hand, a) I wasn’t actually going to admit that to Jane, and b) I’d really gone to rather a lot of effort to collect those teeth and so I wasn’t quite ready to part with them just yet. Anyway, they might come in useful for something.
‘Useful for what?’ said Jane in horror. ‘Seriously, Mother, what exactly do you think a box full of human teeth might be useful for? Are you going to become a witch or something? Eye of newt and tooth of child? Is that why you’re getting chickens – you claimed it was because they were chatty, but actually you’re planning on sacrificing them and reading the portents in their entrails while daubed in their blood? I’m not having any part of that. I’m going to go and live with Dad if you do that. That’s just going too far, Mother.’
‘What?’ I said in confusion. ‘How did you get from your baby teeth to me becoming some sort of chicken-murdering devil worshipper? I’m not going to sacrifice the chatty chickens. The chickens aren’t even here yet and you’re accusing me of secretly wanting to kill them!’
Simon chose that moment to arrive and collect his darling children.
‘Dad, if Mum becomes a Satanist and kills the chickens, I’m coming to live with you, OK,’ Jane informed him by way of a greeting.
‘Errr, hello darling,’ said Simon. ‘Why is your mother becoming a Satanist?’
‘I’m NOT,’ I said crossly.
‘She collects human body parts,’ said Jane darkly.
‘I BLOODY WELL DON’T!’ I shouted.
This wasn’t the scene I’d envisioned for Simon seeing me in my new home for the first time. I’d lost track of time, and instead of being elegantly yet casually clad in a cashmere sweater and sexy boots, perhaps with some sort of flirty little mini skirt to remind him that actually my legs really weren’t bad still, while reclining on a sofa in my Gracious Drawing Room, I was in my scabbiest jeans, covered in mud from walking Judgy earlier, with no make-up, dirty hair and clutching a box of teeth, with the house looking like a bomb had gone off and boxes everywhere. Simon meanwhile appeared to have finally cast aside his scabby fleeces in favour of tasteful knitwear and seemed to be attempting to cultivate some sort of designer stubble. Or maybe he just hadn’t bothered to shave. Either way, it suited him. Bastard. I glared at him.
‘Right …,’ he said, wisely deciding the best thing to do would be to ignore this whole conversation and pretend it had never happened. ‘Jane, are you ready? And where’s your brother?’
Jane looked surprised. ‘Ready? What, now? Like, NO, I need to pack. How should I know where Peter is? I’m not his mother!’
I sighed. ‘I suppose you’d better come in then, Simon. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Could I get some coffee?’
‘Fine.’
At least the kitchen was unpacked and relatively tidy. I reached for the jar of Nescafé, as Simon said, ‘Don’t you have any proper coffee? You know I don’t like instant coffee.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘No, Simon. I don’t have any proper coffee, because I don’t have a coffee maker, because I don’t drink coffee, and so I only have a jar of instant as a courtesy for guests, and I only offered you a cup of tea in the first place because I’m trying VERY HARD to keep things between us on an amicable footing, at least on the surface, so we don’t mentally scar and traumatise our children and condemn them to a lifetime of therapy because we weren’t adult enough to be civil to each other, but I must say, you’re doing an extraordinarily good job of making it difficult for me to FUCKING WELL DO THIS!’
‘You don’t drink coffee?’ said Simon. ‘Since when don’t you drink coffee?’
‘I haven’t drunk coffee in the house since I was pregnant with Jane,’ I said. ‘I occasionally, VERY occasionally have a latte when I’m out, but other than that, I barely touch the stuff, because it made me puke like something out The Exorcist when I was pregnant. How have you never noticed me not drinking coffee over the last FIFTEEN YEARS?’
‘But what about the coffee maker I gave you for your birthday a few years ago?’
‘Would that be the coffee maker when I said, “Well, this is a lovely present for you, because I DON’T DRINK COFFEE?”’
‘I thought you were joking. Is that why you let me keep it?’
‘Yes, Simon. Because there’s no point in me having a shiny fuck-off coffee machine cluttering up my kitchen when I DON’T DRINK COFFEE! Are you starting to perhaps grasp why we’re getting divorced?’
‘Because of coffee?’
‘No, the coffee is a METAPHOR!’
‘Are you sure you mean metaphor?’
‘No, no I’m not. Anyway, the fucking COFFEE is symbolic of the vast chasm and divide between us.’
‘Oh,’ said Simon. ‘Should I just have a cup of tea then?’
‘Oh FFS! I don’t CARE what you have. I’m going to see if your children are ready.’
Upstairs, I knocked tentatively on Peter’s door, then left a few seconds and knocked again. I’m too afraid to enter unbidden in case I witness something that means I can no longer look at my baby boy in QUITE the same way again. While I was standing there, I mentally added more Mansize tissues to the shopping list. Eventually I shouted, ‘Peter? Peter, Dad is here! Are you ready?’
Peter finally opened his door and looked at me blankly. ‘Dad?’
‘Yes, Dad is here.’
‘Dad? Here? Why?’
‘To pick you up. You’re going to his house this weekend.’
‘THIS weekend?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, like TODAY?’
‘YES.’
‘But I can’t go yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m at a really good part in my game and I haven’t got a proper computer at Dad’s.’
‘I don’t care, you’re going to his house. Now.’
‘Can I take my computer?’
‘NO! Just pack some pants or something.’
‘Pants? Why?’
‘SO YOU CAN CHANGE THEM. OMG. JUST PACK SOME CLOTHES.’
‘OK.’
I banged on Jane’s door.
‘Are you ready?’ I demanded.
‘I’m doing my make-up,’ Jane shouted. ‘My eyebrows aren’t done.’
Eventually, after an HOUR of toing and froing and shouting and bellowing (during
