The Happy Family

by Jackie Kabler

  ‘You sure? You seem … well, not yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. Just need a good night’s sleep.’

  I nod, but now I’m thinking about Wednesday evening when I let her into the house to search for her glasses and then thought somebody had been moving things around in my bedroom. It had slipped from my mind but I feel like I have to ask her.

  ‘Did you find your glasses the other day? Were they here?’ I ask.

  She rubs her nose, frowning, then shakes her head.

  ‘Oh, no, sorry, I should have said. Found them at home after all. I’d left them in the downstairs loo. Not sure why – I hardly ever use it. I’m so scatty at the moment. Must be my age.’

  She smiles a wan smile and reaches for her wine glass.

  ‘Good, glad you found them. You didn’t … well, you didn’t go upstairs, did you? While you were here? It’s just that …’

  But she’s shaking her head, frowning again.

  ‘No, I just looked around down here. Why?’

  I pause.

  It was probably me after all. Or maybe it was Eloise, borrowing some perfume or trying on my make-up without asking, I think. She’s at that age, isn’t she?

  I pat Barbara’s arm.

  ‘No reason. Forget it. I’m as bad as you – head like a sieve – and I shouldn’t be, at my age. Are you hungry? Shall I order the food?’

  She nods.

  ‘Go on. I’m not very hungry, to be honest, but the way those two are knocking back that wine they’ll be getting the munchies about now.’

  I laugh and place the order, and when it arrives we eat in the kitchen, the children taking plates into the lounge to eat off their knees in front of the television. I bundle them off to bed shortly afterwards, and when I come back downstairs, Mum and my friends have retired to the sofa, Barbara a little more animated now after several glasses of wine. I sink into the big armchair opposite them, pulling at the top which is now stretched even more tightly across my full tummy.

  ‘Is that new? Don’t usually see you in animal print.’ Brenda gestures at my top.

  ‘Yes. Mum bought it for me. It’s good to try something different, don’t you think?’

  Brenda looks appraisingly at me for a few seconds, then nods doubtfully.

  ‘Sure,’ she says.

  Mum’s eyeing me too.

  ‘It’s a bit snug, love, isn’t it? I’m so sorry. I thought the medium would be OK. You still look lovely though, doesn’t she ladies?’

  She smiles and Brenda and Barbara hesitate for a moment, looking at me in my gaudy, far-too-small top, then smile and nod too, but they look a little awkward and inside I’m cringing.

  ‘I think it’s me, not the sizing. Too much curry and pizza recently,’ I say. ‘Maybe the diet should start tomorrow, eh?’

  ‘Well, not tonight,’ says Mum. I realise she’s not disagreeing that I need to lose some weight and I feel even more humiliated. But she’s smiling encouragingly and she winks at me.

  ‘I’ll top us up,’ she says.

  She does, and I start to feel better again as we sit there in the warm lounge, drinking and chatting. Finally, my eyes start to droop and I sink back into the cushions and drift off to sleep, empty wine glass between my knees. I’m not sure how long I’m asleep for, but I wake with a violent jump to find the room empty and quiet, just one small lamp still on. I sit there, panting, disorientated, knowing I’ve been having another dream about Lucy Allen. Lucy, who changed my life when, that fateful day twenty-seven years ago, I sat down beside her in Maths class. Another dream, another nightmare. Her face looming over me in the darkness, the sound of a distant wailing echoing in my ears.

  Breathe, Beth. It was a dream. Just a dream.

  I look around the room. Someone has taken my glass away and covered me with a blanket. The coffee table has been cleared, the television turned off, and the remote is sitting neatly on the sideboard. My mouth feels dry and my head is fuzzy; I know I’ve drunk far too much. How embarrassing to fall asleep when my friends are here, and leave my mother to see them out and tidy up. But right now, I’m too tired to care. Stiff and weary, I haul myself out of the chair and head up to bed.

