Home Truths

by Freya North

  ‘How was your evening?’ she asked casually, reducing the volume.

  ‘Fine,’ Zac said, ‘but you carry on. I have a little work to do.’ And he disappeared with his laptop to sit on the edge of the bed, feeling winded and sad.

  Matt came home to find Fen already asleep. He spooned up gently against her and mouthed ‘Sorry’ over and over again into her hair.

  ‘You reek of booze,’ she muttered sleepily, hitching her shoulder up a little to block him out.

  Cat was full of beans when Ben returned because Jeremy was leaving to run the Basingstoke branch of Dovidels and had intimated to Cat that she should apply for his post.

  ‘Everything's looking up,’ Cat exclaimed, giving him a hug.

  The Ten o'Clock News

  Fen's morning started very well indeed. It was warm enough to dress Cosima in a broderie anglaise sundress with matching puffy knickers and frilled cloche hat which Matt's mother had bought her. The baby looked adorable and her matchless beauty in her mother's eyes made the day seem even more balmy. There were new gurgles, from which Fen could deduce a private language of sorts and she conversed with her daughter enthusiastically, not caring how daft she might sound. Cosima was also trying out a commando slither pre-crawl and Fen could not be more proud had her baby stood up and danced a jig. Strolling along to Musical Minis, chortling to Cosima in gobbledygook, pointing out the red letter-box, the nice mister postman and the big yellow truck, Fen felt her mobile phone vibrate through a message. She retrieved it from the back pocket of her jeans, the pair she'd been able finally to fit back into today, oh joyous day, for the first time, not minding that they felt comfortably snug.

  Hi f – drinx 2nite? Al

  Feeling comfortingly smug, Fen spent the next half-hour composing various answers whilst singing the tunes at Musical Minis by rote. Her walk home had her weigh up which order was best – phone Pip to check babysitting was possible, or text Al first to accept and then work through babysitting options later. Her sense of maternal duty was far stronger than her sense of adventure so she called Pip first.

  ‘Shouldn't be a problem at all,’ said Pip.

  ‘Are you sure you don't mind coming to mine, though?’ Fen double-checked. ‘I'll be able to give Cosima her supper but then you'll be in charge of bath, bottle, bed.’

  ‘No probs,’ said Pip, ‘we'll flood the house, drink the fridge dry and have a pillow fight. Who's this friend?’

  ‘Oh, just Al – we meet up every now and then.’

  ‘Have I met her?’ Pip asked.

  Fen realized that if she denied Al a gender, she could further avoid revealing her agenda to Pip. ‘Probably,’ she said casually. ‘Thanks – you're the best auntie in the world.’

  ‘You mean the best auntie north of the river,’ Pip laughed. ‘Have you spoken to Auntie Cat?’

  ‘Yes, we had a chat yesterday when the boys were out,’ said Fen.

  ‘I think she sounds a bit brighter,’ said Pip.

  ‘I agree,’ Fen agreed.

  ‘We really should think about making a trip home,’ said Pip, ‘the three of us together.’

  ‘You're right,’ said Fen. ‘Tell us when.’

  The morning had not been going well for Matt and just before lunch-time, it became worse. The network at the office was still down, the art editor had thrown up in the corridor, the printers were breathing down Matt's neck and the news about Django was playing on his mind. So when he saw it was Fen bleeping through a text message, what he really hoped for was the tonic of sweet nothings. After all, it had been her speciality in their courtship days – daft e-mails and cute texts and the occasional soppy card sent by snail-mail to work. Old-fashioned and romantic was the girl he'd fallen for. He had to admit, sadly, that since having Cosima, if texts came from Fen at all, they were usually asking what time he'd be back and could he detour via Marx+Sparx. What Matt needed just then was a thnkng of u F xxx. What he read was something else.

  havng drinx w/ old pal Al this pm – wont b late. Pip bb-sittng – don't rush! F x

  Matt swivelled in his chair and racked his memory for an old pal called Al. Then he re-read the message and wondered why just the one kiss. Then he thought, Shit! she can't – not tonight, sorry Al – and he phoned Zac directly.

  ‘Slight problem,’ he said to Zac. ‘Fen's organized a drink with some old friend and has roped Pip in to babysit until I'm back.’

  ‘Damn,’ pondered Zac. ‘How can we prevent this without suspicions being raised?’

