Low Expectations (17 page)

‘Thank Marks & Spencer, dear, I decided to forgo the stress and disappointment of another burnt turkey.'

More of a takeaway queen than a gourmet chef, she left the plastic packet of giblets in last year, resulting in an extremely peculiar-smelling and overcooked beast. I ate it nonetheless, with the addition of lots of cranberry sauce, alone in front of
Doctor Who
while she cried in the toilet for a good two hours. If I've learnt anything from growing up with dodgy cooking,
it's that a hefty dollop of a store-bought condiment can save almost any dish from being consigned to the bin. Except for the time when she tried to flash-fry beef that should have been stewed for two to three hours, which was rather like I'd imagine chewing a pleather handbag to be.

‘Good old M&S ready meals, the taste of my childhood. When are Dad and Vitoria coming round? Can I have a coffee? Thanks.'

‘You know what I tried the other day, darling? Green tea and vodka with a splash of jasmine liqueur. It was wonderful.' Mum turns around with two steaming mugs and sits with me on the old shabby-chic desk which functions as the dining room table. Wearing a draped jumper with smart dark jeans, an enormous strand of pearls, kittenish black eyeliner and orange French Sole ballet pumps, she looks chic and girlish, somehow less severe than usual.

‘Mum, are you a mixologist now? What happened to the
Divorced Lady Solves Your Marital Woes
or whatever you were going to write?'

‘Oh, that's still in the works, darling. I've got so many years of material in my head begging to get out, so many experiences to share, but you know, it is hard to find the time to actually put pen to paper. You see, if I could afford a secretary or an assistant it would move along much more quickly but at the moment I have to admit that I've just got the title page and a brief outline.'

She grins wickedly, leaving me to wonder if she hasn't already had a few nips at the cooking sherry. It's 11 a.m., but I wouldn't put it past her. Nor would I blame her, faced with a family Christmas with the ex and her replacement; in Mum's place, I'd have lightly tranquillized myself. Still, I do wonder when all the ‘I hate your father' awkwardness will end. Two years from now, five, ten? It's not as if the divorce is recent, although I suppose after more than a quarter of a century together even six years can seem an impossibly short time to move on. Some people never put aside their resentments or desire happiness for their former partner.

‘I think it's probably best to have at least the outline of a product before you start hiring an assistant, don't you think? Unless it's some young stud, in which case go for it, he might prove indispensable in other ways! Speaking of which, when are you going to start dating again?' I ask.

I have always been curious about why she has never tried to find someone else to share her life with; as she often declares, she is far better looking than the majority of women her age and she tells me every six months about a fresh batch of divorcés in her social circle. Apparently the propositions from ‘happily married men' came on thick and fast when she and Dad separated, but she has very strong feelings about stealing another woman's man, even if he is the one offering to be stolen.

‘Oh darling, it's not as simple as all that. Your father, much
as I am rude about him … I realize I am far more honest with you about my feelings than perhaps I should be, and for that I apologize. But despite the fact that I call him a faithless prick and so on, he was my faithless prick and he was the love of my life. For some reason, I always thought he would be faithful, or that if he did slip up, he'd be rather Continental about it. He might cheat on me, but he would never leave. I should have married an Italian,' Mum sighs, ‘like dear Raffaello. He was madly in love with me. He was a total philanderer and slept with my best friend, so I got into a bit of a huff and ended it. But it was the seventies, and I'm quite certain that if I'd chosen him he would have kept married life separate from whomever else he had on the side. Catholics are good at that sort of thing.'

‘Mum, this Raffaello guy sounds dreadful, I don't understand why you mention him wistfully every time you talk about Dad leaving.' Finishing my coffee, I stand up to put the kettle back on for round two and try to keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘This was decades ago, do you even remember what he was like? He's now probably some balding man with a mahogany tan and giant belly overhanging his Speedos, hitting on teenagers in Capri.'

