green beans and purple sprouting broccoli.’
‘Oh, well why didn’t you say that? God, Mum, sometimes you can be so—’
Kathryn held up her hand, interrupting her daughter’s flow before she had the chance to throw any fuel on her already broken spirit.
‘Yes, Lydia, I know. I have an inability to accurately describe supper. Forgive me. I am weird beyond belief. I’m an embarrassment to you, life is shit and it’s all my fault, everything from world famine to the war in the Middle East, global warming, the current economic crisis and of course the fact that Luca Petronatti won’t go out with you. It is all my fault, all of it. You can quite legitimately blame me for everything.’
Lydia was speedy with her retort.
‘Are you menopausal? Is that what this is all about?’
‘Probably, Lydia.’
‘I’ll eat in my room.’
Lydia marched back into the hallway and up the stairs. That was it, end of discussion. Kathryn tried to imagine a similar conversation with her own mother. She tried to imagine first of all enquiring about the state of her mother’s biological cycle, commenting on it and then demanding in so many words that her supper be waitressed up to her room. She could of course imagine neither, for she wouldn’t have dared or wanted to. Things had been different.
Opening the cupboard door, she turned the tin of peas to face the ‘right way’. For the first few years of their marriage, the tasks that Kathryn performed which required detailed and careful instruction were varied and numerous. Up until then she had inadvertently been executing many tasks wrongly. Who knew? Not she. She had been blissfully unaware that there was a right way to put honey on toast, a right way to make coffee in a cafetière. Luckily, Mark was on hand to help her realise the error of her ways.
The list was long and meticulous. Tins had to be stacked no more than three high and with all the labels facing outwards; when opened with a tin opener, their lids had to be removed entirely – never, ever left jagged and hanging by a thin hinge of metal – and placed inside the empty tin for disposal.
A carpet had always to be vacuumed in straight horizontal lines, allowing you to follow the previous edge – haphazardly roaming around a room until you were sure that you had covered each area at least once was out of the question. There was a right way to store socks (balled together with its opposite number and placed in colour-coordinated order in the drawer); a right way to stack a dishwasher, fold a towel, tie and dispose of a bin bag, brush your teeth, park the car, drive the car, feed the children, comb and cut your hair, make the bed, polish the floor, address the neighbours, write Christmas cards, answer the phone, dress, walk, talk, think…
Mark Brooker always entered a room loudly, even if he didn’t say a word. He never simply arrived anywhere. It was as if he always had to announce his presence, like an actor walking onto the set of an American sitcom. As his head appeared around the door, Kathryn always half expected to hear clapping and canned laughter, merely at the fact of his arrival.
He came to where she stood and eclipsed her with his form.
‘Good evening, Kathryn.’
‘Hello, Mark.’
‘You look neat and pretty.’
She smiled weakly up at him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Something smells good. What’s for supper?’
‘It’s… err… it’s…’
‘It’s… err… it’s… what?’ His tone was clipped, through his smiling mouth.
‘It’s chicken… It’s coq au vin… Chicken.’
‘Chicken coq au vin chicken. Splendid.’
He pulled her face into his hands and kissed her hard and full on the mouth before turning on his heel and retiring to his study. She waited until the door clicked in its frame before raising the checked tea towel to her mouth and wiping away the moist evidence of his presence.
She set the table for the two of them; her lips ached and swelled slightly from his aggressive contact. Her mind flitted to an evening during their courtship. They had been in the bar at University College, London, among a small group of fellow students, when the conversation shifted to the subject of working women. There was the usual banter about chaining wives to sinks and the old jokes about why were women married in white? To match the rest of the household appliances – boom boom! How they all laughed.
After walking her home, Mark had turned to her as they