Page 16 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘How’s one of my favourite lassies doing? Lordy, you look a bit parky?’
Oh, Bob. He’s like Father Christmas without the elves or the red coat. He’s all beardy and cuddly and he’s seventy-five today. You can’t do this to him. I let him wrap his arms around me and inhale the familiar scent of jam and musty old coat.
‘Birthday greetings, Bob. Are you having a good day?’
He breaks from the hug to give me a bristly kiss to the cheek.
‘All the better for seeing you, love.’
God, these are two of the loveliest people I’ve met in my life. They’ve always welcomed me into their fold and they are part of the reason I’ve survived in the North. Every inch of my body is clenched, trying not to break down and cry.
‘I saw Patrick this morning. He and his family send their best.’He delivered a dildo to my house that was probably not meant for me.
‘Lovely Patrick, will have to take him out for an ale soon,’ Bob replies. Gill nods enthusiastically. ‘Did you get the apple cake, you know it’s Stu’s favourite?’ he asks.
‘Yes, and those cheese twists he likes.’
‘Lovely.’ He hooks his arm around mine. ‘Come on then, let’s get you out of cold.’
I’m not sure how I make the walk home at all; it almost feels like I’m drunk. My legs have taken on a life of their own, Gill and Bob talk to me but I can’t for the life of me process the conversation, responding in pleasantries and nods. There will be balloons tonight. But not those big number balloons because they’re a rip-off so they’ve gone for your normal latex in green and white, which Bob was sceptical about because it’d look like some Irish theme party but actually matches the decor in Francesco’s quite well. They speak for ten minutes about balloons. And they talk about a starter they had in there once which was pasta stuffed with fish but not ravioli and it didn’t have a sauce but it was beautiful.It’s tortellini, I whisper to myself.My marriage may be over. My marriage to your son.And yet I don’t say a thing.
As we approach the front door, fear engulfs me. When I see him, maybe that is when this will all finally surface. I’ll launch myself at him with superhuman force and grab him by his hair and bash his head against the cold hard floor. Or I’ll just crumple to the floor and cry and sob and raise my hands to the air in despair. The door opens before I even have a chance to get my key out.
‘Happy birthday, Dad.’
Well, I can’t launch myself at him because he stands there with Polly nestled in his arms, all bonny and rosy cheeked. Gill crosses the threshold to get nana cuddles and Danny and Bob embrace with roars of greeting and emotion. My chest feels like someone is stamping on it, a hand is inside my chest, stretching my ribcage open and wringing out my heart.
‘Well, where is he then?’ asks Bob.
‘In kitchen, having a brew.’
I’m the last to enter the house, knowing this moment isn’t about me at all. Danny stops in the hallway as I take off my boots. He studies my face. I can’t look at him. He comes over and takes my hand.
‘Fook, your hands are freezing.’ His touch feels almost painful. ‘Brew?’
I nod. Let’s fix this with tea.
‘Get done what you needed?’ I nod again. I give nothing away, not now. I follow the mass of people into the kitchen. I spy Polly’s little face over Gill’s shoulder, studying my expression. Gorgeous little Polly who looks like a cartoon chipmunk and who never sleeps through the night. What has your daddy done? I see shades of Danny in her eyes and I think about how as much as I hate her father right now, I will always love him for giving me these girls. I have to remember how to breathe. In the kitchen, everything sits as I left it. Uneaten toast on the counter courtesy of Eve, the butter knife next to it that I used to open Pandora’s box. But in the middle of the room, a reunion of parents and their youngest son. Polly seems to be stuck in the centre of a silent hugging extravaganza. Gill is crying. Bob won’t let Stu go. Danny stands there with his arms folded, looking on.
‘My lad,’ whispers Bob. It’s been exactly eighteen months since they’ve last seen their son, when Stu decided he wanted to spread his wings again and explore the world. It’s what Stu did. More often than not, he was usually doing a runner from a bad relationship. Actually, this sojourn to Australia was because his girlfriend had asked him to move in with him and he wasn’t ready for that ‘next level’ commitment. But in running, he always fell on his feet, living off sofas and in communes, sending us pictures of him on beaches with his chest out and an on-trend procurement of facial hair. Danny would always call him a twat but I knew deep down there was a part of him missing.
‘Smeg legs, looking lovely as always.’ The smeg joke never wore thin, even after twelve years. Gill wipes away tears. Stu lifts me a little off the floor to hug me. ‘It’s like nothing’s changed. I thought Mr T would have carked it by now?’
And for some reason this is the comment that leads my floodgates to open. And it’s not even the comment about my ailing dog. It was the comment about change.Nothing’s changed.The Mortons all stand there looking bemused. Polly’s bottom lip pops out to see me looking so upset.
‘Geez, didn’t think you missed me that much.’ He embraces me tightly which squeezes out more tears. He looks me in the eye. He’s bronzed, with the same crooked incisors as his older brother and smells faintly of weed.
I am on an emotional roll and blub. ‘It’s just…’I nearly died half an hour ago choking on a biscuit after seeing that Danny was a regular customer at a pervy sex website. I’ve held a foot-long blue dildo in my hands this morning and saw your brother flirt openly with Briony Tipperton. I also didn’t sleep much last night.‘…It’s so nice for Polly to meet her uncle, for you to be back…’
Stu looks surprised at my admission, Danny too for that matter.
‘Bit of a shame she looks so much like her dad though, eh?’
Gill and Bob think this hilarious. Stu goes to take Polly off Gill.
‘You and Danny don’t half make cute babies though. C’mon littl’un, Uncle Stu had dollars to waste at the airport. Got a wombat for ya: it’s like a hamster on steroids.’
Again, laughter.
