The Last Laugh

by Tracy Bloom

  I smell burnt toast the minute I walk through the door the following day. I figure it must be George as, according to Ellie, white carbs are so not what anyone is eating right now. Apparently, these days, what you eat is as much a part of your identity as what you wear and white carbs are the equivalent of Gola trainers to this generation whereas wholegrains and seeds are the new Benetton sweater. I suppose I should be glad that Ellie is careful about what she eats, but rejecting toast for fashion purposes doesn’t seem like a healthy decision somehow.

  A light haze of smoke is lingering in the kitchen and a chair is still standing under the smoke alarm where emergency action was clearly required to quell its warning. I spot the square battery discarded on the counter top. George has his back to me, hunched over the cooker. I remember now he mentioned he was going to cook dinner. He wanted me to buy artichokes whilst I was out but I’ve forgotten. I curse myself. I’d got too carried away looking at new clothes to match my new hair in shops frequented only by teenagers or women with no taste. It had been so enjoyable considering clothes for fun rather than clothes that were appropriate. Eventually I’d settled on a new pair of knee-high leather boots with stiletto heels and matching soft leather miniskirt. I’d also been into MAC Cosmetics and let them make me over. I had a smoky eye that was just to die for; I felt like a million dollars.

  ‘Toaster’s broken,’ says Ellie, who is sitting at the table with her back to me, staring into a laptop. Phoebe lounges opposite her, a can of Diet Fanta poised at her lips. ‘Phoebe put a five-grain bagel in and it didn’t pop up then it stunk the place out and set the alarm off,’ continues Ellie. ‘I thought you said you were going to buy a new one?’

  Throughout this Phoebe and I are engaged in a stare-off. She has looked me up and down, literally, and then curled her lip in disdain at my makeover. I’m now awaiting her verdict, refusing to be stared down by a seventeen-year-old.

  ‘Jennifer,’ she says eventually. ‘I love what you have done with yourself. Is that a wig?’

  Ellie whizzes round, eager to support Phoebe’s opinion.

  ‘Extensions, actually,’ I say just as Ellie’s jaw drops.

  ‘What the fuck, Mother,’ she exclaims, eyeing my dramatic make-up as well as my skirt and my boots.

  ‘Ellie!’ I cry, putting my bag down and grabbing the battery off the side. I step onto the chair, which is difficult given my too-high heels.

  ‘Ooh, nice boots!’ says Phoebe. ‘You didn’t get them from the charity shop, did you? My mum had a clear-out the other week and they look like a pair she used to wear a long time ago. She’d be delighted to know they have gone to a good home.’

  She says all this as my arms strain to reach up to reattach the battery. I glance down and see that Ellie and Phoebe are mouthing something at each other. No doubt communicating the horror that is my appearance. Ellie will be enthusiastically agreeing with whatever Phoebe thinks because that’s what she does. Agrees with Phoebe. Agrees with the Beastie, whichever crooked path she chooses to drag her down. I can’t stand it. What am I doing up here watching this happen right in front of my eyes? I step down and stand in front of my daughter.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask her.

  Her mouth hangs open and she glances uncomfortably at Phoebe.

  ‘I want to know what you think, not what she thinks,’ I say, throwing a cursory thumb in Phoebe’s direction. Ellie’s eyes flare in indignation but still she looks to Phoebe for permission to give it to me with both barrels. I catch the tiniest of nods from her friend and so it comes.

  ‘You look ridiculous,’ she says with a sneer. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Phoebe snorts, trying to suppress her giggles. Ellie casts her a triumphant smile.

  ‘Because I wanted to feel better about myself,’ I tell her calmly.

  Phoebe erupts. Ellie, to her credit, fights to stop herself from laughing in my face.

  ‘Do you know what?’ I continue. ‘I decided I should look how I want to, not how other people think I should look. Listening to others’ opinion on how you should look is for losers.’ I turn to Phoebe and address this last point straight at her. ‘I think I look fucking brilliant,’ I say.

  ‘Mum!’ exclaims Ellie.

  ‘And even if no one else thinks I look fucking brilliant, I feel fucking brilliant, so I really don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks, especially you.’

