‘Was Brian alright with you staying here?’
‘Yeah. He knows you’re properly sick, you sent a mental email to a landlord earlier.’ Gavin places his hand on my forehead. ‘You got any ibuprofen or paracetamol? You definitely have a fever. I wonder what other bizarre things it made you do.’
I suspect I’m only hot to the touch because my body is fired up on adrenaline, fear and regret. Still, I tell Gavin I have tablets in a drawer in the kitchen. They go and get them alongside a glass of water. I gratefully receive both from them.
‘Did Brian mention why the police were there?’
Gavin resumes their position on the couch then takes my feet and places them on their lap. I used to lie this way with Nicol until Amara moved in and he didn’t want to, saying it was too couply. ‘God, yeah, it’s crazy. That house in Glasgow Brian was going to sell for the guy he plays football with, well, the surveyor went to the property today and discovered a dead body. Must have been there at least a week, apparently. They wanted to ask Brian about when he was last there, who had access, that kind of thing, because it doesn’t look like the person broke into the house so they must have had a key.’
Throughout the story I do my best to gasp and open my mouth in surprise as each detail is revealed. ‘That is crazy. What a shame for whoever died there.’ I let a beat pass before I ask, ‘Do you think Brian did it?’
Gavin snorts. ‘I do not. He needs you to oversee his shagging. He’d need another assistant to help him fit murdering into his schedule.’
The theme music forFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammerplays in the background but I don’t want to watch it. Not today. Not with Gavin. Before Malcolm can pull me in I turn the channel over to a show where people buy antiques at shops then try to make a profit on them at auction, and it is so boring I fall asleep with my feet up on Gavin, like they were on that detective earlier. Again the position revives me, and when I wake, I decide I am going to only be who Gavin sees me as.
31
After work the next day, I do a mad thing and visit my parents. Walking up the hill towards the ex-local authority house that was my childhood home – actually, the home for most of my twenties, too – I try to figure out why, with the option of doing anything I want to with my free will, this is what I’ve chosen.
Taking the slab path towards the front door, catching a glimpse of the gnome that has been in position next to it since before I was born, I understand. I’m here because I need my mum. I saw a TikTok – or maybe it was an article I read or podcast I listened to; it was some form of media I consumed – about dying and how the last words a good portion of people say is some variation of ‘Mother’. Despite my mum beingmy mum, I still have the primal need we all do for a mother’s love and reassurance that everything is going to be alright in dark times.
My key unlocks the door, but when I try to enter, I’m blocked by the security chain meaning I have to yell my arrival into the house. ‘Mum? Dad? It’s Jemma. I rang and said I’d be round, remember?’
Mum comes down the stairs in a snazzy black top, which has cold shoulder cut-outs with little diamantés bedazzling them, and a pair of tight dark-blue jeans. Her blonde bob is straightened to perfection, her Heather Shimmer lipstick is on.
‘That’s a lot of effort you’ve made for little old me,’ I say as she shuts the door in my face to remove the chain before beckoning me in. The kiss I give her on the cheek is wiped off as soon as we’re parted.
‘It’s my book group tonight. Sarah Louise is hosting and she thinks she’s the bee’s knees because her man used to be high up in Glasgow City Council. When I go round hers I like to make sure she knows that may well have been the case, but he’s a boring bawbag and she looks older than me when she’s only just fifty-two.’
In the living room I expect to see my dad in his leather easy chair, watching the telly with a beer in hand because it’s Friday night. His space is vacant. ‘Where’s Dad? His gout isn’t playing up again, is it?’
‘He’s off out for a few pints. It’s his first time out the house since the hospital; he’s been cooped up for weeks. You don’t begrudge him a bit of fresh air and me a bit of peace from him, do you? Anyway, he didn’t fancy being around for all the girl talk.’
‘What girl talk?’ I know I explicitly mentioned I need my mum, but I also require my father’s presence. Between the two of them they almost equal one acceptable parent.
‘I told him you sounded strange on the phone, like something was up. I mean, it’s weird enough for you to invite yourself around at such short notice.’
I’d rang on my way to the office, around 8:45 am. It is now 5:30 pm. ‘If I waited to be formally invited here I would never see you.’
‘I’m sorry we have busy lives. You’re fully grown, this is our time to enjoy ourselves after the burden of raising you into adulthood.’
My understanding is that other people’s parents ask them questions about their lives. Mine do not. My mum’s limited mother’s intuition has told her something is up but she cares not a jot what that is. From a lifetime of experience, I know if I don’t offer my issues to her she will make no effort to find out what they are.
‘Yeah, so it was a tough week.’ It’s not that I’m going to tell her about Paula, but I’m hoping an appropriately good lie will come out in the moment that will reflect the turmoil and shame and pain I am experiencing to garner her sympathy.
‘Did he chuck you? The man from work?’
‘No. There is no man at work.’
Mum sighs. ‘Jemma, you didn’t need to make up stories to sound more interesting when I saw you in the shop.’
Even a few minutes in these walls has me regressing back to my teenage self. Any calm I would have in a conversation like this in any other location is lost. I snap, ‘They exist. They’re non-binary, not a man, and we are together and happy.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ She shakes her head. ‘I guess in your position beggars can’t be choosers.’ There’s a brief interlude while she tries to formulate her version of ‘help’ for me. ‘Do you think Nicol would take you back? You look like you’ve lost a bit of weight. He’d like that.’
The sadness and stress of the last few days all melt away. There’s only space for one emotion, and that’s rage, with the singular target of my parents. I know what I’m capable of with anger fuelling me. The clock on the mantelpiece has a marble base. I could smash Mum over the head with it, lie in wait for Dad to come back pissed and do the same to him. I’d be hard to dismiss then, wouldn’t I?
I don’t, of course. Despite what happened with Paula, I am not a monster. Also, I can’t see a plausible way of getting away with it. ‘Thanks for that, Mum. You’ll be wanting to get ready to show Sarah Louise who’s winning, eh?’
