‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ she asks him with a smile. ‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’
‘It has.’
Mark’s replies are notably subdued. He’s usually so warm and friendly with everyone, but he’s looking at Bea like she’s the last ghost he wanted summoning this evening.
‘Well, give me a hug then,’ she demands, a flirtatious little giggle rounding off her sentence.
Mark does as requested, breaking quickly to offer his mum a hand.
‘Mum, let me give you a hand with the plates.’
‘They’re all here, my love.’
‘No, you missed some,’ he insists, practically dragging her off to the kitchen.
As Bea takes a seat at the table next to me, I get the feeling that this is bad – really bad.
‘You must be Roxie,’ she says, offering me her hand.
‘Hi,’ I reply.
‘I have actually heard a lot about you,’ she tells me, pouring herself a glass of lemonade from the jug on the table.
How nice for her. I haven’t heard a thing about her.
Apart from the chatter coming from the twins, the room is pretty much silent, everyone’s eyes on us, waiting to see how this plays out. I feel like everyone knows something I don’t…
‘We can get to know each other properly tonight, seeing as how I’m staying here. Mum and Dad are in the south of France but their flight back has been cancelled. That’s cool, though – it means we can swap notes.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply with a polite smile. Wait, what? ‘Sorry, notes on what? Are you a writer, too?’ I ask.
‘Oh, God, no,’ she replies quickly, with an offensive cackle. ‘I’m a doctor. I work with Alex, as a matter of fact.’
Of course she’s a doctor, and of course she’s big buddies with everyone here. This girl is perfect in every way – of course she has the ultimate, selfless, smart, perfect human job. She’s probably curing cancer while I’m writing step-by-step guides on how to take dick pics (FYI: step one is ‘don’t do it’ and step two is ‘I’m not kidding, don’t do it’. Step three is ‘OK, if you insist, these are the best angles…’ – the jury is still out on whether I’m changing the world or not).
‘Swap notes on Mark, silly,’ she corrects me. ‘I’m his ex.’
As all of the pieces of the puzzle smash into me, full force, before falling neatly into place, I mentally kick myself for not seeing this one coming. Of course this perfect thing is his ex. Of course she’s everything I’m not. And – of course – she’s staying the night.
Mark and his mum walk back into the room, a fraught silence between them as they take their seats at the table.
‘Let’s serve this before things get cold,’ Val insists, taking the lids off all of the dishes.
As I take stock of what is on the table, I feel my stomach twist into knots, as though to tell me: ‘I ain’t letting you put any of this stuff in me, doll. No way!’
Mark and I exchange a glance. Sometimes, he says more with his eyes than he does with his mouth – in typical male form. The look he’s giving me right now is both apologetic and reassuring. As he squeezes my hand under the table, I watch as he softens.
‘Mmm, this smells good,’ he announces, sounding like he’s trying to build a bridge with his mum. I don’t know how their conversation played out in the kitchen, but I imagine he was furious with her for inviting his ex to stay while he was here – especially with me being here, too.
‘Thank you,’ Val replies. ‘The sausages are from the farm up the hill. The field with these pigs in is the one our garden backs on to, so this isn’t the first time we’ve seen them,’ she laughs. ‘We’ve got black pudding, mashed turnip and lots and lots of gravy.’
Pig neighbours, blood and turnips, all swilled in gravy. I can’t think of anything worse. And I don’t suppose there’s a McDonald’s around here...
‘Mmm, sounds great,’ Bea gushes. Ergh, fine, if that’s how I’m supposed to play it.
‘Erm…’
‘Oh, my God, Roxie, I totally spaced – mum, Roxie is a vegetarian.’
‘Oh,’ Val says, obviously not approving of my lifestyle choices.
‘It’s fine, really,’ I tell her. ‘The veg looks amazing.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mark says again. ‘It just completely slipped my mind.’
‘I suppose I could go and make you an omelette,’ Val starts, although I’m not entirely convinced she means it.
‘Honestly, it’s fine.’
‘Do you want some ketchup?’ Mark asks me, before turning to his mum. ‘Do we have ketchup, Mum? Roxie has it with pretty much everything.’
