‘Listen to the story. Drink hot chocolate.’
‘And that’s all. You’re certain?’
‘I’m certain.’
Okay.
Thamy races into the office. ‘Look professional, she’s on her way up!’
It’s the day for Mrs EverDry’s monthly progress report, and even though we’ve got her so much favourable coverage, an incontinence ambassador continues to elude us. She’s going to give us hell.
But it’s impossible. No one, no matter how down on their luck, is willing to publicly admit they’ve difficulty in holding on to their wees.
39
It’s Derry’s week to do the dinner.
A Peshwari naan is always ordered for my exclusive use – low-carbing be damned – but the traffic is bad this evening, I’m late and I’m afraid it’ll have been eaten on me.
Loads of cars are crammed in front of the house – on Derry’s Fridays, a massive crowd of O’Connells turns out, even Maura’s husband, The Poor Bastard, whom we never otherwise clap eyes on.
Sometimes actual Urzula shows up, looking literally like the spectre at the feast. She never orders food for herself, but asks for teaspoons of other people’s, then mocks us for eating so much.
I’m really afraid someone will have had my naan.
I can’t find my key and Jackson lets me in.
‘Has the food arrived yet?’ I’m feeling almost panicky.
He puts a finger to his lips. ‘Shush. Neeve’s doing a make-up vlog with Sofie’s granny. She’s just starting.’ He tiptoes up the stairs, to a cluster of people around a bedroom door. I see Derry, Sofie, Kiara, Maura, The Poor Bastard, Joe, Siena – even Pop’s carer, Dominik, is here.
With silent purpose I shoulder my way to the front to see what’s happening.
Mum is on a chair, under the white glare of Neeve’s lights. She’s facing the camera, her hair and make-up looking really ‘done’, and she’s wearing a cobalt-blue suede skirt and a T-shirt with a fashionably torn neck. She looks … nothing like my mother. She’s cool and hip and like a groovy granny.
I’m dumbfounded.
‘We’re starting now,’ Neeve announces. ‘If anyone makes any noise, I will kill them! Okay, Granny. Just look into the camera and answer the questions.’
‘What if I get it wrong?’
‘If you get it wrong we can do it again. But you won’t get it wrong.’ This sounds like an order. ‘Okay, Lilian, tell us a little bit about yourself.’
‘I’m Lilian O’Connell,’ Mum says. ‘I’m seventy-two years old, I’m a mother of five and I believe leopard-print is a neutral.’ She flicks a nervous little look at Neeve to see if she’d said the leopard-print line correctly.
‘You’ve great skin, Lilian. How do you take care of it?’
‘I drink plenty of tea and once a week I exfoliate with a cotton pad soaked in nail-varnish remover.’
Neeve lets a beat pass. They’ve obviously rehearsed this. ‘Nail-varnish remover?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s going to shock people, Lilian.’
‘It does sting but it makes my skin look clear. I first used it by accident – I thought it was toner. The bottles looked the same. And the thing is, even if people say you shouldn’t, if it feels right for you, then do it.’
‘What are your desert-island products?’
‘I couldn’t leave the house without my foundation.’ She throws a haunted look Neeve’s way. ‘I mean my base. I like good coverage – I don’t understand “veils” and “sheers” and that.’ She holds up a bottle of foundation. ‘This one is good and thick. And I like this bronzer. I like things that make me look brown.’ She freezes. ‘Am I allowed to say that? That I like to look brown? Or should I check my privilege?’
Neeve snorts with laughter. ‘You’re okay.’
‘And I like this eyeshadow set because none of the colours are mad.’ She displays a quartet of browns and beiges.
‘What are your thoughts on Botox and other injectables?’ Neeve asks.
‘I’d never say never.’ Mum gives a cute little smile. ‘Who knows? Maybe when I’m older.’
She’s … well, I’d have to see it on screen to know for sure, but she’s … adorable.
‘Thank you for your wisdom, Lilian.’
