The Sunday Lunch Club

by Juliet Ashton

  Anna felt an oil-and-water mix of terror and relief at such a denouement. Everyone would know. But she could stop pretending. She could own what she’d done. And what had been done to her.

  Carly had shown Anna that she saw her clearly. That she knew her better than her nearest, her dearest. But to what end? Anna was too ensnared in the whole sorry story to discern what Carly wanted. What Carly was capable of doing.

  The car jerked forward. Anna sat up straight. It’s not advisable to doze when bad dreams are circling.

  ‘Sam!’ Anna trotted to catch up with him. The bulk around her middle was beginning to slow her down. ‘Wait up.’

  Turning on the path to Neil’s house, Sam showed her and Santi a face so pale that it was as if somebody had drawn the real Sam badly and forgotten to colour him in.

  ‘Christ, Sam, did you just get out of bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Santi took Sam’s face in his hands. ‘My friend, you drank a lot last night, no?’

  ‘I drank a lot last night, yes.’ Sam batted away Santi’s long brown fingers.

  Anna wanted to put her arm through his, pull him close, but Sam had retreated from her. In the shed, as they toiled at the coalface of Artem Accessories, they spoke only about the work in hand. She’d stopped asking him if he was OK when he stared into the middle distance; the answer was always, ‘Yes, leave me alone.’

  Ironic that I worried Isabel might spoil my friendship with Sam. Anna could now face the truth of that; she’d given Isabel a cool reception because of her own lingering possessiveness about her ex. In the rear-view mirror it was clear. And shameful.

  ‘Where’s Luca?’ asked Sam. He had developed a dependency on the man. Perhaps it was because Luca was a professional therapist; Sam tended to drag him into corners and bleat at him.

  ‘Coming later.’

  ‘I might shoot off early,’ said Sam.

  ‘No, not allowed.’ Santi put his key in the door, and shouted, ‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’

  A trail of wet wipes and baby clothes led them through the hall to the large main room, where Neil lay on a white leather and chrome recliner, fast asleep, with Paloma snoring on the soft cushion of his tummy.

  Dinkie stared down at the face of her dead husband, as Sheba prowled the room. She lifted her hand and threw the frame overarm with surprising force across the room.

  ‘Hey, now.’ Sheba bent immediately to gather the pieces. ‘Not this again. Now I’ll have to buy another frame before your family visit. Ouch!’ Sheba sucked her finger, the blood oozing where she’d cut it on the broken glass. ‘What did you tell your granddaughter?’ Sheba seemed knotted up with anxiety. ‘When will you tell them the truth?’ Her accent pulled the words into emphatic syllables. ‘Tell them you hate it here. Tell them you want to go home. That kind lady Anna will give you her spare room. You are lucky. Lucky, I tell you, to have family so close.’

  ‘Oh, Sheba . . .’ Dinkie seemed to sense what was coming next and held out her hand.

  Sheba turned away, wiping furiously at her face, before turning back. ‘I would give blood, I tell you, to be close to my dear mother.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Dinkie soothingly. ‘I do my best to take her place.’

  ‘I know, old woman,’ said Sheba, her smile pushing her eyes into dark commas. ‘You do, you do. But—’ Sheba looked fierce again, ‘do not ever make me lie to your family again. If they ask me next time, I am telling the truth. I will say your grandmother cries at night. I will say your grandmother doesn’t eat some days. I will say your grandmother refuses to move from her chair for hours at a time.’ Sheba mellowed, shook herself. ‘Right. Aquacise!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dinkie, struggling to stand. ‘I know, I know: Aqua-feckin’-cise.’

  ‘Kentucky Fried Chicken.’ Neil put his head in his hands. ‘You’re desecrating my kitchen. This was hand-built. The marble’s from Italy. And you fiends eat KFC in it.’

  ‘It was that or burnt aubergine,’ said Anna. She leaned happily on Luca, who was on the next high stool along at the kitchen island, making noises of bliss.

  Luca had been reluctant to pitch into the plastic cartons, but now he was a convert. ‘It really is finger-lickin’ good,’ he admitted.

  ‘The champagne,’ said Neil, ‘makes it bearable.’ He hadn’t the energy to be angry with Santi over his prank. Over and over, Neil had apologised for the state of the house but nobody had listened. They’d been too busy ordering fast food and blowing raspberries on Paloma’s tummy. Maeve had cast off her vegetarian beliefs for the time being. Sam was dipping Hot Wings in his wine.

