by Anna Maxted
When the doorbell rang, I narrowed my eyes. I squinted through the peephole, and there stood my sister holding a bunch of daffodils.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Lizbet, as I yanked open the door. ‘I am so sorry. You know I didn’t mean it. What a terrible thing to say. I was inexcusable.’
‘Ah, Christ, so was I,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry too. Casserole dish?’
‘Pardon?’
‘No, hang on. Er, continental quilt?’
‘What?’
‘Oh no, wait! Ice pop.’
‘Ice pop!’ said Lizbet.
This was formal command of an immediate ceasefire. We sealed the peace treaty with a tentative hug.
Chapter 18
Lizbet and I were collapsed on the sofa, eating roasted soya beans – her latest idea of fun. I was unsure of this new Lizbet, and perhaps she was still unsure of me, because in the absence of genuine warmth, we’d resorted to sniping about our mother. The time we’d visited for Christmas (no tree – our parents had been shaken, a year before, when Evelyn Toberman’s father had died on Christmas Eve, and even as she opened the front door to the rabbi, her husband was trying to wrestle a six-foot fir, bedecked with red tinsel and twinkly lights, out the back).
Mummy had remarked, ‘Ooh, Lizbet’s had her hair cut!’ Lizbet had stood there with a half-smile on her face, but there was no further comment. There was also our mother’s habit of marching into your home and announcing ‘It smells terrible in here!’ Once, Lizbet had grimly lit a Jo Malone scented candle – ‘actually burning money’ – when Mummy was expected. Our mother had paused at the door, seen the candle, exclaimed, ‘The heat in here is stifling!’ We never told her that she kept her house like an ice box, and that when she hit the menopause, we feared that the temperature would drop further, and our father would suffer frostbite in his own lounge.
‘She’s been a lot better lately,’ said Lizbet. ‘To me, anyway.’
‘Why do you think that is?’ I said – before engaging brain. Lizbet was destroyed by her baby’s death, but she wouldn’t talk about it, although everything about her appearance and behaviour suggested to me that she needed to, even if she didn’t know it. I wanted to say, ‘You’re too thin,’ but I didn’t, as I knew she was in a contrary state of mind and would decide it was a compliment. My only hope was that one day soon, natural greed would get the better of her. I was the thin one.
Lizbet rolled her eyes and said, ‘Because I’ve hardly seen her.’
I smiled. So Lizbet had finally realised how to train our mother. The method was the same as a parent might use to train a small child. You rewarded all good behaviours with attention and positive reinforcement. Any bad behaviours (rudeness, cheek, showing off) and you ignored her. It was important to let our mother work out this basic correlation for herself. A direct reprimand would almost certainly spark an increase in the undesired behaviours.
‘What about you?’ said Lizbet. ‘I hear your attendance record has improved.’
‘Friday nights are ok,’ I said. ‘I eat before I go. It’s nice to see Tim. And Daddy. Especially if I’ve been in court, performing. It’s a relief not to have to be on.’
‘Oh,’ said Lizbet. ‘She’s always been in awe of you, anyway. She talks about your house. She’s impressed by money. You can do what you like.’ She mimicked Mummy. ‘“You went to where? I’ve not heard of that one.” Dot dot dot. “Where is it?”’
I smiled. ‘Desperate to write down the name of the restaurant and get Daddy to make a reservation.’
There was a short silence. We both knew that Mummy’s attitude to me was different, but we never said. A meanness shared is invigorating, like a cold shower, but it was odd to hear Lizbet speak ill of our mother. I had always seen my sister as forgiving, honourable, goodly. You form an opinion of someone after a lifetime of close contact – it’s a shock to discover they have a harsher side. I preferred how she was before.
She was funnier then. She had a sense of humour about herself, always telling self-deprecating stories – oh, she was in the supermarket, and her kitchen roll fell off the trolley, and a passer-by shouted to her friend, ‘Wait! I’m just picking up THIS LADY’S TOILET ROLL!’ And Lizbet gritted her teeth and thought, not toilet roll – kitchen roll! Kitchen roll!
Or what about when the plumber came, and Lizbet knew he had a baby boy of about nine months, but she couldn’t remember the child’s name, so she said, ‘And how’s your little man?’ And the second she said it, she realised it sounded as if she was asking after his penis.