‘Can I say something else?’ Mum asks.
I don’t think this bit has been rehearsed but Neeve says, ‘Go for it.’
‘If you find your lipstick shade, and it might take most of your life but when you find it, buy at least three of them because they’ll stop making it as soon as they hear you like it.’
‘Great advice.’
‘And the lady in the shop will try to make you buy a found– base that’s the same colour as your face. But get a darker one if that’s the one you like. It’s your money, it’s your face.’
‘Thank you, Lilian. Okay, that’s a wrap.’
Naturally enough, we all clap. We clap and whoop and whistle, because we’re a rowdy bunch. There’s a lot that’s wrong with my family but, all credit to us, we know when to clap.
Downstairs we go, just in time to greet Declyn, his husband Hayden and Baby Maisey, who is instantly ferried off by a selection of her cousins.
In the kitchen, people mill about, waiting for the food to arrive. Mum is in the thick of everyone, still looking unnervingly like Hot Granny.
And here’s the food!
Everyone crowds into the dining room, except Pop, who insists on having his dinner in the living room in front of The One Show, Sofie, who can’t eat if anyone other than Jackson is watching, Finn, Pip and Kit, who live life in constant motion, and Neeve, who needs Snapchat to keep her company so must lie on the landing for the Wi-Fi.
Derry goes to the head of the table, unwraps the first bag and shouts, ‘Murgh makhani?’
‘Me!’ says Joe and, immediately, it’s passed from hand to hand till it reaches him.
It’s like one of those heart-warming scenes when ordinary people form a human chain to put out a blazing fire.
‘Lal maas?’
‘Me,’ Dominik says.
Derry included him to show our appreciation as a family/bribe him with Indian food never to leave us. He was touchingly surprised but hung back in the race for seats at the dining table, so has joined both The Poor Bastard and Joe, who also missed out. They will eat their dinner standing up, their plates on the windowsill.
‘Beetroot chicken?’
This is what The Poor Bastard always orders – will he speak?
‘His!’ Maura yelps, pointing at her husband.
‘Rice for everyone,’ Derry says, passing down several cartons. ‘And here’s a garlic naan. No, it’s a Peshwari. Hands off, it’s Amy’s.’
Mutterings of ‘We know it’s Amy’s’ reaches me.
Oh, sweet Jesus, here’s Urzula. She looks like a biscuit-coloured skeleton with cold blue marbles for eyes. Urzula’s brand of skinny is a world away from ‘wellness’. She’s just bones with skin shrink-wrapped around them. Even her hair is thin.
‘Urzula,’ Derry says levelly. Derry isn’t scared of Urzula. ‘You should have said you were coming. I haven’t ordered you a dinner.’
‘Not an issue. I could not possibly eat an entire carton.’
Around the table, heads bow in shame. All of us could eat an entire carton, no bother.
‘But perhaps someone will spare me a spoonful of theirs.’
The only good thing is that she literally means a spoonful. Even so, no one offers.
‘Where’s Sofie?’ she asks.
‘Upstairs.’
‘What is she eating?’
No one answers. We’re not shopping poor Sofie who, anyway, only ordered a starter and will probably persuade Jackson to eat most of it.
‘Help yourself to mine.’ I need to stay on good terms with Urzula because I love Sofie. ‘And would you like some naan?’
‘Let me see it.’ She picks apart a quarter of my naan before thrusting it away like it’s infectious. ‘Marzipan? Raisins? Amy, this is cake!’
She eats her spoonful of curry, then inspects the rest of us as we tuck in. ‘You eat too quickly,’ she says. ‘Slow down! It takes twenty minutes for the brain to receive fullness messages from the stomach.’
Our heads bow lower and lower.
‘You should drink a big glass of water between each mouthful,’ she says.
Suddenly, from the living room, Pop yells, ‘Fuck off with yourself! Fuck away off, you miserable yoke!’
40
Saturday, 1 October, day nineteen