‘No, Raffaello was far too vain to ever get fat. He might well have hair plugs, I grant you that. He was a bit of a con artist, so I imagine he is either very successful or in jail. Still, I was
fond of him. Every man who hurts you stays with you, my dear. It's the good ones you forget, unfortunately. I've never quite understood why, but there you are. At any rate, are you prepared for some good news? Vitoria isn't coming.'

I turn around to stare suspiciously at Mum, who looks quite gleeful. I'm shocked she didn't blurt this out the minute I came through the door; she loves nothing more than good gossip.

‘Oh really? Did you scare her away? I thought that last dinner we had actually went fairly well, considering. Did you say something horrible to her when you were at the doctor's?'

‘No! Well, nothing out of the ordinary. I'm never
that
rude to her and when I am she just stares back at me with the blank eyes of a cow. Either her English is still rudimentary or she really is a stupid little thing. I don't know the details; your father said that she's gone back to Brazil to see her parents for the week. He'll be arriving soon, so it's just us three. I've bought a Scrabble board in case we run out of safe topics to discuss. I know he is not in any immediate trouble with his health – Doctor Chase gave him a full check-up – but these things do make you realize that perhaps you could be more fair about the twists life has taken.' Mum sips her tea, looking thoughtfully into the distance. ‘After all, being married to me can hardly have been a piece of piss, could it?'

‘Mum! Are you drunk?' I can't help but goggle at her. She is not best known for admitting to her faults without
some secret underhand motive that becomes apparent only months later, which of course may still be the case here.

‘Darling! It may be Christmas Day but there is nothing so depressing as a champagne breakfast alone. I'll have an aperitif in an hour or two like all reasonable people.'

I say nothing, wondering how long she will be able to contain herself.

‘So, do you think there is trouble in paradise? Or do you think she actually is just going back to see her parents now that your father is out of trouble?'

I make that a four-second pause. Not bad!

‘God, Mum, I have no idea. I hardly know the girl, do I? I mean, we did a few shopping trips together but it was generally just painful small talk. She's nice and everything but I don't think we ever really progressed beyond the weather.'

Obviously, I wasn't best pleased with Vitoria initially and was furious with my dad. However, when a parent chooses a different life partner, even in unsavoury circumstances, it's better for all concerned to try to swallow your grudges and get on with things for the sake of an easy life (something I relentlessly pursue). While I never welcomed her, I did try to find some common ground between us and, considering the minimal differences in our ages, it should have been relatively easy. I have always been of the opinion that if a man cheats the fault lies squarely with him and not the other woman, but my general ambivalence towards her would be
suddenly upended by a rush of disgust whenever she would try to have a girly chat about their relationship.

As for Dad, well, my previous estimation of his character crumbled. However much I try to appreciate the many finer elements of his personality, my overriding sense now is that he is just weak. Having held him on a pedestal as a child, now my greatest, unspoken fear is that if he could not be faithful, no man can. If he had gathered the courage to end his marriage before beginning another, I imagine this might be different. This mistrustfulness has carried over into my personal life ever since, no matter how hard I try to remember that my parents are just people – bumbling along, fucking up and eventually dying just like everybody else.

‘Well, I'm sure it's probably nothing, but it is rather sudden, don't you think?' Mum is rabbiting on and my mind drifts back into the conversation. ‘What kind of girlfriend jumps ship so soon after such a stressful time? I mean, I know it was just a spot, but your poor father was terribly worried. Oh, there goes the bell; he's here early. Act surprised she's not here.'

Mum presumably wants to seem above such petty concerns as Vitoria's presence or absence. This tactic will reveal itself to be a transparent lie the moment she gets a bit drunk and starts making snide remarks. But, no matter. A woman's got to keep some semblance of pride.

‘Daddy! Merry Christmas!' I cry animatedly, getting out
of my chair with my arms wide as Dad comes into the small kitchen still wearing his coat and loaded down with carrier bags. One benefit of having a cheating father: expensive gifts chosen by a young piece with far better taste than his own.

‘Georgie, my darling! You look well, look at those cherub cheeks!' Dad sets his parcels on the table and swoops me into a bear hug.