She would never tell tales like that now. She had permanently sucked-in cheeks.
At least the change in Lizbet made me realise that I had always been hard on Mummy. It was only now that I could acknowledge how much. It had been difficult for our mother. She’d lost her job at Mother & Home after twenty years of service. The company had offered her the editorship of Fast Bikes (in other words, on your bike). She’d chosen redundancy – she was fifty, and not about to jump on a Harley. They’d given her a gold bracelet, and when she’d had it valued for insurance purposes, she discovered it wasn’t worth enough to be insured.
As a parent she was shoddy, but you couldn’t fault her as an editor. She’d enjoyed her work – despite the principles of the magazine being in direct conflict with her own – which made her a better person to be around. I do think that as long as you are happy somewhere in your life, you can convincingly hold the rest of it together.
Mother & Home ran pages of fancy recipes for your kids’ breakfast – cheese pom-poms I recall being one, as our mother regaled us with details of the stand-up fight she had with her chief sub as to whether there was a hyphen in ‘pom-pom’. Meanwhile, our breakfast was orange squash and biscuits, set in front of the TV the night before, with that sleep-saving invention, the Philips Video Cassette Recorder, set to ‘Play’. (‘Doctor Who . . . chocolate digestives . . . shush . . . go,’ she’d mutter, when I bounced into her bedroom at 6 a.m. Lizbet would already be downstairs, watching Daleks on a sugar high.)
The redundancy sapped our mother’s confidence, and she didn’t find a new job. She did a little freelance work, but the Daily Mail tended to ring at the last minute when they wanted a middle-aged woman to write three hundred words on her preferred beachwear for a feature entitled ‘Swimsuit or Bikini?’ Our mother would happily agree – ‘Oh, bikini, bikini!’ – and the commissioning editor would add, ‘Great! There’s just one tiny thing. We’d need you to pose in your bikini. We’ll do a nice shoot, hair, make-up . . .’ She felt out of it, and our father wasn’t that helpful.
It annoyed me that he was so straight he couldn’t accept a free meal at what our mother called ‘a swish restaurant’, just to make her smile. He said he didn’t want to feel obliged. I thought this was an excuse. If I go to a good restaurant, I’ll recommend it to people – out of the goodness of my heart! Whereas, it was our father’s job to recommend good restaurants – he was paid to do what the rest of us did for nothing! In fact, we all deserve a free meal at a good restaurant. He’d only be getting what the rest of us were entitled to. But, some people pride themselves on their principles – a posh word for ‘decisions’ – to the extent that their principles take on more importance than people’s happiness. I’m sure he thought he deserved respect for this.
Couldn’t he see that his wife was unhappy? I felt that if he put half the effort into his marriage that he put into his job, Mummy would be a different person. She needed to feel special – not just to him – she wanted a special place in the world. Why couldn’t he present her with complimentary tickets to the theatre? Nothing flash – even the first night of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum would be gratefully received – anything so that she might read her Daily Express the following day, scan the theatre review, think, ‘I was there!’ – feel she was at the hub! But he didn’t, so she wasn’t. And when Mummy felt insecure, she was pure nasty. I mean, she’d hidden Sarah Paula’s letters! I didn’t blame her
entirely.
Recently, I was seeing my whole family in a different light and I didn’t like it. I wanted us all to unite. As I was a person who thrived on conflict – a person who felt love but felt equally gross showing it – this desire seemed a little crazy to me.
‘We should go out, the four of us, somewhere gorgeous, blow some cash,’ I said. I blushed, remembering Lizbet’s money situation. The previous week, George had taken Tim to the Lloyd – even though we all knew that Tim loathed the Lloyd. (‘Those changing rooms are foul,’ he’d spluttered, on their return. ‘Hairy men, one foot up on a stool, drying their nuts with the hairdryer. That’s going near my head!’) According to George, Tim had said that, six months before, they’d remortgaged to pay his tax bill – ‘Seventy Gs, gone!’ – then found they needed to remortgage again for the next tax bill. Their mortgage broker had sent Tim an apologetic email: ‘Afraid that Southern Rock are not being particularly friendly, talking about charging fees and requesting an accountant’s certificate . . .’
