibly not even then.

  Issy stood up. ‘Is the caravan key by the door? I think I’ll go and play housey with my daughter.’

  My parents smiled, pacified.

  Claw stretched her arms and legs without moving from her chair. ‘Mum, Dad, is it alright if I have a bath and wash my hair?’

  Mum beamed, delighted to be on safe ground again. ‘Of course, dear. Stanley is the Badedas on the side?’

  ‘Yes, Linda.’

  ‘Great,’ said Claw, jumping up. ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’ The words were jollier than the delivery. We listened to her clump heavily up the stairs. I swallowed. Now was my chance. I cleared my throat. My parents looked at me, hopeful smiles on their faces. I bit my lip.

  ‘I, er, I wanted to tell you something.’

  My mother placed her cup and saucer on the table, rested her hands on her knees, and nodded. My father smiled encouragement. They looked old.

  Oh God.

  I couldn’t.

  I must.

  I sighed. A short, sharp sigh of resolution. Where to begin? Background. ‘Mum, Dad. You know that, a couple of months ago, Nick and I broke up.’

  They nodded, mouths drooping. Save it, I thought.

  ‘Well—’

  deedle deedle doo, do do doooo!

  ‘Scooby Doo!’ exclaimed my father, in a beam of recognition. ‘Do you hear that, Linda? These days they can do anything, can’t they?’

  I made a mental note to change my mobile ring tone to a tune with more gravitas. The Scooby Doo theme tune was no longer appropriate for me and, frankly, hadn’t been for the last two decades. I scrabbled in my bag where, apparently, the phone had morphed into thin air. Finally, it reappeared and I grabbed it just before it switched to voicemail.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, Dad. Hello?’

  ‘Holly. Where have you beeeen?’ The voice was whiney, demanding, and made me twitch with irritation. ‘I’ve called the house nineteen times. Gloria finally answered. She said you were away, she was cat-sitting. She says when she gave Emily her insulin jab, Emily bit her. Where aaaare you?’

  ‘Nick,’ I said aloud, before I could stop myself. My parents glanced at one another. ‘I’m at Mum and Dad’s. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Sulkily. ‘You could have told me, instead of sneaking off like that.’

  I held my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Mum, Dad, sorry. I’ll just take this outside.’

  My parents nodded. They were both grinning. I marched into the garden. ‘Nick,’ I said. ‘I did not “sneak off”, I just went.’

  ‘Yeah, without telling me where you were going. I can’t believe you abandoned me. I needed to talk.’ At least one word in every sentence was stretched to peevish self-pitying length. Fury pulsed. How dare he? He hadn’t changed. He was still a baby, demanding that his needs were met instantly. I was doing him a favour here. We were no longer linked in an official capacity, I had no obligation to him. What kind of blithering fool maintains contact with their ex-fiancé after dumping him? I thought of the sex and shuddered. I’d behaved like a prostitute.

  And so had he. Letting me, wanting me to comfort him in this way, as if words weren’t enough. He had been utterly selfish, given no consideration as to what I’d wanted. He was a typical male, expecting the woman to serve him, make him feel good. He was another man who never heard what a woman said, only what he wanted her to say. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got, until the mere recollection of his hands on my skin made me want to retch.

  ‘. . . now that we’re back together I’d have thought that y—’

  I screwed up my face at the phone in disgust. ‘We’re not back together you, you, you idiot!’

  Blip. Dead air.

  Chapter 22

  THE JOURNEY HOME was, if possible, more nit-pickety than the journey to Penge. The weekend had not fulfilled its promise. Most of us had failed to escape our problems. Issy, who – unbeknown to Frank – is a social smoker, spent half the trip pretending to puff on sugar cigarettes to confuse her daughter. Eden accepted a fag from the packet and treated us to a fine imitation of ‘Mummy smoking real cigarettes not sweets’.

  For a second, Issy looked stricken, then she laughed and muttered, ‘What do I care?’

  Claudia had remained odd and argumentative until Sunday morning, 10.36, when her mobile rang. All I knew was that the person on the end of the line had caused her to blush. She skidded into the hall, conducted a twenty-eight minute conversation in a seductive growl, then returned to the breakfast table a chirpier person. (Incidently, she’s always sneered at those whose moods swing from hyper-bouncy to near-suicidal according to how their partner is treating them that minute.) The chirpiness still hadn’t worn off, and it was beginning to grate.

  ‘The disaster Date Night is being aired this evening, prime time on ITV,’ I said, hoping to calm her dow
n.

  ‘Yes, well,’ she replied. ‘TV isn’t an effective form of advertising for us anyway, the audience is too scattered. I’d be more upset if we’d had a bad write-up in Marie Claire or Cosmo.’

