Irvine Welsh - The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

“I know, right?”

God, I get myself so goddamn horny reading that last part. But I had to reward myself after that confession, by reliving that post-conversation moment in the blog. The crux of it all, though, was that I was finally the most free I had ever been, and I had Lena. Then all I had to do was lose the blubber. And I did. Then came the pregnancy, and back on it went, though I’m getting it off again.

Once Lena and I decided we wanted a kid, there was never any doubt as to who would be inseminated and carry it for the term. Lena’s art career was taking off again, with a massive renewal of interest in her sculpture, especially The New Man , and, of course, the photography exhibition, so she really had to work. — It took me so long to get to this point, she’d argued, — whereas you’re an expert, you’ll be able to get back in shape in no time.

It sounded plausible, but it hasn’t quite worked out that way. But I’m not complaining — well, not much. I guess we’re all great self-justifiers. I know I’d have been just as fulfilled in a career, though in a different fashion. But as a mom, in many ways, I’m at my happiest now. It isn’t all roses, though, nothing is, and I do get a little tired out with Nelson. He needs a lot of attention, and sometimes Lena can’t help that much, as she’s working most days in her studio.

I shut my laptop and I’m watching that Michelle bitch in her crappy weight-and-date show. Lena comes in with a big frown on her face. — What’s up?

— Nothing. . in fact, it’s pretty damn good news, she says, forcing some cheer into her expression, as she hands me a copy of a bill of sale.

I look at the bottom-line figure and hear my own gasp of disbelief. Then I throw my arms around her. — Jesus fuck almighty!

— They’ll be coming to take him away next week, she says glumly, like she’s talking about Nelson.

— Oh, right. . I try to inject concern into my voice. I never get this crazy artist thing about selling their work. I’d just think about the money and get on with knocking out the next piece of shit.

She reads my mind. — I know, she smiles, kissing me, giving me a scent of her fresh sweat, — I gotta let go. Mom and Dad up yet?

— Haven’t seen them, I drop my voice, — but I’ve heard grumblings from the guest suite. I feel my mouth tighten, as I cup my ear. — And gurgling noises tell me Nelson’s awake.

Lena goes to shower and change and I start to get myself and Nelson ready for the short drive to the airport. The Sorensons join us for breakfast bagels and orange juice. It’s strange how different they are from how I pictured them during that clandestine email correspondence (which they still believe was with their daughter). I’d envisioned Todd as a tall, thin man, but he’s short and squat, with a gray-blond crew cut and a deep-lined face. He says very little. Molly talks for them both: wasteful, inconsequential chatter. She has a steel-wool permed mop, and hawkish features, with a double chin, fleshy arms, and a ton of cellulite. We eat while discussing mundane stuff, Molly going on about some kind of dream she had about yesterday’s Thanksgiving. — I think it came from being in a house surrounded by water. .

I never, ever thought that my father would move down here, but he bought the house from a fading basketball star Miami Heat traded to Cleveland, or some other Rust Belt franchise on its last legs. I confess to sometimes feeling aggrieved that Mona’s living in that level of luxury and she’s almost certain to be Dad’s main or even sole beneficiary, especially when their kid arrives. I can’t exactly complain though; I like living up here with Lena, and she’s let me put my own touches to the house, like splashing a little color on those walls.

We get into the 4X4 which we bought when Nelson came along. Lena is driving, and I’m sitting with Nelson and Molly in the back, the Sorensons’ considerable, largely redundant luggage behind us. Molly’s gamely trying to distract Nelson from the squealing pig toy he loves. Todd is looking uncomfortable in the front; I see his creased face in the mirror as he blinks in the unaccustomed sunlight like a black bear disturbed in its hibernation. The day is described, as always, as “unseasonably hot” on a local radio station. It’s the high or mid-eighties, depending on which phone app you open, with an angled golden light blinding me at the intersections, even through my Ray-Bans.

— Oh, for cute, Molly says to Nelson, as the pig wheezes breathlessly again.

It’s bad manners, but when an email from my mom pops onto my iPhone, I’m happy to open it, and escape from the Sorenson banalities into the more familiar Brennan ones.

To: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com

From: jackielieberman-pride@realrealestate.com

Subject: Happy Thanksgiving

Lucy,

Didn’t want to phone you as I knew you were at you-know-who’s, and I’ve made my feelings plain enough about that lunatic and his controlling ways. If you and Lena ever consider having a second child: DO NOT LET THAT IDIOT HAVE ANY INVOLVEMENT WITH IT!

It’s beyond me that you think you owe that old fool some control in your life because he caught you fooling with some boys in the bushes of Abbie Adams Green. Yes, we were both worried about you back then. But you never disappointed us, honey — the promiscuity was all about you as a young girl acting up, because our marriage and our family was crumbling and breaking up. But do not let him pull that Catholic guilt-trip shit on you! Your mistakes are your own (and we all make those — hell, I married the asshole), so don’t allow him to dictate your life!

Enough. I’m ranting.

I’m still loving Toronto. The Canadians would never have a national holiday that celebrates land theft and genocide. I was saying to Lieb the other day, this is the future for you and Lena — not to be treated like second-class citizens as in the US. And to think I was a Republican for years — though that was mainly to annoy your father. The real-estate market is booming, and we have a great standard of living and free universal health care. All I miss is the Miami weather. It’s so cold outside! Even Boston is temperate in comparison.

Come see us soon, and bring that adorable child of yours.

Much love,

Mom

JESUS, THAT WOMAN is a fucking fruitcake. But her shit tells me that I’ll never really be free until I’ve had the conversation with both her and Dad — separately of course. We’ve dropped the Sorensons off at Miami International Airport, and are heading down the 95, toward the Beach. We’re traveling in total silence, relieved that it’s just the three of us, but drained from the stress of enforced, extended family contact. Even Nelson is uncharacteristically dozy, strapped into his seat.

Just as we turn into SoBe on 5th, I see the big movie poster above us:

THE SEX LIVES OF SIAMESE TWINS

It shows the actors Kristen Stewart and Megan Fox attached from the hip up, sitting on a park bench, snootily turned away from each other. Ryan Reynolds stands behind them, looking on in hapless appeal.

It has the split logline:

TWO FEISTY GIRLS

ONE SMOKIN’ HOT BODY

BIG TROUBLE

The real twins, not the movie variety, have settled down and found religion. I saw them recently on one of those kooky daytime programs. The movie has brought them back into the spotlight, with Amy disowning it, and Annabel, apparently, refusing to comment.

Good luck to them with that circus. I like the quiet life and I certainly don’t miss the TV people or the paparazzi up my ass. I love that there isn’t anything about me in the media. Jillian left The Biggest Loser , and it hasn’t been the same since. They gave the gig to some Russian tennis chick who wanted out after six months. Shape Up or Ship Out is due to start its first season this summer, with another ex-tennis player, Veronica Lubartski, of Game, Set, and Snatch fame, as one of the presenters. Good luck to them all.