Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-one
Carly
‘No I don’t,’ Dinah exclaims across the table. As if I’d asked, Do you suffer from incontinence, Dinah? I’d only wondered if she had any children, and it’s not the first thing I asked tonight. I mean, I didn’t dive right in, presumptuously, as Suki dished up perfectly cooked spaghetti with garlicky prawns, plus a watercress salad and delicious sourdough and posh deli butter and the cheeses I brought, all accompanied by lashings of chilled white wine. The children issue surfaced only after a somewhat stilted exchange of all of our background information, during which I felt as if I’d been grilling both Dinah and Oliver, although it wasn’t intended that way. But there’s something about awkward pauses with strangers that triggers a need in me to fill them.
‘What d’you do, Oliver?’ I’d asked.
‘I work in nature conservation,’ he replied. Again, no further info supplied.
‘He’s doing amazing things with beavers,’ Suki announced with a little laugh. And in any other situation I’d have had a giggle about this too.
‘What kind of things?’ I asked.
‘We’re reintroducing them to the area,’ he replied, sending the clear signal that he didn’t want to go into it all now.
I was about to ask more but the tiny spark in me fizzled out like a damp firework, and I sank a little in my seat. A whole weekend with this bunch. How was I going to survive it? Then Suki topped up our glasses again and put on some music, clearly trying to rev up the atmosphere to above that of a morgue. And she started to tell Oliver and Dinah about my lovely son, and how delighted she is to see Lyla so happy. On and on she went, gamely keeping things going and topping up glasses.
Now, as I help Suki to clear the table and wash up, Dinah settles by the fire as if tonight has been exhausting for her. ‘So many carbs,’ she announces, tight-faced in a snug grey sweater and slim black trousers, her tiny feet poked into olive-green leather slippers. Her short dark hair is cut close to the scalp, streaked with a little grey. I’ve gathered that she and Suki are book group friends, meeting fortnightly to discuss literary works that Suki admitted, as a whispered aside, ‘are a bit of a struggle sometimes. But I needed new friends in Edinburgh and they were happy to welcome me in.’
Not much evidence of welcoming vibes now as Dinah opens a book, making a cursory effort to allow a little room for me on the sofa. Meanwhile Oliver has been busying himself by stoking and poking at the wood burner.
Suki darts around, trying to refill glasses that don’t need refilling, and urging Oliver to ‘stop poking, Ols. It’s fine!’ Finally she settles on a chair by the stove.
‘That was a lovely dinner,’ I start. ‘Thank you, Suki.’
‘A lot of carbs,’ remarks Dinah again, who I’ve learnt is a psychotherapist. Is she as chilly as this with her clients?
‘Dinah, you must show Carly your art,’ Suki enthuses, swivelling towards me. ‘She absorbs all of her clients’ fears and traumas and distils them into these amazing—’ She breaks off. ‘How would you describe your art, Dinah?’
‘I don’t really talk about it,’ Dinah says, still gripping her book. ‘I prefer the work to speak for itself.’ She purses her lips and, as Suki shifts uncomfortably in her seat, I prickle with annoyance on her behalf. Really, there was no need for that.
‘Sounds fascinating anyway,’ I remark.
‘Oh, Lyla loves Dinah’s work,’ Suki says, having recovered her sparkle. ‘Maybe I’ll buy them a painting, Dinah? To celebrate the baby, when it arrives?’
Dinah blinks at her as if this is an insane suggestion. ‘They’re very young, aren’t they? To be starting a family?’
Suki blanches and Oliver swings round from the fire, still gripping the poker. ‘They’re twenty-two,’ she says levelly. ‘Not that young …’
‘And you’re okay with this, are you?’ Dinah asks, in a neutral tone, turning to me.
‘Well, I er—’ I start, but she leaps in.
‘How many kids d’you have?’
‘Three,’ I reply. ‘Two girls and a boy.’
Dinah nods as if this confirms something for her. ‘All grown up?’
‘Well, yes,’ I say. Obviously. Considering I probably look – and certainly feel – ancient.
‘The thing I don’t understand,’ she announces, sitting up pertly now, ‘is why parents can’t let go of their kids when they’ve actually grown up. You know?’
I blink at her. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘The way they keep fussing, running around after them. Worrying about them constantly, even though they’ve left home—’
‘They still exist even when they’ve left home,’ Suki says with a bright smile.