  It could be arranged. I glanced in the rear-view mirror in disbelief. Was there no deflating her? My last cellphone conversation had had the opposite effect. Nick had rung back, a few minutes later, to tell me that he thought it was time we sold the house.

  ‘What else, are you going to sue me for custody of Emily?’ I’d replied.

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  Pathetic.

  I’d stamped back into the lounge, softening my tread as Mum and Dad looked up. I saw their faces and I knew I couldn’t tell them about Stuart. It wasn’t only because I knew that they would be mortally wounded. It was also because I felt such deep wrenching shame. So what if he was their solicitor, it’s not as if he’d be spending Christmas Day with us. I fed myself this line then spat it right out again. The idea of that man coming anywhere near my family stoked a fire of hatred so fierce I could have fainted in the heat of it. And yet – I couldn’t help it – my shame was fiercer.

  Since, I’ve reasoned that most people get irate if someone treads on their toe in the tube. That’s how much we value our right to be treated with respect. How brittle is our sense of self, that we can feel murderous and violated if a stranger unwittingly squashes our foot. A fraction of how I felt about what Stuart had done to me.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said, dropping off Claudia with relief. It was ten minutes further to Issy’s, but I couldn’t discuss Frank with Eden in the car. Thank goodness.

  Gloria, as instructed, had left every single light on in the house. Emily scampered to meet me at the door, miaowing. People don’t realise cats do that. (Scamper to meet people, I mean, not miaow.) There was a message on the answermachine from Nige, inviting himself round to watch the Date Night segment with me. I rang him back to say, sure, come over. Then I felt jumpy. How long was it since I’d been alone in the house with a man? I knew exactly how long.

  Three weeks and two days.

  This was Nige, for heaven’s sake, I was losing all sense of reality.

  The phone rang again. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Babes! It’s been simply ages, a week at least. I must see you. I’m coming over this minute!’

  Rach cut off before I even had time to assume an icy demeanour. I thought about ringing back and declaring, ‘I prefer not to mix with the likes of my brother-in-law’s mistress’ but this was patently a ridiculous thing to say, and anyway, her presence would mean that I wasn’t alone in the house with a man. Crazy, I know. Indulge me.

  Rach had also seen her parents this weekend. For her, this meant a ten-minute trek to Belgravia. Mostly, in London, a tall skinny townhouse in a non-scary area will set you back 1.2 million. Those of us who aren’t squillionaires, who want to live in a house, and yet who don’t wish to move to, say, Penge, therefore squeeze themselves into a tiny box, crammed between two tiny boxes in a great long line of tiny boxes, each with a puny patch of garden, all for the sake of not wanting to feel suburban.

  I couldn’t even dream what that big fat monster detatched, quadruple fronted house in Belgravia was worth. Whatever, Rachel’s parents – Ted and Tod (actually an earl and countess, a fact their daughter only mentioned to me after two years of friendship) – lived in it. Inside it was like a stately home.

  The place was cluttered with stuff – busts, paintings, clocks, mirrors, books, maps, porcelain, candlesticks, chandeliers – heirlooms, I supposed. Stiff white embossed invitations crowded the mantelpiece. ‘Stiffies’, Rachel called them, as I tried not to laugh. Tables, chairs, desks, bureaux of antique wood were crammed into every space. The walls were dark red in the lounge, eggshell blue in the dining room. Or maybe the drawing room? the sitting room? the morning room? – I get confused. The floors were mostly wood, although some were covered in threadbare red carpet, worn away by dogs’ paws. Fresh flowers, everywhere, always. It was a testament to formal living gone soft.

  It was scruffy, but not as scruffy as the earl and countess. Tod looked weather-beaten, wore no make-up and dressed like a gardener, but the first time I heard her speak I thought she was putting on an exaggerated posh accent for a joke. I’d never – and some years I listen to the Queen’s Speech – heard a person talk so plummily in all my life. She was friendly, with no pretensions (too aristocratic to need them) and a sense of humour full of lewd innuendo. I was impressed and appalled all at once.

  Ted was quietly spoken, impeccably polite, a real gentleman. Nothing like the snow-leopard killing great-uncle (dead, fortunately). After a long, distinguished career with the Foreign Office, Ted now spent a lot of time in a place he referred to as ‘The House’. He didn’t look like an alcoholic and I finally plucked up the courage to ask Rachel if ‘The House’ was a posh people’s euphemism for the pub (as in ‘Public House’.) It was, in retrospect, a foolish question to ask, particularly as Rachel was driving at the time. She laughed so hard she nearly killed us. ‘No. The House of Lords, babes!’

