Lisa Owens - Not Working

“I can tell,” I say. “If she’s got any kind of taste, she’d have a crush on you.”

“Well, that’s true,” says Luke, turning up the music.

I raise my voice. “Why do you think he’s a douche, then?”

“Ugh, Claire, I don’t know! I get the impression she likes him more than he likes her, that’s all.”

“The opposite of us,” I say. “Just joking. Luke. That was a small joke.” I continue, “Why don’t we double-date with them? I’ll be able to suss what’s going on.”

“Might be a bit weird,” he says.

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t you think it was strange if she suggested that we double-date?”

“No.” (I would.) “I think it’s strange that you think it’s strange. You spend more time with this person than you do with me and yet I’ve never even met her. What does she look like?” Obviously, I already know this too: she falls into the petite, slightly plain category that a lot of men seem to find irresistible, and which makes me mistrust her even more than I did when she was just a blank canvas.

“I don’t know,” says Luke. “Normal-looking?”

“You’d make an awful witness. Let’s break it down: hair color? Bigger or smaller than me?”

“Are we still talking about this?”

“ We’re not talking about this; I am and you’re refusing to answer perfectly straightforward questions. For reasons I can’t quite grasp.”

“What were your questions? Hair is sort of…brown?” His palms are pressed together, clamped between his thighs.

“Light or dark brown? Long or short? Would you say she is bigger or smaller than me?”

“I don’t know, smaller — turn here! Turn here, this is your exit, go, now, go!” We sail past the junction. “Claire! That was our exit!”

“You didn’t give me enough warning! I told you I needed plenty of time to respond to directions. I’ve said that right from the beginning!” Our voices fill the car, hit the roof. “What are we doing? Tell me how to correct this!”

“I don’t know!” says Luke. “I’m waiting for the fucking thing to reroute!” He hurls the sat nav into the footwell and picks it up straightaway, to examine the damage.

“That’ll help.”

“We’ll need to get off at the next junction,” he says, suddenly neutral. This is his tactic of old: to make me seem irrational by contrast. “Take the next left, then follow the road back to the highway.”

“I need more than that — where do I get off at this traffic circle, for example? Luke!”

“Mum, it’s me,” says Luke, and I turn to see him on the phone. He shrugs at me and shakes his head as though he had no choice in the matter, as though he hadn’t phoned her . “Yeah, no, everything’s fine. We’re just going to be a bit late…No, closer to five. Sorry about that.” I see him slide his eyes toward me. “She is, yeah.” We orbit the traffic circle once, twice. “That’s right. Crazy traffic…Okay, bye.”

“I am what?” He doesn’t answer. “The traffic is fine.”

“Third exit,” says Luke. “Would you have preferred that I say you missed the exit?”

“But I didn’t miss the exit; you did. How am I meant to turn when I don’t know there’s an exit? And it’s only added five minutes to the journey. You didn’t need to call her.”

“Sorry — clearly I failed to account for the fact that you would have us creeping at forty the entire journey. I’d said we’d be there by four.”

I check the clock; it’s already twenty past.

“If you hadn’t been so busy drooling over Fiona, we’d be there five minutes sooner than we’re going to be,” I say, almost, but not entirely, in jest.

Luke laughs, horribly. “Can you actually hear yourself?”

I jab at the radio, trying to find the off switch while keeping my eyes on the road. It blasts unbearably, then buzzes with static before I manage to find the right knob. Luke turns the sound up on the sat nav and for the rest of the journey our silence is punctuated only by its terse, robotic instructions.

Luke’s parents are standing in the driveway when we approach.

“How long have they been waiting out there?”

Luke unsnaps his seatbelt and reaches for the handle.

“Could you please at least wait until I’ve stopped the car?” I ask, and he sighs and slumps against the headrest. “Great, they’re going to stand there and watch me try to get into this tiny space. I can’t park under pressure!” I say, stalling, grinning and waving all at once. Luke’s father, Bob, steps forward and starts to direct me with broad whole-arm gestures that bear little relation to the negligible space I have on either side. After numerous unsuccessful attempts, I back out, flustered, and yank up the emergency brake. Bob steps forward, knocks on the glass and motions winding it down.

“He needs to update his mime,” I mutter, pressing the button. “Hi, Bob! Hello, Jan!” Jan, clutching her cardigan together at the throat, waves vaguely with her free hand, balled around a tissue. “Shall I park on the pavement? I think that might be easier.”

“No, no,” says Bob, “we don’t park on the pavement. There’s plenty of room. Let me guide you in.”

“Okeydoke!” I cry.

“I’ll get out, then. There won’t be enough space on my side once you’re in,” says Luke, bolting out and pushing the door shut with gusto.

After fifteen or twenty minutes of maneuvers — each micromanaged by Bob — I finally manage to wedge the car beside Bob and Jan’s old red sedan. There’s barely enough room for me to get out, and I slide with some trouble through the tiny gap between car door and wall, and sidestep around to the front.

“Come here, you!” Bob draws me to him, jiggling our embrace a little in a playful way that feels a bit much, like he’s trying out a new way of being with me.

“Oh dear, are you poorly too?” asks Jan, gesturing at my getup. Her nose is red and streaming.

“That’s Claire’s driving outfit,” says Luke.

“I need to be comfortable behind the wheel.”

“Claire doesn’t drive much,” Luke adds, pulling me to him. His hug binds my arms so I can’t shrug him off. “But she did a great job getting us here.”

When he releases me, I move toward Jan, but she holds up a hand in warning. “Better not get too close,” she says, pressing the tissue to her nose. “Come in, out of the cold.”

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting out here. Parking isn’t my strong point,” I say.

“You got there in the end,” says Jan, closing the door behind me.

The four of us go to the local Chinese, where Jan and Bob are regulars. No sooner have we sat down than a waiter appears and removes our chopsticks, replacing them with knives and forks.

“Oh, I’m fine with chopsticks,” I say quietly when he goes for mine, unsure which faux pas gets precedence: flagrant cultural insensitivity or drawing attention to the same in Luke’s parents.

“Have both,” says the waiter, helping me out with a gentle smile-and-bow.

“Everyone happy with house red?” Bob says, simultaneously giving the waiter the go-ahead.

“Absolutely,” I say, with a touch more enthusiasm than feels appropriate. I didn’t want to drink this evening, but if I don’t, Luke’s parents might think I’m pregnant, and it’s really not good to get their hopes up.

Bob turns to Luke and starts to ask him about work, so I lean in close to Jan, all-girls-together. “Do you know what you’re having?” Another waiter passes bearing aloft a noisy, steaming griddle dish. Several heads at other tables turn in her wake.