  ‘Hey,’ said Anna, as she sat Neil down with a rustling paper bag full of delicious saturated fats. ‘You did great. Look at your daughter! She’s clean, she’s fed, and she’s happy. As Dinkie’s not here, I can say this: fuck the fancy food and the oh-so-witty table setting. We’re together and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Is it?’ Neil wasn’t quite convinced.

  ‘Yes, Grinch-knickers, it is.’ Anna, developing another Piper inside her like one of Josh’s Polaroids, saw the Sunday Lunch Club swim into focus in much the same way. ‘It’s you we’ve come to see, not your cutting-edge kitchen or the chair designed by somebody I’ve never heard of.’ She hesitated, before kissing him swiftly on the cheek. ‘You do your best for us, Neil.’ It needed saying. Behind the pomposity, and the belief that his wallet could cure all ills, her brother, consciously or not, did his best to step into the shoes their father had relinquished.

  He fled. As if she’d slapped him, Neil bolted to the utility room.

  Josh arrived. Anna sensed the Mexican wave of relief travel through the room. All of them lived with the expectation that one day they’d get a phone call about Josh. The sort nobody wants. But for now he was here, and healthy. Pale, of course, shy, obviously, but her little brother was in the fold, being bear-hugged by Luca and led to the nuggets by Maeve.

  Time to tend to her other brother.

  The utility room held memories. Last time I was here, she told her child, I did something enormously enjoyable that set you in motion. It was an innocent room once more, devoid of sexual connotations, and smelling pleasantly of washing powder

  ‘Hey,’ she said, her voice gentle. It was the voice she used when Yeti trembled during a storm.

  ‘Don’t look at me.’ Neil was hunched over the tiled worktop, sobbing.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Anna moved closer, careful not to touch him.

  ‘All right, if you’re so keen on looking at me, look at this!’ Neil wheeled around and pointed to the front of his patterned shirt. ‘Look!’ The buttons strained, gamely doing their best to reach across his paunch. ‘And look at this!’ He pulled back his fringe, revealing the angry red dots where his hair plugs hadn’t quite settled down. ‘And how about this?’ He pointed to his left eyebrow, which was now higher than his right, thanks to a clumsy Botox injection. ‘The tan, my dear, is fake. The teeth are veneers. All this effort and I still look like a . . . a . . . fat forty-four-year-old with receding hair.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re my fat forty-four-year-old with receding hair.’

  She’d judged it perfectly; an appeal to Neil’s funny bone usually worked. He snorted, wiped his eyes. ‘Jesus, I’m a drama queen,’ he sighed.

  ‘I’d normally agree, but this sounds like something that had to come out.’

  Neil folded his arms, leaned against the fridge. He contemplated his sister’s concerned face and seemed to make a decision. Breathing out, he said, ‘What does Santiago see in me? Really?’

  ‘He sees his husband.’ Anna was blindsided: Neil having a crisis of confidence? ‘You’re, well, you’re you.’ He was singular. He took charge. Except where Paloma’s concerned. That puzzled her.

  ‘I can’t help feeling that Santi wouldn’t have chosen me if . . .’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘If I wasn’t rich. There. I said it.’ Neil threw up his hands.

  ‘Santi would liv
e in a tent with you.’

  ‘A Dolce and Gabbana tent, maybe.’

  ‘He loves you.’ Anna was miffed on her brother-in-law’s behalf. ‘You remember love, don’t you?’ Unwilling to indulge Neil in this fantasy about Santi being a gold-digger, she said, ‘One good way of showing you love somebody is by doing your share of the childcare.’

  ‘I pay the bills, don’t I?’ spluttered Neil.

  ‘You sound like an archetypal straight macho male,’ said Anna. ‘You know, the ones you poke fun at.’

  ‘Not the same thing.’ Neil was adamant. ‘Not the same thing at all.’

  ‘Deep down, you’re straight.’ Anna enjoyed his horror as she left the room to rejoin the others. She didn’t see him slump, nor hear what he whispered to himself.

  ‘But I didn’t want all this. I didn’t want domesticity and parenthood. I wanted Santi.’ A riot of emotion – the kind that follows a long-buried truth – overwhelmed him.