  I stab my finger towards the Beastie. Out of the corner of my eye I see George hunch up his shoulders further to shield him from the confrontation going on behind him.

  Phoebe stares back at me, her eyes wide, a slight smile still playing on her lips.

  ‘What she thinks matters,’ I say, moving my stabbing finger to point at Ellie. ‘What she thinks matters, except I have no idea what she thinks because it’s too buried under the vile poison you spread all over it before it even surfaces.’

  ‘Mum, stop it!’ shouts Ellie.

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ says Phoebe, rising slowly from her chair.

  ‘No!’ cries Ellie. ‘Don’t go.’

  But Phoebe doesn’t even look at Ellie, just continues to stare me down.

  ‘I’m out of here,’ she declares and turns to leave.

  ‘Don’t go,’ shouts Ellie. ‘Just ignore her.’

  ‘Bye,’ says Phoebe, holding two fingers up over her shoulder.

  Nothing is said until we all hear the front door slam.

  ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ exclaims Ellie, tears streaming down her face. ‘She’s my best friend!’

  She’s not, I want to tell her. You can do better than that. You’ll leave school and meet new people and you will realise Phoebe wasn’t a friend and you will assign her to the friendship graveyard where all friendships that were formed through proximity or convenience inevitably end up. Especially school friends. School friends are a lottery. Who you sit next to in Physics or who you end up in detention with on your first week because you forgot your homework. You rarely are selective; you haven’t the guts at that age. Some get lucky. Some hit the jackpot and find their BFF, but most just grin and bear it until they suddenly find they haven’t talked in years to the person they spent every waking hour with in school. And they realise they haven’t even missed them.

  ‘You can do better,’ I tell Ellie. ‘You’re so much better than her. She’s mean. She’s mean to everyone. She’s mean to me, she’s mean to George—’

  ‘She’s not mean to me,’ shouts Ellie, pushing past me to get out of the room.

  I look at the back of the door she has just slammed. The sad truth of my daughter’s closest friendship finally dawns on me: being friends with Phoebe keeps her out of the firing line. Ellie is keeping her enemy closest.

  I sigh. ‘I’m so sorry, George, I forgot to get your artichokes,’ I tell the back of his head. He turns.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says. He blushes then adds, ‘You were great.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yeah, what you said, brilliant.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply.

  We stare at each other awkwardly. He looks like he is waiting for me to say something.

  ‘Has anyone called you about Betsy yet?’ he finally asks, desperation flooding his face.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Shall we go out and look again later?’

  He nods. ‘Someone will call,’ he tells me as he turns back to tend his food. ‘They have to.’

  He’s right, I think. Artichokes don’t matter.

  * * *

  A few minutes later Mark bursts in from wherever he’s been hiding, closely followed by Ellie.

  ‘What on earth has been going on?’ he demands.

  ‘Mum was horrible to Phoebe, just horrible,’ sobs Ellie from behind him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Mark is staring at me and I brace myself for attack. I watch him do a double-take at my make-up and new clothes. He opens his mouth and then closes it again.

  ‘I can’t believe it,�
� continues Ellie. ‘What kind of mother does that? Phoebe’s not speaking to me. No texts, no Messenger, no Snapchat, no nothing. I’ve tried everything. She’s ruined my life,’ she gasps, waving her finger in my direction.

  ‘Phoebe only left the house two minutes ago,’ I point out. Mark hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I’m not sure if this is good or bad.

  ‘Mum’s right,’ says George, turning round and staring at Ellie. ‘Phoebe’s a bitch.’

  Ellie gasps. I’m not sure if it’s at the content of what George has just said or the confidence in his delivery.

  He walks up to me and holds his hand up to offer me a high five. I’m so dumbstruck by his clear, concise, un-stuttering summary of events that I leave him hanging. He nods solemnly at his hand and I raise mine to slap his and he smiles. Another smile from George. A head held high, chin-up, open smile. I beam back.

  ‘You stay out of it,’ roars Ellie. ‘No one cares what you think.’

  ‘I care what he thinks,’ I say.

  ‘I think you look beautiful by the way, Mum,’ says George.

