Losing It. Jane Asher

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      ‘I don’t know why we bother to have meals, really. You’d be happier just taking the plates out of the cupboard and stacking them straight into the dishwasher. It’d make life much simpler. Or not even bother with that: just open the cupboard door, have a good look at them, imagine you’ve used them and shut it again.’

      ‘Brilliant idea. I’ve far more important things to do than cook and eat this revolting-looking mince. Let alone clear it up afterwards.’

      ‘We should have gone out.’

      ‘Nonsense. Ridiculous waste of money. And I haven’t got time, anyway.’

      ‘No, nor have I really. I’ve got to write up my notes.’

      ‘What are you on?’

      Charlie leant back against the worktop and crossed his arms in front of his chest as he looked down and frowned. ‘Particularly unpleasant one. Two children involved, and the mother’s remarried a bloody difficult Spanish chap. Lot of machismo involved. And the physical distance, of course. Seems perfectly plain that the father’s not a bad sort of customer – bit short-tempered and quick to take offence but basically a good egg. But the mother’s tricky: quite prepared to whisk the kids off to the Costa del Sol or whatever and keep the father out of their lives for ever. Unfortunately she’s good-looking and speaks well. So it’s not cut and dried, by any means. Even the simplest access could be complicated – if you see what I mean. Makes me feel quite depressed, I have to say. I never used to let these things get to me, but – well, the thought of those wretched children being bartered over like goods, and whisked to and fro so that the parents can get their quota – I don’t know, I just sometimes wonder what the hell I’m doing. Whether it’s really for the good.’

      ‘Well, someone’s got to sort it out, after all. And you’re very good at it, you know. I’m sure you’ll do the best for them that you can.’

      ‘Of course I will, or at least I’ll do the best I can for my client – but whether that’s best for the family as a whole is an entirely different matter. I just –’

      ‘Oh, Charlie, do we have to get into all this now? Sorry, sweetheart, but I’ve had a pretty foul day myself and I’m bloody exhausted. Shall we just have supper and watch a quick bit of rubbish on telly and talk about this tomorrow? We’ve both got work to do, after all, and it’d do us good to have a break from it for a while. Don’t you think?’

      I walked over to the sink with the frying pan, tipped it sideways and drained off the fatty greyish liquid from round the pale-grey worm casts left in the pan. ‘This meat looks awful: I’m really not sure it’s worth using SavaMart for this sort of thing. We should have gone for pasta or something.’

      ‘You did ask about the case, Judy,’ Charlie said quietly. ‘I’ve no desire to bore you with my work, I can assure you. And no doubt you’ll remember that going round the corner to shop was your idea. I don’t particularly like shepherd’s pie anyway.’

      ‘Yes, you do! Why on earth didn’t you say you didn’t feel like it? It’s not as if I wanted it. I’m not doing it for me, you know. I’d be just as happy with a sandwich or a salad – happier. I just can’t bear it when Ben puts on that deprived expression when there’s no meat for supper. And you do too, you know you do.’

      ‘Don’t make such a thing of it. Now, do you want me to peel some potatoes or –’

      ‘No, I don’t. I’m fine. But you choose what we eat tomorrow, OK?’

      Charlie sighed and walked out of the kitchen, picking up his briefcase from the hall as he called back to me, ‘Give me a shout if you need me – I’m going to do a bit of work till it’s ready.’

      I could feel martyrdom welling up inside and let myself wallow in it as I began to peel a large, lumpy potato. A bit of a mutter into the sink always helps when I’m feeling sorry for myself, even when I know I’m being totally unreasonable. ‘Oh, fine – that’s absolutely fine,’ I grumbled quietly, ‘you just carry on with your important work – never mind about my report, that can wait till I’ve served up your meal. Just because I’m exhausted, that’s no reason to eat something cold for once. No, of course not – that would be too much to ask, wouldn’t it? Barristers come far higher in the pecking order than tired old Ofsted inspectors. You have a good relax in that chair again, like you were when I came in. Haven’t seen me relaxing in a chair since I came in from work, have you? Just time to put down my case and make myself a quick cup of tea and then it’s straight out to the shops and –’ But then I remembered, rather spoiling my flow: ‘Oh, Charlie went tonight, didn’t he? I’d forgotten. Oh well, he doesn’t usually.’

      The door slammed, interrupting my enjoyable self-pity, and Ben’s voice, which still surprises me, every time, with its depth, called out a loud ‘Hi!’ from the hall. I plopped the peeled potato into a saucepan of water, and picked up a tea towel.

      ‘Hi, darling!’ I called back, drying my hands as I walked to the kitchen doorway and leant against it. I watched Ben’s tall figure struggling to close the front door. His brown hair flopped over one eye and his long neck was bent forward like an inquisitive bird’s. He looked too long for his clothes, awkward and gangly in the tangle of coat, bag and arms that flailed around in a vague attempt to shut the door.

      ‘Take your coat off first, darling,’ I laughed. ‘And drop the bag off your shoulder. It’s swinging all over the place. You can’t hope to close the door with all that in the way. Here – let me take it.’

      ‘Thanks, Mum.’

      ‘My God, that’s heavy!’ I said, as I lifted the enormous black canvas bag off his shoulder. ‘You’ll get some dreadful malformation if you weigh yourself down with all that. I keep saying, I just don’t believe you have to cart all those books to school and back again every day – it doesn’t make sense.’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mum, don’t start all that as soon as I walk in –’

      ‘No, really, it’s just not feasible that you could need all these – it’s crazy. You do all of twenty minutes’ work in the evenings, if that, and most of these just go straight back again. Why don’t you clear it out, for heaven’s sake? It’s such a waste of energy. If I lugged everything around all day without going through it before I left in the mornings I’d be taking the whole of my desk with me.’

      Ben said nothing, but looked straight at me for a moment. I noticed how sharply his brown eyes stood out against his pale, mottled skin with its sprinkling of crimson teenage spots, and I saw something else, which made me want to look quickly away. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, either – that quick flash of dislike that passed across his face whenever we argued, or when I said something he considered stupid or embarrassing. Ben shook his coat free of his arms, swept it up in one hand and grabbed the bag off me with the other. He pulled the strap back onto one shoulder and sighed as he headed for the stairs.

      ‘I’ve had a long day, I’m exhausted and fed up and you have a go at me as soon as I walk in the door. Just lay off, Ma.’

      ‘I didn’t have a go, Ben, don’t be so touchy and childish. Supper’s about twenty minutes, by the way.’

      I turned and walked back towards the kitchen.

      ‘What is it?’ Ben asked, without any apparent interest, as he made his way up the stairs.

      ‘Mince.’

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