State We're In by Adele Parks Page B

newspaper if his father had become a politician or a leader of industry.
    He dared not ask what it was exactly Eddie Taylor had been searching for, and whether he had found it. He did not want to face the fact that he might have been abandoned so that his father could pursue a life of indulgence and womanising, because whilst that was how Dean spent most of his time, hearing his father admit to as much would somehow seem so mediocre. Anything but that.
    â€˜There was a woman,’ Eddie said.
    â€˜Oh fuck.’ Dean wanted to howl.
    â€˜Actually, there were loads of them. I wasn’t designed for fidelity. I had appetites. I was young.’
    â€˜Not that young. You were thirty-four when you left. My age. I don’t feel young.’ He never had. Eddie closed his eyes once more. His breathing slowed a fraction. Dean did not want him to lose consciousness again. Not before he had his answers. ‘Who was she?’
    â€˜She was posh. Married. Different to the others. I thought we could live better.’
    â€˜Because she was wealthy?’
    â€˜No, because she was
her
.’
    It seemed an oddly romantic thing for the most selfish man on the planet to say, and Dean found himself asking, ‘What happened?’
    â€˜She didn’t want me once I was free. She stayed with her husband.’
    Dean froze. He used every iota of self-control to hold his body in place. If he moved, even a fraction, he might start to flay and spin, break and smash. He might upturn the vital medical equipment that was reducing Eddie’s pain; he might rip down the curtains that were offering the last shred of privacy and dignity. He might let out the scream that he’d swallowed for so many years. All that agony. All that sorrow. For pussy that didn’t want even want Eddie Taylor. He’d hated his father for so long and with such intensity, he’d never thought it was possible to hate anyone more, but now he found he did. He hated her, this woman, whoever she was, wherever she was. He hated her more.

10
Jo
    I head back to my parents’. I can’t think of anywhere else to go, which says it all really. As I sit on the tube, travelling towards Wimbledon, I think that I might as well be carrying a placard declaring ‘THIRTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD SCREW-UP’ . I’m sure my failure is obvious to everyone; it pools around my feet like rainwater around an umbrella. How have I become this homeless, jobless, loveless woman? What will my parents think? They’re the opposite. They don’t have a hint of failure about them. They own
two
beautiful homes: the family home in Wimbledon and a ski lodge in the Alps. My father is an incredibly successful City analyst, and although Mum doesn’t have a paid job, she’s a faultless homemaker and she’s also enthusiastically involved in raising funds for a number of worthy causes. In addition, they are the most loved-up couple you could hope to encounter. Even after all these years they still hold hands in public.
    It’s sickening, really.
    My parents live in a prestigious four-storey detached house close to Wimbledon Common. My father’s income and my mother’s dedication to home decor has ensured that it’s one of the most impressive and stylish homes most people could imagine stepping into, let alone living in. Floor-to-ceiling windows guarantee that light spreads throughout the house, allowing Mum to be bold with the colour scheme; the ground floor is awash with muted taupe and mushroom, but the tones deepen with each floor, culminating in the pewter and purple master bedroom at the top of the house. The entire place is elegantly fitted out. Carefully selected antique bureaus and writing desks nestle against daring Designer Guild wallpapers, while restored high-backed Queen Anne fireside chairs and slouchy retro leather sofas welcome guests. There are a large number of bookshelves that house early-edition classics as well as