  I look at him. I fall on him, enveloping him in my arms. I want to cry. I want to hold him there forever. I can feel the tears slipping out my clamped-shut eyes. The world stops for a moment as reality hits me hard. Harder than ever before. I don’t think I can breathe. I want to scream in anguish as thoughts of loss engulf me.

  But I don’t.

  I gulp. I wipe the tears swiftly away and open my eyes when I think I can bear to see again.

  ‘You look so… young!’ says Mark, his arm now over his daughter’s shoulder but his eyes still on me.

  ‘Like when we first met?’

  He nods.

  He looks confused. Confused at the memories it drags up. Happy memories of happier times. Memories that can have no place in his state of extra-marital-affair mind.

  ‘What am I going to do, Dad?’ whines Ellie, looking up at him.

  He’s still staring at me.

  ‘Let her stew for a bit,’ he says eventually. ‘She’ll come round.’

  ‘No, she won’t! Mum has to apologise. Tell her she didn’t mean it.’

  ‘But I did mean it,’ I say.

  ‘Phoebe is sooo mean,’ adds George.

  ‘But she’s my friend,’ squeals Ellie.

  ‘Maybe if she wasn’t so mean she would have more friends and wouldn’t be thinking right now that she has to come crawling back because if she doesn’t, she has no one to hang out with.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asks Ellie.

  I shake my head in despair.

  ‘Yes,’ I sigh. ‘She only has you. She’ll be in touch.’

  ‘And then you’ll apologise?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Dad, tell her she has to apologise.’

  Mark says nothing. I wish he would say something. But he won’t. I know he won’t, it’s down to me. I gather my thoughts. This needs to count.

  ‘I will not apologise and when she phones, you will not pick up the phone,’ I say.

  ‘What!’

  ‘You will ignore her. You will call someone else. Someone you can be yourself with, someone you are not constantly trying to hide your weaknesses from. Someone you can laugh with and cry with and be silly with and not worry about whether you’re going to be sniggered at because you’re wearing the wrong brand of mascara. The next time you touch your phone it will not be to talk to Phoebe, it will be to call someone who treats you as a friend, not as a minion.’

  Someone like Karen, I want to add.

  Wow, where did that come from? It so doesn’t sound like something I would normally say. It sounds like the speech of a woman who has nothing to lose, who knows she has only a limited amount of time left to speak her mind. A woman who needs to make sure she passes some vital lessons in life on to her daughter.

  Mark is staring at me now with his mouth open.

  A faint melody fills the air and Ellie reaches into her jeans pocket faster than Quick Draw McGraw. A quick glance at the screen and I can see Phoebe’s name glaring out at me. Ellie’s finger flies up to accept the call but never gets there as Mark grabs the phone from her hand. He looks at it in amazement as though he cannot believe what he has done.

  Phoebe’s name continues to throb as Mark holds the phone out of reach.

  ‘Let me have it,’ cries Ellie.

  ‘Your mum is right,’ he says, slipping it into his back pocket.

  Ellie looks between her parents in disbelief. I look at Mark in utter amazement. This must be the first time in years he has backed me up against Ellie. If ever.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Ellie asks her dad.

  ‘Yes.’ He nods.

  She screams in frustration and stalks out of the kitchen for the second time that afternoon.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Mark.

  He nods.

  ‘What you said,’ he says, ‘well, you were absolutely right.’

  ‘She needs more of a firm hand,’ I say, ‘to help her make the right choices.’

  He keeps nodding. He’s listening.

  ‘I said I’d go out and look for Betsy again with George later. You coming?’ I ask.

  I can tell he’s about to say he’s too busy but then he appears to change his mind.

  ‘Okay.’ He nods. He’s still looking at me.

  ‘You look great, by the way,’ he eventually says then turns to leave the room.

  Thirty

  I’m lying in bed reading a book when Mark comes up that night. Yes, a book, a real book. The iPad has recently been banished to reside downstairs. I can’t stand the temptation to surf the internet waves for information about my cancer. It sits there innocently charading as a gateway to knowledge that might change things. I don’t need that right now. My mind needs to be focused, not distracted by a million other opinions on my illness. Mine is the only opinion that matters so I have buried my head in a book to escape. Escape into a fictional world of nonsense that neither expects me to assess how factual it is nor asks me to draw any conclusions.

