According to YES (8 page)

‘No. Not hard. Not difficult to keep her safe inside me. That's the job of the mother. You should try.'

‘Yes. Maybe one day.'

‘One day, if it doesn't go all the shape of a pear.'

‘Pardon?' Rosie asks.

Iva clatters around clearing up. ‘Nothing. You be careful. This family …' Iva makes a spiral with her index finger next to her forehead, indicating that they are crazy.

Rosie laughs, ‘I'm here for the boys, that's my concern.'

‘Yes, good. That is right. Goodnight.' Iva purposely turns the lights off, save one that's over the cooker, and always left on overnight.

Rosie is still finishing her soup, and sits alone and quiet in the strange night light, feeling distinctly like someone's just taken a nosey peek inside her.

Meanwhile, in their bathroom, naked Thomas is brushing his teeth and looking directly into his own eyes in the mirror. He is checking to see if any guilt is discernible. He doesn't think it is. Why? It hasn't happened that often, but it
has
happened. Could it simply be that he doesn't actually feel guilty at all? Maybe, he thinks, a person is entitled to no regret and no shame if what they have done feels so … right? He's not going to strangle the joy with guilt. Especially not when he doesn't even feel one single tiny tug of it.

What he
would
feel guilty about is hurting Glenn, because she hurts so much already, she's fragile somewhere inside that brittle front. So. No. He won't be visiting these questions again. Besides which, how can he feel a jot of sadness looking at THIS in the mirror? He smiles to himself, finishes cleaning his teeth and struts back into the bedroom.

Glenn is sitting on the bed, turned away, as usual, putting this and that safely into her bedside drawer.

Thomas stands boldly, nakedly, on the opposite side of the bed, hands on hips. ‘I'm getting fatter,' he says, flagrantly slapping his belly.

Glenn glances behind her, ‘You seem just fine to me.'

Thomas looks down at his bright green pubes, ‘Happy St Patrick's Day, honey!'

‘Yes dear,' she replies. ‘Happy St Patrick's Day.' She begins moisturizing her hands. Thomas hums ‘Fly me to the moon' as he pulls on his pyjama bottoms, tucking his secret away.

It's an ordinary weekday, and Rosie is in the twins' bedroom corralling them to get dressed, to get their school gear ready, and to get to breakfast. She is herself still dressing, throwing on a bright red cardigan over a blue polka-dot dress and scooping her unruly hair up into a huge messy high ponytail. She is right next to their iPod, and with her finger poised above the play button, she says, ‘OK, gentlemen, here we go. If you aren't standing to attention by that door, completely washed, dressed and ready for school action by the end of this song, there will, repeat WILL be serious consequences which involve extreme pain. Yes, I hereby declare I am threatening you with physical violence, intent to harm, call it what you will, it will hurt. Do you understand?!'

‘Yes, Rosie.'

‘We understand.'

‘Right,' she continues, ‘here goes.'

She presses the button, and very loudly, Pharrell Williams'
‘Happy' blares out. You have to be dead to resist dancing and singing along to this song, so of course they bop away as they clear up their room, pick up their books and get their school uniforms on, lip-synching all the while. On the very last beat, they jump into position near the door. Phew.

‘Good, I don't have to injure you after all. By the right, quick march, follow me …' Rosie stomps out of the door towards breakfast. She leaves the boys' bedroom door open, their den door is also open, her door to her set of rooms is open, and as they pass Thomas's office, his door is
also
open. She glances in. He is dressed for work. As he sees her, he grins and steps out from behind his desk. He is wearing pink Hawaiian shorts. Rosie smiles and carries on marching to the breakfast room, leaving a trail of light from the open doors flooding the dark corridors behind her.

Five minutes later, Glenn's face is wearing its most distasteful expression Rosie has thus far seen. Her eyes bore their disapproval into Thomas as he turns from the sideboard where he is loading his plate up with bacon. For a tiny second he could be embarrassed, but then he knocks his knees together in a funny little dance for her and winks. He hopes this will thaw her. It doesn't.

When the derisory comment eventually comes, it is from Kemble. ‘Pop, only a fag wears pink shorts.'

Rosie flinches at this. ‘Wooo. Massively un-pc there!'

Teddy, who is home to visit again for a few days, agrees. ‘It's not OK to say that, Dad, the little guys …'

Kemble perseveres. ‘Oh sorry … Queer then?'

‘Really?' Teddy questions him. He says to his grandfather, ‘I personally think you look edgy, Granpop.'

‘I'm hoping this is for some kind of sponsored charity event?' Glenn remarks.

Thomas grins at her, giving her every indication that she couldn't be more wrong. He's doing this because he wants to, ‘Nope. Got an important board meeting.'

Kemble says, ‘OK, he's full on senile. Fact.'

Rosie has remained quiet, watching the scene with interest, and trying to keep the twins distracted from the casual homophobia that is being bandied around. She gets up to help herself to coffee. Thomas holds the cup out for her and, as he gives it to her, brushes her hand. For the briefest of seconds she catches his eye. A tiny thrilling fleeting moment, which Rosie reacts to in the carnal pit of her stomach. And then just as quick, it's gone.