  Chapter 15

  ‘What a beautiful morning.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  It’s the morning after the night before, and Mum and I are drinking tea and nibbling chocolate cake in the garden as the weather is surprisingly mild. I’m a little hungover, if I’m honest, but the fresh air and cake is helping. I probably shouldn’t be eating it, not with my bulging waistline, but this is a celebration, of sorts – the one-week anniversary of our reunion – and Mum’s making plans. She’s just told me she’ll write a list and email it to Liv later, get her to send on more clothes and bits and pieces.

  ‘It’s getting warmer every day. If I’m going to move in for a bit, I’ll need more than I’ve got with me in that holdall,’ she says. She pauses as a sparrow lands briefly on the edge of the patio table, considers us for a moment, then flies off again.

  ‘Well, I’m seriously impressed by how much you managed to fit in it,’ I say. ‘You’re obviously a lot better at packing than I am. Once when Jacob and I took the kids to Spain for a week I managed to take six pairs of shoes and no knickers.’

  She snorts at that, and I laugh too, happy that I’ve amused her. I crave her approval, I’ve begun to realise; I yearn for it, like a child who wants to impress a cool, older school mate. Is that really sad? It probably is, but hey.

  ‘So, what did you think of Crystal?’ I ask. ‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’

  Jacob and Crystal had popped by to pick up the kids earlier, and this time Crystal had come into the house looking fresh-faced and youthful in jeans and a Breton top, her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  ‘She’s desperate to meet your mother,’ hissed Jacob. ‘I told her all about her and she’s intrigued.’

  ‘Everyone seems to be,’ I hissed back, and we headed into the kitchen where Mum was helping Finley with his shoes as Eloise packed her homework books into her little overnight case.

  I made the introductions and then left them to it for a couple of minutes, going upstairs to check Finley’s bag and add pyjamas and a toothbrush. When I came back down, there were smiles all round. Crystal was perched next to Mum on the little kitchen sofa admiring the chunky brushed-metal pendant on a black suede cord she was wearing around her neck.

  ‘I just love this, Alice,’ she was saying. ‘You look fabulous.’

  Now, Mum nods and takes another sip from her mug.

  ‘She’s delightful,’ she says. ‘I can see why Jacob fell for her … Oh gosh, sorry, love. That was tactless …’

  She groans and covers her face with her hands, peeping at me comically through her fingers and I laugh.

  ‘It’s fine, don’t be silly! It’s all water under the bridge, all very mature and amicable. She is lovely and I’m glad you liked her.’

  Mum uncovers her face.

  ‘Phew,’ she says. ‘Well, that’s all right then. She seems very young. I suppose that’s men for you though, always after a younger model.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Not that young. She’s thirty-five, so only five years younger than me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mum looks surprised. ‘She looks great, then. She’s so slender.’

  I’m sure she glances down at my stomach as she speaks, just for a second, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair and pull at the fabric of my old grey sweatshirt which is pulled tight across my tummy. But she’s smiling now and shaking her head.

  ‘And that wasn’t a dig at you, my darling. A bit of weight suits you. You’re a curvy girl. Don’t worry about it.’

  She leans across the table and pats my hand but I know she’s just trying to be nice. I need to get on top of this extra weight soon, before it gets out of hand. But … I look at my cake.

  Maybe not today. Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow.

  I’m about to start eating ag
ain when Mum says, ‘Look, this is a bit awkward, but I just wanted to tell you … well, just mention, something about last night?’

  She’s looking uncomfortable now.

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  ‘Well, it was just something … something … that was said. Something I thought you should know.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  I’m suddenly feeling nervous; the cake is forgotten.

  What’s this about? Oh please, no … Was that Mike talking to Brenda and Barbara outside the other day after all? Did he tell them about me? Was that why Barbara was acting so strangely last night? Oh God, I fell asleep … Did they … did they tell Mum? Did they all sit there talking about me, about that? But surely she’d have mentioned it before now, something so serious …

  I’m starting to panic. There’s a tingling in my chest and my fists are suddenly clenched so tightly that my fingernails are digging painfully into my palms. Mum is still talking and I try to focus, try to listen.

  What’s she saying?