  My book-buying pretty much halted at the time our first tablet entered the house. Anything published after 2012 I reckon didn’t stand a chance against the barrage of portable content that flooded our home. Our bookcase is a museum, a relic of times past. Although a shelf has been cleared to accommodate the various gadgetry that needs charging every night. Long white curly wires connected to extension cables make an untidy mess against the geometric uniformity of novels standing to attention.

  After we’d spent another two hours pounding the streets in the fruitless search for Betsy that afternoon, I’d run my eye along the spines, looking for something to read during a much-needed bath. A raggedy, clearly much-loved book, to the extent I could not read the title, sparked my curiosity. Of course, it had to be. The nineties bible for a new generation of women that got passed from pillar to post after its 1996 release. Next to it rested another sure-fire hit I remember Mark devouring by the pool during his holiday. He was reading it for the fifth time, I recall him claiming – he didn’t want to risk buying something different in case he didn’t enjoy it as much.

  I’d taken both books upstairs, ran the bath and read until my fingers were too wrinkly and dampness was starting to curl up the already curled-up pages.

  I’d moved to the bed and I am already a quarter of the way through when Mark strides in at ten thirty. He’s been out for a meal with one of the new investors.

  ‘Good dinner?’ I ask, not looking up.

  ‘Fine,’ he replies. I can hear wardrobe doors being opened and the swish of clothes being discarded.

  ‘Food nice?’

  ‘It was fine. Didn’t really notice. A lot to discuss, you know.’

  ‘Sebastian’s?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Wow, I think. Over sixty quid a head is a lot to spend on food you didn’t really notice. I want to ask if he enjoyed our night in the pub garden more but I don’t – I don’t need to ask really.

  I lie
there and listen to him in the en suite. If he’s taken his iPad in he’ll be a while but if not, he’ll be in and out in no time. I glance over to see his tablet still charging on the bedside table. Sure enough, moments later the gentle whirr of his electric toothbrush sparks up, followed by a gargle of mouthwash.

  ‘What’s this?’ he says when he emerges, pausing over his side of the bed.

  ‘It caught my eye on the bookshelves this afternoon,’ I reply. ‘I remembered how much you loved it. Thought I’d just bring it up, see if you fancied reading it again.’

  He picks it up and gets into bed.

  ‘I’ve got some stuff to organise on Clash of Clans,’ he says absent-mindedly, turning the book over to read the blurb of The Firm by John Grisham.

  ‘Look what I found for me,’ I say, pushing the cover of Bridget Jones’s Diary under his nose.

  ‘Haven’t you grown out of that by now?’ he asks. ‘I thought it was all about single women in their thirties trying to get laid.’

  ‘Actually no, it would seem,’ I say. ‘It’s really about just being a woman and it strikes me reading it again that not a lot has changed. Apart from technology, of course. She talks about VCRs and in-trays and waiting for men to phone rather than text. All that’s different but fundamentally nothing has changed in twenty years.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ he nods. He’s opened the Grisham book. He’s reading the first page.

  I go back to Bridget and her knickers. It’s quiet, it’s calm. There’s no niggling movement of elbows as Mark knocks down fruit on Candy Crush or navigates his way through the day’s news. There’s no blue light nudging us awake, demanding a level of alertness. Just a soft orange glow from two bedside lamps as stories lull our eyes shut. As our minds escape to other lives, relieved of the stresses and strains of our own.

  I can hear his breathing slow and steady, then slower and steadier, until I hear a faint plod of the book hitting his chest. I turn over and carefully lift it out of his hands then place it on his bedside table, clicking his light off as I lean back. I stare at him up close. I study every wrinkle, every line, every eyelash, then I kiss his forehead. He snuffles and twitches then turns towards me onto his side, his arm reaching over my waist. I turn away from him as slowly as I can, then reverse into his body as we lie like two spoons in a napkin, waiting for a couple to share a dessert. Sleep comes quickly.