The A-Z of Us (17 page)

‘Molly said you've been a little down lately, dear. I thought we could have a spot of lunch…'

*

My mother finally orders – the special of Poached Salmon with Saffron Risotto. She smiles up at the waiter as if somehow he is the dish and she wants to nibble an extra special little bit of him. The waiter smiles back, the most professional smile I've seen in a long while. I can read his mind.

‘Deluded old bag,' is what he's thinking, in Spanish.

Immediately, I feel bad. I'm being much too hard on my mother. Susan Cook is from a different generation, a different world. She was raised to believe in the goodly strength of men, in their constancy and ability to solve all the world's problems (she was born in Kenya, to a military father and a gin-addicted mother). To her credit, she found just such a man – Bill Cook, the steady-mannered senior accountant. She travelled with him to conferences around the world, studied cookery and languages, had two beautiful daughters exactly when she wanted to have them. If there was a plan, and knowing my mother, there was definitely a plan, it had worked out a treat. At least, until her husband died.

It's been fifteen years since Bill's death, but still I see that everything my mother does is influenced in some way by her loss. Susan Cook's desire to attract all men to her, is, I feel, an indication of my mother's fear of abandonment. She spends much of her time with one man in particular – Stanley Myers, a retired moustachioed lawyer, whom I've met, and liked, on several occasions. In many ways, I wish my mother would break free from her ridiculous notions of propriety and re-marry. But whenever I raise the issue, Susan Cook shakes her head, frowns and declares:

‘There really isn't any need for that sort of talk. We're friends, nothing more.'

‘So, how's life in the green pastures?' I ask hurriedly, deciding pre-emptive questioning is the best form of defence.

‘Wonderful darling. Playing a bit of golf, you know.'

‘How's the swing?' I smile.

‘Coming along. It's all such good fun.'

My mother has taken to golf with as much passion as she can muster for something that doesn't involve Laura Ashley or recipe books. I suspect it has more to do with the fact that Stanley Myers is treasurer of Horsham Fairways Golf and Swimming Club than any particular passion for putting, but at least it gets her out of the house and doing some form of physical exercise that doesn't involve whisking eggs or handing over a credit card.

My mother starts on a lengthy monologue about her plans for Stanley's sixty-fifth birthday in four months time, chattering away about invites and marquees, and I nod, grateful to listen rather than to answer. I know that my mother has chosen her youngest daughter to off-load her concerns about the big occasion she's organizing because she thinks her youngest girl is still married and domestic, unlike her eldest child who is too nice for her own good and therefore a bit of a screw-up in the relationship department (at least when viewed from sixty-something Surrey) and is now working too hard and drinking more than is good for anyone.

‘Oh, yes. I almost forgot. Stanley's asked me to accompany him on his birthday cruise. Separate cabins of course…'

‘That's lovely Mum. Where are you going?'

‘Antarctica!'

‘Antarctica?'

‘Yes, isn't it wonderful. I can't wait to see those lovely polar bears. I've always had a thing about polar bears, I suppose that's what comes of growing up in Kenya surrounded by all those lions… opposites attract.'

‘Er… Mum, I don't think there are polar bears in Antarctica. Just penguins. Polar bears live in the Arctic.'

‘No. Really? That can't be. I'm sure Stanley said there would be polar bears…'

‘Well, maybe he's jetting some in especially.'

‘Don't be facetious, Gemma Singh. It's the trip of a lifetime. I'm very lucky.'

‘That you are, Mother. That you are.'

The food arrives and as we eat our salads and my mother chats away about rose bushes and the price of petrol and the scandalous misappropriation of the Chelmsley Village church hall fund by a retired Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, I find myself feeling detached and unmistakably relieved. Because it's so normal. It's as it ever has been. Evidently Molly hasn't told her about Raj. She's just meddled in her usual big sisterly way, hinting that I was feeling down and that a lunch with my mother would be just what I needed to cheer me up. And of course my mother has done what her favourite daughter suggested. They both win. Molly feels like a good sister. Susan Cook feels like a good mother.

