Page 71 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘And look at all the smoke pouring out!’ Wendy says.
‘God, yeah,’ Fiona says. ‘That’s gross.’
It’s eleven the next morning and it’s Christmas Eve. Mother and daughter are enjoying a late breakfast in the warm sunshine.Wendy had all but forgotten her daughter’s famed capacity for sleep.
The afternoon following Fiona’s arrival had been taken up with food shopping and the evening with general catching up. This had mostly consisted of Fiona telling her mother random stories about her friends, during which Wendy had done her best to feign interest.
She sometimes worries a little about her daughter, because she seems that bit more innocent than Wendy remembers being at her age. The stories Fiona tells her mother about her friends’ exploits seem designed to shock and amuse, but they’re generally so tame that instead Wendy worries Fiona has grown up to be too timid, too cautious – that she’s not having enough fun. She’s seventeen, for God’s sake! Where are the motorbike trips, the wild nights out, the noisy demos against the government, or for that matter the all-night raves in muddy fields?
It’s an unusual thing to be concerned about as a mother, because you can hardly tell your daughter to takemorerisks, but Wendy wonders if she can’t find a subtle way to suggest Fiona has more fun.
‘These croissants are lovely,’ Fiona says, delicately ripping off a corner and popping it into her mouth with her long violet fingernails.
‘I know,’ Wendy replies. ‘I think most of the food tastes better here. Everything back home seems so industrial by comparison.’
‘That’s because it is,’ Fiona says. ‘I saw a thing the other day about all the veg they throw away just because it’s too ugly or whatever. The amount of food we waste is criminal.’
Wendy pours herself another cup of coffee and waves the pot at her daughter, who nods by way of reply.
The conversation seems clunky this morning. Apparently Fiona has run out of stories about her whacky friends, and though there are many things Wendy would like to ask, most ofthem seem out of bounds. She’s left feeling a bit shell-shocked at how brittle their relationship has become.
‘So how are things back—’ Wendy starts, but she’s interrupted and probably saved by Fiona’s phone, which chooses that precise moment to start vibrating.
‘Sorry,’ Fiona says, dragging the phone towards her and standing. ‘Gotta take this.’
Wendy watches her daughter walk towards the cabin and hears her say, ‘Hi,’ but nothing further, because she vanishes around the corner where she’s out of sight and earshot.
She sighs and wonders what’s going on. Because as Fiona dragged the phone across the table, she’d glimpsed Todd’s name through the gaps between her fingers. Perhaps that’s normal, it being Christmas Eve and everything.
Wendy crosses to the cabin where she locks herself in the tiny bathroom. She’s right: through the air vent she can hear the conversation – well, Fiona’s half of it at any rate.
‘No. Not yet,’ she’s saying.
…
‘Because.’
…
‘Well, because I’ve only just got here!’
…
‘Look, I’ll try. I told you I would. And if there’s a right time then I’ll do it.’
…
‘No, Todd, I’m not going to promise anything.’
…
‘I know.’
…
‘Yes, I know.’
…
