Chapter 16
Me: Remember sometimes we’d be working from home and my mum would randomly videocall to get opinions on her outfits? You always thought it was funny. It drove me mad. I hate that when she calls now, she wants to talk about everything except you. I really want to talk about you.
Kasie: Undelivered
My parents stand in my kitchen, telling me how much they hated the Malvern Hills, an area of outstanding natural beauty.
‘Hilly. Damp. Way too green,’ Mum says. ‘No, not for me.’
Dad tires of the stories and goes off to fix the sealing around the bathtub, which was their main excuse for ‘dropping by’.
Eric is away this weekend at a conference and called me last night to say that Mum was furious with him.
‘She expects me to be there constantly checking up on you,’ he complained.
‘Tell her I’ve been doing a good job and she can stop calling me all the time. ’
‘You brought vermouth?’ I ask, as I unpack Mum’s tote bag and discover a one-litre bottle of the stuff.
‘Last night I had a dream about martinis, then I was in Sainsbury’s and the vermouth was staring at me,’ she explains. ‘When the universe gives you a sign, you’re best not to ignore it.’
It’s 3 p.m. on a Sunday and that point of the school summer holidays where my parents forget everyone else has work tomorrow.
‘I can’t believe your brother has gone off again,’ she says. ‘What’s he always doing in Scotland anyway? I’ll give him a bell later for a catch-up. Go ask your dad if he wants a martini.’
Dad is sitting in the bath, the sealant drying around him while he watches football on his phone. It’s the most on-brand dad display I’ve ever seen. He begins to tell me how the curtain must be tucked in before showering, then stops to raise a finger for silence, as if I were the one talking.
I wait, then ask, ‘Do you want a martini?’
He recoils and holds up his bottle of beer.
Sensing the match is at a critical point, I don’t attempt further conversation. Mum’s now in the living room, standing in front of the mantle. ‘Why are you in here?’ I ask.
‘No reason.’ She stares up at one of the frames on the wall. Kasie loved what I’d describe as weird biological art, such as prints of the DNA double helix and line drawings of human anatomy done on pages of old medical textbooks.
‘Mum?’
Her eyes drag over the plants in pots shaped as women’s sleeping heads, the tasselled cushion covers, the Beyoncé votive candle. Kasie had grumbled it was blasphemous and never lit it yet was precious about keeping it dusted and displayed.
Mum twiddles with the E pendant on her necklace. ‘It’s unlike you to hold on to things.’
‘They’re not my things to get rid of,’ I say.
‘They’re Kasie’s. Her uncles took most of her stuff though there’s still a lot here.
The plants used to be in the kitchen, but they started attracting flies.
They’re growing more now. I’m not giving them any more attention than Kasie used to, yet they’re thriving. ’
‘I just remembered, I’ve not checked my lottery tickets,’ Mum says, diverting the conversation.
‘You never want me to talk about her.’
‘That’s not true. I want to keep things light, that’s all.’
‘Talking about Kasie’s plants growing isn’t exactly tragic.’
Mum flicks her head back and fluffs her hair. ‘You can talk about her. I’ve never said you can’t.’
‘So why do you always change the subject when I do? Why do you never bring her up either?’
‘It’s hard,’ she says, her eyes immediately reddening.
‘In my head, Kasie’s still that girl who was too shy to talk to me when she first came over.
’ Mum turns away and fusses the pots into a straight line.
‘She was too young. And you’re too young to go through all this.
Bloody hell.’ She flaps in front of her face as if chasing the tears away.
I think of Cian catching me for a hug and for a split second consider reaching out for my mum in the same way.
‘I need a drink,’ she says.
We go back to the kitchen, where Mum fixes her mascara and mixes us both a martini. When she holds her glass towards mine to clink, I consider toasting Kasie then decide it would feel performative and corny, like something people do on TV. Besides Kasie hated martinis.
‘Urgh,’ I say on the first sip. ‘I’m going to need some water in this.’
‘Lightweight,’ Mum complains as she makes fast work of her own. ‘Ah, before I forget, we made a video for you.’ She hands me a cracker piled with beetroot and dill. ‘We were thinking about your friend, the boy from your work.’
‘Which one?’
‘Your disabled friend,’ Mum says. ‘We’ve been trying to be more diverse with our content.’
I pause, cracker held in mid-air, and wonder what she’s going on about. ‘Disabled friend?’
‘The one you said fell off a mountain. Eric says he’s your new bestie.’ Mum gets her leather-clad iPad from her handbag and spends far too long trying to prop it up. ‘Bloody thing. Here.’
The title of the video is Inclusive Off with the Es: For those with mobility issues.
It opens with the usual intro of my parents in some badly lit hotel room, their unmade bed in the background, while Mum talks.
