‘Which son is this?’ Gabriel picked up the photograph of my youngest leaning back on the old sofa, guitar in his hands.
‘That’s Ben. He’s really good.’ I laughed self-consciously. ‘But then I’m his mother–’
Gabriel nodded. ‘He should come down to the Fox next time he’s here – they have an open mic night. Tell him there’s a Facebook page.’
‘Do you play?’
‘A bit – nothing special. I like to listen, though. So, what do you think of your neighbour Jinni, then?’
‘I admire her. She’s a bit barmy but …’ I clapped my hand to my mouth. ‘Don’t write that down! I mean she’s eccentric in a good way – creative … No, don’t say that either …’
Gabriel put his notebook down. ‘No, of course I won’t. We’re just chatting now. I know she’s crazy.’ Gabriel laughed. ‘I’ve spent quite a lot of time over there. I can’t print most of what she says. Malcolm’s always shouting at me to look up the laws of libel. Are you happy to have your photo taken?’
I pulled a face. ‘Oh no – I don’t think so. And I don’t really want my full name …’
Gabriel nodded. ‘Okay, we’ll just put Tess, and do you mind very much if I ask your age? Malcolm always wants to include it – you know, Tess, 38, said …’
I laughed. ‘I wish. My eldest is 24 – I didn’t get started that early! I was 23.’
‘Early enough!’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m 24 this year too. And I can’t imagine having children right now …’
At 24, I had two of them. And was married with a mortgage. I struggled to picture my offspring in the same position. Oliver was the most grown-up – he and Sam were looking for a flat together right now – but Tilly lived hand to mouth and Ben …
‘I’ll email you the details,’ Gabriel was saying, ‘or come down to the office and I’ll give you a leaflet. It would be great to see some new guys there …’
‘Sorry?’
‘The open mic night. The next one’s the Tuesday after Easter. You said Ben would be home then?’ Gabriel was still smiling despite it being evident I hadn’t been listening. ‘Come into the office anyway. Have a coffee. I’m sure Malcolm would be pleased to see you again.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you can tell him what a great interview we had. He isn’t hugely impressed with my abilities right now,’ he added ruefully. ‘Told me I was useless this morning.’
‘Really? Why?’
Gabriel pulled a face. ‘I should have been here earlier. In his day there were proper journalists not – I quote – kids with their useless media studies degrees his dyslexic granny could have earned!’ He shrugged. ‘I did go to see Jinni on Saturday.’
‘She said you were being very helpful about getting the glass fixed,’ I said. ‘She was ever so grateful.’ I smiled and patted his arm.
Gabriel looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, it was nothing.’
‘It was bloody marvellous!’ yelled Jinni, who had bolted over the road as soon as she’d spotted Gabriel coming out of my front door. She threw an arm around his shoulders. ‘Your friend Sean has been and the window’s all done. And guess who was passing as I said goodbye. I swear she stopped and smirked. Soon scuttled off when I gave her the finger, though.’ Jinni wagged one at Gabriel now. ‘You should put that in your article – the fact that she walks past my house all hours of the bloody day.’ Jinni threw her hair back over her shoulder and snorted.
‘I think my editor would say it’s a free country and it doesn’t prove anything,’ said Gabriel apologetically.
‘Bollocks,’ said Jinni. ‘Ingrid is obsessed with me, isn’t she, Tess? You said yourself she’s always going on about me – putting leaflets through your door.’
‘She did put one through, yes,’ I said awkwardly, feeling Gabriel’s eyes on me.
‘See! It’s her or some loser she’s whipped up into a frenzy!’ Jinni was triumphant. ‘Or the wanker son. He can’t stand me either. And the feeling is mutual, let me tell you.’
She threw her hair even more vigorously over the opposite shoulder and gave a dramatic sweep of her arm. ‘Still, what do I care? I’ve got a new window for nothing and when she sees her name in the paper she’ll think twice about doing that again. You know how she likes to think of herself as a leading figure in the community for all her bloody agitating–’
‘We won’t be able to name her,’ Gabriel interrupted. ‘That would be defamatory.’
‘Be bloody hysterical!’ Jinni gave one of her great honks of laughter. ‘Anyway, my darling boy,’ she boomed, flinging an arm around his shoulders once more. ‘I can’t WAIT to see what you HAVE written …’
The clock showed 4.07 a.m. when I decided I really could. I woke from a disturbing dream that involved Ingrid and a stunted, maniacally-faced son, who were both living in a tent in my garden. Gabriel and Jinni had sauntered in, arm in arm, and told me Tilly had been arrested for libel and had given the police my address …
As I hastily pushed on the bedside light, anxiety gripped at my solar plexus. My mother had phoned at 1 a.m. convinced there was something wrong with her Sky box and asking me to talk her through which buttons to press to re-set it. I’d eventually persuaded her that we could deal with this much better by daylight and had fallen back into a fitful sleep dogged by fresh worries about my parent’s strange little preoccupations and what they might herald for the future.
Last time it had been the tuner on her kitchen radio she said had packed up, although Mo had reported nothing wrong with it when I’d called back to try to help.
I was reminded of the mother I’d read about on one of the online forums, who had to go into a home when she kept turning the gas hob on and failing to ignite it.
All my usual middle-of-the-night agitations – and a few new ones – pressed in on me, squeezing my chest till it thumped. My mother, work, the unanswered emails, the half-painted walls and running repairs and –
Oh God – what had Gabriel written? I remembered my use of the word ‘paranoid’, my simpering about wanting everyone to be my friend, my protestations about using the shops …
Jinni – only my second friend here – would be furious I hadn’t backed her to the hilt. Everyone else in the town would give me a wide berth because I was clearly so needy and the owner of the corner shop would testify I only ever spent a tenner at a time and he’d seen me driving to Waitrose.
Gabriel might have written that I was complaining about Ingrid too, so then I’d get my windows smashed as well. In any event, I’d look like a complete prune and when my children came for Easter they’d be ashamed I’d given birth to them.
I lay listening to the Shipping Forecast, regretting the weak moment in which I’d agreed to forward Gabriel a small head-and-shoulders photo Ben had taken last Christmas. And trying to comfort myself with the fact that Tilly said it looked nothing like me, and ignoring that she’d added I looked as if I’d been admitted to Broadmoor. (I was carrying a tray of roast potatoes at the time and there was a hole in the oven glove.) Barely anybody knew me here anyway, I reasoned, and they’d hardly recognise me with that manic expression. (Would they?)
By six I’d come out in a light sweat. The paper wasn’t out until tomorrow, so if I emailed Gabriel now he could probably make some minor adjustments. He was a nice boy – he wouldn’t want me to worry.
I got out of bed, put on my dressing