  ‘I don't know,’ said Matt. ‘It's so rare for Fen to go out anyway. Any ideas?’

  ‘I could call Pip,’ Zac said, ‘think of something that makes babysitting not possible – make her let Fen down?’

  ‘Great,’ said Matt. Then he paused. ‘No it's not. We can't have anything come between the sisters today – and you know their potential to strop and sulk with each other.’

  ‘God, you're right,’ said Zac, who privately didn't want anything to come between him and his wife at the moment either. Recently she'd been not so much distracted as frosty.

  ‘I'll phone Ben,’ said Matt, ‘and get back to you.’

  ‘I was just about to call you,’ Ben responded calmly to Matt's concern. ‘Panic not – Cat called to say she's working a late shift to impress some honcho or other from head office – so let's just change mission time to 10 o'clock?’

  ‘Twenty-two hundred hours,’ Matt said through his fist to sound like a war film fighter-pilot, ‘roger that.’

  ‘Will Fen be back by then?’ Ben asked. ‘And sober?’

  ‘Nowadays she is practically asleep by 9.30 and decrees more than two glasses of spritzer to be anathema to motherhood,’ Matt said. ‘You wait and see – Cat'll be the same.’

  Privately, Ben hoped Cat wouldn't keep him waiting too long on that front. ‘Listen,’ he said to Matt, ‘hope it goes well.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matt, ‘for you, too.’

  ‘We'll touch base later,’ Ben said.

  ‘We will,’ said Matt. He phoned Zac. ‘Sorted. We have a later kick-off set for 10 o'clock.’

  ‘Good,’ said Zac, ‘thanks for that.’

  ‘Bizarre, isn't it,’ Matt said darkly, ‘to make light of it is the only way I can deal with it at the moment. Because actually, I'm fucking dreading it.’

  ‘Me too,’ Zac agreed. ‘God – me too.’

  ‘Speak later,’ said Matt. ‘Good luck.’

  Matt and Zac and Ben sat there, in their offices, their working day stretching ahead replete with other people's problems. Ben had a wincing queue of twisted ankles and torn ligaments clamouring for his attention; Zac had corporate clients shirking millions of taxable pounds onto his shoulders; Matt had the irate printers and the hacking wafts of his art editor's vomit to deal with. But it all seemed like child's play in relation to the task and trauma of the evening to come.

  ‘She's eaten loads,’ Fen said proudly, delighting in her sister's obvious adoration of her daughter. Pip took Cosima from Fen and pulled what her family call her Guppy Face. Cosima glanced at her mother, as if to double-check this gurning lady was indeed funny, as if to seek parental go-ahead to chortle at this fish-faced auntie. Everything was making Fen laugh today and she and her baby squeaked with delight as Pip ran through her entire repertoire of animal impersonations, from chameleon to tortoise to two-toed sloth.

  ‘She's so gorgeous,’ Pip declared mistily, stroking Cosima's silk-fine hair.

  ‘I know,’ Fen cooed, ‘she's the best little girl in the world.’

  ‘You are so lucky,’ Pip said while giving Cosima an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘I made a list,’ Fen said, with apologetic guilt, glancing towards the sheet of paper on the kitchen table. Pip raised her eyebrow. She could see it was densely written and awash with asterisks. ‘Humour me?’ Fen implored.

  ‘If it says, Check milk temperature – I'll be offended,’ Pip said.

  ‘Of course it says, Check milk temperature,’ Fen said, ‘and t
he bath temperature too—’

  ‘Use the inside of my wrist for the former, the outside of my elbow for the latter,’ Pip mocked before Fen could say just that. ‘Go and get yourself ready,’ Pip chided, ‘or you'll be late. I think I have met Al.’

  ‘Yes?’ Fen said vaguely. ‘We're not that close – just fun to meet for a quick drink every now and then. We're hardly bosom buddies.’ And suddenly an image of Al getting to know her bosoms simultaneously horrified yet thrilled her and she hurried away to change.

  Pip couldn't decide whether to continue cuddling Cosima or to flop to the carpet and play with her. It was 5.30, just a precious hour and a half to fit in games, baths, bottles and bedtime cuddles. Fen was certainly indulging in a long shower. ‘Hope she doesn't take all the hot water,’ Pip said to Cosima, ‘because I'm going to make you a great big bubbly bath.’ She had to admit Cosima didn't seem remotely bothered and smelt good enough to eat anyway.

