by Liz Davies
Portia had the grace to look sheepish.
‘We’re all guilty of being selfish,’ Brett said, ignoring Portia’s sotto voce comment of “Too right, you are”, and ploughing on. ‘It’s got to change, and it stops right now. Today. You need to apologise to your grandmothers – both of them – and you also need to blow up that air bed and put it back in Ellis’s room, because that’s where you’ll be sleeping until the nans go home.’
‘It’s not fair! I don’t want to sleep in Ellis’s room. She’s mean, and she’s on the phone to her boyfriend half the night. You ought to hear her. It’s enough to make you feel sick.’
‘You can always sleep in the living room, or we can have the air bed in our room,’ Brett suggested.
‘And listen to you snore? No thanks.’
‘Portia, it’s up to you. I don’t care which room in the house you sleep in, as long as it’s not your own.’
‘It’s not fair,’ his daughter repeated.
Christ, he was sick of hearing that phrase. ‘Life isn’t.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘Do you honestly want to go down that path?’ Brett asked. ‘You might want to have a think about that before you answer.’
‘Mum will back me up. She doesn’t want to upset Nanny. What does Mum have to say about you making Nanny sleep in my room when she likes sleeping in the attic?’ Portia wanted to know. She saw his expression. ‘Mum doesn’t know, does she? She won’t be happy.’ Portia practically crowed.
‘She’s not here, so it doesn’t matter,’ Brett said, a sudden wrench twisting his heart. Where the hell was she, and what was she playing at?
‘When will she be back?’
‘I don’t know.’ It had better be soon, the kids needed to be fed. So did the nans, and he, himself, was getting a bit peckish, too.
‘Where is she?’ Portia demanded.
‘I don’t know.’ He could see his vague panic reflected in his daughter’s eyes.
Then Portia seemed to gather herself, her usual belligerence draped around her once more like a favourite scarf. ‘She won’t have gone far,’ she said confidently. ‘She never does.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m going to find the laptop. While I’m doing that, you can have a serious think about your behaviour.’
Brett caught a glimpse of his daughter in her bedroom mirror sticking her tongue out at him but he chose to ignore it.
Instead, he had yet another go at calling his wife, and ended up leaving yet another message. ‘Kate, where the bloody hell are you? You do realise the kids haven’t had their dinner? Kate, answer your phone. Kate?’
This wasn’t funny anymore!
Chapter 28
Brett was already exhausted and he’d only been home for a half an hour. Bloody hell – being in work was a darned sight easier than dealing with the two nans and Portia, and he hadn’t had to tackle Ellis yet. At least Sam was behaving himself; as far as Brett could tell, because the child hadn’t emerged from his room yet.
His stomach rumbled loudly, and he briefly debated whether to venture into the kitchen and see what was in the fridge, but he decided against it. He quite fancied Indian food. A plate of chicken passander would go down a treat.
Without consulting either his mother or Kate’s, he sloped off into the kitchen, sidling around Pepe who was sprawled on the tiles with his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth, and reached for the pile of menus. If Kate wasn’t here to cook, then it would have to be a takeaway for dinner.
He ordered their usual, plus an extra dish or two for the nans. He didn’t bother asking them what they wanted. Just seeing their faces while they picked at the pizza last night, had been enough. No, he decided, if they were hungry, they could either eat some curry and rice or cook themselves something.
He plodded downstairs, ready to face the next task. Really, Kate should be sorting this out – Beverley was her mother, after all. He had enough to do what with keeping his own mum happy. What he was about to say would probably bring a smile to his mum’s face; Beverley, on the other hand, wouldn’t be as pleased.
‘What’s for dinner?’ Beverley asked, as soon as he entered the room.
‘I’ve ordered Indian,’ he said and watched the pair of them wrinkle their noses.
‘It’s hardly healthy, all these takeaways,’ his mother said.
Beverley shuddered. ‘I don’t like that curry stuff. It’s too spicy.’