My caring, considerate boyfriend is doing his best to make me feel at home, but in the process, a few sniggers are tittered in my direction. Probably because I seem like a fussy child.
‘There’s some at the kids’ table,’ she replies, blatantly unimpressed. Thank God I didn’t ask about McDonald’s.
I can feel Bea’s eyes on me as I sip my drink. Instinctively I turn my head to meet her gaze and she smiles at me.
‘So you’re a writer,’ Bea says as she cuts her food.
‘I am,’ I reply, staring down at my own plate, wondering how I’m going to eat even one mouthful of this. ‘A journalist.’
‘Ooh, that’s cool,’ she replies. ‘So you do, like, investigative pieces? Uncovering the truth? Exposing corrupt politicians?’
This chick has watched too many movies.
I swallow a mouthful of turnip.
‘Well, I’m a lifestyle journalist,’ I explain. ‘So I mostly just tell people how to live their lives.’
I laugh. So does Mark. No one else does.
‘Roxie is a brilliant writer,’ Mark gushes. ‘So funny and so smart. She writes for one of the biggest alternative news sites in the world.’
‘What is an alternative news site?’ Ste chimes in curiously. With most of the party chatting among themselves, I didn’t realise anyone other than Bea, Mark and Val were listening. Val, I’ve noticed, listens very carefully to every word I say, chewing over every syllable like it’s the next-door neighbour’s pig.
‘We cater to a younger demographic, so we present the news in a way that they’re more likely to respond to. Often, if we make it funny, people will absorb heavy news they otherwise wouldn’t be interested in. It’s also easier to get them to take advice in that way, but mostly, I just like making people smile when they read what I’ve written.’
‘Well, I think that’s great,’ Bea chimes in. ‘I sometimes wish I’d taken on a more carefree job, like writing, one where nothing really mattered and I had no stress. If you’re making people smile, good for you. Sometimes I will literally save someone’s life and I won’t get a smile, but look at you – that’s great.’
I smile, even though it seems like she’s putting my job down to my face.
‘What does everyone else do?’ I ask the room, shifting the focus from myself.
‘My job has always been raising my family,’ Valerie explains. ‘And that’s what Millie is doing. It’s important to be there for your kids.’
‘Definitely,’ Millie echoes.
‘I agree,’ Bea agrees. ‘When I start my family, I’ll give up work.’
I gulp down another mouthful of my dinner, although I seem no closer to clearing my plate.
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘After all that time and hard work studying to become a doctor, you’d give it up?’
‘You’re not going to give up your job to raise your family?’ Bea asks me with surprise in her voice, seeing my question and raising me another.
All eyes are on me again.
‘I’m just focusing on the wedding at the moment,’ I reply tactfully.
Valerie rests her cutlery down for a second.
‘I’ll help you with wedding planning,’ she tells me.
‘Oh, that’s OK,’ I insist.
‘No, no, I insist. Then you have more time to worry about more important
things.’
‘Well, I mean, we haven’t even set a date yet,’ I babble. Well, we haven’t, we haven’t had time, but it’s probably best to play it safe and make it seem like we’re going to have such a long engagement, there’s no need to start planning just yet.
I smile, safe in the knowledge I’ll wiggle out of that one somehow. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her offering; it’s just that, not only do I think our tastes clash a little, but I don’t really feel like she cares too much about what I’d want. Planning a wedding with her sounds like it would be hard work, and there’s also a strong possibility I would get pushed into making choices I absolutely did not want to make.
I notice Val and Bea exchange a glance across the table. I don’t know what it means, but it makes me uncomfortable.
‘I think it’s pretty cool, what you do, Roxie,’ Ste says, jumping to my defence.
‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an actor,’ he tells me. As he does, I see Mark’s dad roll his eyes. Ste ignores this. ‘Mostly theatre.’
‘Oh, cool,’ I reply. ‘My parents have always worked in and around theatres, so I’ve been brought up around it.’
‘I love the theatre,’ Mark’s dad chimes in. ‘I’d be interested to know more about what your parents do.’