Iva bundles in with a huge parcel. ‘The porter just deliver this. Is for you, Mr W. B.,' and she hands over the large cumbersome package.

‘Ah,' says Thomas. ‘Thank you Iva. I know exactly what this is. My latest eBay triumph.'

‘Wow!' says Three.

‘What is it, Granpop?!' says Red.

‘You'll see boys, you'll see. All in good time.'

Glenn watches all this unnecessary excitement, a General losing control of her army.

Glenn is irritated. Not only are the doors open all over the place in the apartment, and increasingly so, it would seem, allowing pesky light in, everywhere. But now there are two further abominations. The first is air. There is a distinct breeze blowing fresh air right through, which is another reason to keep the wretched doors shut. Never mind the windows, which also ought to be closed. Why are they open? Who has opened them? She knows full well of course, but she is rehearsing her outrage.

The second horror is … leaves. Bringing with them a third aberration, which is dirt. The leaves are on the hallway floor, and she follows them like a Hansel and Gretel trail, til they lead her to the open service door at the back of the kitchen. Clearly, the twins and that woman are ferrying plants through the apartment and up the back stairs to the roof. This is precisely what Glenn predicted. Utter chaos. Easily five or six leaves cluttering up her space.
Well, mainly the boys' space. Well, mainly the back steps where she never ventures. Nevertheless, it's utterly unconscionable. Words will be had. Firm words. Making sure everybody concerned understands who the damn boss is here.

As she retraces the trail of leaves, picking them up one by one, another annoying thing occurs. She hears the faint sound of an electric guitar. Where is it coming from? Is it Teddy? As she walks towards the direction of the sound, she realizes it's coming from Thomas's office. Oh Lord, she thinks, now I have a husband who is retreating into adolescence. Nothing in Glenn wants to go in and share in his excitement about his new acquisition. Everything in her wants to flee, there's just too much light and air and music here.

She can't leave though, because her friend Betty is due to come for coffee. Betty is Sharpe's widow, and since Glenn didn't go to the funeral, this is the first opportunity she's had to offer her condolences. It's the right and proper thing to do, so Glenn can't escape it. It's a duty, and Glenn is big on that. She tuts and walks away wondering why on earth she has to deal with so much chaos. It's so very tiresome.

Up on the roof, surrounded by masses of light and air and chaos, Red, Three and Teddy sit side by side on deck chairs. There is quite a lot of garden mess in one corner, and all three
are wearing wellies. As is Rosie, who is parading up and down behind them. Their eyes are firmly shut, and they are laughing at her. She is pretending to be an old fashioned German therapist, ‘Imageen ze garden. Feeeel ze garden. Vot do you see in it? Answer zis now, boy,' she pats Three on the head.

He answers hopefully, ‘A swing?'

Red joins in, ‘A little house?'

Now Teddy seizes his opportunity, ‘I say “cocktail bar”, I say “hot tub”, I say “two person hammock”. Call me horny.'

‘Hmm,' says Rosie. ‘I'd rather call you hopeful or even possibly deluded?' He laughs easily at her teasing. She is well intentioned and he knows that it's impossible to take offence at anything she says.

Red is still wracking his brain, ‘Any chance of a kinda water gully log-flume?'

‘Yeah,' Three pipes up, ‘or like, a huge fountain?'

‘I still say hot tub, y'know, for all our babes to sit in,' Teddy tries again.

‘Babes, eh?' Rosie asks. Teddy doesn't open his eyes, but he grins and flicks his hair in mock confidence.

Later on, Teddy wanders in to the kitchen, and while Iva is busying herself washing up, he drifts from fridge to larder to cupboard, taking out all the ingredients to make himself a
super duper Scooby-Doo snack sandwich. He gets out pastrami and tomatoes and gherkins and Swiss cheese and rye bread and butter.

As he is constructing his giant treat, Thomas ambles in. Neither speaks, they don't need to. Thomas is humming ‘Fever' in the style of Peggy Lee as he weighs up what Teddy is doing. He goes foraging in the cupboards and fridge himself, to see if he fancies anything. Quite a bit of time is spent with his hands in his pockets just eyeing up possible ingredients. Eventually, he commits to lettuce, cooked bacon slices, and some Monterey Jack cheese. He brings his armful of bounty over to the worktop where Teddy is building his sandwich, and slowly but surely, Thomas starts his own stacking, stealing some of Teddy's booty and adding his own. Before too long, an unspoken sandwich war is subtly declared. Thomas is grinning, so Teddy says, ‘You seem happy,' to which Thomas winks,

‘Life is looking up, kiddo.'