Knowing Lizbet, the idea of her mortgage company being unfriendly would have upset her more than the threat of penalties and charges (an attitude that may have been partly responsible for her financial predicament). As she hadn’t brought any of this up with me, I didn’t want to bring it up with her. This was how our family operated. Everyone talking about everyone else behind their backs. No one actually talking to the person about what they should be talking about because they were scared of upsetting that person.
‘Or,’ I added quickly, ‘you two could just come to us.’
To my surprise, Lizbet shook her head. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘I like your first idea. Let’s blow some cash.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said, a touch sternly. I hated her being irresponsible like this. I suppose that for other people it was like seeing their parents decide to bet their house on a horse.
‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Tim’s invented something. It’s been picked up. He got an advance order and a cheque.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ I said. ‘What? When? How?’
Lizbet yawned. ‘I don’t know all the details. I let him get on with it. He’s been working on it for a year or so, I think. But recently – since the – he’s shut himself away and really come up with something. He has a track record with the potty, which gets him an initial meeting. That’s the crucial bit. Woolworths passed, but suggested he approach their Japanese counterpart, and they loved it, and—’
‘What is it?’
‘Oh, some kind of early warning system.’
‘What! Anti-terrorism? I didn’t know he was involved in—’
‘He isn’t. Well, he is, but on a different level. A while ago, Tabitha brought Tomas round while he was being toilet trained. And he did two poos on our carpet. He was just in his pants when he did the second one, and crouching, and I could see it in there, leaking a bit of . . . poo juice onto our carpet, but, well, I didn’t want to say anything to Tabitha, in case it seemed rude, as if I was keeping watch. I didn’t want to offend her—’
‘Are you crazy?’ I shouted. ‘You should have just told her!’
‘Yes. Well. Now I would. Anyway. After that particular incident, Tim had an idea. A tiny patch, like a plaster, which you stick on the child’s bottom, but it has a sensor in it which sets off a bleeper – hand held by the parent, very discreet, so as not to give the child a complex – if there’s the slightest change in humidity in the area.’
‘Tim is bottom-obsessed, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, I do worry,’ said Lizbet. ‘Anyway, it has to be refined, but it enables the parent to suggest to the child that he might need to use the pot, just before the accident is due to occur.’
‘Genius,’ I said. ‘Brilliant in its simplicity.’
‘Mm,’ said Lizbet. ‘Apparently, some children are allergic to sticking plaster. So some varieties will be sensitised. And, of course, he’s thinking of blue plasters, and pink plasters, and possibly, some will be—’
‘Pony-shaped?’
‘Yes, and—’
‘Train-shaped?’
‘You guessed it.’
‘Well!’ I said. ‘Big in Japan! He must be thrilled.’
‘Mm,’ said Lizbet again. ‘I suppose he is. I don’t know – I’m just spending the advance! Still, if we go out you can ask him yourself.’
Our intentions were good, but actually the four of us didn’t meet until five weeks later. I had a few heavy cases on, and was doing prep till late most nights. Also, you had to book a month in advance for my favourite restaurant (Locanda Locatelli, there you go, a free tip!) so it made sense. When Lizbet walked in – not flinch-thin, but close – I fought to stop my jaw from dropping.
You have to know that Lizbet owns about four pairs of ancient knickers, a pair of cords from M&S – which she rotates with The Black Trousers (French Connection, circa 1998) – and about three tops: the stripey one, the grey one, and the One For Best, all baggy, all British weather shades, all from the Next Catalogue because she can’t be bothered to get out there and do the shops. But if she sees me in anything, she’ll say, ‘Where did you get that? I might get it.’
She was wearing a strapless yellow dress. ‘Givenchy!’ she said, with a beam, as she sat down.
‘Bless you,’ I replied.
She was so pleased with herself, and my heart tweaked with love and pain. I was reminded of something my boss Sophie Hazel Hamilton had told me, the previous day.
Sophie had collected one of her children from nursery in Chelsea on a recent day off. She’d walked into the playground and seen her boy wearing the furry winter hat with earflaps that she’d bought him a year earlier because it was cute. Now, however, it was a size too small and perched on top of his head. ‘He looked,’ she told me, shamefaced, ‘silly.’ She added, ‘He was the only child wearing a silly hat.’ What pained her, she said, was that he looked foolish and he didn’t know it. It was his innocence that hurt. She’d whipped off the hat and stuffed it in her bag.