  ‘… after you fell asleep? You were so exhausted, love, and we didn’t want to disturb you, so we moved out into the kitchen again and, well, we were just chatting about you really, and how the three of you met after you all moved into your little estate. And I just happened to mention that they were both a lot older than you – more my age really – and then Brenda said, or was it Barbara, I can’t remember, one of them anyway, well she said …’ She pauses, her eyes on mine.

  I wait, my breath catching in my throat.

  ‘Well, she said, and I’m paraphrasing here, but she said something like “yes, we always thought it was odd she hasn’t got any friends of her own age. We just hang out with her because we feel sorry for her, really.”’

  She pauses again, and my eyes widen.

  ‘They said … they said they feel sorry for me? But …’

  She’s nodding.

  ‘Yes, and then she, whichever one it was, said “We always felt she was looking for a mother figure, and now you’re back that takes the pressure off us. You can take over now.” Something like that – I’m paraphrasing, as I said. “We can back off a bit now,” she said. And then they both laughed. And I just thought, well, that’s not very nice, is it? When you’re meant to be friends? I just thought you should know, darling. I’m sorry. I know it’s not a pleasant thing to hear.’

  I’m staring at her, stunned. OK, a little bit relieved too, that she hasn’t just said what I feared she might. But this?

  Did they really say something so … so horrible?

  ‘I can’t … I can’t believe that,’ I stammer. ‘We’re friends. We have been since the beginning. Yes, they’re both older than me, but so what? It was never about me looking for a mother figure. That’s ridiculous. I just liked them. We’re neighbours. We get on really well. I don’t understand …’

  Tears spring to my eyes.

  We’re the Busy Bees; we’re a little threesome. We’re friends, aren’t we?

  Mum is handing me her napkin, telling me to wipe my eyes, and saying she’s so sorry and she probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, shouldn’t have said anything, but my mind is racing.

  Maybe they’re right. All my closest friends are older than me, not just Brenda and Barbara, but Ruth and Deborah too, all of them closer to Mum’s age than to mine. Maybe it’s true. Maybe that is why I was drawn to them. Maybe I’m a freak with some sort of mother complex. Have I just been subconsciously looking for my mother in every older woman I’ve met? Shit. No wonder they just feel sorry for me …

  ‘Are you OK, love? I feel so bad I’ve ruined our lovely morning now. I’m so sorry.’

  Mum sounds as if she’s on the verge of tears herself and I sniff, take a deep breath, and pull myself together.

  ‘Mum, it’s fine. If that’s how they feel, honestly … I’m fine. I’m glad you told me, seriously. Come on, let’s forget it. Do you want to walk down to the shop with me? We’re out of milk.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry again, love.’

  I wave a hand dismissively, but I’m fighting back the tears as we make the short journey down to the village shop and back. As we reach my front gate, my heart sinks. Next door, Brenda is standing at her open front door, chatting to Barbara.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ I mutter.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Mum. ‘Look, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll head in.’

  She hurries towards the house and I hesitate at the gate for a moment, wondering how to play this. Do I pretend everything is fine and just give them a cheery wave across the wall? Or do I go round and say something, confront them about what they said? Do I just ignore them maybe? I’m hovering, still undecided, when Brenda glances across and catches my eye. For a few, horribly awkward seconds we just stare at each other, then Barbara’s head turns too and now we’re all looking at each other, and nobody’s smiling and it’s … it’s awful.

  They must know, I think. They must know that Mum will have told me what they said about me. They must know I’m feeling hurt and upset. And they’re not going to apologise, or even acknowledge it? Well, sod that.

  Suddenly, I’m angry. I turn away abruptly and walk towards the front door and I don’t look back.

  Fine. If I’m such a burden, if they want my mum to take over now, fine. Just bloody fine.

  I’m still upset though, although I do my best to hide it from Mum. In the end, we have a pleasant day – the afternoon is dry and sunny, and I potter around the garden, pulling up weeds and pruning some unruly shrubs, while Mum sits on the patio with her magazines. When it gets a little too chilly to stay outside, we go in and I settle Mum in front of the TV and then pop over to the hospital to check on Dad. He’s fine – a little more alert than yesterday even, which lifts my mood – and when I get back I feel a tiny bit better. I join Mum on the sofa and we search the movie channels and end up watching Gilda. I’ve never seen it, but Mum’s ecstatic.