‘Sure…’
‘I’ve just finished a run in A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ Ste says excitedly, cutting me off.
‘That’s awesome,’ I reply. ‘What part did you play?’
‘Ha,’ Oscar buts in.
‘Well, I played a tree,’ he explains. ‘But I was on stage for, like, the entire play. And I got a laugh at one point.’
‘He fell,’ Oscar laughs. ‘Everyone laughed their heads off.’
‘I was great,’ Ste protests.
‘You were wooden,’ Oscar replies. ‘And not even in the way you were supposed to be. When you fell, you crumpled like a tissue.’
‘Well, it beats shoving my hand up cows all day,’ Ste snaps.
I feel my eyes widen.
‘No talk of such things at the dinner table, Stephen,’ Valerie insists, before turning to me. ‘Oscar was a vet, until he retired.’
‘Oh, cool,’ I reply.
‘Melody is a student; she’s studying to be a nursery nurse, and Alex is a doctor, as you know. It’s interesting how all three of my kids have gravitated towards helping children, isn’t it?’
I nod in agreement.
I push down a few more mouthfuls of dinner, finally making a dent in my plate, but there’s no way I can clear it. I’ll just have to insist I’m not a big eater, and hope that Mark doesn’t correct me.
I glance at my watch.
‘Are we boring you?’ Bea chuckles.
I don’t know what I take issue with more: that she’s drawing attention to me like this, or that she’s talking like she’s one of the family and I’m not. I mean, I’m not, not yet, but neither is she.
‘I was just thinking about how dark it is for quarter to seven,’ I tell her.
I was actually thinking ‘holy fuck, it’s only quarter to seven – this is going to be the longest night of my life’.
‘I’ll be putting the kids to bed soon,’ Millie chimes. ‘Let’s play a game. I brought that one with me that you asked me to, Valerie. Oh, but it’s only for couples,’ she says disappointedly, ‘and we have an odd number now.’
For a moment, I replay her words in my head. We do have an odd number since Bea turned up, but then it occurs to me that no one knew I was coming. If neither of us had ‘unexpectedly’ turned up, there would still be an odd number, which leads me to the conclusion that Val knew Bea would be here, making an even number for the game she insisted Millie bring with her.
‘What game?’ Mark asks.
‘Mr & Mrs,’ Millie says excitedly.
Of course it is.
‘I’ll just watch,’ Bea insists. ‘I’m used to being the single girl. And watching will be interesting.’
Val smiles at her.
‘That’s very sweet of you, Bea. What a good sport. And I can’t imagine you’ll be single for long, a catch like you.’
As much as I want to run off to the study and opt out of playing games, my absence would be filled by Bea, who would be teaming up with my fiancé, and I can’t let that happen. How weird would that be, being on a Mr & Mrs team with your ex?!
‘OK,’ Val says excitedly with a rub of her hands. ‘Let’s get this table cleared, get the kettle on and then get this game started.’
Everyone jumps into action, moving plates and making space, while Millie takes the kids off to bed. A seven o’clock bedtime – is that a normal bedtime for a pair of six-year-olds? My parents never imposed a bedtime on me, and I turned out just fine, right?
‘This is going to be interesting,’ Bea whispers to me. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks, but I won’t need it,’ I reply. ‘Mark is my specialist subject.’
‘You never know how well you know a person until you compete in a game with them – and you know how competitive our Mark can be.’
He’s ‘our’ Mark, is he? I’m not sure if that’s a statement made to make me feel uncomfortable, or just a Yorkshire thing, to claim ownership of a person if you know them. But one thing I am certain of: she doesn’t know how competitive I can be, too.
Chapter Nine
‘What was Valerie wearing the day you met her?’ Bea quizzes Oscar.
‘Easy,’ he replies confidently. ‘A cream dress with a beige mohair coat and black ankle boots.’
I feel my eyes widen at the level of detail he remembers. I’m not sure Mark could remember such a detail about me, were it not a fancy dress party we met at. Lucky for me, my outfit was very memorable and it’s an easy point – it’s a shame it’s not our question.
