But I had nothing going on, nothing to say. So when it was just the two of us, the room felt smaller somehow, the silences harder to fill.
And on that particular Sunday night, they felt even harder than usual. I was in the middle of an arid spell work-wise, staring down the barrel of another entirely blank week, so I arrived at Mum’s in a pretty rotten mood. And over the course of dinner, it got steadily worse, despite the deliciousness of her beef-and-Yorkshire-pudding Sunday roast. We small-talked our way through the meal, and when the plates were cleared away and soaking in the sink, Mum made coffee and set a slab of the posh Waitrose dark chocolate she liked on the table between us.
‘So, what time will Daphne be home tonight?’ she asked.
‘No idea.’ I shrugged.
Mum tutted and broke off a chunk of chocolate. ‘Poor girl. They work her far too hard at that place.’
‘She’s all right. She enjoys it.’
‘Yes, well, it’s brilliant that she’s doing so well.’
I shrugged again at this, tore off some of the silver foil from the chocolate wrapper and curled it into a tight, tiny ball between my fingers.
Mum gave me a look that fell somewhere between exasperation and pity. ‘Come on, love. It won’t be like this forever. I’m sure things will calm down at some point, and she’ll be around more.’
‘I know, it’s just … I barely ever see her these days. She was in the office all weekend, and out most nights last week too.’
‘Well, like I said, she’s doing well. That’s a good thing. You should be proud of her.’
‘I am,’ I muttered, but clearly it wasn’t very convincing, because Mum snorted into her coffee and said, ‘Please don’t tell me you’re having a ridiculous macho crisis because your wife makes more money than you do?’
I flicked the little foil ball into the middle of the table. ‘No, Mum. Of course not.’
‘Good. Because I thought I’d raised you better than that,’ she said huffily.
‘It’s not about money,’ I snapped. ‘Money’s got nothing to do with it. I’m happy she’s doing something she’s good at and she loves. It just reminds me that I’m not doing it, that’s all.’
Mum sighed through her nose and fiddled with her necklace. I remember it struck me then that she was the only person I could really talk to about this kind of stuff: frustration with work and the feeling that Daphne was leaving me behind or getting sick of me. I couldn’t speak to Daff about it, for obvious reasons, and I never found a way to broach it with Harv or any of my other mates either. Mum was my only real lifeline for this stuff. She always knew the right thing to say. But that night, I didn’t want to hear the right thing. I just wanted to lash out.
‘Work’s not going well, then?’ she said finally.
I responded to that by rolling my eyes and stuffing my mouth with chocolate.
‘Well, you just need to keep at it, and it’ll all come good. Or try something new. Remember’ – she raised a finger, mock-serious – ‘everything will be OK in the end. If it’s not OK, it’s not the end.’
‘Mum, you’ve gone into teacher mode again,’ I muttered. ‘Where d’you read that, on a fridge magnet?’
‘No.’ She half smiled at me. ‘Saw it on Facebook, actually. Rather good, I thought.’
She was trying to cheer me up, make me laugh, but I wasn’t in the mood. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t need meaningless slogans. I’m not revising for my bloody GCSEs. This is actual real life.’
I could feel myself degenerating into a sulky teenager – something I often did when I was back here – but I couldn’t snap out of it. I was pissed off and frustrated, and I wanted someone to take it out on.
Mum took a sip of coffee. ‘Well, what about your own writing?’ she pressed.
I stared at the kitchen table. ‘No. I’ve given up on all that. I wasn’t any good at it.’
She pinched the bridge of her nose, and then looked at me sadly. ‘I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, love. You’re so hard on yourself all the time. You’ve got so much talent. I just wish you had a bit more self-belief. You’ve got it in you to do great things, I know you have. But you give up too easily.’
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Mum kept going. ‘I’m not talking about making millions of pounds or being world famous. I’m talking about doing something that makes you happy, that makes other people happy. Leading a good life.’
I said nothing again, but inside me, everything was churning and whirring. I felt we were suddenly on the cusp of talking about something we hadn’t properly talked about ever at that point: Dad.
He was on my mind already that day because I’d spotted something online about his new play, which was opening soon in New York. And now I could feel it all boiling up in my chest: the years of us avoiding the subject, the anger I felt at him leaving, at never making the slightest effort to get in touch.
‘I don’t know …’ I began. I could feel the words gathering pace
