Tom nods, wide-eyed. ‘They are,’ he confirms. ‘But they also each keep beckoning me over to their corner to slag the other one off. I’ve tried pretending I can’t see them, but it’s not working. You have to save me. Dad says he’s going to slash Mum’s tyres when she next goes to the loo.’
Let’s get this out of the way right now: my parents are the worst. I love them because they’re my mum and dad, but yeah, they’re fucking awful. They divorced a few years ago and since then, it’s like they can’t see anything else. Their hatred of each other is all they care about and it’s all that gets them through the day. And yet they still insist on being in a room together for events like this one – my brother’s 25th birthday – in their quest to prove who is the bigger person. When I called each of them this week to discuss Tom’s birthday, the conversation with both went something like this:
Me: Yes, I know it’s his twenty-fifth, but he really, really doesn’t want a fuss. He says he’d happily just go for lunch with all of us separately.
Mum/Dad: Why doesn’t he want a fuss? Is this your father/mother’s doing? Because if he/she thinks I can’t cope with an evening in the same room as him/her celebrating my only son’s birthday, then he/she can go fuck him/herself. This is grossly unfair. I am an extremely, extremely mature adult – far more mature than him/her – and I am more than capable of being civil for the evening. He/she may not be over our divorce, but Icertainlyam. I’ve moved on. I’m fine. I don’t give a tiny shit about him/her.
Me: No, really, Mum/Dad, it’s not that, he/she hasn’t said a word, I promise. It’s just that Tom doesn’t want to do a big thing this year, and y’know, it’s probably better for you both if you two aren’t forced into a room together...
Mum/Dad: What do you mean by that? Has your father/mother said something? Tell me what he/she said? Tell meEXACTLY.
Me: Oh, no no no, nothing, I promise. It’s just—
Mum/Dad: I am an adult and even if he/she can’t be civil, I can be pleasant. I’malwayspleasant. Even though he/she is a bag of dogshit with a garbage mouth.
Me: OK, fantastic, I’ll see you on Friday evening then. Can’t wait.
They are both determined to prove they’re winning the divorce. And it makes them super selfish. Anger does that to people, I think. It makes them only see their own problems. When I speak to my parents, it’s all we talk about: their raging, burning fury about where their life has gone. Even at her cousin’s wedding the other day, all Mum talked about was what a shit-for-brains my dad was. Sometimes it’s funny, but mostly it’s just tedious and embarrassing.
Which is how we find ourselves all here today, waiting on tenterhooks for an explosion as Tom’s friends stare, completely absorbed, while the two sixty-year-olds glower at each other across the room like babies. But in a totally grown-up, civilised manner, of course.
Will takes my hand and squeezes it as we head into the large, open-plan living room. Tom lives in what he likes to call an ‘urban commune’. Try not to roll your eyes – he’s a sweet guy, really. It’s essentially a big house with lots of housemates, who come and go fairly freely. Tom’s a bit of a drifter and says he hasn’t ‘found his calling’ yet. Which, I think, really just means he doesn’t want to work for a living. He’s currently earning his pocket money as an ‘apprentice caricaturist’, which, yes, is exactly what you think it is: someone who’s learning to draw caricatures of tourists. You know the guy – he’s always in your way on a busy pavement and he’s always got a bad drawing of Jack Nicholson pinned up. And when you do let him draw you that one time because you feel sorry for him, he gives you a fucking huge nose that makes you go home crying and googling Harley Street surgeons.
‘Gogetadrinkgladyou’rehere,’ Tom says in one long breath, as we survey the room. He pats me awkwardly, gives Lauren a lingering, longing look, and then turns on his heel, scuttling off in the direction of the stairs. He gestures hurriedly to one of his greasy-haired friends, who runs after him. I know where they’re going: they’re off to hide in Tom’s bedroom with a videogame, never to return. Leaving me to deal with all this. I can’t believe my brother’s twenty-five; I swear he’s still fifteen.
I feel Mum and Dad’s eagle eyes watching me as I cross the room. They’re waiting to see which of them I will greet first. I will get so much passive-aggression based on this decision. Thank God we foresaw this eventuality – we totally have a plan.
‘You ready?’ Will whispers, grinning at me. I nod determinedly as he adds in my ear, ‘After this, let’s you and me go get a burger and we’ll eat it in our pants on the sofa at home and then have bloated sex. We’re really great at sex – even fat, burger sex – don’t you think?’ I giggle and he goes on. ‘And hey, if you’rereallygood, Lilah, I’ll even go through your phone and delete all the pending news podcasts you have stacking up. I know you feel guilty for not listening to them, but we both know you only really want to listen to the gruesome murder-y podcasts.’
Will knows me too well.
I totally listen to the headlines of the news though!
Sometimes.
‘Right, break!’ Will hisses, as he and Lauren peel off in formation. Lauren to my mum, Will to my dad. Distract and conquer – this is the plan and precisely why I brought bodyguards with me. I breathe a sigh of relief and head for the kitchen. I will most definitely need a drink for this.
When I return with a plastic pint cup full of wine, Will joins me, looking shifty. He is in full secret-service mode. He tried to get us to use codenames and a password earlier, but Lauren told him to stop being a dope.
He leans in excitedly. ‘I told your dad there were old copies ofLoadedmag in the upstairs bedroom,’ he says in a hushed voice. ‘He’s gone to have a quick look. Now’s your chance – go say hi to Alice. Hurry, though, he won’t be gone for long.’ I give him a grateful smile and stand on my tiptoes for a kiss. He immediately goes red – kissing in public is very much not Will’s bag, particularly around in-laws – but he gives me a quick peck, and then his trademark goofy side grin. When he’s feeling bashful, only one side of his mouth goes up. It’s one of my favourite things about him.
Right,OK, if you promise not to judge, I will tell you how Will and I met.
You ready for this? No judging, remember?
It was in a free clinic about a year and a half ago, where we were both waiting forSTDchecks.
Just routine! Just routine, I swear.
Kind of routine.
I mean, I was probably due a test anyway. But OK, the week before, I had done ‘the sex’ with some guy from Tinder, and even though we used a condom, I worry about the stuff that gets up the sides, y’know? And also, after we’d finished, he took it off but then there was some more... touching. And I kept thinking, what if there was jizz on his hands and it got on my vagina? I didn’t pay that much attention in sex education to all the euphemistic bananas, but the impression I got from the shoutyPEteacher taking the lessons was that everything to do with genitals gives you hepatitis.
Anyway, I was in the waiting area, rehearsing what I’d say when I got into the tiny room and the nurse asked me if I’d ever had anal sex. (‘Hmm, maybe once? By accident? It was just to impress this one lad because he used to go out with a glamour model.’) I didn’t realise I was pulling faces until the boy across from me, soon to be known as ‘Will Hunt’, started giggling. He awkwardly waved hello from his plastic chair and we smiled at each other. Me, full-on I-fancy-you-and-will-let-you-get-stuff-up-the-sides-any-day smile. Him, the first of many goofy side-smiles. I came out of the room a few minutes later and he was waiting awkwardly by the door to ask me out. We went for a drink and talked for hours about our lives and his work in the charity sector, as well as my fairly new job at the time – as an assistant producer on a daytime quiz show.
And when we both got the all-clear via a text eight days later, we celebrated with unprotected sex because I am just the absolute worst.
Condoms are over,STDsare in. Tell your friends.
