Lisa Owens - Not Working

I think about these things while I have the very last of the bran flakes for breakfast: cereal dust, which suits me just fine. It thickens the milk and makes a nice paste: porridge without the effort. I wonder if this commitment to the dregs is something that should be celebrated, or if it means I have trouble moving on, letting go.

Words like “maestro” and “superstar,” twinned with “administrator” and “volunteer.”

“Whenever I’m naked, you seem to see it as an invitation,” I say to Luke, who has helped himself to a handful of breast as I undress for bed. “I wonder why you think that’s okay.”

“I’m sorry that you feel that way,” says Luke, kissing me now. “Maybe it’s because I only ever see you naked when we have sex? Anyway, I see it more as an opportunity.”

“Oh,” I say, “so it’s my fault we don’t have enough sex? If I was naked more often, would that help?”

“I never said that,” says Luke, but after a pause he adds, “It would be an interesting experiment.”

“You’re beautiful, ” Luke whispers — as though to remind, or convince, himself.

I ring Grandma with the express intention of undercutting her claim that I “don’t help out.” I’ve decided to become her confidante: I’ll invigorate her with youth and liberalism, and in return she’ll impart homespun wisdom and teach me how to really cook — elixir-like stocks, the fluffiest sponge cakes — bequeathing me her kitchen utensils when she dies many years hence, at peace and fulfilled.

“Yes?” she says, answering the phone after barely one ring.

“It’s Claire…” I’m caught off guard by her speed, “your granddaughter. Flannery,” I add, throwing a hand up at my idiocy.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“Is this a bad time?”

“No.” She sounds insulted at the very suggestion she’d ever be less than ready for anything.

“Good! So…how are you?”

“Fine. Claire, is something the matter?”

I wish I’d prepped myself for this, written down a few conversation points, the way I used to when calling boys in my teens. “No, not at all. I was only…”—there’s a pause while I flail for a topic—“wanting to…uh, ask your advice about something.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a gardening question.”

“Oh.”

I tell her about the buddleia and the conflicting information I’ve read.

“We had one of those years back: it came bursting through the back wall. The ‘bastard buddleia’ we called it,” she says.

“Really? What did you do?”

“What didn’t I do! Let’s see — I tried cutting it back with shears, but that only made it worse. Went at it with an ax. Poison.”

“Wow,” I say. “And did anything work?”

“Yes: we moved house. I fell pregnant with your mother and we needed more space. Left it for the new owners to worry about. But it was, I suppose, quite pretty in its way — in the right place, they can be lovely, you know.”

“Yeah, I’ve grown quite attached to ours.”

“Well, and you might find actually that it’s holding everything together. Give it a tug and the whole building crumbles!” She cackles. “After the war, they were everywhere — sprang up in the rubble overnight. Rather like a poultice on a wound, I always thought. Nature’s balm.”

I take this rare poeticism as my cue to move things up a gear on the confidante front.

“It must have really changed the way you looked at life. Going through the war, I mean. Made you think about how fleeting our time on earth is.” She’s quiet; I fear she’s nodded off. “Grandma? Hello?”

“Yes, I’m here. I was only thinking: you might want to set fire to it.”

But I was thinking I might want to leave it be.

An email from Dad. Subject heading: Christmas .

Mum said what about a cruise. 7 nights Canaries with her mother. Something different. We thought you wouldn’t be interested — you’d want to spend Christmas with Luke. Let me know as I’ll need to book asap. Love, Dad

I reply:

OK, seems you have it all worked out. Don’t worry about me. I’ll look after myself. C

Half an hour later, he’s back in my in-box:

Great — all booked. James Bond theme Christmas Dinner, five courses including Champagne. Lobster supplement £15 extra per head. Mum and I may do this but will decide on the day. Grandma won’t want to get bogged down with the claws. I will have to pack a tuxedo. Love, Dad

There is nothing on this earth I can do to my hair to make it look better than fine. My younger self had no idea how much of my life would be spent despairing about it: how limp and flat it lies on my head, how abundantly it sprouts elsewhere.

“You had a great head as a baby,” my mother said to me. This was last Christmas, before Gum died, back when she was still talking to me. She’s always been big on hair, big on big hair, the bigger the better, and mine can only be a disappointment to her.

“A great head of hair?” I asked, surprised, because in all the pictures I look pretty bald.

“No,” she said, “a great big head. Huge. I had to get six stitches!”

And the two of us screeched and gasped so long my father was moved to come down from his office.

“Share the joke?” he said in the doorway, and with tears standing in our eyes, my mother and I shook our heads and smiled, exhausted.

I ring Sarah, in need of a friendly voice, but Paddy answers instead.

“Oh, hi, Paddy. Is Sarah around?”

“She’s in the shower.”

“Could you tell her I called?”

“Okay.”

I decide this is the perfect opportunity for him to prove me wrong about my poor early impression of him. “How are you doing? It’s Claire, by the way.”

“I know.”

“Work going well?”

“Yeah.”

“Any nice plans for the weekend?”

“Not really.”

I knew I was right, I think — never doubt yourself. But for Sarah’s sake I press on.

“Sarah said you guys might go up to Hampstead Heath. I love it there.”

“Really.”

“Maybe the four of us could go together sometime. You guys and Luke and me. There are ponds you can swim in. We could take a picnic.”

“Yeah…I’ll have to check with Sar.” His tone conveys grave misgivings about this plan.

“Not this weekend. I meant in the summer. No rush. Whenever. It was just an idea.”

“Okay.”

“Well, listen, Paddy, it’s been great catching up. I’d better not keep you — see you soon, I hope.”

“Bye.”

We’re having friends round, so I’m in the big supermarket and naturally join the wrong checkout line. Ahead of me are two wild-haired women whose groceries, excepting a six-pack of beer, consist entirely of orange-stickered items: yogurts, sliced turkey, meat pies and coleslaw, all past their best.

“That’s 9.76,” says the checkout guy, and the women launch into a livid debate about who should pay.

“I lent you a tenner for the bookies!” says one.

“No, no, no, no!” the other shouts back — an unconvincing but heartfelt defense. This back-and-forth continues for some time, and behind me, the growing line sighs.

“You pay!” shouts the first, walking away with the bags. “I’ve had enough! You owe me! I’m done here!”