Page 36 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘Speaking of which, we’ve got to clean that wound in a bit. And give you a shower. You’re starting to smell like a tramp.’
‘Takes one to know one.’
‘Can I tell the sisters?’ she asks.
‘No, you bloody can’t.’
As I say it, Gill suddenly arrives at the door with a tray of the aforementioned soup. It does look exceedingly lumpy and she’s given me a side of granary bread that I know will hurt my teeth. I smile knowing where Eve must have inherited her proclivity for baked goods. My mother in law is strangely quiet with us, most likely still confused from the flower-slinging incident. Emma picks up on the tension.
‘I’m going out in a bit, Gill, to pick up some supplies. Do we need anything?’
She shakes her head. I notice her looking down at my phone on the bed, wide open at a picture of a naked man spread-eagled in a chair. I’m quietly relieved that he’s flaccid. I don’t think Gill sees it that way.
By the evening, boredom settles in and certain things are already starting to grate and catch my eye: the socks tangled and trying to worm their way out of the drawer, a thin film of dust over the windows and the pile of clothes in the corner of the room that are neither dirty nor clean but sit there hiding a very lovely armchair that no one ever gets to actually sit on.
Ems gave me my bin bag shower a while back. It involved me standing like a flamingo in a shower cubicle while she pointed at me through the glass, falling into absolute hysterics as she saw the mess I’d made of my bush. I fell out of said shower cubicle and my hair is now lanky from not having washed out my conditioner properly.
The bedroom door opens.
‘Seeing as you can’t move, would you like to read with us?’ asks Tess.
Two freshly bathed children with partings combed dead centre stand in the doorway wearing pyjamas that look suspiciously like they’ve been ironed.
‘Where’s Polly?’ I ask.
‘Downstairs, having milk with Granny Gilly and being forced to watchCoronation Street.’
‘And Stu and Aunty Ems went out,’ adds Eve.
I smile and gesture for them to come over. Naturally, they launch themselves onto the mattress and I have to shield the dodgy leg. Any parent will tell you a little break from your sproglets is sometimes needed but I’ve missed them today. I was slightly jealous to hear them doing homework with my sister downstairs, to hear the chaos around the dinner table and the little snippets of inane conversation that normally fill my day.
‘Did you lot have soup for dinner?’
Eve pulls a face at me. ‘It had chunks. I prefer your soup.’
I smile thinking about Eve, my cream of tomato fan who likes to lap hers up with cheesy toast fingers and dredge the bowl so it leaves red rings around her mouth like a lion cub. I kiss the top of her head.
‘What’s happening at school then?’ I enquire.
‘Noah farted today in the classroom and I thought I was going to be sick,’ says Tess.
‘Did he apologise?’
‘Did he ever? Have you met Noah?’
Tess talks to me like this small adult me sometimes. She turns her nose up at boys and has done ever since nursery when she decided they were the inferior species who dealt in willy and poo jokes. It was all very beneath her which made me wonder how she got on with her father at all. Eve is in hysterics.
‘OK, what are we reading?’
‘We’ve pickedThe Twits.’
I sigh deeply, thinking about when Danny first grew a beard and hadn’t got used to the fact it was like a giant crumb catcher. A picture pops to mind of a little Eve picking croissant flakes out of it; some halcyon, sun-drenched image I’m completely in love with.
‘Any time this evening would be good.’ This was when Tess was her father’s child, impatient to a fault.
I flick through the pages.
‘Arabella said I’m not allowed to use the wordfart,’ Eve pipes in. This was me. I liked to come back to conversations at opportune moments. Tess rolls her eyes. ‘What’s wrong with the word, fart?’ Eve asks. ‘Arabella says it’s rude. You should say words like poot or parp.’