  In the kitchen, Luca raised a nugget at Anna. Behind him, she saw a woman come in, uncertain, looking for an eye to catch. She was over-groomed for the Sunday Lunch Club, in full WAG armour of bandage dress and absurd heels.

  ‘Um, the door was, like, open?’ said the stranger.

  ‘Tilly!’ Santi welcomed her enthusiastically. Anna discerned something beneath the surface. As if he was acting. ‘Come, querida. We have . . .’ He waved an apologetic hand at the buffet.

  Refreshed, hair combed, Neil dashed to the newcomer’s side. ‘Tilly, darling, say hello to everybody. Tilly,’ he explained, ‘is new at my agency.’ He named everybody, and they all raised a hand or glass in welcome. Except Sam, who half turned his back, staring morosely out at the garden through the glass expanse at the back of the house.

  ‘Sam! Somebody here I want you to meet!’

  A penny dropped. Anna closed her eyes briefly. Neil was getting this very very wrong. This Tilly was a sacrificial lamb, about to be burned on the altar. You won’t help Sam get over losing Isabel like this. Sam preferred quality to quantity; his grief for Isabel paid respect to the feelings he’d had for her.

  It panned out as she expected. Sam gave Tilly the merest of welcomes; he didn’t notice the freshly washed hair, the hopefully applied make-up. He talked to her as much as he talked to anybody else; hardly at all.

  To make up for it, Anna took Tilly in hand. Asking her about herself. Complimenting her earrings. Guiding her to the choicest chicken wings. The woman was polite enough not to comment on the unusual menu, and to ignore the slag heap of ruined and abandoned ingredients. Anna guessed Neil had built up her hopes – ‘I’ve got the perfect guy for you!’ – and she tried to make the landing as Tilly came down to earth as soft as possible.

  ‘Storm loves KFC,’ said Maeve, pushing coleslaw around her plate. ‘Although he reckons his dad’s barbecue is better.’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ said Anna. ‘I looked up the weather for Boston the other day, when the rain was drumming a heavy metal song on the shed roof.’ September had turned its back on the summer, sending the UK scurrying for macs and umbrellas and stiff upper lips. ‘It was seventy degrees.’ She remembered the kiss of summer like a mourned lover. Was it the only summer Luca and I will have together?

  Avoiding poignant thoughts such as that was a full-time job; occasionally one slipped through. As a pregnant woman, Anna was contractually obliged to look forward; her very shape signalled hope and optimism. She rallied. ‘September always makes me think of going back to school.’ She looked at Maeve. ‘Remember Mum taking us round WHSmith’s, buying up calculators and set squares and pencil cases?’

  ‘At the same time?’ Maeve liked to underline the seven-year age difference, as if Anna had been brought up in Victorian times. ‘The autumn term’s already started in Boston. Or should that be fall term? Storm would know.’ She raised her voice. ‘St-orm!’

  He trailed in from the den, where he’d been sprawled in front of the home cinema screen. ‘Oh,’ said Storm when he saw the spread. ‘Proper food! Ace.’ He grazed, answering his mother’s question about fall term with a disinterested ‘Dunno’.

  Luca effortlessly picked him up and turned him upside down. For no reason. Because, Anna assumed, boys are like that. Luca’s relationship with Storm had been transformed, deepened, by the trip to the States. They had an easy camaraderie, nothing like the wary distance Storm kept from Josh, or the ‘bored nephew’ pose he maintained with Neil and Santi.

  It gave her hope. Well, not exactly hope. Because, Anna hastily reminded herself, she didn’t need hope. This was not a love affair with legs. Luca’s attitude towards children was irrelevant in the long run: this baby isn’t his.

  It felt as if the baby was hers and hers alone most of the time. There was the odd call from Dylan; she’d sent him copies of the scans. Anna had always had respect for single mothers, and it would be untrue to say she would have planned for her life to pan out this way, but her growing outline brought with it a growing acceptance. She sensed her child’s limbs firming up, its wrinkly skin firming out as it grew bonny inside her; I’m firming up, too. She felt strength flow both ways; this baby would be the making of Anna, not the breaking of her.

  Even if the baby chased Luca away simply by existing.

  ‘Stormy,’ said Maeve, pulling him to her, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. ‘Give your mummy a hug!’

  This behaviour, forbidden in the small print of every teenager’s invisible contract with their parents, chased him out of the room again.

