does it take you to pack anyways?
‘Can I go to a sleepover tonight?’
‘Definitely not. It’s a school night.’
‘Mum.’
‘No.’
The silence that falls is plugged with the jet rush of the tap as Becky fills the kettle. She arranges tea bag and mug. Her clothes are stiffening with drying salt.
‘I’ve got to go, Mais,’ Becky says. ‘I only said I’d be half an hour late so I could get myself sorted for this afternoon and so far neither of us has showered or eaten.’
‘How come you get cocktails in the sun with little umbrellas and bits of pineapple and sexy people dressed in Armani and I can’t even go to a boring sleepover?’
‘School night. I admire your tenacity but you’re not going to magically persuade me that Wednesday is followed by Sunday.’ Becky smiles and ruffles her daughter’s hair. ‘Anyway, I thought you were working towards buying those trainers? Put in more revision time instead of going out and you’ll be a step closer to earning them. What are they called again? The Nike neon wattage …’
Maisie rolls her eyes. ‘Volt, Mum. Volt is the colour of the trainer, not its electrical charge.’
‘Great, the point is they’re so painfully hip that everyone will want to be your friend then you’ll never be short of an invitation so why not wait …’
‘Nice try but I’m fine with the invite I’ve got right now. Come on, Mum, please let me go? Only one boy is going to be there. He hardly counts.’
‘Definitely not. And it’s not about boys.’
A lie, but an easy one.
Becky takes some bread out of its cellophane bag and lines up two slices next to each other, all the while surveying the line of texts on her phone screen. Her stomach turns slowly at the slick of butter across the bread and twists in irritation at the congealed and messy blackcurrant jam refusing to spread tidily.
‘Who’s Scott?’
The question freezes Becky. How is it even possible that Maisie is asking it? Her laptop is closed. She’s always careful to log out and delete and tidy it all away. Becky is glad that she is facing away from her daughter. Even with years of practice, in moments like this she can be read.
‘He was an explorer. Died at the South Pole.’
‘Funny. Ish. Seriously, are you thinking about dating this guy?’
‘Which guy?’
When Maisie says his name – his full name – Becky feels like she has been cornered. Nowhere left to run.
‘Where’d you hear his name?’
‘You asked me to fix our rubbish Wi-Fi.’
‘And …?’
‘And so I logged into the router to see if anyone’s squatting on our connection and there wasn’t, but what there is is lots of visits to his Twitter and his Facebook and I was like, that’s a bit obsessive, Mum!’
Becky attempts to look calm. Blithe, she tells herself. Unruffled. Everything has to be weighed now. If Maisie asks Adam about Scott, any lie that she tells now will be easily unknotted. Something close to the truth is required.
‘He’s a guy I knew when I was younger. School days.’
‘He’s a sexy guy you used to know!’
‘Not my type.’
‘Why are you looking at him then?’
‘I was curious. He was one of those kids you wonder where he’ll end up. It’s a big bit of my job, taking real people and then making up endings. Sometimes I’ll think about someone I once knew and decide how their story ended and then look them up just to see if I was right.’
‘Oh my God, that’s so weird.’
‘I’m good at it!’
‘No, you need a better hobby than Facebook-stalking people to see if you’re good at making up stories.’
‘Fine. Get me a basketball for my birthday.’
Maisie looks up. ‘I actually thought for a moment you might be thinking of going on a date. And I was like … good! At last.’
‘I’m not against dating. I’m just really busy.’
‘Yeah, but soon all the women your age …’
‘My age? I’m only thirty-two!’
‘Yes, like I said, soon women your age are going to be getting married and having kids …’
‘Jumped the gun there, did I?’
‘Mum. You need to get in there before all the good ones get taken. Go on a date again.’
Maisie takes the plate of bread from her mum’s hands and kisses her cheek. ‘And don’t mess it all up by saying you’ve got a daughter. I know that’s a buzzkill. Get them hooked first, and then drop the clanger that is me.’
‘Begin with a lot of lying?’
‘That’s how online dating works! A lot of small lies, big exaggerations and some massive omissions, like: I’ve got a teenage daughter.’
‘And when I bring them over?’
‘Say I’m the maid.’
Becky laughs now, right from the gut. It feels like it has set off chemicals through her brain and soul.
‘I’m just saying, you don’t always need to be so honest from, like, the first minute.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ Becky says. ‘You’re too wise.’
‘So.’ Maisie picks up a slice of bread and for a moment gets distracted by some sticky blackcurrants tumbling off the side. ‘I’ve given you excellent advice, cheered you up … quid pro quo.’
Becky knows exactly what’s coming and she can’t help it but she laughs again – all that confidence and persistence Maisie has. Armour against the bad things that will surely happen to her.
‘So can I go to the sleepover?’
‘Where is it?’ Becky leans against the kitchen cupboard and folds her arms, smiling.
‘Not far. Islington.’
‘Whose house?’
‘Jules’ house. Lily and Eva are going as well.’ Maisie is braiding a long section of hair now, eyes focused on her work and evading her mother’s searching gaze.
‘Is Jules a boy or a girl?’
‘He’s a boy from school.’
‘Is he someone’s boyfriend?’
‘Lily likes him.’
‘And who does Jules like?’
‘Oh my God. This isn’t healthy. You need to be dating.’
‘Don’t avoid the question.’
For a moment Maisie looks like she’s going to sulk like she used to when she was five or six. But perhaps sensing there is a battle still worth winning, she finds a way to let it go.
‘I think he likes me.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I think Lily’s one of my best friends.’
‘Could be quite a complicated evening.’
‘Not really.’
‘Can we talk about drugs?’
‘I’m not selling you drugs.