Jane Asher - Losing It

‘QVC,’ said Stacey, mysteriously.

It never ceased to surprise me just how often this girl came out with words or phrases that made no sense to me whatever. My brain, in a desperate attempt to cobble some sort of meaning out of the apparently random and disconnected three letters, struggled for a moment with the mad idea that the girl had said ‘QED’. Could Latin have acquired street cred without my being aware of it? It hardly seemed likely; close proximity to Ben and Sally kept me reasonably up to date with modern parlance, and, in any case, it would have made no sort of sense as a reply to my compliment. I hesitated, loth to admit I had no idea what she was talking about. I felt like one of the mothballed judges I sometimes encounter in court (‘Tell me, learned counsel, just what is this BOGOF ?’).

‘Sorry?’

‘I bought it on QVC.’

‘Ah!’ I was none the wiser, of course, but nodded briefly as if in approval. Clearly, to buy a ring ‘on QVC’ was something positive – nothing to be ashamed of, at the least – so that an acknowledgement of her wisdom could do no harm. I assumed that it was some sort of hire-purchase agreement. It was clear, however, I didn’t fool the girl for a second with my pretence at understanding.

‘Shopping channel,’ she said flatly, looking up at me with a mixture of boredom and sympathy in her expression.

It all suddenly fell into place. ‘Of course!’ I laughed. ‘QVC shopping channel. Yes, yes, indeed, my wife and daughter have shown me that on Sky. Fascinating. Strangely addictive, my wife tells me. Do you know, Stacey, I thought you meant you’d bought it on some sort of hire purchase: I mean that QVC was a type of credit loan or something.’

Did I see a hint of a smile? Yes, I did – I was sure of it. The dimpled folds either side of her mouth deepened a fraction, and the toffee-coloured eyes, as she looked back up at me, definitely twinkled.

‘So did you buy it for yourself? Or was it a birthday present or something?’

‘I bought it myself. Off QVC.’

‘Yes, I see. So tell me,’ I went on, as I packed a net of sprouts into the plastic carrier, ‘how does it work? Do you phone them up or what? I mean, how do you order what you want?’

‘Yeah, you just phone them up with the credit card.’

‘Amazing.’

‘No – s’easy.’

And then she smiled. Genuinely, wholeheartedly smiled. And all the clichés in the book couldn’t describe the change that smile made to the girl’s face: yes, the clouds parted; the sun came out – it all happened, and more. It made her look quite extraordinarily pretty – the softness of her round, plump face was, in an instant, made charming rather than podgy, and the eyes, brightened with the touch of warmth, were more startlingly golden than ever.

I was desperate to capitalise on this moment of breakthrough, and, on impulse, leant over the checkout belt and picked up her soft, warm hand to take a closer look at the ring. She didn’t appear to mind; she looked down at her own hand in a detached, vaguely interested way and then back up at me, still smiling.

‘Nice, innit? You just phone, you see. Even you could do it.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Yes, I deserved that, Stacey. I didn’t mean to be patronising, I assure you. It really is a bit of a mystery to me, all this TV ordering and stuff. Buying over the internet and so on. My wife does it frequently, but I’m afraid I’m a bit out of date when it comes to all that.’

This was real progress. I even got a grudging ‘Bye’ out of her as she handed me my receipt, and I carried my shopping home, if not with a song in my heart, at least with a few random crotchets.

Over supper later I told Ben and Jude of the breakthrough of the day and made them laugh at my pathetic attempts at communicating with the poor girl.

‘But don’t you see?’ I said, made enthusiastic by the wine. ‘I got a smile! That’s the first one. You have no idea just what a triumph that is – until now only Warren the smooth has elicited any response at all – let alone a smile.’

‘Oh, come on, Dad – that’s not true. She’s been speaking to you loads – you never stop telling us.’

‘Well, yes, Ben. She has been speaking to me. I can’t deny it. But if you knew this girl – Judy, back me up on this, she really is the most unfortunate creature, isn’t she? – if you knew her, Ben, if you actually had to go and do the shopping as I do –’

‘Charlie, you don’t have to do it,’ Judy interrupted. ‘You know perfectly well you don’t. That just isn’t fair: it’s been you and this bizarre project of yours that’s led to this current shopping craze. I’ve never known you do so much. It’s quite marvellous, in fact.’

‘That may well be right, my dear,’ I went on, aware that Ben was looking at me with that slightly jaded expression he wears when I’m a little drunk. ‘That may well be true. But that is entirely beside the point. The crux of the case, I submit, is that I was challenged to make contact with this fantastically large and non-communicative person, and I have succeeded beyond all my wildest dreams.’

‘Who challenged you?’ Judy asked with a smile, helping herself to another glass of the Burgundy.

This stumped me for a moment, but I rallied quickly. ‘I did. I did’ – and I jabbed a finger in her direction – ‘and I may tell you, my dear wife, that to be challenged by yourself is perhaps the toughest assignment of all.’

There was a short silence, and then Judy suddenly snorted into her wine and giggled. ‘What are you talking about, Charlie?’

‘I really don’t know,’ I said, starting to laugh myself. My mind flashed back over the conversation and it seemed terribly funny all of a sudden. ‘I guess I’m just thrilled that I made fatty smile.’

This made Judy giggle even more, and Ben joined in too.

‘You’re really weird, Dad,’ he said, grinning at me across the table. ‘It’s like some Pygmalion trip or something. What the hell are you hoping to get out of it?’

‘I am aiming to communicate with someone less privileged than your good self, my dear son. My challenge,’ I went on, as we all laughed louder than ever, ‘is to create a little happiness within that – how shall I put it? – extraordinarily overadequate physical specimen.’

When I think how I used to speak about her it makes me shiver. May God – and she – forgive me.

I always thought I’d leave home as soon as I finished school, but somehow I seem still to be here. It’s partly for economic reasons, of course, and although I’ve taken enough part-time jobs over the past three or four months to pay for clothes and going out, it would be quite different if I had to find the rent and food and all that. But it really is time I started planning what I’m going to do with the rest of the year before I go up to Leeds. I know I want to travel, but I don’t want to stop my music, and lugging a cello round Europe would be a nightmare. It’ll work out.

Funnily enough, I think I’d miss Ben quite a bit as well if I was to move out. Although we used to row like hell when we were little, we get on OK now, and he’s actually quite a cool guy. He’s always been off his head, though, and lately he’s been even more strange than usual – shutting himself in his room instead of watching TV with the rest of us after supper for instance, and not really laughing when I do the silly jokes that used to make him giggle. I worry about him a bit.

As for Mum and Dad – it’s getting quite heavy the way they constantly needle each other. They’ve never been the sort to have arguments, and they still don’t, but Mum’s sarcasm and Dad’s annoying way of talking as if he’s in court all the time are getting on my nerves, and I can just see how they irritate each other. I used to envy my friends at school when they told me how their parents yelled and shouted and even threw things – it sounded so dramatic and kind of Italian, when my home was so quiet and boring. Sometimes I’d make things up about Mum and Dad fighting just to make them sound more interesting – I really wanted them to be divorced so’s I could be sent from one to another like Annabel. She used to get amazing presents from her father.