  Josh said, as he nibbled a fry, ‘He hates mushy stuff, Maeve. Give him space.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ laughed Maeve. She lunged for Josh and threw her arms tight about him, despite the difference in their heights. ‘I’ll have to get mushy with you instead!’

  Bundling him onto the white expanse of modern/uncomfortable sofa – Why, thought Anna, doesn’t it have arms? – Maeve subjected Josh to a comprehensive tickling that had him howling.

  ‘It’s not always like this, Tilly,’ said Neil.

  ‘Yes it is,’ said Luca. He winked at Anna. She marvelled at the effect a wink can have; her heart beat faster, her skin tingled, she felt faint. Being in love is like a cardiac arrest. But more fun, she conceded.

  Luca ambled over to her, bumped shoulders. ‘Do you think Storm made the right decision, coming home with us?’

  ‘Yes.’ Anna thought. ‘And no. Maybe it’s a question that doesn’t have a right or wrong answer. Most questions are like that.’

  ‘So if I ask you if you’d like to spend the night at mine, there’s no right—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna.

  ‘Good. That’s something to look forward to.’ Luca slipped his hand over her bottom, gently, as if reading a message there in Braille. ‘After Mama.’

  Anna winced, as if he’d trailed his fingers over a bruise. Luca and his mother were close; why doesn’t he introduce us? He’d met all Anna’s VIPs. ‘Did you believe Storm’s reasons for coming back with us?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  Luca’s chin was stubbly, Anna noticed. She imagined it grazing her face and almost didn’t listen when he carried on.

  ‘He said he’d miss Maeve, and that’s true, any thirteen-year-old would miss his mum, but Storm came alive in Boston. He loved it.’

  Anna wrenched her mind from his lips. ‘He flowers around Alva. The structure and the boundaries help.’

  ‘Storm didn’t come home for Storm.’

  ‘He came home for Maeve.’

  The boy hadn’t said so – there’d been much waffle about being settled at school and not wanting to miss watching Brighton and Hove Albion play – but Anna sensed his motives. With Storm around, Maeve had to stick to the (almost) straight and narrow. Standards had to be kept up. There had to be food in the fridge. She had to get out of bed on time. She couldn’t party too much.

  ‘Storm will grow up into an amazing man.’ Anna valued compassion more than exams; probably he’ll ace those too. ‘No Pau
l, I notice.’

  ‘Not all boyfriends are as obedient as me.’ Luca pulled at her nose. ‘Stop thinking bad thoughts! Let your sister make her own choices.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ It didn’t come easy to Anna.

  Tilly was despatched in an Uber, with a bottle of champagne as consolation prize, and lunch was done for another Sunday. The afternoon was on its last legs, the evening sidling in across the lawn.

  Anna helped Sam into his jacket. He wouldn’t accept a hug, she knew, so this was the closest she could manage. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Did I behave badly? With that what’s her name?’

  ‘Tilly? Not really. Neil shouldn’t have tried to set you up so soon after . . .’ She didn’t know how to describe Isabel’s sudden abdication. ‘You’re still smarting.’

  ‘That doesn’t give me permission to be an arse.’

  ‘Like you said, you’re not used to heartbreak.’ They didn’t reference their own heartache. She could hear him not mentioning it; she knew he could hear her doing the same. ‘I promise you, you’ll survive.’

  ‘You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.’ Sam smiled. ‘I’ll be slightly less of a sod this week. That I can promise.’

  ‘I’d rather you promised you’d drink a bit less.’

  He stepped away. The barrier clanged down again. ‘Christ, a few months of enforced sobriety and you’re the high priestess of AA.’

  Anna needed to get back to Yeti. Did I really just think that? The dog was useless: he was scared of thunder; he hid her shoes when she was about to leave the house; he burrowed between her and Luca at night. Responsibility had bred something else; not love, surely, for the monster shaggy animal that got in her way and shed hair on her furniture.

  She watched the others make their elaborate farewells. Storm stood sulkily by the door, looking at the enormous watch his dad had given him. Josh withstood kisses and hugs and concerned looks. Everybody in turn told him to ‘take care of yourself, yeah?’ with a special emphasis to show that they meant it. They looked him in the eye. They shook him slightly by the shoulders. Anna wondered if years and years of being the family lame duck made his lame duckery worse . . . it had never occurred to her before. Fretting about Josh, expecting a phone call one day saying something tragic had happened, was second nature to her. Quite a prophecy to lay on a young man.