13
Chris
I’m stretched out on the sofa with a glass of wine, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps – okay, three packets – and one of my favourite romcoms that I love to hate:27 Dresses.But here I am, watching it for the fifth, or maybe sixth, time. There’s nothing better than spending a Saturday night at home on your own, making yourself feel terrible with a film about how true love finds everyone eventually, even though your own love life had decidedly ground to a halt sixteen years ago.
Evan throws himself onto the sofa, taking up almost all the space, and grabs one of the crisp packets from my hand. Maybe, deep down, I’m not totally alone.
“What shall we watch?” he asks, stuffing his mouth with his stolen snack.
I glance at him suspiciously, surprised by his interest.
“What? You’re the one who grounded me.”
True.
“Well, you deserved it.”
“Andyoushould’ve helped me out, instead of leaving me to deal with Granny and Granddad.”
“They’re your family, of course they’re interested in your life.”
“Just like they are with yours,” he shoots back.
“Next time, try not to spy on me, okay?” I say, snatching back my packet of crisps.
“Wouldn’t it be better to have dinner instead?” he asks, making me feel guilty about my non-existent ability to be a normal mother, who does the food shopping, washes and dries the laundry and, most of all, who cooks.
“We could always order something…?” I suggest. I’m hungry, too.
Evan scoffs, getting up from the sofa and going off to leaf through the takeaway menus piled up next to the phone.
“Pizza? Chinese? Chippy…?” he scans them, uninterested.
We’ve already had all of those this week.
“You choose,” I tell him, getting up to refill my wine glass. Before I make it to the kitchen, someone knocks at the door. On a Saturday, at eight p.m.?
Something bad must have happened.
Evan looks at me and shrugs. I go over and open the door, a horrible feeling weighing on my chest.
“Hey, family!” Martin’s singsong voice immediately pierces my ears.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, worried. His unannounced visits are never good news.
“Am I not allowed to come and visit my family?” he asks, his tone falsely cheerful.
I look at him through narrowed eyes, without letting him through the doorway.
“I’ve brought dinner,” he announces triumphantly, shoving a bag filled with Tupperware boxes under my nose.
“Come in, come in!” I cry, stepping aside so he can get past me. “How did you know we hadn’t eaten yet?”
He throws me a furtive glance which promptly makes me eat my words. Evan appears from the living room.
“What are you doing here, Dad?” he asks, concerned.
“I’ve brought you dinner,” Martin says, hiding behind his bag of food. Evan greets him as if they’ve not seen each other for years, drooling at the thought of a home-cooked dinner. “I’d say I’ve done well…” adds Martin, pleased with himself.
