‘How fascinating. How wonderful. Do you ever go there for holidays?’
Her obvious enthusiasm makes me relax a little. I feel a bit ashamed that I thought she was being off. It’s just that mixed-race couples still raise an eyebrow and we shouldn’t. But I should never have imagined Abi would be so small-minded.
‘No. His mother once went to visit her aunt and uncle but Ben doesn’t know anyone there,’ I explain. ‘I’d love to go one day. Take the kids, so they get to know a bit more about their heritage.’
‘You certainly don’t have a type, do you?’ she muses.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask carefully. I’m smiling because I don’t want this to be a thing but I sense it is.
‘Well, Liam’s father, what was he called? Dean?’
‘Ian.’
‘Yes, Ian. Well, he can’t have looked much like Ben. Liam is so blonde.’
‘I think he gets that from my mother,’ I reply, not prepared to confirm or deny whether Liam’s father was blonde. It’s been a long time since I’ve had these sorts of conversations. I start to head towards the kitchen.
‘Maybe. They do say certain genes skip a generation.’
‘Shall we try that grapefruit tonic?’ I offer.
‘I hope you mean with gin.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then yes.’ As I pass her the drink she asks, ‘Does Liam mind?’
‘Mind what?’
‘That he doesn’t look anything like the rest of you. Does he feel separate? Isolated?’
What an odd question. It’s true that the rest of us all have brown hair and eyes. Ben is black and the girls have beautiful sepia brown skin. I pick up quite a good tan in the summer although I’m a ghostly white right now, my hair has a definite kink to it, the girls and Ben have big, confident afros. Liam’s hair is poker straight. He’s pale and blonde, as Abi mentioned. Blue eyed.
‘We’ve never really dwelt on the matter.’ I know I sound prickly. I’m trying not to be but I am.
I nervously flick my gaze at Abi. I don’t see any likenesses between him and his biological father, but then I can hardly remember the face of the young man who impregnated me. For me, Liam’s providence is an ancient story, a closed book. Ben is his dad. And an exceptionally good one. I never feel comfortable talking about the man who brought him into being. It reflects badly on me. I worry that Liam thinks it reflects badly on him, too. Obviously, it doesn’t. But kids see things weirdly. They blame themselves for things that are way out of their control.
Abi looks abashed. ‘No, no, silly of me to have brought it up. You do know I didn’t mean anything odd.’ She reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezes tightly, like a child might. Impulsively, I bring our hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Weird, but she permits intimacy, somehow demands it.
‘Of course,’ I reassure her. I want to move on. Get off this topic. She smiles at me, eyes glistening with relief. I matter to her. My good opinion matters to her.
The evening races by, shimmering with laughter and shared confidences. Our lives are obviously very different, yet we find things in common. We find we watch a lot of the same TV shows and we have the same view on them, we’ve read some of the same novels and I make a note of others Abi recommends. Abi has been to several places on my bucket list and it’s fascinating to hear all about them first hand. She strengthens my resolve to travel more, when the kids are all a bit older and when there’s a bit more spare cash floating about. Abi shows me her Instagram account. It’s full of stunning, glistening, gleaming images. Her in exotic locations, in fabulous restaurants, at gigs, shows and the theatre.
‘Don’t you have an Insta?’ she asks, not even self-conscious about the casual use of the abbreviation, as though she was sixteen. She is so confident.
‘No, but maybe I should get one.’ I don’t really mean this. Or at least I do, right now, but I won’t in the morning after I’ve slept off the effect of the G&Ts. What would I post? I think about the food I prepare. Liam wolfs it down – there would be no time to photograph it. The girls pick and poke; in the end, everything I prepare looks like a Jackson Pollock on a plate.
‘Oh, don’t bother,’ says Abi, sounding bored. ‘It’s so time consuming.’
‘That’s what Ben says. He’s not a fan of social media. He thinks it’s desperate and deadening. Basically, I think he just doesn’t like his boss knowing too much about his personal life.’
‘Is that why you never post photos?’
‘I suppose.’ I take a sip of my G&T.
Abi nods, thoughtfully. ‘Ben’s quite right. Very dignified.’
Hearing her compliment Ben encourages me to add, ‘I’ve always been careful with what I post. Liam didn’t grow up in an era where social media dominated childhoods. When he was very tiny, I still had photos developed at Boots. By the time every Tom, Dick, and Harry were equipped with smartphones and everyone fancied themselves to be the next Annie Leibovitz, Liam was at the age where he point-blank refused to let me take his photo, let alone allow me to post pictures of him.’ Abi smiles and nods. ‘I never got into the habit. I still prefer printing the shots and putting them in albums. The girls grumble about this on a regular basis. They’d love to be plastered all over the internet.’
‘You’re a very special person to have such standards. It’s unusual, Mel, to have such a high regard for privacy. You know the thing I don’t like about social media?’
‘What?’
‘The fact that no matter how many photos I post of me meeting pop stars, politicians or the Dalai Lama—’
‘You’ve met the Dalai Lama?’ I interrupt excitedly. She nods, smiles and carries on. ‘Yes, but even so, I’m in a competition I can’t win.’
‘You can’t possibly suffer from FOMO.’
‘It’s more FOMOOM. Fear of missing out on motherhood,’ she says sadly.
‘Oh.’
‘Social media is nothing other than an echo chamber. People are forever posting pictures of their children. Just children doing perfectly normal things, often as not – but I can’t join in. Here’s little Elliot or Harriet in a sand box, or in a hat, in the bath. It’s so ordinary, there’s a plethora of these shots, at any and every point, on my feed.’ Abi sighs then straightens her back, which was unusually bowed, sniffs bravely and admits, ‘It’s exquisitely, painfully inaccessible for me. From bump to junior school, people post practically every moment.’
‘I’m so sorry, Abi. I had no idea you felt this way.’ Why would I?
She shrugs and then tries to make a joke. ‘Although I do notice the photos tend to drop off once a kid gets a bit older. I guess the cute factor wears a little thin then. Not quite so appealing.’
‘They do go through an ugly stage,’ I say, with a laugh. I don’t mean it. I think my babies are and were beautiful, every single step of the way, but I feel a sudden need to detract from their perfection. It makes no sense but I suddenly feel aware of my glut and her lack and I’m drenched with a wave of guilt. Stupidly, I think of that fairytale – Sleeping Beauty – where the witch left off the invitation list swoops in and brings all sorts of trouble. I stare at my G&T glass. It’s empty. I need to slow down. My thoughts are bonkers. If anything, Abi is the Fairy Godmother who gets Cinderella to the ball, not a bad