if a fit bloke moves in next door you might want to rethink that. But,” she said, “enough of my fantasies. In any case, they can’t be worse than Barbara, right?”
I knew exactly where this conversation was heading. Camilla always wanted the skinny on our neighbor’s latest antics, and there had been plenty to entertain her with in recent months. “I bet you’re glad they dragged her off to the home,” she continued, “and—”
“That’s a bit unfair. She wasn’t well, you know? We all need to—”
“I know, I know.” Camilla shrugged. “You’re going to tell me to be more compassionate. Someday I’ll be old and senile and glad of people being patient with me.” She laughed. “But even you have to admit she was a nightmare. Sarah said she’s refused to go near the old bat for years. You never told me it was that bad.”
I opened my mouth in contradiction, then closed it again. After all, I could hardly deny it, Barbara Baker truly had been a nightmare. She’d been our neighbor since we’d bought the house in Bromley almost seventeen years earlier. At first she’d been charming and eloquent, brought us succulent mince pies at Christmas and soul-warming chicken-noodle soup when both Nate and I got the flu. She’d babysat Sarah whenever we’d desperately needed a night out—and even when we hadn’t. The perfect neighbor. Except, over the years, as Barbara slowly lost each of her cats and most of her marbles to old age, she’d gradually morphed into a shrieking banshee who wore the same white flannel nightie that had taken on a distinctly yellow sheen under the arms. It was sad, it really was, and we helped her as often as she would allow, which, lately, had been hardly ever.
Camilla leaned in and only slightly lowered her voice. “Did she honestly shout, ‘Eff off and die, you shits’ at you before she left?” Her eyes were wide, anticipating the latest morsel of gossip.
I nodded. “We’d been counting the days until she left for the home.” Why had I said that? Now Camilla would tell everyone we hated our old neighbor.
Camilla laughed. “You mean the godforsaken place where you come out stiffer than the box they shove you in, isn’t that what Barbara always called it? And Sarah said she threw the contents of the litter tray over the fence, too? God.” As she stopped to catch a breath, her face flushed, and I couldn’t tell if it was information overload or something menopausal.
“Yes, she did.” I’d have to educate Sarah again on the lost art of discretion, not that I was exactly leading by example. I cleared my throat. “But Barbara wasn’t well, the poor love.”
“So sad,” Camilla said, floury hand on hips, her voice grave. “Old age is a friend to no one.”
“Absolutely,” I said, determined to change the subject. “So how’s Josh?”
Camilla clicked her tongue. “Oh, fine. Out with his bowling league again. Some tournament or something. Can’t keep track where.”
I smiled. “Isn’t it great that you have your own interests? When you don’t have to live in each other’s pockets?”
Camilla’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Fantastic. So do you still work out as much?”
“Yeah.” Sensing an impending interrogation, I called out, “Sarah, forget it. The weather’s horrible anyway. We’ll go home instead.”
My daughter immediately appeared at the top of the stairs, her bag in her hand. “Nu-uh,” she said, pushing her blond hair away from her face. “I’m coming. I want those boots.” She hugged Claire, then kissed her on the cheek with a big, lip-glossy mwah noise. “Bye, thanks for everything.” She bounded down the stairs, patted Camilla on the arm, walked directly past me and opened the door. “Come on then, Mum. What’s keeping you?”
I refused the bait, said my goodbyes and followed my daughter outside, wondering how we’d make it through the day without wanting to throttle each other.
Dear Diary,
I think Benjamin Franklin said, “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” Well, me and Mum would never make it that long. We stink after three hours.
People say I’m like her. I suppose we have the same hair, nose and maybe eyes. But that’s it. Thank god my personality’s much more like Dad’s because Mum’s a nightmare.
For example, even though I was shattered this morning, I was still looking forward to spending time with her and getting my boots. That lasted about thirty seconds until we got in the car. First of all, Mum had a go at me about the Word of the Day calendar she gave me for Christmas. The conversation (not that it was a proper conversation) went something like:
Mum: Why aren’t you using it? Don’t you want to be a journalist? I thought it would help.
Me: I haven’t had time.
Mum: Oh, come off it, Sarah. You spend forever on that phone of yours.
Ugh!
And when I tried on the combats, Mum went all passive-aggressive with eye rolls and huffs. We studied the behavior at school when Ms. Phillips tried to show the class how pathetic it was, hoping we’d stop. Except of course we didn’t because we knew how much it peed her off.
So, when I asked Mum what was wrong she huffed again and said the boots were “aggressive looking” and “not very feminine.” I told her not to worry. That during the summer I’d only wear flip-flops and micro shorts where half your bum hangs out.
Me: What do you think, Mum? Those shorts are really feminine.
Mum: You will not be wearing those, young lady. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.
She even used the tone. God. I’d meant it as a joke. Like I’d ever be seen dead with half my bum hanging out. Not that it’s a bad butt. Actually I think it’s a quite okay butt, thank you very much, but (and that’s a lot of buts, ha ha) I wouldn’t walk around with it on display. I thought Mum would get the joke. I mean, doesn’t she know me at all?
Anyway, I bought my combats (black leather, funky, sassy, kick-ass and 60% off, yes!). Mum found a coat (black wool, single-buttoned, boring, predictable, 40% off, still not bad). And then, of course, we couldn’t agree on lunch. I wanted a burger. She wanted sushi. We ended up at Pret. Sandwiches must be the gastronomic equivalent of neutrality. Hey, that’s not a bad line. Must remember that one for my next essay.
We’re home now, and she said we should visit the new neighbors. She texted Dad, and he’s helping them put furniture together or something. Hardly a surprise. Dad’s always fixing stuff. I thought he was Bob the Builder until I was six. Might even have called Mum Wendy once (oops!). Speaking of, she told me to hurry up again. I’d better go before she flips her lid.
Later,
Sarah x.
PS. Word of the day: fantod, noun.
1. plural a: a state of irritability and tension.
b: fidgets.
2: an emotional outburst (fit).
As