‘Like you, following Lyla up to Edinburgh!’ Dinah exclaims. It’s impossible to tell if this is good-natured teasing between friends.
‘Oh, I know.’ Suki laughs and shakes her head. ‘I am ridiculous, I realise that …’
Dinah’s mouth has set in a flat line. ‘I know people who send their adult kids food parcels, as if they’re incapable of going to the shops!’
‘Oh, I do that,’ I say before I can stop myself.
‘Do you?’ Dinah peers at me.
‘Well, yes. One of my daughters is at art college, so she’s broke all the time and a bit scatty anyway. I know she basically survives on Pringles and beer. And my other daughter’s in London and it’s so expensive, so I send the odd parcel of treats—’
‘I don’t really see the need,’ Dinah interrupts as I realise I’ve committed the cardinal sin of going on about my kids to someone who – fair enough – has no interest in them. Best not to mention that I ordered Eddie that blind for his window, plus a new duvet cover and matching pillowcases. She’d probably slap me down for that, for caring about my son. Instead, I start to calculate how soon I can possibly slip off to bed without seeming rude. Because now, as Dinah launches into a tirade about ‘overindulgent parents’, while Oliver regards her mutely, something hits me.
Eddie, and the way he is. I must have spoilt and mollycoddled him for things to have turned out this way. Bella has accused me of this – of treating him differently because he’s the boy. I’ve denied this strenuously, and honestly believed that she’d got it wrong. That if I fussed less over her and Ana, it was only because they were always fiercely independent. There was no choosing their outfits or packing their lunchboxes, even when they were little. The girls always wanted to do it for themselves and I had to back off.
Meanwhile, through his whole childhood, Eddie just seemed to need me more. But actually, now I’m thinking Bella was right. And if I hadn’t run around after him, doing his laundry and burrowing under his bed for takeaway cartons and mugs growing fur, then maybe things would be different. Perhaps, if I’d been tougher, as delightful Dinah here is insinuating, then my son would have left home as a fully fledged adult, instead of only being one on paper. And then he would’ve just gone for a few drinks with Calum and Raj and come home and unpacked this room and not made a baby!
I touch my clammy forehead. The cabin, which seemed so delightfully cosy when I arrived, now feels stuffy and oppressive, and I’m seized by an urge to escape. On top of this, all this talk of adult children reminds me that at any moment, Suki might mention Lyla and Eddie’s supposedly rock-solid relationship. How would it go down, in present company, if I leapt up and announced, ‘I’m sorry to tell you but actually, they just had a drunken shag on a pile of coats!’
I won’t, of course. I’d no more destroy Suki’s illusion than go to Dinah for therapy. But now my reserves of politeness are running critically low, and although I’d love to know more about Dinah’s digestive troubles and Oliver’s beavers, I’m done for the night.
‘Is there another bottle of wine?’ Dinah asks Suki. ‘Did you open the good stuff I brought?’
Rather than the not-good-enough stuff Carly brought , is what I think she means.
‘I’ll get it.’ Suki springs up and fetches it from the fridge. She returns and goes around the room with the bottle.
‘Actually, that’s enough for me tonight,’ I say quickly.
‘Oh, are you sure?’
‘Yes. Thanks – and this has been lovely – but I think I’ll head through to bed.’ I get up and say goodnight, aware that ducking out of the fun at 10.40 is perhaps a little rude, but fuck it. Oliver turns briefly from the fire he’s been poking at again, as if it needs constant attention, like a risotto.
‘Goodnight,’ he says.
I smile tightly and scurry through to my room, hoping that the several glasses of wine I’ve downed will knock me into unconsciousness the moment my head hits the pillow. Then, in the morning, I’ll make my excuses and leave.
I can’t face a whole weekend with this lot. I just can’t.
However, sleep won’t come, even when the voices dwindle and everyone seems to be heading to bed.
What shall I say in the morning? I’ll be ill! That’s the best thing. But I’ll need an illness that doesn’t have visible symptoms. What could that be? It comes to me as, tucked up in bed now, I glance through the window at those twinkling stars.
Sciatica! That’s it, I decide, as sleep folds over me in the silent room. I’ll have an attack of the sciatica that Frank tried to make me have at Suki’s club. And then I’ll be out of here.