Teddy finds himself suddenly and inexplicably jealous of his grandfather, and for some reason he knows he must make a bigger, better sandwich than Thomas. He revisits the larder and gradually starts slapping on the layers, pickles, white bread for stability, onions to chop into raw rings, and mustard. Thomas retaliates with crabsticks and mayo, Teddy adds a slice of meatloaf, Thomas smears peanut butter onto the underside of his last edge of bread to form the top of his sandwich. Teddy copies, then goes to the fridge and gets the
ice-cream. He defiantly scoops two dollops on top of the meatloaf, adds the peanut-buttered outer slice, then gets a Morello cherry and skewers it into the very top with a toothpick. At which point Thomas respectfully shakes his grandson's hand whilst simultaneously watching his own entire stack collapse and fall. Teddy lifts his up triumphantly, and takes a huge bite.

‘Awesome,' concedes Thomas.

‘Make way for youth, ol' timer. Mind you, I was taught by a Grand Master.'

The Grand Master is picking at his fallen sandwich. True to form, after all the back-slapping, they both exit the kitchen and leave the mess for Iva to clear up.

Glenn sits in her impressive drawing room with Betty. This room is Glenn's favourite in the whole apartment, mainly because it is hardly ever used, so it remains in pristine condition at all times. Fifteen years ago Glenn used the services of an interior designer, the same woman who had done the refurb at The Colony Club. What Glenn really wanted was the club inside her own apartment and so, here it is, on a slightly smaller scale. The colour palette is peach and cream. There is one large peach-coloured velvet sofa and several armchairs and low Georgian chairs upholstered in paisley and tartans of peach and cream. Another Persian carpet adorns the floor and
a huge glass coffee table impressively displays all the right art and travel books. As in the library, acres of expensive fabric drape and adorn the windows in huge swathes, reducing the rare and lovely light. There is a chandelier of clear glass and plenty of large side-lights on tables with cream shades. Over the never-used fireplace there is a massive ornate French mirror and plenty of tasteful, palatable art on the walls, mostly of landscapes and vases of flowers. Glenn rejected the designer's attempt to ‘jazz up' the colour scheme with the odd crazy maroon cushion or even the one astonishing attempt to introduce leopard skin. What the designer didn't know about Glenn is that although, yes indeed, she is seventy-eight now, in all things domestic she prefers to be a hundred and twenty, thank you.

So here she sits with Betty, whom she has known for fifty years or more. From the moment Betty arrived, it was clear that she was in no state of mind for a round of cards, which is what Glenn had hoped would happen. It's easier to talk about difficult stuff when there's a distraction. Instead, Betty wants comfort and warmth from her old friend. She wants to tell Glenn over and over again about what happened during Sharpe's illness and subsequent demise. She wants to alleviate the unbearable grief she feels by doling out some of the heaviness. She wants to feel lighter. This is what she has been doing for weeks with her nearest and dearest, and in small ways, it is working. Each time she shares her story about the
death of her beloved man, her life partner, the other half of her soul, she hears herself and accepts more, that he is truly gone. But simultaneously she feels connected to him in those moments too, which she relishes, so for lots of reasons, it's important that Betty goes through this pain with those she trusts. Glenn is one of those people. Sadly for Betty, something she has never fully realized about Glenn is that really, Glenn herself, is already dead.

Betty is weeping quietly into a handkerchief as she sits next to Glenn on the sofa.

‘My daughter gave me a copy of C. S Lewis' essay, ‘A Grief Observed', have you ever come across it? It's remarkable Glennie, it begins with the words, ‘No-one ever told me that grief felt so like fear …' and that's the truth, I feel afraid … of what?'

If only Glenn could answer, but Glenn realizes she has no reference point from which to empathize. She knows that there are customary hoops she ought to be jumping through right now, she should be hugging Betty or holding her hand or saying ‘There, there' and ‘it will be alright' or ‘he's at peace now' or anything consolatory like that. She knows the script, she knows the stage directions, but she is sitting next to Betty, paralysed with the creeping realization that she doesn't genuinely feel anything.

This is a common occurrence for Glenn, but it seems particularly stark right now, here, in her own drawing room where
just the two of them are. Maybe if someone else was leading the charge of the solace brigade, she would be able to fall in behind, and sound authentic, but this one to one is unbearably awkward. If Glenn is honest with herself, and she is, what she genuinely thinks at this moment is that Betty is full of self-pity. Glenn knows enough about manners to realize that this would be the wrong thing to name, it would be insensitive and would only lead to trouble, but that's her truth. For Glenn, self-pity isn't an option. Not only would it be pathetic and weak in her opinion, but in order to pity yourself, you must surely have a self. That's a problem for her. The only self Glenn has concerned her time with for sixty-odd years, is the one who must appear to be tippety top in every way. Little vexations like Kemble's divorce are a possible threat to the status quo, but Glenn is adept enough to ride those storms whilst still maintaining a fixed veneer of calm and restraint.

This Betty situation though, is a challenge. A woman physically leaking from the nose, shaking and sobbing, is the last thing Glenn wants. How very unseemly she finds all this emotion. She decides to recite some of the requisite script.

‘There, there dear,' she says as she pats Betty's hand.

‘I miss him, Glennie. I just miss him so much.'

How sentimental, Glenn thinks, and wonders how long this is likely to last before she can justifiably put Betty in a town car home?