  ‘Oh, this is amazing!’ she says. ‘One of the classic black and white films. Rita Hayworth is just stunning.’

  It is good – a casino, mobsters, and lots of 1940s glamour – although I’m finding it hard to concentrate and keep drifting off into my thoughts. I try to tell myself I’m OK but I’m still hurting. After staying up so late last night we decide to make tonight an early one, and I’m in my bedroom by ten. I wasn’t in the mood for cooking anything elaborate for dinner so I raided the freezer and cobbled together a quick meal of oven chips, fish fingers, and salad, Mum insisting I had most of the chips and me not in the right state of mind to argue.

  Now though, as I slowly peel off my clothes, I’m regretting eating so much; my stomach feels bloated and uncomfortable. As I walk past the full-length mirror on the bedroom wall after depositing my dirty clothes in the laundry basket in my ensuite, I pause, looking myself up and down. Is it that bad, really? My legs are OK – pale and a little blotchy but reasonably firm and shapely – although …

  I poke my right thigh and the flesh wobbles. Not so firm, then. My eyes move upwards to my stomach and my bum. Once (before children and, latterly, the comfort eating that came with divorce) flat and smooth, my tummy now has rolls of fat I can lift with both hands; when I drive over a speed-bump in the car, I can actually feel it bouncing up and down. And as for the rear view … I turn my back to the mirror and peer over my shoulder at my bottom. Once high and pert, now it sags, the blubbery, untoned cheeks merging with the tops of my thighs. I stare at it, feeling disgusted. How have I let this happen? And why am I only feeling like this now? Yes, like almost every woman I know, I moan about my body all the time, batting off any compliments and vowing to lose a stone after Christmas/for the summer/before my next birthday, because that’s what we do, isn’t it? But actually, I’ve embraced my new curvier form of recent years, quite enjoying my larger breasts and the soft curve of my shoulders, so different from the thinner, flat-chested, bonier me of my twenties. I’m not sure what’s changed, why I’m suddenly starting to feel so … so revolted by my own a
ppearance. And yet …

  I run my hands over my breasts, lifting each one up in turn, enjoying the weight of them. The nipples are pink and harden slightly in the coolness of the room. Yes, my boobs are still good, I think. That’s something, at least. I stand there a little while longer, lost in thought, my hands idly caressing my breasts, my stomach, the tops of my thighs. Then, abruptly, I turn away from the mirror, pull my pyjamas on, and crawl into bed. I’m exhausted, but sleep doesn’t come. My mind is racing, filled with thoughts of Brenda and Barbara, the women I thought were my friends but clearly, clearly weren’t. And then I remember the panic I felt when Mum started to tell me what they’d said, and I’d thought for a dreadful moment that she was going to say something completely different, that she was going to tell me that they’d told her something about me, something they’ve only just discovered. I think about the fear that gripped me, the fear that’s spiralled in the past few weeks. I think about the terror that one day the past I’ve tried so hard to forget is going to come back and ruin my present and destroy my future. The horrific thought of my friends, my colleagues, finding out what I did, what I am. I’m just so scared, I realise. So very, very scared. If Mike is still hanging around, if he has uncovered it, if he’s told Mum, told anyone …

  I take a deep, shuddering breath, my hands gripping the duvet, my eyes wide and frightened in the dark.

  If he has told her though, wouldn’t she have mentioned it to me by now? And if he hasn’t told her, then why on earth would he tell anyone else? He wouldn’t; of course he wouldn’t. Could Mum know about it another way though? From somebody else? I need to know if she knows, or I’m going to drive myself mad. I need to find out, somehow, and I need to do it fast, because I can’t go on like this. I can’t.

  It won’t stop the nightmares though. Nothing, I think, will ever stop the nightmares.

  Chapter 16

  That first day, when I sat next to Lucy Allen in class, I barely acknowledged her. I was pissed off that the teacher, hoping for a quiet lesson, hadn’t let me sit with my usual noisy gang, putting me instead with this dull little girl who blushed every time she was asked a question but still always knew the answer.