  That weekend, a film director, a lord and a newsreader had joined Ted and Tod for Sunday lunch, and Rach had some tittle-tattle to pass on about various Hollywood marriages or, as ‘Steve’ had called them ‘mergers’. Usually I’d suck it up, but I wasn’t in the mood. I cut her off, mid-yap.

  ‘Tell me another time. Nige is coming. I know you can’t stand each other but tough. We’re watching the Girl Meets Boy TV thing. It starts in half an hour.’ I paused and glared at her. ‘So. Seen your married man lately?’

  Rachel smirked. ‘Marriedish, and yes, he was adorable, thank you. We went rowing in Regent’s Park and to the V&A. And then we did other things you don’t need to know about.’

  I felt myself go hot. Surely, if it was Frank she’d have the decency not to brag in front of me. ‘I don’t want to know,’ I snapped, although I jolly well did. There was a short silence, broken by the peal of the doorbell. I went to answer it, glad of the interruption, although I doubt Rach would have noticed I was annoyed with her, I was too polite about it. Subtlety washes over her.

  ‘Why’s she here?’

  ‘I’m Holly’s friend. Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m Holly’s friend and esteemed colleague. I’m also on television. Hah!’

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘maybe I should ring Claw, invite her round to keep the peace. I’ve had a tense weekend and I don’t need you two scrapping like dogs.’

  This threat was probably most terrifying to me – I’d had quite enough of my little sister to last me till Monday. Nige and Rach were silent while I marched to the phone and, in a show of strength, rang Claw. There was no answer, which spoilt the effect. So I put down the receiver and said sternly, ‘Would anyone like a coffee?’

  ‘Have you any Rose Pouchong?’

  ‘Rachel,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

  ‘It’s a pompous form of tea, darling,’ said Nige. ‘Give her a cup of Tetley’s. I’ll have a glass of white, if you’ve got. And you have, because I’ve brought a bottle. Rachel can’t have any.’

  ‘I don’t want any, it looks like paint stripper.’

  She was obviously desperate for a glass – and I felt like a drink – so we all had some. In a moment of triumph, I discovered a bag of salted peanuts in a cupboard. I poured them into a bowl.

  ‘I imagine this is like being at one of Rachel’s parties. All that’s missing is a Hooray in cords with an overbite.’

  I shrank as far as I could get into the sofa. I was sat smack bang wallop in the firing line.

  Rachel laughed. ‘Nigel, you dream of being invited to one of my parties. Now who was I chatting to over canapés last week, ah yes, Sam Mendes. Face it, babes, only through me will you ever get the chance to meet a decent director and be cast in a part that doesn’t require you to dress as the back end of an ass.’

  I knew that Nige was annoyed by this, as he chose to com
ment instead on the quiz show we were watching. ‘God, we’re an ugly nation.’

  ‘Quiet, the programme will be on in a sec!’ I shouted.

  My guests sullenly crunched peanuts for three minutes. ‘Oh, look, Holly, it’s you!’ squealed Rachel. ‘How exciting!’

  I felt exposed.

  ‘Glad to see Gwen Rogers looks fatter on the box,’ said Nige. ‘No doubt that shot of her arse’ll send her scurrying for the laxatives.’

  This was his last cheery comment for a while. We all sat, mouths agape, as Girl Meets Boy was rogered by Rogers. With the help of Ms Elisabeth Stanton-Browne. Even Rach said nothing.

  ‘She, she made me look like a complete berk,’ I squeaked. ‘Jesus, I might as well have been wearing a bow tie. Those things, those things she made out I said – she’s edited out half of every sentence, I was barely coherent!’

  ‘Never mind about you personally, one goes on TV news, one expects to be made to look a berk. I can’t believe she made the agency look so bad. It’s even worse than we thought. She’s made it look as if we stick anyone with anyone, like we don’t give a damn. I can’t believe this. We should sue her. It’s so unprofessional. She’s really done us a lot of damage here.’ Nige looked stricken.

  ‘You don’t know that yet,’ said Rachel.

  I glanced at her to see if she was being facetious.

  ‘You never know,’ she continued. ‘People may apply out of curiosity.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Nige, but he said it without conviction. I think he was too despondent to be vicious. ‘All our work, all our hard work, down the sodding toilet.’ He was working himself up into a frenzy. ‘We might as well close down. We—’

  ‘Nigel, do be quiet. Can’t you see your unnecessary dramatics are upsetting Holly?’

  Quickly, I arranged my face to look upset. I wasn’t half as gutted as I should have been. The dismay I felt was purely down to vanity, a reaction to being made to look an inarticulate fool in front of an audience of ten million. I wished I could feel more about the plight of the business, but it wasn’t there. Nige seemed to have pinched my share of emotion. He sank his head in his hands and sighed. Then, in a high, wavery voice, he gasped, ‘We are [sob!] done for, I tell you, d—’