The window intruder dream didn’t start until years later, but I feel like she loosened the catch, left a way in. That Larkin poem about your mum and dad fucking you up. That’s what they do. Or they ensure that someone else can.
The swishy skirt though. I loved that skirt.
AFTERNOON
15
After all this excitement, it really is time to slow things down a little and have the restful moment I’ve been craving since I face-palmed Red Eye’s eager lawyer. I decide to head back to Queen Square near the office, get a drink, have a sit and watch the world go by. Maybe I’ll even read my book, get past page 48.
On the way along the river, I treat myself to another peek at my Instagram page. I’m now up to 70K; I wonder if I can get one of those blue ticks that mean you’re a better-than-average human being? Someone has commented ‘SPLASH THE PATRIARCHY!’ Perhaps I should provide some more #content for my new followers, solidify my status as a swimfluencer. Scrolling through my photos, I upload a selfie I took inside the giant shell in the gallery: ‘LOVE ART_ANDRA!’ and add some emojis as that seems to be what the kids are doing these days. Studying the picture again, I’m struck by how relaxed I look in it. Famously unphotogenic, usually the camera picks up the underlying tension in all my facial muscles, making me appear rictus and off-centre, like a Madame Tussauds version of me. In all our family shots, Robbie looks as urbane as he is, whereas I have the air of someone with an uncomfortable bowel complaint. So I’m pleased with this selfie, and think it will endear me to my new fans.
‘Clover Hendry, as I live and breathe!’
Interrupted admiring myself, I’m further irked to see the woman waylaying me on Welsh Back is Glynis Johnson, an absolute busybody who lives down the road from us in Keynsham. When we moved in, she was always popping round to see if we needed anything, and massively outstaying her welcome. Once she lingered for an entire afternoon telling me about her niece Octavia’s gap year, when I was desperately trying to prepare for a pitch meeting. Then she started inviting me to her book group – all the women in it are at least fifteen years older than me, and only talk about three things: 1) ongoing roadworks along the high street 2) what they bought this week from the local Waitrose and 3) gynaecological issues. The book doesn’t get a look-in. I know this because I’ve endured several of these meet-ups and lost the will to live at every single one. Never having time to read entire novels, I swotted up on Guardian reviews and Wikipedia entries, and considered myself fully prepared to wing it, so it was therefore galling to sit through three hours of traffic light/Essential Kale/UTI chat without ever getting round to the sodding point of the evening.
‘Uh, hi.’ I’m hoping she takes the muted nature of my greeting as a prompt to make herself scarce, but of course she barrels on. Glynis is the kind of woman who talks with her eyes closed, to ensure she’s oblivious to any conversational cues.
‘Just the person I wanted to see! We’re doing kitchen sups at mine next week to talk about the new Sally Rooney – not the filthy one, the one with the letters. You in?’
Old Clover would stutter and prevaricate before the inevitable capitulation. Such a waste of time. ‘No, thank you.’
Glynis’s peepers pop open. ‘But I haven’t told you when it is yet.’
‘It doesn’t really matter when it is.’
‘Oh, are you going away?’ Holidays are one of the few topics that allow them to deviate from talking points 1, 2 and 3. They tend to favour Florida, and Chewton Glen.
‘No, I just don’t really want to come. Thank you for inviting me though.’
Glynis’s brow puckers as she processes the information. ‘You . . . why not?’
‘I didn’t enjoy it last time.’ It seems best to tell the truth, so that she won’t broach the subject again. No point making a lame excuse, because that would just prolong the agony for everyone.
Glynis fingers the wattle at her neck. ‘You didn’t?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Well . . .’ Blinking rapidly, Glynis studies the cobbles below. Although I didn’t particularly want to see her, this encounter has been useful, in saving me from future book group boredom, and possibly further unwelcome visits. If it feels like a lot for her to take on board, I’m sure she’ll be shored up by Shirley, Maxine and the other literary ladies. Or perhaps she can do a Waitrose run and stock up on her favourite Belgian Double Chocolate Cookies.
‘Anyway, I’d best be going.’ Glynis seems disinclined to move from her current position, but I’m keen to get on with my day. As luck would have it, my phone rings, providing the perfect distraction. Waving it, I move away to answer, dismissing her from my mind.
It’s Petroc. After the way we left things, perhaps he’s ringing to apologize and tell me I did further the cause after all.
‘Hello!’
‘Where the fucking fuck are you?’
It’s Vince, who I’ve been ignoring all day. ‘You’re not Petroc.’
‘No, I’m on his phone because you wouldn’t answer my calls.’
‘That’s a dirty trick. Does he know?’
‘Yes; he says he doesn’t like you any more because you’re brash and thoughtless now. Which is exactly what I need. We’ve got an emergency.’
*Eyeroll emoji* Vince regularly summons us for ‘emergencies’ which turn out to be minor production issues. He’s the TV equivalent of the boy who cried wolf, and we all wish it would eat him. When there really is an emergency – like when one of our contributors turned out to be a spy from a rival indie – he’s always mysteriously unavailable, so we end up making all sorts of major decisions that he strenuously objects to on his return. He fires people more often than Alan Sugar, but generally, if you keep your head down for a bit, he forgets about it.
‘Can’t help, I’m busy today.’
‘Listen, it’s great that you’ve suddenly grown a pair of balls, and we can definitely use them, because right now you need to sort out this shitshow we’ve got developing.’
I’m only half-listening, because having arrived at the square, I find it’s completely packed – there’s some sort of protest going on, people shouting and waving placards.
‘I’m at a recce, could be a real opportunity.’
‘What is it?’ He can never resist the sniff of a fresh idea.
My eyes rove over the crowd. ‘Erm . . . Activists. Really radical ones. Total nutjobs. The new Swampy. Nailing themselves to trees.’ This is word salad now, but I just need Vince off my back.
‘Where?’
He thinks he can catch me out, the slimeball. ‘Just round the corner in the square. Big crowd, it’s really kicking off and I’m right in the thick of it. Here.’ I hold the phone out to let him hear the chanting.
‘All right, Kate Adie, hold your horses. The nutjobs can wait, because we’ve got a serious situation down at Chew Hill, and—’
That snags me briefly, because it’s my show, but then I’m not listening any more because I’ve spotted a face in the crowd; a face I know, a face I saw at the breakfast table this morning, a face I gave birth to, a face that is definitely supposed to be in school right now.
It’s Hazel, my sixteen-year-old daughter.
