Clearing the breakfast pots would have been a start.
She looks around too. Her gaze is unreadable. She might be thinking we’re charming, or she might be thinking we’re revolting. ‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asks with convincing gusto.
‘Oh no,’ I reply automatically, although why? When another pair of hands would obviously be useful. Instead I find myself saying, ‘Ben, why don’t you show Abi our holiday photos from last summer?’ Turning to Abi I add, ‘We visited the Edinburgh Fringe.’ Ben looks startled.
‘Are you interested?’ he asks Abi with some scepticism. ‘It’s a bit throwback. People haven’t actually thought it was entertaining to show others their holiday snaps since circa 1979, have they?’
‘Yes, yes, she is interested,’ I insist.
Abi backs me up. ‘I love the way Mel still goes to the effort of printing photos and putting them in albums. With the tickets of the places you visited, and maps and such. Works of art, really. History in the making. Who does that?’
‘Who indeed?’ says Ben, mildly amused. He thinks my photo albums are a bit of a waste of space and money and prefers keeping things digitally, but he indulges me. He has even promised that if there is a fire or flood, after the kids and the cats, he’d save my albums. Exactly how he’d do that isn’t clear, since I have about two dozen.
‘I’ve shown Abi loads of old albums already,’ I say.
I’m eager to encourage them both to get out of the kitchen, so that I can rush about and pull the place into some semblance of order. I want the kitchen to myself. I don’t feel up to coordinating making lunch and having a conversation.
Somehow, when the doorbell rings at one o’clock, lunch is almost ready and the table is dressed with our best glassware and pretty paper napkins.
‘Will someone get that?’ I yell. No one reacts. ‘It will be Tanya.’ I hear Liam gallop down the stairs with enthusiasm.
‘Someone’s keen,’ says Abi, amused; she and Ben have wandered back into the kitchen, ready to take their seats or at least refill their glasses.
‘I’ll say. The only other person who can get him to move as quickly as that is the pizza delivery man,’ jokes Ben.
Lunch is loud and lively. I’ve put the meat and multiple vegetables in bowls on the table so everyone can help themselves. There is the inevitable hassle when Lily says she’d rather die than eat peas but I put them on her plate anyway. Again, Abi entertains us all. This time with stories about famous people she’s met and interviewed. Her stories are hilarious, informative and sometimes risqué. The girls – giddier than ever because they have both Tanya and Abi to play to – are near hysterical when she tells them she’s met Selena Gomez. They squeal at a constant, high pitch and, for fun, I join in. Ben jokily covers his ears and yells at us all to shut up. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’
Quick as a flash I say, ‘You think with your head? Wow, you are quite a special man.’ This gets a big laugh from Abi and Tanya, the girls too, although they probably didn’t even hear the joke, let alone understand it.
Smiling, Ben turns to Liam and bemoans the fact they’re outnumbered. ‘More than ever. We’re going to need to get soundproofing.’
‘You can’t say that,’ says Liam with a distinct note of embarrassment. ‘You two are so politically incorrect.’ He can be an outspoken kid and his opinions are generally quite well researched but normally he keeps his discussions and deliberations for the college debating society; today he seems to want to peacock in front of Tanya.
‘Can’t say what?’ asks Ben, genuinely mystified.
‘Mum can’t say that men think with their . . . ’ he glances at his sisters, who are hanging off his every word. He corrects himself. ‘She can’t say men think with anything other than their heads. It’s sexist.’
‘It was a joke,’ I say, still giggling. Quite pleased with myself.
‘It’s a cliché,’ replies Liam. ‘What are you saying? All men are dumb, led by instinct rather than intellect. Clichés always lead to sexism.’
I sigh because this may be true but it’s so damned sad. ‘Clichés used to lead to jokes, I’m pretty sure of it. We used to be better at laughing at ourselves,’ I comment, defensively.
‘Sexist jokes. I’m surprised at you, Mum.’ Teens do have occasional forays into bouts of self-righteousness. Normally, I ride them out. Today, I wish Liam hadn’t decided to so abruptly change the atmosphere. We were having fun. I pick up the tureen that still has some roast potatoes left in it and offer them to him – he can usually be side-tracked by roast potatoes, but he shakes his head impatiently. ‘And Dad, you’re no better, implying that women are nothing but pointless chatter and noise.’
Ben looks horrified. ‘Mate, I’m pretty sure that’s not what I said.’
‘The thing about soundproofing.’
‘I’m not being sexist. I’m being accurate.’ Ben winks at me and I throw a balled-up napkin at him. ‘The women in our family are more garrulous and the men more circumspect, on the whole.’ Although not right now. Liam seems determined to make his point. Ben is walking the thin line of taking him seriously and yet fuelling the debate that would be better closed down. ‘We work in a world full of clichés and assumptions but there’s nothing wrong with that. Those things are stabilising, helpful. We need to be able to categorise and order,’ adds Ben.
Liam shrugs because he can’t bring himself to agree. He’s too young for such heavy-handed certainty. He still sees nuance and complication everywhere. His world is delightfully in flux. ‘I bet you never relied on cliché, Abigail, when you were interviewing and stuff,’ Liam declares. I smile inwardly. He may be feeling argumentative with his parents but he’s remembered to be polite to our guest.
‘I’m sure I’m guilty of slipping one in on several occasions,’ admits Abi, diplomatically.
‘Abi used to be a TV presenter in the States,’ I explain to Tanya, in case Liam hasn’t told her.
‘Less of the past tense, if you please,’ says Abi. I can hear that she’s trying to sound amused but isn’t.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I mutter, colouring.
‘You’ve gone red,’ Imogen points out, unnecessarily.
‘It makes the stripe in your hair look totally and absolutely white,’ declares Lily. I want to kill her.
Instead I run my fingers through my hair and try to sound unconcerned. ‘I meant to pick up a kit yesterday when I was in town but work was hectic; I only got a thirty-minute lunch break.’
‘A kit?’ asks Abi. Then she understands. ‘Oh. Wow. Do you dye your own hair?’ Her tone is incredulous. I’m embarrassed but maybe my expression comes across as one of irritation because Abi quickly changes her tone. ‘Oh my God, that is so impressive. I honestly thought you must pay a fortune in some fancy salon. You look amazing.’
I do not enjoy the process of dying my hair. I don’t like the smell or the waiting around, plus I’d like to be the sort of woman who can afford to go to a salon for the job, but mostly I feel cheated that I’m already turning grey, even though I’m still in my thirties. It doesn’t seem right. Grey hair is for grandmas and I am nowhere near that stage. No rush at all. I’ve no desire to age gracefully; I do what I can to push back