Page 19 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘Who am I then?’
‘Ringleader of the Callaghan sorority. Grow a pair and have it out with him.’
‘You make us sound like a prison gang.’
‘Not far wrong. Just breathe. Kisses for my nieces. Chat later, got a registrar giving me evils.’
She hung up before I could respond. Love you too, sister. It was times like these when the distance was a killer. When I just needed the whole gaggle of the sisters, my protective herd. But she was right. We were Callaghan girls – we could stand on our own, without being propped up by men. So I slung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. I sipped at a lukewarm cup of tea. I tried to find that fire. It led me to the bathroom where I located my shaver and dug out my nice pants from the bottom of my knicker drawer.
‘This… this mozzarella, is it a cheese?’
I’m not sure who did the table plan this evening but I’ve ended up next to Aunty Mabel. Even though the family history has been explained to me on many an occasion, I’ve never quite remembered how she fits into the Morton jigsaw. All I know is that they’ve shipped her in today from Kirkby Lonsdale and she’s gone heavy on the lavender. She was once married to Frank who is now deceased though I can’t remember if he was the one who died falling off a cliff looking for his dog, or was the rampant alcoholic.
‘Yes, but a soft cheese…’ I reply.
‘Like Philadelphia?’
‘Hmmm, not quite. How about the minestrone? The soup?’
‘Is it chunky? I’ve got me good teeth in today. Not sure they can deal with croutons.’
Francesco and I look at each other. Can you sieve the minestrone, Francesco?
‘For you my love, we can do something special, yes?’
I am half-smiling, half-laughing – half-cut I think is the technical term. Francesco winks at me and I wink back.
‘He’s cheeky that one. Think he’s got his eye on you, Mabel.’ I place my hand on her arm. She shoos me away like a bird.
‘Oooh, hush now. Not my type at all…’
We both guffaw, leading Danny at the other end of the table to give me dirty looks. I return the evil eye, but feel more like I’ve just done a bad pirate impression. Hell, if I’m going to be cornered here with Mabel I may as well have a laugh. I top up our glasses. How much have I drunk since I got here? Who effing knows? Let’s just say I heeded my sister Ems’ advice to the letter. She was a doctor, it would be like going against medical advice if I hadn’t.
As I was informed this morning, the restaurant has been transformed into a sea of green balloons accented with holographic banners and table confetti. Since we moved to the Lakes, I’ve found the Mortons use Francesco’s as their go-to celebration place, the height of fine dining for Gill and Bob. I’ve never been sure why they hold it in such high esteem: it could be the fresh linens on the tables, the soaring operatic music, though I’ve always hoped it may have something to do with the fake Statue of David sat in the corner adorned in coloured fairy lights which also doubles as a fountain.
I’m at the Mabel end of the table with some of Bob’s friends from golf whose names I can’t remember: Gina and John? Tina and Ron? I look at the other end of the table to see Bob surrounded by his wife and sons, all laughing and sharing jokes. Even their geeky cousin, Chris has got in on the action, and most noticeably has got that good centre seat where he can choose to dip into either table end’s worth of breadsticks and wine. Why have I been relegated to the end zone?
Danny looks happy, relaxed in his best navy shirt. I love him in that shirt. I’m caught in the emotion for a moment. We haven’t said much to each other since this morning. When I was in the bath, soaking the day out of me and shaving my legs, he came over, sat on the edge and kissed my knee. It was a tender, sweet moment. Until he exclaimed, ‘Crikey, best not break that shaver…or block the drain…’ before laughing to himself and tending to a crying child. Now he sits there trading jokes and insults with his family. I thought I knew him. I know exactly what he’ll order today: Parma ham and melon to start, lasagne for main and to finish, the novelty sorbet that is served in a shelled-out orange with a cocktail umbrella. But I didn’t know those kinky sexual vibes were his thing. I didn’t think he’d ever cheat.
Don’t cry at the table. Drink. I’m warm drunk at the moment, the sort of drunk where I’m comfortable without a jacket and if there were a dance floor, I’d throw a few shapes. Danny looks over at me and I attempt to catch his eye. I’m wearing the red dress he once complimented, my mousey brown hair in a makeshift bun. I may have even thrown on a bit more mascara this evening in some vague effort to capture his attention. He points downwards. Is he gesturing at my tits? The red? Head? Oh. He’s gesturing at my breadsticks. I pass them down the chain of people to the left of me, one of whom has come in tweed.
‘So tell me, how’s the paper mill going?’
‘I wouldn’t know Jeron. Danny doesn’t fill me in on much these days.’
I just called this man by a strange hybrid name, didn’t I? He doesn’t seem to have noticed but nods and proceeds to tell me about the architectural history of the paper mill, where Danny works. Riveting stuff. I know very little about the place except that it was the family empire and the reason we moved up here. When Bob had to step down because of health issues, the choice was either to sell or have a Morton brother take it on. Danny was always going to be the brother of choice: the stalwart, reliable one who’d carry on the family name. Jeron is still rambling. Drink. I roll the table red on the end of my tongue and swish it on my teeth. My teeth will be a lovely shade of blueberry now. I’m not sure there is anything else I can say to this man. He’s in tweed, he’s wearing dress shoes with jeans and his wife has the most symmetrical bob I think I’ve ever seen. But to make this evening bearable and to help things along, I will top up your wine glass for the evening. Drink, let’s just have all the drink.
‘Ladies and gents, if I can have your attention, please.’
We all turn to the top end of the table where my husband is stood.
‘I was going to wait until the end of meal when the cake got wheeled out but I’ll let the old man speak then. Just wanted to say a few words before your food arrived. I’m not normally one for speeches but it’s a big day and things need to be said…’
There are laughs as Danny unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket. Gill, who sits beside him looks proud as punch. This is it, isn’t it? This is when he’s going to make a speech about love, family and pride and everyone is going to stand in a collective huddle whilst I lose my shit in between Mabel and Jeron. I can’t listen to this, I need to leave. I stand up.
‘There once was a man called Bob
Who had the most peculiar knob…’
