In the kitchen, there’s the pint of water waiting, and Robbie with it, sitting in a dishevelled suit looking exhausted. Instead of tablets, there’s the empty Vicodin packet.
He nods towards it. ‘Exceptional circumstances?’
‘Unprecedented. Bit weird, checking the bin?’ Taking a sip of my water, I finger the sharp edges of the foil and plastic.
‘Lost my bank card.’
‘Why would it be in the bin?’
‘Threw it in with the takeaway cartons.’ He grins as I roll my eyes.
‘I leave you all for five minutes . . .’ Flicking the kettle on, I root around for a tea bag.
‘Speaking of which . . .’ Robbie hands me the milk. ‘Would you like to tell me about the “five minutes” you’ve been gone? Because I’ve had calls from Petroc, and Maz, who are both worried, and Glynis Johnson from your book group, who thinks you’re unwell. Then there’s Hazel saying you’re insane and she’s been arrested because you told her to go on a climate crusade. Nice hair, by the way.’ He tweaks one of my curls. ‘And the dress.’
‘How did you get her out? Was it awful?’ I pour hot water over the bag, watching the leaves infuse the liquid, leaving their mark.
‘Of course not. She’s a sixteen-year-old middle-class white girl and I’m a forty-six-year-old lawyer. Everyone was very polite and apologetic. Unfortunately, Hazel’s new boyfriend isn’t so lucky. I had to get him out as well. With less politeness, and fewer apologies.’
‘Hazel’s boyfriend?’ I can feel myself smirking. He was so handsome and idealistic.
‘I’m going to rock on my heels and brandish the shotgun tomorrow. Right now, I’m too tired. But I want to know about you. What happened?’
I sigh, closing my eyes against the tears. I’m tired too. So very tired.
‘It was such a long day. Can we do it tomorrow?’ Obviously, I’m going to tell him everything. But it feels like too much to go into at nearly two o’clock in the morning – taking the pin out of a much bigger grenade. Also, I suspect a certain disgraced CEO of a US media conglomerate will be on the first flight from Heathrow, and I’d really rather he was out of the country before Robbie is any the wiser, otherwise his shotgun might get some use.
There’s a pause as my husband ponders, his urge to know battling his urge to sleep. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘But try not to take any more out-of-date drugs.’
‘No, sir. Only fresh narcotics for me from now on.’
He laughs, and kisses me. ‘I’m going up. Don’t be long.’
I sit for a while sipping my tea, watching the cat, who has curled up for a night-time nap on the draining board of the sink. She takes great pleasure in resting in awkward places, looking hugely attractive while doing so. Grizelda does exactly as she likes, all the time – we can take it or leave it, and of course not only do we take it; we love her for it. But cats can get away with that, day in day out, whereas we humans have to compromise. Maybe not please and thank you and sorry in every language, at every step, but at least general politeness and the occasional apology. Bagels now and then. And that’s not being feeble, it’s just being nice.
Switching off the lights, I make my way upstairs, to Hazel’s room, and gently push the door open. She’s asleep on her silken pillow, hair fanning out around her head, all kinked from the plaits. She’s smiling, like she’s having a pleasant dream, and she looks beautiful, with my mother’s cheekbones. Dear, silly, vain, funny, crusading girl. I close the door again and head to Ethan’s room.
‘Shit.’ He’s lying on the bed, mid-spliff, too dazed to react quickly enough.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Caught red-handed.’
He moves to stub it out.
‘Uh-uh.’ I shake my head. ‘Give it here.’
His expression is lugubrious, anticipating the destruction of his tenderly rolled creation, and when, instead of grinding it out, I take a pull, he blinks, processing everything very slowly. With the joint still smouldering between my fingers, I sit on his bed.
‘Budge up.’
He shifts over, and I lie down next to him, offering him the roll-up. For a second he just looks at me sideways, still stupefied, then takes it and inhales cautiously.
‘Can we agree that if this is the last one you’re going to have – and I want it to be – that we may as well enjoy it?’
Because Covid never affected our sense of smell, we’ve been aware of Ethan’s penchant for the occasional spliff, and, after much agonizing, mainly on my part, decided we would kick the cannabis down the road. At least he was doing it in the comfort of his own room and not on street corners, at least it was just hash, at least he wasn’t a total stoner, etc. I fretted that it’s a gateway drug and that we should really stamp on it straight away, but was wary of doing so, because I worried we would drive it underground, make it temptingly forbidden fruit. How to play it? Now I realize I just have to do it with him to make it ludicrously uncool. It’s clear it’s working – he’s utterly appalled. Dope is no longer dope. Not now he’s watched his mother inhale.
‘Didn’t know you were into this,’ he mumbles, scarlet with embarrassment, passing it back.
‘I remember my first joint, at a Valentine’s school disco in 1992,’ I say, breathing in the heady honeyed fumes. ‘Afterwards, I snogged a boy called Eustace MacQuoid. It turned out he also snogged my best friend Sophie, so I spent the rest of the evening crying and being sick in the toilets. Not my best night.’
It’s all true, although actually I remember the evening quite fondly. But Ethan will never recover from these memories. Joints shall forever be tainted. I am the grim reefer, killing his buzz.
‘Then there was the great whitey of 1995,’ I continue ruthlessly, taking another hit. At least he’s got decent stuff, this is doing the job nicely. I feel like I did in the Red Eye meeting this morning, on a slow waltzer, or after Entonox, swirling gently, like ash flicked off a bridge. ‘That was bad – dizziness, cold sweats, with a crowd of people around me chanting “Clover’s unlucky.” I didn’t do it again after that.’ Reaching across him, I stub out the roll-up on the plate next to the bed, alongside the crust of a piece of toast.
‘You’re too good for this, Ethan. What are you doing, smoking a joint at two in the morning?’
He stares up at the ceiling. ‘Had a bad dream,’ he whispers, and I am undone. Suddenly he’s a little boy again, scampering into our bed in the middle of the night, and I’m clutching him to me, feeling the pounding of his tiny heart. I always thought my bad dreams were caused by my childhood, my anxiety festering and infusing my sleep like tea tannins. What does it mean that Ethan is similarly afflicted? That, thanks to me, he’s had a bad childhood? Or are they just . . . dreams? Passed down the generations, like cheekbones?
I feel for his hand on the bed. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
He shakes his head, still looking up. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he says. ‘When it’s gone.’
‘OK then,’ I reply, squeezing his hand, which is bigger than mine. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Some things matter, and this is one of them. My son. My dear, quiet, thoughtful, sensitive, embarrassed boy. Tomorrow we’ll sort it. But tonight . . . tonight, we’ll just rest here, and think, and be.
So I switch off the light, and we both lie gazing up at the ceiling, which is dotted with old glowing stars from when Ethan was small, which no one can be bothered to prise off. And that’s how my day ends, with a celestial vision, that soothes and lulls me, my eyes growing heavy as they contemplate the heavens, light and dark swirling together until I’m dragged down, down, down into a dreamless sleep.
FRIDAY
