What Goes Around...

I hope she doesn’t come in.

I excuse myself from Shirley and Greg and get back to policing mum. She’s chatting away to Simone and the last thing I want is Mum chatting away to anyone.

‘But you’re far too young to be Lucy’s mum!’ Simone says, then murmurs how sorry she is and how hard it must be for my mum and dad. ‘I’m a single mum, Simone,’ Mum starts and opens a mouth that is more than happy to tell anyone, anything, to just stand and pour out her life and I have to stop her.

‘Mum!’ I say. ‘They’re being a bit slow getting the food out. Can you hurry them along?’

It’s completely exhausting.

Then I get Alice’s boyfriend as I try to go upstairs to my bedroom with the excuse that I need the loo. I don’t, I just need five minutes, I’d settle for two, but oh no, I’ve got Hugh introducing himself. He’s a psychiatrist and heaven knows that family needs one. He asks how I’m feeling.

I almost laugh.

My shoulders drop, as does my jaw and I almost laugh, because does he really want to know? I mean, does he really want to know how I’m feeling?

God knows what he sees in loony Alice – maybe she’s a case study, maybe he’s doing a thesis on self absorbed narcissistic bitches – he’d have a job keeping his word count within limits with her.

Memories are raining in again and I don’t want bad memories today. I want to be a grieving widow. That’s so much easier to be, but instead I’m remembering things that I don’t want to.

We had it out once here, right on this spot. She was coming down the stairs and I was trying to be nice, I’d bought cakes and everything and I was nice to her lesbian friend – I was so nice and I tried to address it - the tension between us. I stood on this spot and I tried and she sneered and she told me - she basically told me, that she knew my husband was cheating on me.

I hate Alice.

I hate her guts.

Yet, she’s spent an hour with Charlotte in her room, going through photos of Noodle and her dad and if I hate her too much it will spill over and I’ll upset Charlotte.

But seriously - is this guy joking?

Does he really want to know how I’m feeling! ‘You don’t have to answer that,’ he says.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Then I won’t.’

One of Mum’s friends comes over and offers me a slice of “apple pie.”

They’re tarte tatins.

I want to take the plate and throw it and Hugh’s still standing there and then joy and double joy, Alice comes over and he puts his arm around her waist as she speaks to me again on this very spot.

‘Look,’ she says, ‘I know it’s a bit soon to be suggesting it but…’ she’s bright red in the face and I stand there and watch her squirm. ‘We go home in a couple of days, so if I don’t say it now…’

I just stand there.

What does she want? For his gravestone to have a picture of him and Gloria together perchance? Maybe all of the Original Jameson Girls too. You can do anything with Photoshop. Perhaps they could squeeze Charlotte and me on the end.

Mum’s putting out her cheese and pineapple sticks and there’s this sort of wha wha noise in my ears. Alice is talking about Queensland, saying that they’d give Charlotte a good holiday, not now, but if I need it, if I think it would be good for Charlotte.

I just stand there.

I can’t bear it, because it’s never going to be over.

They’re here forever.

He’s dead and I’m left with it.

I mumble something about I’m not happy with her flying and yes, thank you, if I need it and blah blah blah, because that’s what you do at a funeral, especially one you’re hosting.

Except, my face has gone numb.

It has.

It’s sort of all numb down the side and I’m about to be a good wife and suitably grieved and faint, but I’m not a good wife and I’m not grieved, I’m just so angry. I don’t faint, I drool my way out of it, or I try to but Jess sees that I’m struggling. She puts her arm round me and sort of glides me up the stairs and into my room. He’s still lying there on the floor with his Viagra beside him. I’ve changed the sheets, I’ve put Shake and Vac on the carpets but I can still smell him in the room.

Jess lays me down and I want to give in.

I don’t want to go back down stairs.

A double plot will do if I can just lie quietly.

‘It’s okay, Lucy.’ Jess holds me and without her I could not do this.

‘Mum!’

