de resistance is the ceiling. Darren has painted a night sky. I look closer at the pattern of the stars and realize it’s an inaccurate rendition of the Milky Way. Scientific accuracy aside, it’s gorgeous. Linda smiles.
‘Mam won’t paint over it. Darren did it when he was thirteen and Mam loves it.’
I can’t decide if this interior decorating proves that Darren is the saddest man I’ve ever met or…
The most amazing.
No, definitely a loser.
I look out of the window, which is encased with sparkling net curtains, hanging straighter than Issie.
‘Is that his tree house?’
‘Yes, it’s mine. I built it myself,’ says Darren. I jump and turn to face him. Linda looks infuriated that he’s crashed our girl time. I, on the other hand, can’t help but be pleased to see him.
‘It’s very fine,’ I say. ‘Most people settle for one storey and forgo the plumbing.’ But I beam, making it clear that I’m impressed. Darren smiles back, and I, for once, am devoid of a sparkling putdown.
We return to the kitchen, which appears to be the epicentre of the Smith household. Mrs Smith hands me a huge mug of strong, sweet tea. I mean to tell her that I prefer black coffee or Earl Grey but I can’t quite find the opportunity. The kitchen is a hive. The radio is tuned into some local station. The DJ has the strangest accent. The washing machine, dryer and dishwasher are all whirling at once. Yet despite this industry there are also great mounds of dirty plates in the sink and clean ones draining on the draining board. There are piles of ironing on at least two chairs. No one is sitting on any of the other chairs, as they are inhabited by fat, lazy, sleeping cats. Intermittently the dog, an aged Labrador, jumps up from its basket and barks at some sound outside. It amazes me that he can hear a sound outside. I can barely hear myself think. There isn’t a pause in the conversation. In fact, conversation is a generous description. It seems to me that everyone is talking at once, about different things and without regard for anyone else. Yet despite this no one, except me, seems to be struggling to keep abreast and answer the correct people at the appropriate time. Linda and Mrs Smith regularly try to force food on me, which I try but fail to decline. I quickly realize that it’s easier to accept the cakes, biscuits and sandwiches and leave them untouched, on the side of my plate. I do quietly sip my tea, which is surprisingly pleasant. Sarah and her husband and kids explode on to the scene. Sarah unceremoniously drops the baby she is carrying on to Mrs Smith’s knee and flings her arms around her brother. The two older children, girls who are probably between three and nine years old (it’s hard to guess, unless you’re into kids), follow suit and climb all over Darren. Sarah’s husband quietly melts away and goes to join Mr Smith watching TV in the front room.
The kitchen, bubbling before, is positively effervescent now. I desperately need a glass of champagne, or at the very least, some soluble aspirin – ASAP. My head is simply throbbing with all this noise. Darren’s nieces are demanding ‘twiz-zies’, and Darren is obliging them. Sarah is demanding a cup of tea and wants to know if her mother’s baked this morning. Mrs Smith assures her she has, which accounts for the delicious smell that’s wafting through the house. Mrs Smith is balancing the baby on one hip and feeding it with one hand, whilst setting up the ironing board with the other hand to iron dry a skirt for Linda. Shelly and Richard arrive. There is more noise and more kissing. Shelly has brought a chocolate cake, which is cut into immediately – with no regard to whether it is a mealtime or not. Richard wants to know if Darren is ‘up for a kick about’ in the back garden. Shelly shows her nieces-to-be samples of material for their bridesmaid dresses. Delighted, they squeal their approval. Sarah is unpacking groceries, recalling some incident to do with her eldest daughter’s (turns out to be Charlotte) school teacher, and throughout all this everyone is interrogating me about who I am and why I’m here.
Mrs Smith, Sarah and Shelly have jumped to the understandable conclusion that I am Darren’s girlfriend. Understandable that is, if you don’t know me. I’ve never been a girlfriend