Prologue #3
‘Jay? Louis? Guys, it’s nearly twelve? You up yet?
’ I ask. I push the door ajar and the cool, stale air is now replaced by the scent of dead farts and socks.
Eau de Teen. But I also see Jay’s face backlit by the light on his phone and hear that familiar frenetic soundtrack of short videos never quite playing to completion.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘I’m getting up. Chill,’ Jay replies.
I immediately feel the heckles on the back of my neck stand to attention. ‘I am chilled. I’m nicely chilled in fact. I’m on holiday.’
‘So am I.’
‘Well, not really. It feels like you’re doing exactly what you do at home but in another location,’ I say.
He laughs at one of the videos on his phone. Or laughs at me. I am hilarious.
‘You’re sleeping through the best part of the day.’
‘It’s too hot out there,’ Jay moans.
Next to him, his brother rolls over, his arse hanging out from the sheet wrapped around his legs.
‘It was a nice temperature at nine this morning.’
‘Is there food?’ he grunts.
‘I walked down to the bakery in town. I got some pastries and fruit.’
‘Is there like bacon or anything? Louis thinks we could get McDonald’s delivered here.’
I don’t react. As a parent of teens, I expect this most days: statements of sheer absurdity usually coupled with bizarre extremes of emotion.
McDonalds? I walked into town. I nearly got run over by a Renault for croissants.
They’re fucking French croissants with real butter in them, most likely baked by a man in a beret and you’re thinking about McMuffins.
How have I failed you? Don’t call him ungrateful.
Take a breath, Zara. I exhale slowly, steeling myself.
‘It’s past eleven. You won’t get McDonald’s delivering bacon at this time,’ I reply, almost deadpan. ‘Get up.’
Jay doesn’t say a word. Louis still doesn’t move. I think he actually farts in reply.
I take a step backwards, across the corridor, and knock on the door opposite.
‘Bella? Love, you up?’ I tentatively open the door.
The mound in the bed doesn’t move but I spy a phone charging by the wall as it lights up with Snapchat notifications, little emojis cropping up, talking in code.
I creep over and narrow my eyes, trying to make sense of it all.
‘Mum, stop being so nosy,’ a muffled voice from under the covers says.
‘I wouldn’t even know what half of that stuff means anyway. You’re up then?’
‘You were shouting at the boys, so yeah…’
‘I wasn’t shouting. It’s midday. You guys should all be up.’
Bella’s big head of curly hair envelops the pillow. ‘It’s too hot out there.’
‘Shocker. It’s hot in the south of France.’
‘I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Mother.’
‘I frankly don’t appreciate having paid thousands for a holiday only for the three of you to just sleep through most of it.’
‘We’re teenagers, we’re growing. Give us a break,’ Bella pleads.
Her phone continues to ping and glow in the corner. My eyes can’t help but be distracted by it. ‘God, can you stop spying on me?’
I shake my head. I paid for that phone, I pay for the bill.
I clench my fists and let my breath escape slowly, leaving the room but ensuring I don’t close the door so the air conditioning can escape.
I stand in the middle of the hallway. You are on holiday, Zara.
Chill. I walk to the end of the corridor where I hear some strange sound emitting from the room.
Is that cheering? Is that Ally fucking McCoist?
Inside the room, Mike sits in the dark, the light from his phone reflecting off his face. ‘MIKE!’
He looks up at me, pale and panicked. The same sort of look I imagine most men would own if caught watching porn. His phone bounces off the white sheets and he puts his hands into the air. ‘It was last night, I was just watching highlights.’
I pull back the shutters and let the light and heat stream in, causing him to flinch. ‘You woke up and told me you had a dodgy tummy from the crêpes last night. Have you seriously been up here watching football?’
‘No… I was just… I’m tired.’
‘You’re tired? If you’re tired, you sleep, you don’t watch a penalty shootout! We’re all bloody tired, it would seem.’ I know my voice is now raised as I look into the corridor and see that Jay and Bella have emerged from their rooms; watching, listening, swaying slightly like zombies.
‘That is the point of a holiday, Mother. To rest,’ Bella adds with her own brand of acerbic wit. Mother. I am her mother but sometimes I hate how she uses that word.
‘Well, you can sleep and get over your supposed fatigue on a sun lounger. In the sun. Not curled up in your rooms like holiday trolls. It’s supposed to be a time for us all to be together.