Good mothers come up to town and buy their younger daughters lunch. Good mothers tell their younger daughters about their lives back in Surrey, so their younger daughters will feel connected to the older generation. And
then good mothers ask their younger daughters one or two general questions about work (feigning enough interest to be able to move on to other queries relatively quickly), before getting to the real questions that need answering, i.e. how is the renovation progress going on the lovely town house, you lucky, lucky girl!, and when are you going to have children?

I can see Molly now, looking at her watch in the Paddington Tower and wondering when I'm going to tell our mother everything.

Well, tough shit, Molly.

I feel no compunction to fill my mother in on ‘my situation'. It's as inconceivable as telling her about the first time I had sex, with Neil, when I'd been so alarmed by the large size of his cock. Or about the time, pre-Raj, when a man flashed at me in Old Street tube station. Or about the one thing that is really terrifying me.

Sitting toying with my tuna (I have no hunger, and, I feel, might never have again) I know questions about home life are coming, but I feel sure I can deal with them. I'm feeling okay.

True to the formula my mother has established over the last few years, she waits until we've finished our main courses before asking about her daughter's work. I am ready for her, sketchily describing my mini-promotion and the design for the new bar, while my mother's face flushes red with white wine and genuine excitement. It makes me feel warm to witness what is undoubtedly authentic pride emanating from her cheeks.

‘That's so wonderful, darling! You really are very talented!'

‘No I'm not, Mum, that's the problem,' I almost say, but instead I smile and mutter ‘thanks'.

‘And so, how is your dashing husband these days?'

My mother's eyes flash with hope and expectation. I sense my stomach constrict. But I can do it.

‘He's fine. Busy at work.'

‘Oh yes, I can imagine. A lawyer, in the City. He'll be made a partner before long, won't he darling?'

‘Yes, well, I think that's the goal. He's certainly working hard for it.'

Susan Cook looks at me and ceases her fixed smile.

‘Molly says he was working on a big contract…'

‘He's busy, yes…'

‘Is he working too hard, darling? Are you feeling left out?'

‘No, Mum. It's not…'

‘Because, you know, in every marriage there are periods of imbalance, when one has to give while the other takes…'

I listen to my mother's voice, which reminds me of that softly patronizing tone that so reassured me as a child, and then, despite every nerve, synapse and cell straining to maintain my detachment, I start to cry. I can't help it. And the more I cry, the more desperation I feel to stop crying, in the middle of this nice Mediterranean restaurant on a nice Wednesday lunchtime at the end of the nice month of August, with my nicer than nice mother.

‘Oh darling,' declares my mother, jerking her hand into her handbag as quickly and instinctively as a Corsican fisherman snatching sardines from the sea, and whipping out a packet of Kleenex. ‘What on earth is the matter?'

‘Nothing,' I say. ‘Nothing. I'm fine.' I take the tissue
and wipe my eyes and blow my nose and suddenly I feel so stupid for having cried, because I feel strong once again, a strength laced with anger – anger at myself for having broken down, anger at Raj for being the cause, and anger at my mother for being a woman I can never talk to about anything vital in my life.

‘Are you unwell?'

‘No. I told you, I'm fine,' I say, a little too forcibly. ‘I'm tired, that's all.'

‘Really?'

‘It's quite a stressful project, Mum, at work. It's a lot of responsibility.'

‘Are you sure you're feeling all right? There's not something you're not telling me, is there?'

I look at my mother. You can say what you like about her outdated views on men and summer fashions, but she's all woman when it comes to feminine intuition. She would make a fortune in the interrogation business. There'd be no need for electricity or running taps. Just my mother's Kleenex and constant verbal probing.

‘No, Mum. I'm fine. I've just had a couple of late nights. Ian's staying with us…'

‘Ian? Ian Thompson?'

‘Yes, his landlord decided to sell the flat he was renting, so he's looking for somewhere else, but in the meantime he's crashing at ours…'

‘Oh. Why isn't he staying with Molly?'

