Debbie Johnson - Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, wondering if that was a wise idea. With Becca, it’s sometimes better not to know.

‘Adjusting the zip on my gimp mask,’ she replied, jauntily. ‘Or, just refreshing my laptop screen, I need to check on something. So – tell me more about this man.’

‘Oh, he’s just … a man. Well, a man called Matt.’

‘Matt? That’s a foxy name. I think I read a survey once that said men called Matt have very large penises.’

‘No you didn’t,’ I said, laughing despite myself. It’s impossible to keep a straight face when you’re talking to Becca.

‘What does he look like?’

I thought about that question and realised I didn’t want to be totally honest in regard to how much I remembered about Matt’s appearance. Mainly because I remember way too much: him, bare-chested, water dripping down onto broad swimmers’ shoulders, towel hanging low on angular hipbones, the shape of muscular thighs pressed against the fabric … if I tell her that I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll call the local vicar and start getting the banns read.

‘He looks a bit like Harrison Ford,’ I said, eventually.

‘Saggy Harrison or fit Harrison?’

‘Fit Harrison.’

‘Han Solo Harrison or Indiana Jones Harrison? Because I think the latter might be useful – your vagina is so well hidden it might as well be in that warehouse with the Ark of the Covenant …’

‘Becca!’ I snapped, torn between horror and amusement. So, it’d been a while. I think your husband dying is pretty good excuse for a lack of sex life, don’t you?

‘Okay, okay … just saying. You could always borrow my Princess Leia outfit.’

‘What kind, or do I need to ask?’

‘Slutty slave girl in Jabba’s palace, obv. You need to get a bit more slutty slave girl, you know.’

‘I do not!’ I spluttered, half-heartedly. She sounded distracted and was paying no attention to my half-hearted outraged spluttering anyway. To be honest, I’d had a couple of glasses of wine by that stage, which was definitely helping me feel more mellow. It’s hard to do full-hearted spluttering when you’re a bit tipsy.

‘Aaah …’ she said.

‘Aaah what?’ I asked.

‘Aaah, I see – yes, he’d definitely get it. Han Solo, though, with that hair, don’t you think? If Han Solo wore Levis that showed off his arse like that, anyway … gosh, he’s really tall, isn’t he? Total man totty.’

I was silent for a few seconds, wondering if Becca had developed powers of clairvoyance since I’d left home. Or if she was possibly having some kind of filthy, illicit sexual relationship with the head of NASA and he’d redirected all European satellites to focus on a small village in Dorset.

‘What … what do you mean? How do you know what he looks like?’ I said, frowning. I looked suspiciously around the room just in case somebody had installed a spycam and I was broadcasting live to the nation like some especially boring episode of Big Brother . There was no spycam. And no kids – Nate had dragged himself to bed, exhausted, and Lizzie had gone upstairs to ‘communicate’.

Becca didn’t answer straight away. She was too busy laughing. Not a polite chuckle either – but a fully throated guffaw. The type that makes you cry and potentially suffocate.

‘Oh God!’ she finally said, clearing her throat, ‘that one of you with the whole cupcake in your mouth is priceless! All that green icing over your face! You look like a Teletubby!’

By that stage I was starting to get a vague inkling of what was going on. I poured another glass of wine and decided that I probably needed a firmer inkling. Also, I wondered what an inkling was – it sounded like it could be a baby fountain pen.

‘Becca,’ I said, as firmly as I could: ‘Tell. Me. What’s. Going. On.’

She giggled, obviously intimidated by my powerful big-sister voice.

‘It’s all on Lizzie’s Instagram account,’ she said, ‘the whole day. You with your mouth wide open in the car – looks like you’re singing … oh yeah, it’s a little video! Ha ha, Meatloaf – seriously, sis? This is too funny …’

She paused and I could hear her clicking through the images.

I stared at my own mobile and considered going online myself. In the end I decided it was bad enough hearing about it, never mind seeing it.

‘There’s one of poor Nate chucking up, the little love,’ Becca added. ‘You’re holding his shoulders and leaning down over him. You have about seventeen chins, you’ll be glad to hear. One of the back of your head. One of Nate asleep, dribbling a bit … there’s loads. Oh … here’s a nice one, though. It’s one of you standing in a very pretty lay-by, gazing out over the hills … your hair’s all flowy and hippy-ish, you’re all thoughtful and pensive, and you look gorgeous, honest! She’s even captioned it “Mum looking less than hideous” – isn’t that nice?’

Nice, I thought … nice ? That wasn’t the word I’d have used. ‘Nice’ applied to Cornish cream teas, or a Cath Kidston tote bag, or a cosy night in with a box set of Midsomer Murders . ‘Nice’ was a way of describing your mother’s new perm, or a bath towel set you’ve seen in John Lewis, or a recipe book you buy in a National Trust gift shop.

‘Nice’ was most definitely not the right word for this scenario – the scenario where my teenage daughter and budding photo-journalist has been reporting live to the world at large for the last twenty-four hours without ever mentioning it to the stars of the show.

As Becca went on to describe yet more of the photos, my heart began to sink even further. It really didn’t feel nice at all. I felt humiliated and hurt and ready to cry, none of which was helped by Becca’s laughter, or the fact that I knew Lizzie was entirely possibly upstairs as we were speaking, adding even more pictures.

I closed my eyes and listened as Becca continued her commentary. She was especially amused by my Incredible Escaping Underwear, and by a shot of Matt wearing my bra on his head. Oh God … Matt. I’d have to either get Lizzie to take them offline, or tell him. Or, possibly, simply pack us all back in the car and just flee the scene of the crime …

‘You’re not upset, are you?’ asked Becca, presumably when she’d noticed I’d been stonily silent for a few minutes.

‘Yes,’ I said simply, draining the glass of wine and giving in as the tears started to flow over my cheeks and pool at the base of my neck.

‘But you shouldn’t be! I know it’s cheeky – I know some of the captions are a bit rude – but it’s harmless, really. It’s just her way of dealing with the change … you know she didn’t want to come. You didn’t give her any choice, though, you made her, so she has to let that frustration out some way.

‘It’s hard at that age – you have no power, do you? You’re grown-up enough to think you know your own mind, but not grown up enough that anybody ever listens to you … you’re completely controlled by your parents, by school, by teachers. It’s horrible – especially for someone as bright and independent as Lizzie.’

I nodded, miserably, then realised she couldn’t see me. I knew she was trying to make me feel better, and I could even hear the sense in some of what she was saying. Lizzie was much more like Becca than me at that age, more naturally prickly, more fierce. Stronger in some ways, more vulnerable in others. Becca ‘got’ her, which occasionally makes me jealous, petty as it sounds.

So while the rational part of me could accept the truth in Becca’s arguments, the rest of me still felt like crap. Crap and out of touch, and useless – a million light years away from the precious baby girl who was lying only a few steps away from me. I felt old and tired and mainly – mainly – I just felt terribly, horribly alone.