‘Just try some,’ he suggested.
‘It’s not the spice that bothers me, it’s all the fat and salt,’ Helen said. ‘It can’t be good for growing children. Anyway, I think takeaways are the height of laziness.’
Brett did a double take. He loved his mother dearly, but she could be so hypocritical at times. There speaks the woman who goes out to lunch with her cronies several times a week. But of course, she didn’t consider herself to be lazy at all – it was purely so she could enjoy the company. Or so she said. Brett, for one, didn’t believe it; his mother couldn’t be bothered to cook for just herself, although she always used to cook when he still lived at home. She was pretty good at it, too, but she hadn’t particularly enjoyed cooking. He suspected the only reason she’d cooked the unfortunate leg of lamb last night, was to make a point, and to possibly annoy Kate.
As for Beverley, she’d eat the food and enjoy moaning about it. It would give her something to grizzle about for the next few hours.
‘Not very festive, is it?’ his mother-in-law said.
‘That should suit you, then; I didn’t think you liked anything festive.’ He didn’t “think”, he “knew” she didn’t, because she kept telling him and anyone else who’d listen. It was like having your own personal Scrooge sitting in your living room. No wonder all the joy and magic seemed to have been sucked out of Christmas this year.
Brett cleared his throat. ‘Portia is sleeping in Ellis’s room tonight,’ he announced, ‘so you, Beverley, can have her bed.’
There was a stunned silence for a second, then Beverley’s mouth pursed up like a cat’s bottom, while his mother’s mouth turned into a Cheshire Cat’s grin. If his mother smiled any wider, Brett thought uncharitably, then her face was in danger of turning itself inside out.
Kate’s mother rallied swiftly. ‘What about my arthritis?’ she asked. ‘It’ll play up something terrible if I have to sleep in Portia’s room.’
‘It’s either that, or you sleep on the inflatable mattress down here,’ Brett said, firmly.
Beverley thought for a moment. ‘You and Kate could always have Portia’s bed, and I can stay where I am. It’s only for a couple more nights.’
‘Five, to be exact, unless you’re planning on travelling back on Boxing Day,’ he pointed out.
Beverley’s eyes widened.
‘I didn’t think so. It’s quite unfair to expect Kate and I to squash into a small double bed, when there’s a perfectly good super-king-size one in our bedroom. So, for this visit, you can have Portia’s room. For subsequent visits, if you both plan on being here at the same time and are going to stay longer than a night or so, you can share a room. After Christmas, I’ll buy two single beds, which should fit in the spare room nicely.’
There, he thought, let them put that in their pipes and smoke it. He’d gone past the point of caring.
‘I’d like to go home,’ his mother announced. ‘I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted, but my car won’t start.
Beverley snorted. ‘How convenient,’ she muttered, and earned herself a scathing look from Helen.
Aren’t families great, he thought, with a sigh, wondering if this was normal. All of them – him, Kate, the kids and the two grandmothers – hadn’t ever been in the same place at the same time, as far as he could remember. If this was how it was going to be going forward... He shuddered.
While he waited for their takeaway to arrive, Brett called Portia from her bedroom, and he dropped into an armchair, hearing his youngest daughter thunder down the stairs.
<
br /> She sidled in, looking sullen.
Brett raised his eyebrows, and she replaced her expression with a slightly less sullen one.
‘When’s Mum back?’ she asked.
Brett could read her like a book. ‘Not soon enough to save you from this,’ he said. ‘Now, what do you have to say to your grandmothers.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you asking me or telling them?’
‘Telling them,’ she said.
‘Then you could at least sound as though you mean it,’ he said.
Both Helen and Beverley were sitting side by side on the sofa. Beverley looked quite miserable, but then she often did, so it was difficult to tell what she was thinking. His mother looked stern and rather forbidding.
‘I’m sorry,’ Portia said again, but this time she sounded more sincere. ‘Dad says I made you feel unwelcome,’ she said to Beverley. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘And...?’ Brett prompted.
