Page 13 of Not Moving Out
I honestly hadn’t considered not cooking dinner, but when Freya came in, I could immediately see that she hadn’t expected it. We had discussed finances and our distinct lack of them, housework and other living arrangement things, but we had neglected dinner. We had said something generic about being flexible with dinner time, but what did that mean? Was I supposed to check each and every day who was home for dinner? Perhaps foolishly, I had thought we would carry on as usual. Without dinner, we wouldn’t have a time to catch up, a moment to still be a family, and the idea of not doing it hadn’t entered my head. Business as usual, right?
I finished cooking, and started serving as Freya came walking back into the room. She was in her pyjamas, her damp hair tied back in a loose ponytail to keep it out of her eyes. She looked just like she had a thousand times before, post-work shower and walking into the kitchen for dinner. The only noticeable difference was that she was definitely wearing a bra. In years gone by, she had often returned home from work, and immediately taken her bra off with a smile and a sigh, saying how good it felt – I would often joke or say something about ‘letting those babies breathe’ or something else along those lines. She wouldn’t usually put a bra on post-shower unless we had guests, but once again, that was very much then and this was very much now. Two very different time periods.
‘Thanks for dinner, it smells great,’ said Freya, sitting down at the table.
‘You’re welcome,’ I said, walking across with a plate of spaghetti bolognese for Dolly and placing it in front of her. ‘Cheese?’
‘Please,’ Dolly replied.
I brought across the block of hard Parmesan and the grater.
‘Say when,’ I said, and started grating cheese over the top of her meal like I had done hundreds of times before.
‘When,’ said Dolly when she had a small mountain of Parmesan over the red sauce so it looked like snow. I walked back to the side and brought Freya’s plate of food over.
‘Cheese?’ I asked Freya.
‘It’s okay, I can do it,’ she said with a forced smile.
‘Yes, right, okay,’ I said, handing her the grater and the plate with the block of cheese on.
All of this felt so unnecessary. Grating her own cheese, making her own dinner, doing her own washing, and I got it, we were separated, but did that mean I couldn’t do anything for her any more? If I was popping the kettle on for a cup of tea, was I banned from asking if she fancied a cup, too? Was I still allowed to text her from Tesco and ask if she needed anything? What was next and where would it end?
I got myself a glass of red wine, and then offered Freya a glass but she declined, fetching herself white wine from the fridge. Dolly was vigorously stirring her cheese through her spaghetti, and then Freya sat down with her wine, and then I grated some cheese over the top of my bolognese, and it was time to eat. Everything was basically the same as it always had been, except for the fact that every slight thing we did felt ridiculously self-conscious and completely different. Every word and movement was under the microscope. I glanced at Freya, she returned my look, and I think both of us knew what we had to do. We had Dolly, and she was the main/only reason why we were even doing this. Without her, this would have been even more excruciatingly awkward. She was the glue that was holding this shitshow together.
‘How was your day, love?’ said Freya, looking across at Dolly with a hopeful smile.
‘Fine,’ replied Dolly.
‘Still just fine?’ I asked.
‘What’s that?’ said Freya.
‘I asked her before about her day, and all I got was “fine” despite requesting details.’
‘Fine isn’t details, love,’ said Freya.
‘That’s what I said,’ I said, and we both looked across at Dolly, who was expertly twisting spaghetti on to her fork.
‘I don’t know what you want me to say,’ said Dolly. ‘My day was fine. How was your day, Mum?’
Dolly and I both looked across at Freya, who looked uncomfortable being put on the spot like that. It was as if we had suddenly shoved a camera in front of her face and asked her a problematic question live on TV. Obviously she couldn’t just say fine. There was a pause, an awkward silence that stretched across the table. This was the new reality of us. Whatever she shared with Dolly she would need to share with me, and perhaps she wasn’t comfortable with that. We were in a war situation and information was king. Secrets needed to be kept and loose talk could potentially cost, well, not lives exactly, but something else. This was all new to me and, honestly, I didn’t know the rules yet. It was like playing a game of cards I hadn’t played before; it would take time, and while I was still going through the rules, I would definitely lose quite a few hands out of sheer stupidity.
‘My day was good. I had lunch with Lucy, which was nice, and I was given a new case to work on, and—’
‘It’s okay, you don’t need to drag it out because of me,’ said Dolly.
‘I wasn’t, I—’
‘How’s Lucy?’ I asked, before I shovelled a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth.
‘Yes, all good,’ said Freya.
A silence. Dolly looked across at me. I looked back at her.
‘Great,’ I replied to Freya.
Another pause.