‘You know how she feels about her space. And they've only been going out eight months.'

‘Hmm. How does Raj feel about Ian staying in your house?'

‘He's fine. Ian's my best friend. Why wouldn't he be fine?'

My mother shakes her head gently, whilst reapplying lipstick that she's plucked from her handbag shortly after the packet of Kleenex.

‘It's not normal.'

‘Oh Mum, please, not again. We've talked about this so many times.'

‘I just don't see how a man and a woman can just be friends. Stanley thinks the same. There's always something else to it. Is he gay?'

‘What?'

My mother sips wine, hurriedly.

‘There, I've said it.'

‘He's going out with your eldest daughter!'

‘Was going out. It's over apparently, under somewhat suspicious circumstances…'

‘Suspicious circumstances? Who are you, Miss Marple? Ian and Molly had a row, that's all…'

‘Some men have plenty of female friends, even ones they call girlfriends…'

‘What are you trying to say, Mother?'

‘Stanley remarked the other day that you just can't tell these days, you know, who is and who isn't…'

‘Ian's not gay, Mum! Jesus!'

‘There's no need to curse, Gemma Singh!'

‘He's a friend. All right? And he's not gay, not that there would be anything wrong if he was…'

‘Did he ever try and kiss you?'

‘What? No! What is wrong with you?'

‘Nothing, darling. It's a perfectly innocent question. It's
just I would have thought that any normal man would have a hard time keeping his lips away from my beautiful daughter, if he spent any time with her…'

‘Jesus, Mother, sometimes you are so medieval it makes me want to scream!'

I stand suddenly, push back my chair, pick up my handbag, stride quickly to the coat rack and snatch my coat before heading to the door. I won't, can't look back. I hear my mother call my name, once. I hear the waiter's Spanish voice asking if everything is all right, and then, finally, I hear my mother's voice declaring loudly and confidently, so the whole restaurant can hear her hypothesis, thereby absolving her from any responsibility for the scene that has just occurred:

‘No, it's all fine. I'm sorry, but I think my daughter's pregnant, that's all!'

When I hobble down the stairs brandishing my crutch at two in the morning, having been woken by noises from the living room, I'm surprised to see Gemma sitting on the floor, cross-legged in her pyjamas, surrounded by six or seven books with bright covers scattered like religious offerings around her. She has one book open on her lap, and appears to be reading avidly. By her left knee is a wine bottle, three-quarters empty, and a half-full glass of Rioja.

‘What are you reading, Gem?'

‘
Astrology and the Failing Marriage
,' she says, without looking up.

‘What?'

‘It's interesting. Apparently, I'm exhibiting all the characteristics of a true Capricorn. I have managed to turn my life upside down, and am swiftly regressing back into a teenage self that was never allowed to develop following my parents' divorce.'

‘But your parents didn't divorce.'

‘No. That's the only bit that doesn't fit. But I suppose my dad dying could help me qualify.'

I snort once and bend down to look at the other books.

Between Marriage and Divorce: A Woman's Diary
.

How to Cure Your Inner Imperfections
.

Managing Stress For A Healthier Life
.

Living is Tough: A Complete Guide to Understanding, Improving and Saving Your Marriage!

I grunt this time.

‘You don't need these, Gem.'

‘What harm can they do? I need something.'

She looks up.

‘I need a map.'

We open another bottle of wine. Gemma continues to read, while I watch Argentinian football on television.

‘I've been there,' I say, watching the crowds at the giant River Plate Stadium in Buenos Aires.

‘So… when are you going to get another writing assignment?' Gemma asks, skimming through
How to Cure Your Inner Imperfections
.

‘I'm going to call around. Come up with a plan.'

I sit in silence for a few minutes, pretending to watch the football. I don't have the energy to come up with a plan. The most alarming thing is, when I think about getting on a plane to Argentina, or some such enticing far-flung corner of the world, I'm filled with dread. I feel as if I can't go travelling again, without Molly wanting me. They'll be able to read it in my face.