Portia looked at Helen. ‘I’m sorry I was rude.’
‘Apology accepted,’ Helen said, although she looked as though she hadn’t quite forgiven her granddaughter.
‘Can I go now?’ Portia asked her father in a small voice.
‘You may. Dinner will be here in about twenty minutes.’
His daughter hesitated. ‘When will Mum be back? You never said.’
Brett flinched. He hoped she’d be back later this evening, despite her text. But what if she wasn’t? And at what point did he tell the children?
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s popped out for a bit.’
‘How long is a bit?’
Portia was certainly persistent, Brett thought. ‘I’m not sure,’ he hedged.
‘Is she at a party, or something? She didn’t say she was going out? If she’s gone out with Patty or Freda, I bet she’ll come home tipsy, like she did the last time.’ Portia giggled. ‘She’s funny when she’s had too much to drink.’ Her expression sobered. ‘She is going to work tomorrow, though, isn’t she? I mean, she won’t have too much of a hangover.’
Ah, so that was it – Portia wanted to make sure both her mother and her father were out of the house for the day. No supervision (the nans didn’t count as far as Portia was concerned), meant not being grounded – at least, not until he or Kate came home.
‘I expect she will,’ he replied mildly, his insides churning as he considered the possibility that she mightn’t.
Brett saw the gleam of delight in his daughter’s expression, and knew his assessment was correct. ‘I won’t be, though,’ he added.
‘You what?’ Portia blinked.
‘I don’t have work tomorrow.’ He did, but he intended to have another sick day, and another, right up until Christmas. After that, he intended to be working somewhere else entirely.
‘Bummer,’ she muttered, slinking back upstairs.
‘I’ll call you when the Indian arrives,’ he shouted after her. ‘And tell Sam to finish his game because dinner will be here soon.’
Brett didn’t expect a reply from his daughter, so he wasn’t disappointed. But he did expect a reply of some sort from his wife.
But when he checked, there was nothing from her whatsoever.
This was starting to become irritating. He didn’t appreciate having to cope with three kids, two mothers, and a dog, on his own. She was annoyed, he appreciated that, but going off alone to sulk wasn’t the answer.
He tried her again and was forced to leave another voice message. ‘Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?’
He’d phone her again after they’d eaten, but Brett and Portia were the only ones who seemed to have any appetite. Sam – so unlike him – was moving most of his food around his plate. Brett examined him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what could be wrong with the boy.
‘You OK, son?’
Sam shrugged.
‘It’s your favourite, chicken passander.’
Another shrug.
‘Don’t you feel well?’
Sam stared at the table. ‘Mum said for you to give me an antihismatine.’
‘A what?’
‘Antihismanine?’
‘Oh, you mean an antihistamine? Why?’
‘I think I’ll allergic to Nanny’s dog.’
‘Do you know what, Sam?’ Helen piped up, pushing her food around her plate, and wrinkling her nose. ‘I’m allergic to it, too.’
‘Does he make you scratch, Nana?’
‘Um, not really.’
‘I’ve got spots, too.’ Sam announced.
Oh, bless him. He did have a couple on his forehead, Brett noticed. It looked like teenage acne was going to be a thing for Sam. Both the girls had gotten off lightly, with only Portia having the odd break out now and again. He knew, because she was very vocal about it, crying that she looked like a leper (not that Portia could possibly know what a leper looked like), and that she usually tried to refuse to go to school until the tiny spot had gone.
Sam, it seemed, was going to have much more of a problem.
It didn’t help that whenever the child wasn’t playing footie or rugby, or was in school, he was entrenched in his bedroom staring at a screen and trying to shoot things. He should get out more; play with the other lads on the close— Hang on; were there any other boys of Sam’s age in their street? Brett had to admit that he didn’t know.
‘Ask Portia if she’s got any spot cream,’ he suggested. Then, ‘When did Mum say for me to give you an antihistamine?’
