Label towel
Label Johnson’s talcum powder
Buy socks (Leo)
Descale kettle
Brendan looks troubled as he sits on our sofa. As well he might. In the years since he left, I’ve kept most of the drama, chaos and mess in this household to myself, preferring to maintain the impression that we’re all getting on fine without him. Until recently, I feel as if we have been. But nobody could listen to this tale of woe and believe that we’re anything close to fine at the moment.
What makes it worse is how well Brendan looks. Slim and tanned. He’s just back from Ibiza with Melanie and, instead of the saggy brown chinos and dusty-looking shirts he wore throughout most of our marriage, he’s wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Amnesia’, has a beaded bracelet at his wrist and leather thongs on his feet. I think he might have had his toes waxed.
‘There must be so many hormones floating around this household,’ I complain, tearfully. ‘Leo’s fifteen. Peak teenager.The pitsof an age, according to most of Mumsnet. And I’m . . . well, I’m perimenopausal, so frankly there are times – and this is one of them – when a personjust can’t take any more.’
His frown deepens. I’m not sure whether this is due to the ‘perimenopause’ reference – which definitely made him wince – or something else.
‘Have you tried to speak to him?’ he asks.
‘Of course I have. It’s like negotiating with a terrorist.’
The look on his face suggests he thinks I’m exaggerating.
‘That was a joke,’ I add hastily, even though it wasn’t. ‘I told him to fuck off, Brendan,’ I confess, my bottom lip wobbling. ‘What sort of mother tells her son to fuck off?’
He exhales deeply, like he’s hit on a difficult crossword clue that completely eludes him. ‘What happenedexactlywhen you tried to speak to him?’
‘He just wouldn’t engage. He still won’t, no matter how hard I try.’
‘Butwhat did you say?’
‘I apologised for swearing at him. I thought that would be a good way in, a sort of olive branch. I’d naively assumed he’d apologise back, that we’d make friends and that would open up a sensible conversation about the drinking so I could suggest we try to tackle the issue together. But when I said, “I’m sorry, Leo,” he grunted, “You should be,” and went off to play rugby.’
Part of me wants Brendan to say he deserved my F-bomb, that this isn’t my fault, just like Jacob did.
Instead, he says, with decisive authority: ‘Have you tried sending him to his room?’
I look up, wondering if I’ve heard him right. ‘What?’
‘You know . . . tothinkabout his actions? That’s what my mother always did,’ he offers, with the same fist-thumping air of authority he had the year he chaired the Neighbourhood Watch.
‘It’s not 1962, Brendan,’ I point out. ‘Unless it’s for sport, he neverleaveshis room. No kids do these days.’
‘That can’t be true.’
‘It is. They don’t go round to each other’s houses to play their new LPs either . . .’