‘Oh, God, chipmunk cheeks more like. I've been mainlining carbs like they're going out of style. If I weighed myself I'd probably die of a heart attack.'

Leading up to the Christmas hols, I had my nose well and truly to the grindstone at university, with most of my spare time spent working at the Newt. So, with my week off I have done little but sleep and catch up with friends in a revolving series of pubs, clubs, bars, cafés, restaurants and markets. All my preferred social activities are foody boozefests. It's surprising to what degree you can inflate in the space of eight days.

‘Well, I think it charming you still have a bit of baby fat.' Bless Dad.

Mum scoffs loudly.

‘She's far too old for it to be baby fat. It's bloat. This time of year you can have wine or pudding but never both. Don't say I didn't warn you.'

‘I don't care,' I say, thinking that I could probably get away
with wine and pudding if it wasn't also for the spiced cider, winter Pimms, chocolate-covered nuts and cheese plates. I change the subject. ‘You're looking way better, Dad! Have you lost weight?'

‘I've been working out and paying attention to what I'm eating, I've lost half a stone this week. Vitoria being away has made it easier, without all those cakes she's always baking. She never eats them so I end up scarfing the lot.'

‘Half a stone in a week? Why is it that men seem to shed weight as easily as they do their ex-wives? It's so unfair,' Mum says. Dad eyes her warily but she laughs. ‘Oh come on, Edward, it was a joke. All in fun and all that!'

‘I wouldn't say shedding you was easy, Polly,' Dad says solemnly. ‘Quite the opposite in fact.'

There is an awkward pause, as Mum and I look at each other, unsure if his tone is regretful or accusing, before she busies herself tidying away his things and putting the kettle on again.

‘So, where's Vitoria at then?' I ask innocently.

‘She's gone back to Brazil for a while. It was all a bit much for her recently, she hates hospitals and the whole health situation was difficult. She hasn't been back home for months and hasn't spent a Christmas at home in years so we both decided it would be a good time for her to go.'

‘Will she be gone a few weeks, then?'

‘I expect so,' Dad says evasively. ‘But tell me your news.
How is university? Are you still with that ratty rocker boy you were dating?'

‘Oh God, can we not talk about that or boys, I'm sick of them both—'

‘Come on Georgie; buck up! I see you once a month at most and you never want to share the details of your life. Which I fund for the most part, let me remind you.' Dad is doing his kind/stern/reasonable thing that I am never quite petulant enough to stand up to.

‘Fine. It's all fine. I had my Final Design Selection tutorial with my tutor Zelda, she likes my range plan and we've chosen what to take through for the final show. I've been working pretty dementedly but it's going well with the boy, too. I think. I like him.'

Is it going well? Do I really like him? I've been so busy the last month that though I've been seeing Beardy and he's grown to be a part of my life, I haven't given the relationship my usual neurotic attention. He's more like a comforting routine.

‘He isn't quite a boy, is he darling? Didn't you say he was in his thirties? In my generation that would be considered to be a grown man.'

‘Yes, Mum, he is nearly thirty. But he still acts like a boy. He's a man-child, but so is everyone these days.'

This is probably not true, but I do meet a far larger preponderance of men well past their late twenties who spend
all of their spare cash on Nike trainers, beer and Wii games than those saving it towards a mortgage or kids. Maybe these men do exist and they just go straight from work back to their live-in girlfriends to make low-fat curry from scratch, curl up on the couch and have a half-suffocating, half-comforting argument over what series to watch.

Not being ready for such domesticity yet, I content myself with navigating the confusing limbo between coupled-up and penis pals, trying not to get dickmatized in the process. I find myself hoping that what some people (Sarah) might interpret as the crumbs of affection Beardy flicks me, are mistaken; that they are in fact seeds of affection. Seeds are a point of growth; crumbs decompose. I make him sound awful; it's often more than just crumbs. Seeds!

Amazing how with one parental question a month's worth of anxious self-scrutiny can shoot out from whatever jack-in-the-box it has been repressed into.