‘I dunno. Half an hour ago?’ Sam shrugged. Brett wished he’d stop doing that.
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Text.’
‘She texted you?’
‘I just said so, didn’t I?’
Bloody hell, this boy of his was getting as sullen as the girls. Annoyance shot through him – Kate could text Sam, but she couldn’t be bothered to reply to him. At least he knew she had her phone with her; he’d definitely call her after he’d eaten, and give her a piece of his mind.
‘Kate used to have spots. Not many, though,’ Beverley said. She wasn’t exactly tucking into her food, either. None of them were, apart from Portia, who was gobbling down curry and naan bread as though it was about to be taken away from her at any second.
‘Don’t you like it?’ Brett used his fork to point at Beverley’s plate.
‘It’s too spicy for me,’ his mother-in-law said. ‘It’ll upset my tummy.’
He resisted the by-now very common urge to roll his eyes. Chicken korma wasn’t in the least bit spicy. Maybe he should have ordered her a vindaloo instead, just to see her eyes water.
Ellis was still out, God knows where, and there was so much food left over that he felt positively guilty, especially when his mother said, ‘You’ve ordered far too much, Brett. It’s such a waste.’
As he carried the barely-touched cartons out to the kitchen, he called Kate again, without any luck, so he left yet another message. ‘Pick up, Kate, you’re starting to worry me.’
It was so unlike her. She’d never done anything like this before. Surely a silly comment from his mother wouldn’t make her go haring off in the car? He thought she had thicker skin than that. Besides, she knew what his mother was like, and he was certain Helen didn’t mean what she’d said. It had just come out wrong, that’s all. His mother was always putting her foot in her mouth, but she never meant it the way it sounded.
Brett wasn’t sure whether he should be concerned with, or annoyed at, his wife.
The fact that she’d replied to Sam and not to him, tipped the balance in favour of being cross, and he seethed for a bit while he cleaned up.
As he tackled the dirty dishes, a horrible thought occurred to him, and he rang Kate again. ‘Is there someone else, is that it?’ he demanded.
Even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was ridiculous for him to think such a thing. For one, when would Kate have time for an affair? She was a
lways either in work or running around after the kids. For another, he knew their sex life wasn’t brilliant, but he didn’t think it was bad enough to drive her into another man’s arms. Besides, Kate wasn’t the type – she was loyal and faithful. She simply didn’t have it in her to sneak around behind his back and cheat on him.
A short while later, feeling he should apologise for his last message, he called her again, but when he realised her phone was still turned off, his good intentions vanished.
‘Where are you?’ he snapped. ‘I’ve left message after message. Now you’re being ridiculous and childish. For your information, we’ve had a takeaway. Again!’
He stared at the remains of the Indian in disgust. His mother was right, living off fast food wasn’t healthy, and he didn’t feel that the kids should have yet another takeaway tomorrow evening. It wasn’t fair on them, or on him. He needed good, wholesome food after a hard day in the office, with vegetables or a salad, freshly prepared and nutritious, not fast food swimming in cream or fat, and laden with salt.
Right, this was the last time he was going to call her tonight. If she didn’t answer, so be it...
‘Kate!’ He gave a loud huffing sigh down the phone, then muttered, ‘For God’s sake,’ under his breath.
Before he went to bed, he couldn’t resist sending her one last message. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to come to your senses.’
He didn’t want to think about what he’d do if she refused to speak to him in the morning. Surely, she’d have gotten over whatever funk she was in, and she’d come back home where she belonged?
Because, if she didn’t, he had absolutely no idea what he would do without her.
Chapter 29
Since when did hangovers get to be so bad?
Kate prised one eye open then the other, thankful that even if it was morning, it was still dark outside. The thought of having bright sunlight stabbing her in the head made her feel ill.
Actually, she didn’t need another reason to feel ill – she felt positively horrid as it was. Her stomach was doing slow, nauseating rolls, and her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.