Charlotte’s all panicked. She flings herself into the room and I’m supposed to comfort her, that’s my job, except my body won’t move. Charlotte lies down beside me and I feel her bony body against mine. ‘What’s wrong with mum?’ When I can’t, Jess gives the right answer.

Just not the true one.

‘She’s missing your dad.’

I feel Charlotte beside me and Jess is spooned in beside me too and I’m drenched in sweat and my face is numb and we all know that we have to go back down there.

I’m sorry Lucy, God says to me. He was supposed to be at his desk, he was supposed to die working. He was supposed to be at work. We can only go with the information given.

I get a response from his customer complaints department too.

We are sorry to hear you are unhappy with our services – while we do understand the impact on Charlotte – we have to take all our customers into consideration.

Then there’s one from God’s account department too.

The GFC and the state of the Euro has had a huge impact on everyone and God can’t delay these things until the financial picture is clearer.

We trust you will understand.

Thank you for your loyal patronage…

Except I’m not loyal and neither am I a patron. It seems a bit hypocritical to sign up now but I want God or Jesus or a Higher Power. I want someone, some thing to make it all better, I want a sign that it will all be okay, but I’m not going to get one, I really am on my own.

Luke’s at the bedroom door, he doesn’t say anything.

There’s no “back to it, Lucy” today.

I know it’s expected though and when my face stops being numb, I know that I have to go back down there.

I just do.

So, we do.

We sort of roll off the bed, all in one motion, we just get up and get on and try to get through.

It's a relief when they leave. Luke and Jess take Charlotte and I feel guilty that I’m pleased.

Mum and her AA friends stay for a little bit to clean up.

I can't stand them.

Honestly, you have no idea.

They’re like cheerful elves all fuelled on coffee, all chatting as they work, all filled with their infinite wisdom as, sleeves rolled up, they support each other!

Oh, I know it so well.

I pour myself a drink; a lovely big brandy and I smirk behind my glass as I take a sip.

‘You know you want one really,’ I want to say to them, but I have a baby bagel with goats’ cheese instead, before mum smothers it with cling film.

‘Why don't you come back home with me?’ Mum suggests as I open the fridge. I know she’s worried that I’ll soon be face down in the black forest gateaux that she brought but I didn’t put out. I don't even bother to answer her. ‘Or I could stay here for the night,’ she offers.

‘I want some time on my own.’

The elves carry on working, cleaning down the bench, putting chairs and stools back and pretending they're not listening.

I don't know why they bother pretending.

She’ll be standing up in a meeting tomorrow talking about me and about how I still haven't forgiven her.

Not that she needs it. Mum's forgiven herself you see.

She's made her amends and said that she is sorry and now she has to move on with her life and it's up to me, they’ll tell her, whether or not I accept her apology.

That's my journey apparently.

Well, I don’t forgive her.

There are a few elves smoking in the garden and I head out and pinch a fag.

‘You don’t smoke,’ Mum says, following me out and, to prove she’s such a good example, she lights one up herself. ‘You gave up years ago.’

‘Special occasion,’ I say. ‘I only smoke on days that I bury my husband!’

I stand there and it makes me feel a bit sick. As I take another sip of my brandy I watch her lips purse and she’d better not fucking say anything.

It’s my journey.

I hate the lot of them.

They know me you see.

Or rather, they know too much about me.

Those Nordic good looks didn’t come from my mum’s rich Swedish lover; instead they came courtesy of an 18-30’s holiday to the Costa Brava. She thinks he might be Danish and there were quite a few Swedes, possibly German… Simone was right, she was far too young to be my mother, so basically, she wasn't one. The council found her a flat when her parents kicked her out and she partied on from there.

I got myself to school.

I worked out to get milk, sausages, bread and ice- cream on the day her benefit came through, before it all went on booze.

I cleaned the flat.

I found out that clothes need washing more than once a fortnight when I got teased because I smelt and I changed my own sheets when I wet the bed. I was a fat kid and bullied mercilessly thanks to her meticulously thought out meal plans and my long love affair with ice cream.

She straightened herself out though.

But not till I was sixteen and left.