the parents! Good luck,’ I say. I cannot imagine Dave meeting my parents. And I don’t have a present for him either as all he said about the subject was ‘I don’t do presents, but I promise to slip you a little Christmas cheer’.
‘Alright, darling. Miss you like cock!’
‘Miss you too. I’ll call you tonight.’
This holiday has been endless. Plum and I have slipped back into talking three times a day, like teenagers. And I haven’t thought about my career doubts, and the job offer in Hong Kong, and what I’ll do next. I haven’t told anyone in my family about it either. They’d just get carried away and that would make it even harder to think clearly.
‘ABIGAAAAIL!’
God, it’s irritating to be shouted at every 20 seconds. I walk down the stairs, automatically checking my phone and email on the way. Dave hasn’t been in touch today, which I think might be why I’m feeling particularly feverish.
‘ABI— ’
‘I’m here,’ I say quietly. Dad is standing in the kitchen, saucepan of soup bubbling on the stove, staring at the open fridge with his hands folded thoughtfully over his chest. It’s the same stance he uses to watch cricket.
‘Oh! Darling. Good. I’m doing the fridge, and I thought you might like to be my little helper.’
When I was five, ‘doing the fridge’ with Dad was my favourite activity, simply because we almost always found chocolate stashed behind some eggs or something, and we’d share it, giggle furtively and Not Tell Mummy. Now that I’m almost 28 and have my own fridge and chocolates, it’s less exciting. But I can’t say that as it’ll hurt his feelings.
‘I’d love to,’ I say as enthusiastically as I can.
‘So, bub, tell me about your plans for New Year’s Eve,’ he says a few minutes later, when we’re rubber-gloved and ready to go. He starts handing me the milk and juices (‘Door first! Then top to bottom!’) and I stack them symmetrically on the bench.
‘Um, I’m not sure yet,’ I say honestly.
‘Your first New Year as a single girl, not to mention your birthday on New Year’s Day, you should be out on the town,’ says Dad. ‘Fun. It’s all about having fun.’
God, he sounds like Robert. ‘Well, Plum’s with her boyfriend, and Henry is at home in the Cotswolds with Charlotte, did I tell you about her? I introduced them and now they’re in love. I don’t really know what the rest of the uni crowd is up to, I’ve avoided them a bit since Peter and I broke up,’ I’m auto-wittering to hide how distracted I’m feeling. ‘I think Sophie and Luke are coming back to London. I guess my flatmate, Robert might be around.’
‘Have you been seeing anyone, since, er, you know who?’ asks Dad. Ah, he wants a daddy-daughter heart-to-heart. He always likes doing these over a project. When I was here last summer, just before I broke up with Peter and was mute with anticipatory worry, it took him three similar daddy-daughter projects to get me to talk about it. When I finally did, however, I felt so disloyal to Peter that I could hardly say a thing. I just cried. So then Dad took me to the huge supermarket in Béziers and we looked at the hardware aisle together in silence. ‘I have been dating,’ I say. ‘It’s fun. I am very glad I broke up with Peter, put it that way.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Nope,’ I lie. I don’t want to talk about Dave. They’ll wonder why I haven’t mentioned him till now, and why he hasn’t called, and why I didn’t open a present from him on Christmas Day. I wonder if he’s found out it’s my birthday on New Year’s Day . . . Oh God, I am tired of thinking. ‘You know. Taking it casual.’
‘There’s no hurry. I hope you don’t feel pressured to meet someone because of Mrs Mop getting married.’
Mrs Mop is Dad’s pet name for Sophie. I am Mrs Waterbucket. They’ve been our nicknames forever, for reasons unknown.
Dad starts handing me the pickles and chutneys from the top shelf of the fridge. Condiments always seemed to me to be an extraordinarily grown-up thing to have in a fridge, don’t you think? I used to have loads of chutney-type things when I lived with Peter. Such a different life.
‘Earth to Abigail,’ says Dad. ‘I asked if you’d met anyone particularly nice.’
‘Sorry!’ I say. ‘Mind wandering again.’
‘You’ve always been the same, carrying on entire conversations in your head and exhausting yourself. I think it’s the reason you didn’t speak till you were three.’
‘Till I was three?!’
‘Well,’ he says, his voice muffled from deep inside the fridge, as he passes me jars of anchovy paste and mussels. I’ve never seen a fridge so full of non-food food. ‘You were always the slowest to do anything, because you thought about it so much first. But then when you actually tried, you were brilliant. Like when you finally started talking, you spoke in full sentences. None of this mama-dada-baba rubbish for you. So I’m sure it’s the same with, you know, love.’
‘But learning to talk is a bit different from love.’
‘Take your time,’ he says. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but when you find the right person you’ll just know. It’ll all be very easy.’
‘Really?’ I say doubtfully.
‘Everyone says it, but it’s true.’ The fridge is empty now. ‘Right. Now we wash the shelves.’
Dad is so happy when he’s got both sinks full of hot water, splashing soapy bubbles everywhere. He’s like a big duck. It drives my mother nuts. On cue, the front door bangs, and my mother walks in. She’s been out gossiping with the neighbours, judging by the gleeful look on her face.
‘Hands up who wants to watch Grease tonight? I just borrowed it from Virginia and Rod up the road!’ says Mum excitedly. Sometimes she says things in an eager voice in an attempt to get Sophie and I keyed up about things. I think it worked when we were small.
‘Yes please,’ I say. ‘Sounds great.’
Mum cocks her head to one side and looks up at me. She’s a good five inches shorter than either Sophie or I, though she thinks she’s very tall. (‘I based my whole personality on being tall, I can’t change now,’ she said once, when Sophie and I confronted her about it.) She also has the ability to pick some-one’s mood based on the way they’re holding their drink.
‘Are you alright? You look tired. Are you tired?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say to the fridge so she can’t look at my eyes and see that I’m lying.
‘You’ve been out of sorts ever since you arrived. Have you twosied today?’
‘Everything’s smashing in that department, thanks, Mum,’ I say, giving her the double thumbs up. ‘I don’t think “twosie” is a verb, though.’
‘Thank you, smartypants,’ Mum pretends to smack me, but I jump away.
Dad is now standing in front of