I felt the same about Lizbet and her Givenchy dress. Her first foray into haute couture was a disaster. The dress had bright yellow silk bra cups, yellow stripes to the waist in a bodice effect, and what looked like a layer of white tissue paper over the yellow pencil skirt. And two nasty yellow and white frilly flaps, jutting over each hip. She looked like a slice of lemon meringue. Sadly, I couldn’t whip it off her and stuff it in my bag.
‘Darling,’ I said, ‘you’re way too pretty for that dress. That dress is the feature, it’s a dress for a woman with a face like an old boot. You need simplicity – Prada, Donna Karan – you need an easy design that lets your face and figure be the stars of the show.’
‘Oh,’ said Lizbet. ‘Do you think?’
She looked troubled and I wished she’d listen instead of filtering every comment via the insecurities of her childhood self. If ever you offered an opinion that challenged her or her behaviour, she went into what I called On Receipt of an Official Document Mode. She ignored the small print – the bit that really mattered – and absorbed its generic meaning. In other words, I’d criticised her appearance.
Tim kissed me hello. He was in normal clothes. I wondered if he had told his girlfriend that the dress didn’t suit her. Probably not. He was so in love, he couldn’t see a fault. However, the real world was not as forgiving and I felt that Tim had a duty to protect Lizbet from public ridicule. Adoration made him sloppy. My irritation levels rose, and we hadn’t even ordered drinks. There’d always be a point in the evening at which Tim would start to nuzzle my sister’s neck. I don’t like humans nuzzling. Horses nuzzle.
I tried not to watch too closely, but I did. Tim seemed preoccupied, and Lizbet’s mouth was pinched – although, she could have been trying to perfect a Zellweger pout. She’d certainly perfected the Zellweger figure.
I’m usually happy to watch everyone fight, but that evening I discovered that I missed the nuzzling. Trying to prompt it, I told Lizbet and Tim about a bet I’d had with
opposing counsel (Sophie, actually) that she couldn’t get the word ‘knob’ into her summary. She’d managed – I’d known she would and had bought the bottle of pink Taittinger in advance.
Tim and Lizbet ha-ha’d politely at arm’s length from each other, and I gave up trying to amuse them into horseplay. Instead I poured their drinks faster.
Alcohol succeeded where I had failed. They loosened up, got a little smoochy. I sighed with relief, decided it was time for a cigarette. I presumed that Lizbet and Tim were trying again for a baby, so I waved my unlit fag and went outside. A man jolted hard into my shoulder as I stepped into the street.
‘Do excuse me – oh! Cassandra Montgomery. Hello!’
I looked up, faked a smile. Barnaby Alcock (by name and by nature. What a massive dick. And just to be clear, I am not praising the actual appendage – I’ve never seen it; in layman’s terms, the man is an imbecile). There is so much I could tell you about Barnaby to make you hate him, so I’ll pick and choose. He adores himself more than any woman ever could, because he’s not a conventional barrister – woo-hoo!
He has this shaggy blond hair that according to legend he used to wear in dreadlocks (oh, save us). His main hobby is surfing, and he cycles to court (any excuse to wear tight shorts). He began his career in Exeter. Sophie once asked, ‘Why Exeter?’ and he said, ‘Why not Exeter?’ Prat. I came up against him there once when I was starting out, and he was an absolute pig. He’s only about four years older than me, but I suppose I looked very young, and he gave me this smirk when he first saw me at the bench, as if to say, ‘Is your mum in?’
He and his colleagues were falsely deferential to me. (‘Counsel from London!’ they said, and their body language said, ‘Oo-ooh!’) It was like stumbling into a provincial gentlemens’ club. The robing room was full of smoke, and when it emerged that I’d written a document for the judge (to save everyone from a long opening speech), Barnaby said, ‘Oh, you’ve written a document.’ He might as well have said, ‘Oh, you’ve drawn a picture.’ When I saw it at the bottom of a pile on the judge’s desk, I made sure I said, ‘Have you had a chance to read my document?’ The judge said, ‘Would you like me to?’ And so we adjourned for fifteen minutes. As we trooped back into court, I shot a triumphant glance at Barnaby, who murmured, ‘He’ll be happy now he’s read the sports page and had a fag and a cup of tea.’