Hannah Begbie - Blurred Lines

‘I just always thought it was interesting. A tennis-ball-sized thing flattening a whole city.’

‘Morning, Mum! Can I have some breakfast before we talk about the end of the world?’

Becky smiles and sets about sorting Maisie’s breakfast.

‘I don’t want you to stress about your exams.’

‘Yes you do! I know I need a scholarship to stay at sixth-form and those ten A grades at GCSE aren’t going to magically achieve themselves.’

‘Just don’t let it get on top of you.’

‘I actually slept really well. Did you go to bed? You look rubbish.’

‘Really building my confidence before Cannes.’

‘It’s not like you’re an actress. You don’t have to look sexy for anyone.’

‘True. Well, I’ll cling to that, shall I?’

‘Yep.’

Maisie levels her out. She always has done. There have been times, many of them, that without a child to hold onto she might have fallen off the edge of the world. And here, like a miracle, is a smart-mouthed funny young girl, living under the same roof, loving her more or less unconditionally. Even when she first pushed a pram around the park, round and around, when she thought she could actually feel the gazes land on her soul, heavy with judgement – a feckless teenager with a mewling newborn, a mistake that’ll no doubt be paid for by the state – even then just looking down at her soothed her, pushed her agony to the sides, made space in her for her heart to beat.

Now teenager-mother and baby have morphed to become mother and teenager. And often they are mistaken for sisters – they are almost the same height, have the same long mousy brown hair, the same strong thin nose. Maisie’s eyes are darker and a little larger. Her skin tans in the sun where Becky’s burns. But these are small differences. ‘Cut from the same cloth,’ Maisie’s grandfather is fond of saying. ‘Not much of you in there, Adam, and thank Christ for that!’ Adam, adored by his father all his life, affects outrage before claiming that Maisie has his hairy arms. Becky watches on fondly as they all collapse into more laughter. The joke varies. Sometimes Adam claims she’s going to have his size twelve feet, sometimes it’s his sticky-out ears, but the form is unchanging. Sometimes as the shtick begins Adam meets Becky’s eyes and there is a private understanding before the lines play on. Maisie loves it. Sometimes she prompts it, asking Grandpa T who she looks like, feigning innocence but already grinning in anticipation of which mutant body part Adam will claim for her inheritance.

‘Sorry to have to be away,’ says Becky.

‘No offence, but it’s non-stop pizza when you’re gone so there’s not going to be many tears shed.’

‘I’m going to ask Adam to make a salad.’

‘OK. He can make it and then we’ll both sit there admiring it while we eat our pizzas.’

Becky smiles and her phone dings again. Siobhan:

Scratch that. He is in a really CRAP mood. Something is UP. How long does it take you to pack anyways?

‘Can I go to a sleepover tonight?’

‘Definitely not. It’s a school night.’

‘Mum.’

‘No.’

The silence that falls is plugged with the jet rush of the tap as Becky fills the kettle. She arranges tea bag and mug. Her clothes are stiffening with drying salt.

‘I’ve got to go, Mais,’ Becky says. ‘I only said I’d be half an hour late so I could get myself sorted for this afternoon and so far neither of us has showered or eaten.’

‘How come you get cocktails in the sun with little umbrellas and bits of pineapple and sexy people dressed in Armani and I can’t even go to a boring sleepover?’

‘School night. I admire your tenacity but you’re not going to magically persuade me that Wednesday is followed by Sunday.’ Becky smiles and ruffles her daughter’s hair. ‘Anyway, I thought you were working towards buying those trainers? Put in more revision time instead of going out and you’ll be a step closer to earning them. What are they called again? The Nike neon wattage …’

Maisie rolls her eyes. ‘Volt, Mum. Volt is the colour of the trainer, not its electrical charge.’

‘Great, the point is they’re so painfully hip that everyone will want to be your friend then you’ll never be short of an invitation so why not wait …’

‘Nice try but I’m fine with the invite I’ve got right now. Come on, Mum, please let me go? Only one boy is going to be there. He hardly counts.’

‘Definitely not. And it’s not about boys.’

A lie, but an easy one.

Becky takes some bread out of its cellophane bag and lines up two slices next to each other, all the while surveying the line of texts on her phone screen. Her stomach turns slowly at the slick of butter across the bread and twists in irritation at the congealed and messy blackcurrant jam refusing to spread tidily.

‘Who’s Scott?’

The question freezes Becky. How is it even possible that Maisie is asking it? Her laptop is closed. She’s always careful to log out and delete and tidy it all away. Becky is glad that she is facing away from her daughter. Even with years of practice, in moments like this she can be read.

‘He was an explorer. Died at the South Pole.’

‘Funny. Ish. Seriously, are you thinking about dating this guy?’

‘Which guy?’

When Maisie says his name – his full name – Becky feels like she has been cornered. Nowhere left to run.

‘Where’d you hear his name?’

‘You asked me to fix our rubbish Wi-Fi.’

‘And …?’

‘And so I logged into the router to see if anyone’s squatting on our connection and there wasn’t, but what there is is lots of visits to his Twitter and his Facebook and I was like, that’s a bit obsessive, Mum!’

Becky attempts to look calm. Blithe, she tells herself. Unruffled. Everything has to be weighed now. If Maisie asks Adam about Scott, any lie that she tells now will be easily unknotted. Something close to the truth is required.

‘He’s a guy I knew when I was younger. School days.’

‘He’s a sexy guy you used to know!’

‘Not my type.’

‘Why are you looking at him then?’

‘I was curious. He was one of those kids you wonder where he’ll end up. It’s a big bit of my job, taking real people and then making up endings. Sometimes I’ll think about someone I once knew and decide how their story ended and then look them up just to see if I was right.’

‘Oh my God, that’s so weird.’

‘I’m good at it!’

‘No, you need a better hobby than Facebook-stalking people to see if you’re good at making up stories.’

‘Fine. Get me a basketball for my birthday.’

Maisie looks up. ‘I actually thought for a moment you might be thinking of going on a date. And I was like … good! At last.’

‘I’m not against dating. I’m just really busy.’

‘Yeah, but soon all the women your age …’

‘My age? I’m only thirty-two!’

‘Yes, like I said, soon women your age are going to be getting married and having kids …’

‘Jumped the gun there, did I?’

‘Mum. You need to get in there before all the good ones get taken. Go on a date again.’

Maisie takes the plate of bread from her mum’s hands and kisses her cheek. ‘And don’t mess it all up by saying you’ve got a daughter. I know that’s a buzzkill. Get them hooked first, and then drop the clanger that is me.’

‘Begin with a lot of lying?’

‘That’s how online dating works! A lot of small lies, big exaggerations and some massive omissions, like: I’ve got a teenage daughter .’

‘And when I bring them over?’

‘Say I’m the maid.’

Becky laughs now, right from the gut. It feels like it has set off chemicals through her brain and soul.