After You

I called my sister, and she had the good grace not to say, ‘I told you so.’ Well, maybe just once.

‘That is the worst thing about being a parent,’ she said, as if I were one too. ‘You’re meant to be this serene, all-knowing, gracious person who can handle every situation. And sometimes when Thom is rude, or I’m tired, I just want to slam the door at him or stick my tongue out and tell him he’s an arse.’

Which was pretty much how I felt.

Work had reached a misery point where I had to make myself sing show tunes in my car even to make myself drive to the airport.

And then there was Sam.

Who I didn’t think about.

I didn’t think about him in the morning, when I caught sight of my naked body in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t remember the way his fingers had traced my skin and made my vivid red scars not so much invisible as part of a shared history – or how, for one brief evening, I had felt reckless and alive again. I didn’t think about him when I watched the couples, heads bowed together as they examined their boarding passes, off to share romantic adventures – or just hot monkey sex – in destinations far from there. I didn’t think about him on the way to and from work, whenever an ambulance went screaming past. Which seemed to happen an inordinate number of times. And I definitely didn’t think about him in the evening when I sat home alone on my sofa, gazing at a television show whose plot I couldn’t have told you, and looking, I suspected, like the loneliest flammable porno pixie on the planet.

Nathan rang and left a message, asking me to call. I wasn’t sure I could bear to hear the latest episode of his exciting new life in New York, and put it on my mental to-do list of things that would never actually get done. Tanya texted me to say the Houghton-Millers had come home three days early, something to do with Francis’s work. Richard rang, telling me I was on the late shift from Monday to Friday. And please don’t be late, Louisa. I’d like to remind you again that you are on your final warning.

I did the only thing I could think of: I went home, driving to Stortfold with the music turned up loud so that I didn’t have to be alone with my thoughts. I felt grateful for my parents. I felt an almost umbilical pull towards home, the comfort offered by a traditional family and Sunday lunch on the table.

‘Lunch?’ said Dad, his arms crossed across his stomach, his jaw set in indignation. ‘Oh, no. We don’t do Sunday lunch any more. Lunch is a sign of patriarchal oppression.’

Granddad nodded mournfully from the corner.

‘No, no, we can’t have lunch. We do sandwiches on a Sunday now. Or soup. Soup is apparently agreeable to feminism.’

Treena, studying at the dining-table, rolled her eyes. ‘Mum is doing a women’s poetry class on Sunday mornings at the adult education centre. She’s hardly turned into Andrea Dworkin.’

‘See, Lou? Now I’m expected to know all about feminism and this Andrew Dorkin fella has stolen my bloody Sunday lunch.’

‘You’re being dramatic, Dad.’

‘How is this dramatic? Sundays is family time. We should have family Sunday lunch.’

‘Mum’s entire life has been family time. Why can’t you just let her have some time to herself?’

Dad pointed his folded-up newspaper at Treena. ‘You did this. Your mammy and I were perfectly happy before you started telling her she wasn’t.’

Granddad nodded in agreement.

‘It’s all gone pear-shaped around here. I can’t watch the television without her muttering, “Sexist,” at the yoghurt ads. This is sexist. That’s sexist. When I brought home Ade Palmer’s copy of the Sun just for a bit of a read of the sports pages she chucked it in the fire because of Page Three. I never know where she is from one day to the next.’

‘One two-hour class,’ said Treena, mildly, not looking up from her books. ‘On a Sunday.’

‘I’m not being funny, Dad,’ I said, ‘but those things on the end of your arms?’

‘What?’ Dad looked down. ‘What?’

‘Your hands,’ I said. ‘They’re not painted on.’

He frowned at me.

‘So I’m guessing you could make the lunch. Give Mum a surprise when she gets back from her poetry class?’

Dad’s eyes widened. ‘Me make the Sunday lunch? Me? We’ve been married nearly thirty years, Louisa. I don’t do the bloody lunch. I do the earning, and your mother does the lunch. That’s the deal! That’s what I signed up for! What’s the world coming to if I’m there with a pinny on, peeling spuds, on a Sunday? How is that fair?’

‘It’s called modern life, Dad.’

‘Modern life. You’re no help,’ Dad said, and harrumphed. ‘I’ll bet you Mr bloody Traynor gets his Sunday lunch. That girl of his wouldn’t be a feminist.’

‘Ah. Then you need a castle, Dad. Castles trump feminism every time.’

Treena and I started to laugh.

‘You know what? There’s a reason why the two of you haven’t got boyfriends.’

‘Ooh. Red card!’ We both held up our right hands. He shoved his paper up in the air and stomped off to the garden.

Treena grinned at me. ‘I was going to suggest we cook lunch but … now?’

‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to perpetuate patriarchal oppression. Pub?’

‘Excellent. I’ll text Mum.’

My mother, it emerged, had, at the age of fifty-six, begun to come out of her shell, first as tentatively as a hermit crab but now, apparently, with increasing enthusiasm. For years she hadn’t left the house unaccompanied, had been satisfied with the little domain that was our three-and-a-half-bedroomed house. But spending weeks in London after I’d had my accident had forced her out of her normal routine and sparked some long-dormant curiosity about life beyond Stortfold. She had started flicking through some of the feminist texts Treena had been given at the GenderQuake awareness group at college, and these two alchemic happenings had caused my mother to undergo something of an awakening. She had ripped her way through The Second Sex and Fear of Flying, followed up with The Female Eunuch, and after reading The Women’s Room had been so shocked at what she saw as the parallels to her own life that she had refused to cook for three days, until she had discovered Granddad was hoarding four-packs of stale doughnuts.