‘Yes.’
What I want to tell him. The truth. Is. I don’t find the idea of people or children hurting and killing each other upsetting.
I find it familiar. I find it is home.
He sits down next to me. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, lightly coloured hair on his forearms, an expensive-looking watch. Close enough to touch me, but he won’t.
‘I’ve just been on the phone to June, she was checking in before she heads off for a few days of holiday.’
And reporting back to him whatever it is you’re saying. Another plate on a pole, spinning.
‘Is there any news about the trial? If I have to go or not?’
‘Nothing concrete yet, but she did tell me the lawyers were putting together a series of questions for us to go through.’
‘Questions?’
‘Things you might be asked.’
‘So I am going to be cross-examined then?’
‘We’re not sure yet and I know that’s a horrible feeling, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do. I promise.’
He stands up, stretches, offers to make me a snack, attempts to distract me. Stop me from asking any more questions. I walk through to the front part of the house with him.
‘That reminds me, I forgot to tell you yesterday we’re having a family dinner tonight.’
‘All of us?’
‘Yep. You, me, Sas and Phoebs.’
Pass the potatoes please, dog-face.
I wonder how that would go down at the table.
‘We usually meet at about seven, is that okay?’
‘Yeah.’
I spend the next couple of hours sketching and listening through the wall to Phoebe in her room, conversation after conversation on the phone. I think about knocking on her door, pretending it’s the first time we’ve met.
Let’s forget about everything that’s happened so far, I’d say. Let’s start again. Friends, even.
When it’s time for dinner I go down to the kitchen, the smell of something roasting in the Aga, the air hot and uncomfortable. Mike feels it too, opens the window just after I arrive. Phoebe stands against the sink, head in her phone. There’s a bottle of red wine open on the counter by the radio, which is off, nobody wants to run the risk of me hearing about you.
‘Smells nice,’ I say.
Phoebe looks up, scoffs, a dismissive noise from the base of her throat. Mike looks over at her, shakes his head. Saskia turns away, busies herself with stirring gravy on the stove top.
‘That would be Sas’s legendary roast chicken you can smell.’
‘Legendary because it’s so dry you’ll be chewing until next Sunday. Not too late to order Chinese, peeps.’
Phoebe’s comment is ignored, head drops down to her phone again. I’m new to this family but I feel it too. Saskia’s inability to mother, to be strong. I look at Phoebe and it saddens me to think she can’t see that she and I are more alike than we are not.
‘Right, Phoebs, time to put the phone down, no arguments. Can you and Milly lay the table please.’
‘Fine, just don’t expect me to have fun.’
‘Perhaps if you tried, you might,’ Saskia says, turning to face us.
Her timing is off, years too late to soothe the angry ruffles of Phoebe’s feathers. But why?
‘Perhaps if I tried? Coming from you?’
‘Please, guys, I don’t think this is necessary in front of Milly.’
Wobbles, threatens to come toppling down. A deck of cards, carefully, painstakingly, arranged in a pyramid. Fragile family.
Nobody speaks, the only noise Rosie’s paws on the tiles as she comes into the room, tail wagging, nose high in the air. A sneeze of pleasure as the scent of chicken now resting out of the oven tempts her, draws her near.
Mike leans down and scratches behind her ears, just where she likes it, then says, come on, old girl, out, and removes her, shuts her in the porch. Phoebe and I lay the table while Saskia serves up roast potatoes and veg into white bowls. When Mike comes back he sharpens a long knife, elaborate swishes and swipes, carves the chicken with it. He doesn’t ask me to spread my fingers on the table while he stabs in between each one, as fast as he can. Not his kind of game.
Once we’re seated it takes a few minutes of passing plates around, trading bowls from opposite sides of the table, for everybody to be ready to eat. Mike pours wine for Saskia and himself, and half a glass for Phoebe. When he offers me some, I say no, water is fine. Phoebe calls me a bore and we all laugh it off, I bet the name she calls me in her head is much worse.
‘Cheers,’ says Mike, raising his glass.
Nobody joins him.
‘Milly tells me you’re doing Lord of the Flies this term.’
He strikes gold, he knows where to mine.
‘Yeah, I’ve pretty much got the biggest part, I’m onstage narrator. Miss Mehmet says it’s because I’ve got such a clear voice.’
‘That’s nice to hear, isn’t it, Sas?’
She nods, her heart’s not in it though. Fantasizing about fucking Benji, or walking out the door, never coming back. Her eyes glassy, her hand reaching at her nose every now and then. Mike’s not blind, nor blinkered. Chooses to ignore. Tolerate. Her stash, replenished. She’s high. Fucked. Getting fucked. Fucking high.
‘Milly. Earth to Milly,’ I hear Mike say.
I’m staring again, this time at Saskia.
Phoebe makes the comment, if looks could kill. Saskia straightens up, attempts a mouthful of food. Mike says, enough now, that’s enough. The conversation goes on. Bland. Tame. We eat while we talk. Phoebe was right though, the chicken’s dry. Mike asks her how she’s doing with learning her lines, suggests taking a leaf out of my book, reading and rereading the text. A red rag to a bull, a match to a flare.
‘That’s so typical, I’ve actually been working really hard on my lines, perhaps you’re just too fucking busy to notice.’
She drains the wine in her glass, the heat of the alcohol adding fuel to her rage.
‘Any more language like that and you’ll leave the table, okay? Especially when your mum has cooked such a nice dinner.’
‘I must be eating something else,’ she replies.
Saskia’s mouth opens, about to speak, but closes again, doesn’t feel, and isn’t, half as brave as her daughter. She excuses herself to the bathroom, her nose is hungry.
‘It was only a joke, for god’s sake.’
‘Last warning, Phoebe, I mean it,’ replies Mike.
She stabs her fork into a potato, looks at him, says, ‘Fine.’ He runs his hands through his hair, lets out a sigh, asks me if I’d like some more chicken.
‘No thanks, I’m almost full.’
‘Do I not get offered any?’
‘Would you like some?’
‘No, I’ll have some more wine though.’
‘Not tonight you won’t.’
Too late. She picks up the bottle, half pours, half spills herself another glass. Full this time. Her lips, stained purple.
‘I don’t think so, Phoebe.’
He stands up, removes the glass from her hand, tips the wine down the sink.
‘You never used to mind.’