Valerie turns around the board she has written her answer on, proving that Oscar is correct.
‘Nice!’ Bea beams, the bright, brilliant hostess that she is. ‘Next question is for Melody. What is Ste’s favourite part of your body?’
‘This one is easy,’ Ste replies as he writes the correct answer on his board.
We’re all gathered in the family room, playing Mr & Mrs. It’s me and Mark vs Valerie and Oscar vs Melody and Ste vs Alex and Millie – four teams, and only one thing to play for: the smugness of being the couple that knows each other the best. There are two sofas in the room that both wrap around corners, so each couple has their own side of the sofa to occupy. Bea, who has taken on the role of quizmaster, is sitting on the floor by the fire.
‘OK, Mel, your answer please,’ Bea insists.
‘My big, brown eyes,’ she says with confidence.
‘Seriously?’ Ste asks, disappointed. ‘It’s not your eyes, it’s your soul.’
He turns around his card to reveal that this is what he’s written, and while I’m sure his intentions were good, I cringe.
‘Right,’ Bea laughs. ‘OK, Alex, your question about Millie: people and pets aside, what makes your partner the happiest?’
Alex thinks this over as Millie writes the correct answer on her board.
As they go through the motions of the game, I wonder about how I would answer these questions about Mark, and how he would answer them about me. What we were wearing on the day we met is easy: my Harley Quinn outfit and his Joker costume were not only memorable, but we have the pictures from Bacci magazine on our wall at home to serve as a constant reminder. My favourite part of Mark’s body is also an easy question to answer – it’s his smile. He’s got a face that was just made to be happy. When Mark is happy, his smile lights up the whole room and it’s seriously contagious. What is Mark’s favourite part of my body? Easy. When I’m standing in front of the mirror, fretting about my short legs, squishy tummy and chubby cheeks, he’ll walk up behind me, slip his arms around my body and tell me to stop finding fault with myself. He’ll tell me that he loves the curve of my waist, how smooth my skin feels, and that his f
avourite things of all are my eyes. He says he gets lost in the blue of them, and he reckons that when I’m happy, they get brighter, shifting from teal to sapphire in colour. I’m not sure I believe him, but he says it like he means it. And finally, what makes Mark the happiest? As you’d expect, it’s a toss-up between football and video games and, given his answer during our game of ‘Would You Rather’, I can safely say that football makes him happiest. What makes me happiest? Probably Mark, as sad as that sounds. I’m just so unbelievably happy with him.
‘Come on then, Alex,’ Bea prompts. ‘What makes Millie happy?’
‘Rainbows,’ Alex answers.
We all look to Millie, to see what she’s written on her board. Surely no one in their thirties could be so impossibly sickly sweet…
As she flips her board around, we can all see that she’s written the word ‘rainbows’ in the most elaborate, swirly, almost illegible handwriting. I would probably double-check with her that this was in fact what she had written, were it not for the huge rainbow she’s drawn above it, complete with what I’d imagine is a pot of gold at the end (but it looks more like a bowl of cereal – or maybe I’m just super starving because I didn’t eat my dinner).
‘Correct,’ Bea chimes, marking them a point on the scoreboard. ‘You are all so good at this!’
‘It was that or unicorns,’ Alex adds, smiling wide after this little victory.
‘Well, I do love unicorns,’ she replies, ‘but it’s definitely rainbows because…’
They exist?
‘…they’re just way more colourful than unicorns.’
‘Lame,’ Mark heckles his sister.
Finally, it’s time for me to answer a question about Mark.
‘OK, Roxie. Your first question about Mark: what was the name of his high-school form teacher?’
‘Oh, come on,’ Mark interjects. ‘There’s no way Roxie could know that.’
‘I know that,’ Bea giggles.
‘You know that because you went to school with me,’ he replies. ‘Come on, ask another one.’
‘Don’t be a sore loser, Marcus,’ his mum chimes in. ‘Bea is pulling the questions out at random; you’ll answer what you’re asked.’
It's Not You, It's Them Page 8