Page 40 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘Did you both at least give that Willett woman what for?’ Mum asks.
‘You raised us to do nothing less, Mum,’ I say. ‘Is it true you called her an amateur?’
‘I called her far worse. It was my greatest pleasure sending all five of my daughters to her over the years. To haunt her with my presence.’ Mum says it so coolly and I secretly admire her for it. ‘There really isn’t anything else wrong here, Emma? You are sure? Do I need to call the GP?’
Emma looks at me, smiling. She’s only a surgeon. ‘Look, I’ll be around all day, I’ll check her every hour. I promise.’
There is still some residual anger and blame there but essentially this was no one’s fault. The only thing I can blame them for is ineptitude as, when we returned, all the sisters emerged from the house and tried to carry me inside in the same way you might see a Neanderthal man drag back a deer to his cave. They’re my bitches but, geez, we need to work on their upper arm strength.
‘I’m doing eggs for lunch to get your energy up.’
‘Can you feed it to me, Marmee? I may not have the strength to lift the spoon, what with my malaise…’ I say, falling back into my accent, putting my hand to my forehead.
‘And I’ve sent Meg and your father to Costco to bulk-buy your favourite things. It’s obvious we need to look after you better. We can’t have you living off chips and Hobnobs any more.’
‘Spoilsport…’
She shakes her head at me, leaving the room. Emma comes to sit down next to me, trying to wipe the sweat from her brow without me looking. Emma doesn’t like to fail, for things to go wrong, and she’s very much like Mum in how she lets all those feelings swim about inside her soul instead of expressing them.
‘I never knew you felt that way about school…’ I tell her. ‘I always thought you were Little Miss Perfect, that it was your thing.’
‘Well, you haven’t seen my last decade, Luce. My marriage to Simon would have disproved that completely. And I think the way we were educated contributed to that. I always thought you weren’t supposed to challenge anything or rock the boat. You keep your head down and get the work done, your feelings don’t matter…’
As she says it, my heart breaks completely. Two of my sisters went through something so awful and painful and I can’t recollect any of it.
‘Was Simon a complete shit then? I’m sorry. I hope you’re OK? Did you see a therapist or anything after it finished?’
‘Almost. You moved in with me. You were the therapy. You used all my good shampoo and you had sex in my utility room with a man dressed as Batman but you loved my girls so joyously. You had all the fight in you when mine had run out.’
My heart sings to hear that I was useful during that time at least.
‘Batman?’
‘He was a school-run dad. His name was Leo.’
‘Were we dating? What was it?’
‘It was something. He’s still a good friend. Maybe you can have a chat with him, it may jog your memory?’
I nod and take her hand. I have Batman questions. Was I dressed up? Was it an event or some kink? Is Leo reasonably good-looking? Like Christian Bale Batman or Michael Keaton? Leo. I don’t remember a Leo.
The moment is interrupted by a galloping on the stairs. This sound is not unfamiliar. Our stairs are like the heartbeat of this house. You can tell who’s walking up them from the pace and gait on the treads. There’s someone rushing to the loo or running away from a fight, someone sitting there taking a phone call thinking none of us can hear. There’s the sound of me sitting in the laundry basket asking Grace to push me down because we’d watched too much of the Winter Olympics at Nagano. I still remember the juddering, the big clash at the bottom when I collided with the banister. I remember blood and a giant fat lip and Mum having to write letters to school to explain. There’s Dad’s slow measured steps and Grace jumping like a gazelle from the third step to the bottom. This is Beth. When she crawls up frantically, using hands and feet. She once admitted to me that she often worries she’s being chased because she watchedHalloweenway too young and it left permanent scars. She bursts into the room.
‘Hey,’ she says, straightening herself up. She looks slightly manic. ‘How are you? Why am I out of breath? This is awful. I’m so unfit.’ She doubles over and then stands to attention again. ‘How was Willett? What a disaster they made her head. Was she awful?’
‘Reptilian,’ I reply, waiting for her to explain her manic entrance.
‘Soooo… Grace is making you dippy eggs with soldiers and I also did a thing. Don’t hate me for doing the thing but it’s a thing and basically there’s someone downstairs?’
‘Does he have a mullet? Is he wearing Crocs?’ I ask. ‘Igor the physio was supposed to come round today.’
‘Not quite,’ she replies. ‘So, when we were on the sofa the other day and we were stalking people, you told me you wanted to see Josh. Well… news of your accident has got round. Not from me. Just the general grapevine and Josh got in touch with me to ask if you were OK and I explained the situation and, well, he’s downstairs now with a bouquet of supermarket flowers and, quite interestingly, a box of Maltesers, which to me feels a tad cheap…’ she spills out.
I sit there for a moment to take all of Beth’s ramble in. I’m having eggs. But Josh? Is here?
‘You invited him here? You didn’t tell me?’ I tell Beth.
‘I didn’t think you’d be out this morning and I thought we’d have time to prepare, properly. I can send him away?’