  When Fen reappeared, Pip was quite taken aback. She hadn't seen her sister look like this for a long time. And she looked great. Her hair was glossy, having been blow-dried to perfection, and she'd eschewed her customary pony-tail to wear her hair loose and lovely. Her make-up was subtle but meticulous. She was in a dress Pip was sure she hadn't seen before though quite when Fen had taken herself shopping she didn't know. And wasn't it just a week or so ago that she'd endured that unsuccessful trip to Whistles?

  ‘You look amazing,’ Pip said. She frowned. Odd to make so much effort for someone who was hardly a bosom buddy. ‘Is that dress new?’

  Fen nodded guiltily. ‘You can borrow it if you like.’

  ‘Well, you look particularly gorgeous –’ Pip said and though she'd intended to finish the sentence there, the niggle at the back of her mind made itself heard, ‘– for a quick drink with someone you only see once in a while.’ Just then, Pip couldn't work out if her sister feigned not to hear or did not deign to comment but she did note that Fen did not want Cosima's dribbly kisses or sticky fingers anywhere near her frock. ‘Doesn't your mummy look pretty!’ Pip cooed to Cosima, trying to hand the baby over, but Fen busied herself with a glass of water. ‘Where are you meeting?’ Pip asked, because it was a reasonable question. She set Cosima down at Fen's feet.

  ‘Some bar in Camden,’ Fen replied, stooping awkwardly to stroke her baby's head whilst tucking the fabric beyond her touch.

  ‘Why Camden?’

  ‘Oh, Al suggested it,’ said Fen casually, ‘it's his stamping ground.’

  ‘Well, that sounds like your cab,’ Pip said airily though she was awash with the information confirming Al as male. ‘Have a great time – and don't worry about Cosima.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Fen, gazing reflectively, momentarily guiltily, at the baby in her sister's arms. ‘Thanks. Nighty-night gorgeous girl.’

  Pip marvelled that Cosima waved to her mummy all by herself. It seemed just the other day that her chubby little arm had to be held aloft on her behalf. It felt so nice to have the weight of the baby hitched on her hip. Once she closed the door, she went to the mirror, delighted that the sight looked as natural as it felt.

  ‘So,’ said Pip, taking the baby upstairs, ‘so Al's a “he”. If your mummy tried to hide the fact from me, what can she have told your daddy?’

  Pip trusted the veracity of her vibes in the same way that Fen trusted the palms of her hands, and just then Pip's vibe was one of warning. Her instinct to protect kicked in, but she wasn't sure who warranted it first or the most. Cosima? Matt? Or in fact Fen? If she was to protect Cosima from a misbehaving mother, if she were to protect Matt from abandonment, and both Cosima and Matt from potential heartache, she should reach out to Fen first. But Fen was being evasive, Fen was being deceitful, Fen wouldn't look her in the eye and give her a straight answer. Fen had everything to hide and thus nothing to confide. Though Pip felt very angry with her sister she felt impotent too; if her sister felt beyond reproach it was because she'd carefully taken herself out of sight and far from earshot, down to Camden for a secret rendezvous with some bloke called Al.

  ‘She's made me an accessory to her crime – roping me in to babysit,’ Pip said in a sing-song voice. She mounded bubbles on Cosima's head. ‘Poor Cosi. Am I facilitating this – unwittingly or not – whatever it may be?’ She sponged the baby gently. ‘It's bad enough your mummy is using me – it's worse that she's consciously deceiving me too. But would I feel differently if she had asked outright, if she'd said, Cover for me, Pip? Would I have covered for her then?’

  Pip smiled at the baby. One of a clown's skills is to multi-task, to juggle whilst singing, to converse solemnly whilst limbs veer off on an energetic mime of their own, to talk to the audience earnestly whilst concentrating on sleight of hand, to tell jokes with a straight face, to appear to be doing one thing yet enabling something else to be happening. So while Pip bathed the baby and sang about the AllyAllyOh, she thought about Fen. And Al. As much as she wanted to denounce her, she had to consider how lovely Fen had looked. It was so much more than the sum of a gorgeous frock, clean hair and careful make-up. She glowed on account of her demeanour. Pip had to concede that Fen appeared hearteningly, refreshingly ebullient.