To rest together. Instead, I’m sat out there on my own talking to that inflatable crocodile you told me to buy for the Instagram pool content you wanted to make. ’
Mike drags himself out of bed, side-eyeing the children because I’ve gone past the point of deep breathing now. See how she’s about to blow?
And this is always the worst part because my teenagers with their complete lack of empathy will now watch me as I rant and lose my rag and they will not be kind. They will not understand how they have caused this and they will make me out to be the enemy.
Mike slowly rolls a T-shirt over his head. ‘Kids, your mum is right,’ he says. ‘We should get up.’
‘Can we get McDonald’s?’ Jay asks.
‘NO!’ I yell. ‘You’re in bloody France and I walked into town and got croissants. I SPOKE FRENCH! You are going to eat croissants.’
‘What if we don’t want croissants?’ Jay asks.
‘Jay? When we’re at home, I’ve seen you eat a whole six-pack of really quite shitty croissants in one sitting but now you’re in the home of croissants and you don’t quite fancy one?’
‘God, chill. Why are you getting your melons twisted over a croissant?’ he grumbles.
This makes Bella laugh. It does not help the situation.
‘Guys, don’t prod the hive,’ Mike whispers.
‘Excuse me?’ I say, turning swiftly towards him. ‘What did you say?’
‘You’re all wound up. I’m just trying to de-escalate,’ he says, placing his palms in the air.
‘Jesus, Mike. I’m not taking them hostage. I just want my kids to eat a croissant. I want to have a holiday where I see my children, where they get out of their rooms and enjoy the sunshine, where they use the pool and don’t spend the whole time glued to their phones like cretins.’
I see Jay lean into Bella as she explains to him what a cretin is.
‘Why are we fighting about croissants?’ a voice murmurs from the shadows.
‘Oh, Louis, you’re up! Thank you for joining us! Come join the pile-on,’ I say, completely exasperated by all of them.
He frowns, confused. ‘Why are you so angry? I haven’t done anything.’
‘Exactly my point,’ I say sharply. ‘No one here is doing anything. I really don’t know why I bother!’
‘Can anyone say menopause?’ he grumbles.
And then they all laugh. Mike closes his eyes slowly.
This is the problem when you’re outnumbered.
I don’t think I’ve raised particularly cruel children.
I have moments where I like being with them, where they make me proud and I enjoy their company.
They can be sweet and funny and a delight.
However, there are times when they drive me up the fucking wall, and at the top of said wall, I want to scream, loudly and from my gut.
Because I can’t handle the constant banter and apathy when I’m constantly trying to work them out and pouring everything I have into them, getting nothing in return.
‘Oh, piss off. All of you.’ I look down at my feet on the warm tiles, trying to stop it all from getting to me.
‘Ooooohhh,’ they all chant.
Bella remains defiant, as she always does.
I can see it in her eyes. She won’t back down.
It’s unfortunate that she gets that from me, that I created my own undoing.
Mike looks at her, almost begging her to persuade her brothers to come over and calm the situation down with a hug.
Apologise. But no. And then it comes. The eye roll.
Really? I look at all of them in turn. And then a glorious force from within overtakes me.
A surge in anger sees me crawl onto our bed and grab Mike’s phone and then burst through the bedroom door and down the hallway.
Bella’s room is first, I barge in and grab her phone which is plugged into the wall, still pinging with notifications.
I catch her eye and see her face fill with confusion at what’s happening.
But I’m on a mission. The boys’ room is next, their phones in full view on their beds; I reach for them, feeling a gleeful sense of satisfaction to see their faces drop.
Menopause? Overreacting? You don’t feel like croissants?
I hold on to all the phones and burst outside, lowering my sunglasses, the sunshine bristling against my skin.
‘Mum, what are you…?’
‘We didn’t mean it, Mum. Seriously…’
‘Zara!’
They all half hang out of the villa, barely clothed, blinded by the light, unable to focus and give chase.
So much so that they don’t see me run towards the pool and throw their phones in.
Yes, into the swimming pool. I expect they hear it though.
The faintest of splashes. There is an almost slo-mo period of silence as I watch the phones fly into the blue of the sky then land in the water: it is a moment of overwhelming childish power.
When my family realise what I’ve done, they all stumble outside staring at me.
‘MUM! What…’
‘Bloody hell, Z.’