In the next scene she’s in a wheelchair, trying and failing to push herself into a café, while a woman with a pushchair and toddler waits behind.
‘Terrible,’ Mum says. ‘I couldn’t believe it myself.’
‘Why didn’t you get out of the wheelchair and walk?’ I ask through the hands covering my face.
‘Is that what your disabled friend can do? I don’t think so.’
‘Mum, he’s not disabled. He’s temporarily on crutches. It’s not the same thing and where did you get a wheelchair from?’
‘Your dad’s friend Umar.’
‘Who?’
‘Umar, you know, Uncle Umar,’ she retorts, annoyed that I don’t know this arbitrary friend of theirs.
‘And what did Umar use while you were cruising around some historic market town in his wheelchair?’
‘Umar’s more into his mobility scooter now.’ Mum crunches on a cracker. ‘Lazy bugger.’
‘Is this online?’
‘Course. It’s had seventy-two views already. It’s the subscribers, they get an alert as soon as we post.’
Of course there’s a message on my phone and it simply says:
Cian: YOUR PARENTS!
I call him covertly from the bathroom.
‘They’re amazing,’ he says.
‘No, they are not.’ I close the toilet lid and sit down.
‘They tagged all the Chat Around the World offices.’
‘Why, why would they do that? I need to get them to take it down. This is the kind of thing that could go viral. Can you imagine how offensive people will find this? It could—’
‘As adorable as you are when you ramble,’ he interrupts, ‘it’s not that deep. I don’t think anyone will take offence at it.’
‘People take offence at everything,’ I protest, while trying to ignore the fact he used the same adjective to describe me that I’ve heard him use for Wuffy.
‘Are you with your parents now?’
There’s a tap on the bathroom door and Mum says, ‘Zoe, did you want green or red pesto?’
‘Whatever,’ I shout.
‘Are you going to be in there for much longer? Cause if you’re number two-ing I won’t microwave your mini jacket yet.’
Even with the phone held to my chest, I can hear Cian’s raging amusement. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’ I bring it back to my ear. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Let me know when you’re home. I’ve got that sinister Studio Ghibli film, you’re going to need to convince me.’
‘No, I’m home now.’
‘Your parents are at your place?’ He doesn’t wait for my answer; there’s noise from his end then he says, ‘I’m coming over.’
‘No. Cian. No. You’re not invited.’
‘It’s number forty, right? See you in three minutes.’ He hangs up.
Ten minutes pass and I keep checking out the front because surely he’s joking, he’s never been here, he’s not going to turn up to meet my parents.
That’s crazy. Also, we’ve been hanging out for almost six weeks, and I’ve not seen Cian outside the house.
In fact, I’m not convinced Cian exists outside the house.
Mum shoves a packet of sundried tomatoes under my nose. ‘Sniff this. The use-by date is the twelfth but they don’t smell right to me.’
The doorbell rings and Dad, who was in the hallway doing something essential with the fuse box, must open it because seconds later, there’s Cian’s loud voice.
‘I think that’s my friend,’ I say, having a flashback to when I was eleven and a boy I liked knocked on the door to ask for me. ‘My friend Cian. The not disabled one.’
‘Great,’ Mum says, ‘I’ve wanted to meet him.’
When Cian limps in, using one crutch, his grin is huge. He’s got on black shorts, which are longer than usual and a pale-blue T-shirt.
‘You’re wearing blue?’ I comment. He gives me a questioning look, before Mum jumps in with, ‘I’m Eartha. Let’s get you sat down. Poor boy.’ She takes him by the elbow and leads him to the table. ‘Emilio, get a cushion for his back.’
‘I’m okay,’ Cian says as he lowers himself down. He attempts to lean his crutch against the table, and it slips off immediately and Dad grabs it. ‘That walk,’ Cian puffs, ‘took it out of me.’
When we make eye contact, I feel a mix of wishing this wasn’t happening with also wanting to stay in this moment forever, because seeing him interact with people, other than Brendan, is new.
‘You live close?’ Mum asks him.
‘No. I live in South. My apartment is on the third floor and there’s no lift, so I moved back in with my dad. Another two weeks and I should be able to move home.’
Two weeks? I can’t imagine him not living close. The thought of it makes me feel untethered.
‘This is so different from my dad’s place.’
‘I know,’ I say, a little self-conscious about the condition of the flat, with its old brown and beige kitchen units and peeling floor tiles. ‘It needs some work.’
‘It needs bulldozing,’ Mum interjects. ‘And all this money being thrown away on rent.’
‘Why is the kitchen so big?’ Cian wonders aloud. ‘Can’t believe I’ve never been here. Zoe’s never invited me before.’
‘I never invite anyone,’ I say, keen to defend myself. ‘And I never knew you could make it this far.’