  ‘I remember that Fen,’ Pip said nostalgically, ‘but I'm worried about this one.’

  Fen was right on time and momentarily she wondered whether to tell the cab-driver to go on a little, so she could walk back and not risk arriving before Al for a second time. But then she reasoned that if Al was there already she'd be denying herself his company. So she went in. And of course Al wasn't there yet.

  She bought herself a tonic water because she wanted to pace herself and anyway, she could always say it was vodka and tonic. The bar was painted purple and, with the dark red plush booths and tea lights everywhere, the interior seemed far more convivial to a winter setting than the gorgeous June evening. Fen told herself that perhaps she'd simply brazenly suggest they have a quick one here and go on somewhere else.

  I only want a little bit of fun; I hope to take home something I can call upon and remember when I'm feeling frumpy or weighed down by the drudge of the day – something to raise a private smile when it's most needed. Isn't everyone entitled to a small, risk-free escapade? Don't little secrets go a long way? I can feed my soul without hurting a soul.

  She checked her phone. No messages. Al was now ten minutes late. And her tonic water was nearly finished.

  Here he is.

  ‘Shit – Fen, I'm so sorry,’ Al flustered. ‘I just completely – well, anyway, I'm sorry. How are you? Can I get you a drink? What's that?’

  ‘Don't worry!’ Fen implored him, dismissing his apologies as unnecessary. ‘No problem! I was late myself! I'd love a drink – vodka and tonic, please.’

  She snuck a glance at him while he ordered. He looked different to last week. Shorter, younger, plainer. That ghastly, cheap, tinny jewellery. Momentarily, Fen felt disappointed, as if all her efforts were somewhat unwarranted. But when he brought her drink over, set it down, kissed her cheek as he sat and commented on how nice she smelt, she called herself a daft cow and told herself to have fun because she was in control.

  And she did have fun. She had fun because she could not afford for the evening to be anything but. She contrived to come across as lively and feisty and before long, she believed that she was. She ignored it when Al said things that were slightly puerile or rather dull and she tried not to waste time feeling irritated by him drumming along to music she didn't know, his index fingers chopping the table edge, his top teeth biting down on his bottom lip as if he were in torment. Her job was not to judge Al, but to present herself. So she tossed her hair and dipped her head coyly and licked her lips lasciviously and fluttered her eyelashes becomingly. It didn't really matter what she thought of him, just as long as she could weave some kind of spell that had him craving her. She knew to flatter him, to pout a little while he spoke, to laugh in excess. And to touch him. Every now and then she laid her hand on his arm, his wrist, nudged hi
s knee. When he teased her about her not knowing some new band or other, she flicked his chin with her finger. And he caught her hand and while he held it for a suspended moment, she had the presence of mind to raise her eyebrow cockily and belie the welling adrenalin causing her stomach to flip.

  ‘Shall we go on somewhere?’ Fen asked because a football match was now being shown on the plasma screen and Al's eyes were drawn to it. He looked at her. ‘Silly game,’ she said.

  ‘Go back to mine?’ Al suggested, a little drunk by now. ‘My place is just around the corner.’ Fen stood up as her answer, smoothed her dress and jutted her bust just within the ambivalent side of perceptibly.

  After the gloom of the purple interior, the bright evening was dazzling. A small voice told her to suggest a walk along the canal, a snack at an outside table, an ice cream from Marine Ices, but Al's hand around her waist led her away from such thoughts.

  I won't stay if there are batik bedspreads as wall hangings.

  There aren't.

  I won't stay if there are lads lolling about.

  There are lads lolling about, watching the football, but they appear not to notice Al come in. Or you.

  I'll go if the kitchen is grimy.

  It is surprisingly spruce.

  I'll say I'm fine if he offers me a drink.

  He's handing you a glass of wine whether you've asked for it or not.

  Well, I won't drink it.

  Al is rolling a joint.

  And I won't be smoking that.

  ‘Come on, let's go upstairs.’

  Not if it's to your bedroom.

  Well, you never know, Fen, perhaps the house has a delightful roof garden and that's where he's taking you.

  But he isn't because it hasn't.

  And remember, no batik bedspreads – I'll leave directly if he has one on his bed, let alone on the wall. Same goes for joss sticks. And Jim Morrison posters. Or Che Guevara. Or that Andy Warhol banana.

  Where do you stand on mattresses-on-the-floor?