Claire Moss - Who Do You Think You Are?

‘It’s not that,’ I protested. ‘I just don’t want to sit around here discussing it with you two like some bad episode of Loose Women .’

Lisa laughed, though whether with me or at me, I wasn’t sure.

‘Where are you going?’ Leanne barked at me as I stood up.

‘To bed.’

‘Wait, I want to ask you something first.’ She was either insensible to my mood, or it was something really important.

I sighed. ‘What?’

Leanne glanced sideways at Lisa, who gave a subtle nod. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’

‘No.’ I squinted quizzically at the pair of them. ‘I’m never doing anything.’

‘I thought you might be out with that library woman again.’

‘Her name’s Tash. And no, I’m not out with her tomorrow.’ The way things went tonight, I wouldn’t be going out with her ever again.

‘So, do you want to come out with me?’

For a moment, I was too shocked to speak. I was the dorky younger brother. I had longed to be invited along to places by Pete or Leanne – even by Lisa – when they were all well-dressed, sophisticated teenagers and I was a pathetic swotty bookworm who couldn’t even ride a bike, but the invitations had never materialised. Here one was being proffered on a plate, and I was naturally wary. It had to be a trap.

‘Where?’ My suspicion was well-founded. I could not recall a night out with Leanne that had not involved biker pubs, hairy rock bands, maximum strength cider and someone making me look at their new tattoo.

‘Round the town, just with me and a few of the girls. You said yourself, you’re always stuck in the house, you should get out more.’

I narrowed my eyes. ‘Are you trying to – ’

‘Look,’ she cut in, holding up a hand, ‘I’m not trying to set you up with anyone, it’s just there’s this girl I know from work, Helen. She manages one of the care homes, she’s single and I reckon she’d be your type.’

‘My type?’ I tried to keep my face neutral but must have failed.

‘Don’t worry,’ Leanne said mockingly, ‘she’s nothing like me.’ I opened my mouth to speak. ‘Or like any of my other mates either. She’s nice. Honestly, I think you’d like her.’ She looked to Lisa for backup.

‘She is,’ Lisa said, nodding earnestly. ‘I’ve met her. She’s dead normal. Honest.’

‘And how do you know I’m even looking for a girlfriend?’

‘Why wouldn’t you be?’ Leanne snorted. ‘You just said, nothing’s happening with this librarian woman and you told me she’s not even divorced yet. Anyway, when was the last time you had a girlfriend? You can’t tell me you’re not getting a bit desperate.’

‘I had a girlfriend in Dubai,’ I protested, which was true after a fashion. I’d had an ongoing understanding with Jen, one of the other journalists on my magazine that whenever we were drunk, bored or horny – or, more usually, all three – we would meet up on some pretext then, pretending we had never intended such an unseemly outcome, have a quick and uncomplicated shag. I had liked Jen, in a slightly awe-struck way. She had seemed impossibly posh to me – albeit posh in what politicians would call a middle-class way. She was like someone from a university prospectus or a youth TV presenter, all unkempt hair and board shorts and oversized hoodies, spending her whole life looking perfect, as if she had just got out of bed, only she smelled sweet and clean, and she was always wearing eye make-up. She was by far the best-looking woman I had ever been involved with, but she was nearly ten years younger than me and more interested in wallowing in the boozy ex-pat lifestyle than in any kind of serious relationship. We had slept together the night before we both returned to England and exchanged email addresses out of a sense of duty, but neither of us had initiated contact in the months since.

‘Yes, well,’ said Leanne, ‘maybe you did.’ She clearly wasn’t sure she believed me. ‘But you obviously don’t any more. So come with me, see if you like Helen. What have you got to lose? Worst that’ll happen is you’ll have a night out in Donny.’

‘Yeah,’ I muttered. ‘Well, that’s bad enough, isn’t it?’

Leanne tutted. ‘You’re like an old man. It’s better than sitting here, isn’t it? Watching bloody Question Time or whatever it is you insist on putting on.’

Lisa nodded. ‘She’s right, Ed. You may as well live a little.’

I sighed. ‘All right. OK. Why not?’ They exchanged a triumphant glance. ‘Can I go to bed now?’

I didn’t contact Ed the week after the date, but I thought about him a lot, growing ever more dejected as I did so. For one mad moment when I had first walked in and sat down, as I took in the restaurant, and the wine, and the candles, all of it pointing to only one thing, I had had that thought again, the same as I had had when I said goodbye to him after the first time we went out. I thought, God, you know, I could . I could go home with him, or bring him home with me. I could have good old-fashioned bouncy, fun sex with a man who wasn’t Tim or Stephen and none of this other awful shit that ruined my life would have to matter any more . My heart had beat harder and there had been a tremor in my fingers and I had been really, really glad I’d put lipstick on. And it was just such a come-down, such a pathetic waste of heavy sexual tension and posh cloth napkins that we had ended up pompously bickering like a couple of undergraduate tutorial partners.

After an obligatory few days of sulking and self-loathing, I became seized by an almost frantic desire to, I don’t know, improve somehow. Improve the situation or improve myself, but improve something. It was the feeling you get after a lost weekend of booze and curries and unnecessary taxis; the urge to clean up, start afresh, and never let things descend to such a state again.

I hadn’t yet sorted out anything of Mum and Dad’s, other than basic tidying and hiding of stuff I found too upsetting to have on permanent view, but the following weekend I began to feel that perhaps I might be capable of it, that, in fact, I had probably reached a point where I needed to do it.

My parents had moved into the house as newly-weds forty years ago and, as far as I could see, had never thrown anything out since. Every one of the house’s eight rooms had cupboards whose contents I had lived my whole life in ignorance of. I hadn’t a clue where to start with tackling this mountain of possessions but I got up on the Saturday morning a week after our date, determined that start I would.

I knew I only had the morning to go at it as Geri had arranged to pick me up after lunch and take me to the park to help her spend an afternoon trying to exhaust her kids, so I began early. I’d been up since five anyway.

I decided to begin with the room that we had always called the dining room, despite it being more of a study. The family did all their eating at the large kitchen table. The dining room was lined with bookshelves from waist-level and above, with wooden built-in cupboards rising to meet them from floor level. I ignored the books. They were at once too easy and too difficult to deal with at a time when I was feeling so purposeful. I concentrated on the cupboards, starting with the one next to the French windows and working round them methodically.

The first cupboard was filled with a whole lot of nothing very much: comically dated 1970s crockery and tableware, half-empty boxes of Christmas crackers, a huge packet of paper doilies that I couldn’t imagine my mum ever having any use for. Still I found myself floundering in the face of so much of it. I emptied the contents of the cupboard onto the floor, then sat and looked at it for about twenty minutes. What was I expected to do now? What would they have wanted me to do with all this stuff? Keep it as a memento? Sell it? Take it to the charity shop? Take it to the tip? This particular pile held little sentimental value for me – indeed, I had no recollection of ever seeing most of it before – but still I did not feel I could just chuck it out. Some of it might be saleable in a kitsch, retro kind of way. Was I supposed to put it on eBay myself and donate the profits to Mum and Dad’s charity of choice – several had received generous bequests in their will – or should I take it down to a charity shop and let them sell it, even if it was for a charity that might not have been top of their list? Unable to make a decision, I divided the stuff into two piles: bin and sell. I put the ‘sell’ stuff back in the cupboard and moved on to the drawer above it.