It’s the white house,
Lucy had said,
which I took to mean
it’s
a
white house.
But no.
Her house is, as she said,
the
white house,
the only one on the street,
a street of three homes differentiated
by colour – white, yellow, brown –
each topped with glass and jutting out
on to the ocean like coastal guardians.
I press the bell and, as if I’ve cast a spell,
a woman in gardening gloves appears at my side
carrying two empty wine bottles.
Well, hello there, she says.
Before I can reply,
Lucy opens the door and
pulls me into the house.
Her mother follows.
Her hair is sprayed stiff,
her face doesn’t move.
Would you like anything to eat, darling?
I can ask Stacey to fix you something.
I’m off out soonish.
I produce a bar of milk chocolate
and hand it to her mum,
who checks the purple wrapping, back and front,
like it’s a quiz.
Thanks for having me, I say,
ashamed I thought
such a small thing could be a gift.
Oh, that’s incredibly thoughtful of you.
How extraordinary.
Lucy, look at this?
She forgot my birthday last month.
Don’t even ask me what happens on Mothering Sunday!
Little Miss Forgetful.
I’d rather believe that than think my child doesn’t care.
Lucy groans, drags me upstairs.
Jesus. Sorry about that.
Thought she’d be at a flaxseed convention
or something.
I don’t speak,
focus on keeping my mouth closed
and not going too goggly eyed at her room:
at the wide-screen TV
next to the PC
next to the laptop
next to the double wardrobe
next to the double bed
next to the acoustic guitar
next to the drum set
next to the bathroom.
You’ve got your own flat.
Lucy scans the room unimpressed.
It stinks in here.
I had the dog with me.
Mum won’t put her down.
Shall we work first or watch Netflix?
Lucy hands me an essay,
a teacher’s red marks in the margins.
Got this back yesterday.
Need to fix it.
Will you help?
I hadn’t expected to work.
I shrug. Sure.
For the rest of the afternoon
I sit at her desk overlooking the ocean
and type into a laptop
while Lucy lolls on her bed
watching films,
occasionally passing me
a sandwich or piece of fruit delivered to the room
by a housekeeper.
At six o’clock her dad arrives home.
Lucy takes me down to say hello.
He is wearing waterproofs
though it’s sunny outside.
I’ve been sailing.
Lovely day for it.
I try to look interested but I’ve no idea
what sailing means –
was he in a boat as big as a pedalo
or something more like a yacht?
Did he fish?
Is he a captain?
I think of Sophie and Jacq –
what they’d say if they could see this place,
meet this family –
how they’d run out of shitting hells
and oh-my-gods.
They’d swipe stuff for sure.
You’re welcome to stay for supper,
her dad assures me,
pronouncing it sup-pah
then heading away from the kitchen,
where a woman is dutifully chopping.
I better get back.
Maybe Marla won’t have noticed the time
or that I’m missing,
but I don’t want to eat with these people watching,
trying to keep my knife, napkin, glass
in the right places.
In the hallway
Lucy hands me more homework.
Need it back by Tuesday.
You’re getting slower, you know?
This stuff’s not for me obviously.
Oh and here. Take this.
She pulls an iPhone from her back pocket.
Are you sure?
Part payment for the homework, she says.
You’ll need to get it unlocked.
Behind her
on the table
is the bar of Cadbury chocolate.
I reach one hand forward and
slip it into my coat.