Jen
‘Did you see the interview?’ I ask Mum as I pour a layer of béchamel sauce over lasagne sheets.
‘Ruth didn’t look at all well. Her eyes were sunken and I bet her fingers have been chewed to the quick beneath those false nails.’
I pull a face, which fortunately Mum can’t see because she’s on speakerphone. ‘Ruth’s fine,’ I say. ‘If she looks tired, it’s because we’ve been working so hard on the relaunch. I thought she came across really well, and we got the message across that we needed.’
‘It’s a good cause, we all know that, but was it wise to name Lewis?’
‘She didn’t name him.’
‘As good as,’ Mum says, filling my heart with dread. If she thinks that, so will everyone else.
In the hours since the interview I’ve tried to remain positive but there’s no running away from the fact that Ruth has taken a huge risk. She’s made the first strike, and if I know anything about Lewis, it’s that he will hit back.
‘I can understand why she’s so determined to blame him,’ Mum continues. ‘It’s got to be better than facing the truth.’
‘Oh, and what exactly is the truth?’
I hear her sigh. ‘She blames herself, like any mother would. And I know she’d love to go back and do things differently but that’s never going to happen, is it?’
‘And what would you do differently?’ I ask through gritted teeth. If my mother wants to start apportioning blame, a chat about the role she played is long overdue.
‘I loved Meg, you know I did,’ she says firmly, ‘but it’s time to stop dwelling in the past. That video montage they showed – poor Meg, all smiles and full of life – it broke my heart. Goodness knows what it did to Ruth and Geoff.’
It broke my heart too, I want to tell her. But I shouldn’t have to. ‘Ruth wanted to share it, Mum,’ I continue. ‘It was her idea. The helpline wouldn’t exist without Meg and that’s how she keeps her memory alive.’
‘That, and having you around,’ Mum mutters, edging closer to the subject neither of us dare raise.
I’m the youngest of Mum’s brood and it’s fair to say that the novelty had worn off when she got to daughter number four. I gravitated to Meg because we were the same age and, well, because she was Meg. It wasn’t because my aunt and uncle had the posh house and the spare room I could have to myself whenever I stayed over, although Mum always insisted that was the draw. I loved being somewhere where I wasn’t lost in the melee of family life, and there were times when I wished Ruth had been my mum. Occasionally, I still do.
As I drop globs of bolognese sauce into the oven dish, it splatters across my white cotton shirt. I want to swear but I don’t. ‘Ruth and I share a passion for what we do,’ I explain. ‘Look at what we’ve achieved, Mum. There’s a lot we can be proud of.’
‘Of course there is,’ Mum says in a placating tone that riles me. ‘Your father and I are proud of you, as we are of all our daughters.’
‘Where is Dad?’ I ask, to steer her away from what I know is coming next. My sisters are her favourite topic of conversation.
‘He’s still watching the news. He says hi.’
I doubt Dad has peeled his eyes from the TV screen. Having brought up four daughters in a compact terraced house, he learnt long ago to tune out of the conversations going on around him.
‘Have you heard Hayley’s news?’ Mum continues. ‘She’s only been back from maternity leave two months and they’ve promoted her already.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
Mum hears the sharpness of my reply. ‘You’ll get there too, Jennifer. You have as much potential as your sisters and you’re still young-ish.’ There’s a telling pause before she adds, ‘Although I was looking at how long it takes to become a certified counsellor. You really should start training sooner rather than later.’
I regret ever mentioning my musings to Mum, but I’d been in the middle of planning the relaunch and Ruth had me all enthused about how the foundation might actually expand its services beyond the helpline, despite Geoff’s calls for caution. But Mum’s right. It will take years to become qualified and there would be sacrifices I’d have to make along the way.
I glance across the open plan apartment, with its polished timber floor and gleaming surfaces. There are no sticky finger marks on the glass dining table, no Lego bricks gathering dust beneath the pale grey sofa, and the corner desk has no teetering tower of files brought home from a demanding job. I’m unlike any of my sisters.
It’s as if Mum is looking over my shoulder when she adds, ‘And it’s not the only thing you need to start planning.’
I don’t know why I bothered answering the phone when I saw Mum’s name appear. On a day when I’m desperate for a hug, my mother puts me in a stranglehold. Can’t she see that I’m happy as I am?
‘It’s ten years since – you know,’ Mum continues. ‘It’s time to move on and start building a life for yourself.’
As Mum’s voice drones on from the speakerphone, I carry the lasagne to the oven. The dish makes a clatter as I drop it onto a baking shelf and I don’t hear the front door opening. When I straighten up, Charlie catches me pulling faces at the phone.
‘You’re twenty-eight years old, Jennifer,’ Mum continues, having given up pretending I’m still young-ish. ‘You need to think about settling down properly, and Charlie’s business is doing well. Isn’t it time he popped the question?’
Charlie’s eyebrows lift as his mouth pulls into a smirk. Mum would have a fit if she knew that in almost eight years of living together, Charlie has asked me to marry him a total of five times and my answer has always been the same – what we have works.
‘I’m waiting for Jen to ask me, Eve,’ Charlie calls out.
There’s a long pause and I can’t tell if Mum has been struck dumb because she’s realised Charlie was listening, or she’s simply horrified at the idea that one of her daughters should have to do the asking.
‘Don’t worry about us, Mum,’ I say to break the silence. ‘We’re happy enough as we are. Shouldn’t that be what matters?’
‘I’m only looking out for you— for both of you,’ she adds. ‘You don’t have to settle for happy enough. That’s all I’m saying.’
This time when I pull a face, Charlie does too and we have to stifle our giggles as we say our goodbyes to Mum and I cut the call.
‘That’s never all Mum was saying,’ I mutter.
‘It’s your fault for not fitting into her standardised daughter mould.’
‘And she won’t stop until she’s hammered me into place.’
‘I like a woman who knows her own mind,’ Charlie says before adding quickly, ‘You do know I’m talking about you, right? Not your mum?’
‘I know,’ I reply although I’m not sure I do know my own mind. My refusal to conform could be because Meg passed on her rebellious streak to me as a parting gift, but I suspect what she actually left me with was fear – fear of opening new doors when the one behind was torn off its hinges and will never close. I doubt I could look to the future at all without Charlie. He knows what we left behind. He was there too. ‘Thank you for saving me from my mother’s designs.’
‘As