‘David and I will cheer you up!’ she said.
Dee and David Turner were the parents of Sally, Tara’s best friend at junior school. The two girls could spend hours with each other, which was much to the advantage of the grown-ups involved. Dee and Becky also had a lot in common, which helped, but David and Bryan did not. It would be unfair to say they disliked each other–both men were happy about their daughters’ friendship and it’s hard to truly dislike a fellow parent who genuinely welcomes your kid into their home. But still… there was something going on under the surface. When David greeted Becky at the door with an expression of deep sympathy on his face, she could sense a kind of glee in him that Bryan had fucked up.
David led her through to the back where the sturdy white patio table had been set up with a giant parasol. The sun was out and the two girls were playing children’s croquet in the garden. Tara waved to her mother and then went back to the game, aiming to knock a bright orange ball through a hoop in the grass. Meanwhile, Dee sat watching, dressed comfortably in a summer dress and cardigan, but she got to her feet as soon as Becky appeared.
‘Oh, Becky…’ she said sadly.
The two women hugged as though Becky had suffered a death in the family. David excused himself and went inside. After the long hug, Dee invited her friend to take the seat next to hers and the two women sat and watched their children. Dee let out a deep sigh.
‘Men!’ she said.
‘Yup,’ agreed Becky. ‘Who needs ’em?’
‘Well, they have their uses.’
The remark was well-timed. David came out of the house carrying a huge tray with a tea set and three saucers with slices of jam sponge on them. He had put on his own cardigan which emphasized the Middle-aged Dad look despite his only turning forty that year. Becky noticed that, as he served the tea and cake, the slice that was broken he gave to himself.
‘There we go…’ he said as he laid everything out.
‘You see?’ said Dee to Becky.
‘You see what?’ said David.
‘I was just saying to Becky that men do have their uses.’
‘Oh, occasionally,’ said David. ‘Every now and then, when the wind is blowing in the right direction.’
He chuckled as he sat at the end of the table, turning his chair so that he too could watch the two girls on the lawn. Dee sipped her tea and said:
‘So, Becky… where’s Bryan now?’
‘God knows,’ said Becky. ‘It’s been radio silence since I left him. My guess is that he’s switched off his phone and is taking the day off.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true!’ said Dee. ‘I’ll bet when you get home, the house will be spotless and there’ll be a big bunch of flowers waiting for you!’
‘Are you kidding?’ said Becky. ‘The last time Bryan and I fought like this, d’you know what he did? He went to the movies!’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I’m not! And when I confronted him with it, d’you know what he said? “Well, Becky, you were mad at me anyway, so I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb”!’
David coughed on his tea. He put down the cup and banged his fist on his chest.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s not funny!’ said Dee.
‘I know, darling. But you do have to admit… that is so Bryan!’
‘Tell me about it,’ muttered Becky.
‘Look, David,’ said Dee. ‘I get that Bryan is a “character”. But that doesn’t excuse what he did to Becky today!’
‘I’m not saying it–‘
‘I don’t think you men appreciate how important these things are for us! Marriage is a team effort, you know!’
‘Darling, I–‘
‘It’s about doing things together! Right, Becky?’
‘I’m with you there,’ said Becky. ‘Unfortunately, Bryan has got his own ideas about that.’
‘Yes, clearly!’ said Dee.
‘Shocking,’ muttered David, sipping his tea. ‘A man with his own ideas.’
Dee gave her husband a hard stare. She was about to say something when there was a wail from the lawn. The grown-ups turned their heads just in time to see Sally raise her croquet mallet in triumph while Tara threw hers to the ground. She ran over to Becky, tears running down her face.
‘I lost again!’ she cried.
Tara buried her face against her mother’s tummy and sobbed. Sally came walking up to the table, her mallet slung casually over one shoulder. Her chubby, pretty face was redolent with winner’s smugness.
‘Can I have a drink?’ she said.
***
It was getting dark when Bryan came out of the cinema. After switching on his phone and seeing a voice message from his wife, he stood by the steps as he listened to it, half intending to go back in if it was too crazy. But the voice was surprisingly calm.
‘Hi, it’s Becky,’ it said. ‘Listen, you’re still an arsehole, but this is your home, fuckface, whatever you say. And it would be nice if Tara could see her father before she goes to bed.’
Bryan sighed, sent a text saying, ‘On my way’ and began to walk home. By the time he opened the front door and hung up his jacket, Becky was upstairs giving Tara a bath.
Bryan felt the tension the moment he stepped into the room, but the two grown-ups snapped into the roles of Mummy and Daddy and bathtime with Tara was actually okay. After the bath, Becky took Tara into her bedroom while Bryan emptied the bath and cleaned the rim. When he came into the small bedroom, Tara was in her My Little Pony pyjamas. Becky turned to him.
‘Have you eaten?’ she said.
‘No,’ said Bryan.
‘Well, there’s some pasta in the pot on the cooker. Tara, why don’t you say goodnight to your father?’
Bryan felt his throat tighten in annoyance, but he played along, kissing his daughter goodnight and going downstairs to the kitchen-dining room. As he sat eating a bowlful of pea and mushroom pasta, he reflected on Becky’s way of micromanaging her family. She had clearly figured out that if Bryan ate now while she put Tara to bed, she would save the fifteen minutes she would have wasted if they put Tara to bed together and then she had to wait for Bryan to eat before they had their talk. Mind you, this was the same woman who thought nothing of spending three hours shopping for a bedside lamp, so to Bryan this made no fucking sense at all.
Bryan was finishing up when Becky came downstairs. He had put the bowl into the dishwasher and was now putting the leftover pasta into a Tupperware box so that it could go into the fridge. Becky stood by the table and watched him.
‘Bryan, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why are you doing that?’
Bryan paused, pot in one hand, large spoon in the other, and looked at her.
‘I thought you wanted leftovers to be put into Tupperware boxes?’ he said. ‘Isn’t that why you bought them?’
‘I see,’ said Becky. ‘So you’re doing it because that’s what I want? You’re not doing it because putting leftovers into airtight containers is, in fact, the best way of storing food?’
Bryan finished emptying the pot, then put it gently down on the kitchen counter. His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not.
‘Becky…’ he said. ‘How often are we going to have the same fight?’
‘What do you mean, “the same fight”?’
‘Look, whether it’s bedside lamps or Tupperware boxes, it all boils down to the same thing: you want us to do things your way; I want us to do things my way. Right?’