pine trestle table thatâs been in Thorrold Houseâs kitchen since before I was born, with the
Times
in front of him; Mum bustling around preparing food and drinks and waiting on everybody, refusing all offers of help so that she can sigh and rub the small of her back when she finally finishes loading the dishwasher; Anton leaning diagonally â in the manner of someone too cool to stand upright â against the rail of the Aga, which was once red but is now cross-hatched with silver from years of scratches; Fran fussing over Benji, trying to force one Brussels sprout, one leaf of spinach, one pea into his mouth, offering him vats of chocolate mousse, mountains of crisps and endless sugary butter balls as an incentive.
And me sitting in the rocking-chair by the window, fantasising about wrapping a thick blanket around my head and smothering myself, biting back the urge to say, âWouldnât it be better for him to have fish, potatoes and no courgette rather than fish, potatoes, a bit of courgette, twenty Benson and Hedges, a bottle of vodka and some crack cocaine? Just wondering.â
Iâm at my most vicious when Iâm with my family.
One good reason why I shouldnât live a hundred and fifty yards down the road from them
.
âDo you think I ought to run it under the cold tap,â Mum says to Dad, stroking her hand. âIsnât that what they say you should do with burns? Or are you supposed to put butter on them? I havenât burned myself for years.â Sheâs given up hope of attracting Franâs or Antonâs attention, but sheâs a fool if she canât see that Dadâs too angry with me to listen to anything she might say. The extent of his fury is clear from his posture: head bowed, forehead pulled into a tight frown, shoulders hard and hunched, hands balled into fists. Heâs wearing a blue and yellow striped shirt, but Iâm sure if Alice were here she would agree with me that the energy radiating from him is a stony grey. He hasnât moved at all for nearly fifteen minutes; the grinning, back-slapping Dad who ushered me in here when I arrived has vanished and been replaced by a statue, or sculpture, which, if I were the artist, I would call âEnraged Manâ.
âHave you lost your marbles?â He spits the words at me. âYou canât afford a house for 1.2 million!â
âI know that,â I tell him. It isnât only the prospect of my financial recklessness thatâs bothering him. He resents the upheaval Iâve brought into his life without consulting him. We used to be a family that, between us, had never seen a murdered woman who then inexplicably disappeared. Now, thanks to me, thatâs no longer true.
âIf you know you canât afford a 1.2-million-pound house, then why were you looking at one?â Mum says, as if sheâs caught me out with a particularly clever logical manoeuvre. She shakes her head from side to side slowly, rhythmically, as if she intends to carry on for ever, as if Iâve given her more than enough cause for eternal anguish. In her mind, Iâve already bankrupted myself and brought shame on the family. She has the capacity to enter a dimension thatâs inaccessible to mostordinary mortals: the ten-years-into-the-future worst-case scenario. Itâs as real to her as the present moment; so vivid is it, in fact, that most of the time the present doesnât stand a chance against it.
âDonât you ever look at things you canât afford?â I ask her.
âNo, I certainly do not!â
Conversation over
. Like the metal clasp of an old-fashioned purse, clipping shut. I should have known. My mother never does anything apart from the most sensible thing. âAnd nor should you, and nor
would
you, unless you were tempted, and considering mortgaging yourself up to the hilt for theââ
âMum, thereâs no way theyâd get a mortgage
Times
in front of him; Mum bustling around preparing food and drinks and waiting on everybody, refusing all offers of help so that she can sigh and rub the small of her back when she finally finishes loading the dishwasher; Anton leaning diagonally â in the manner of someone too cool to stand upright â against the rail of the Aga, which was once red but is now cross-hatched with silver from years of scratches; Fran fussing over Benji, trying to force one Brussels sprout, one leaf of spinach, one pea into his mouth, offering him vats of chocolate mousse, mountains of crisps and endless sugary butter balls as an incentive.
And me sitting in the rocking-chair by the window, fantasising about wrapping a thick blanket around my head and smothering myself, biting back the urge to say, âWouldnât it be better for him to have fish, potatoes and no courgette rather than fish, potatoes, a bit of courgette, twenty Benson and Hedges, a bottle of vodka and some crack cocaine? Just wondering.â
Iâm at my most vicious when Iâm with my family.
One good reason why I shouldnât live a hundred and fifty yards down the road from them
.
âDo you think I ought to run it under the cold tap,â Mum says to Dad, stroking her hand. âIsnât that what they say you should do with burns? Or are you supposed to put butter on them? I havenât burned myself for years.â Sheâs given up hope of attracting Franâs or Antonâs attention, but sheâs a fool if she canât see that Dadâs too angry with me to listen to anything she might say. The extent of his fury is clear from his posture: head bowed, forehead pulled into a tight frown, shoulders hard and hunched, hands balled into fists. Heâs wearing a blue and yellow striped shirt, but Iâm sure if Alice were here she would agree with me that the energy radiating from him is a stony grey. He hasnât moved at all for nearly fifteen minutes; the grinning, back-slapping Dad who ushered me in here when I arrived has vanished and been replaced by a statue, or sculpture, which, if I were the artist, I would call âEnraged Manâ.
âHave you lost your marbles?â He spits the words at me. âYou canât afford a house for 1.2 million!â
âI know that,â I tell him. It isnât only the prospect of my financial recklessness thatâs bothering him. He resents the upheaval Iâve brought into his life without consulting him. We used to be a family that, between us, had never seen a murdered woman who then inexplicably disappeared. Now, thanks to me, thatâs no longer true.
âIf you know you canât afford a 1.2-million-pound house, then why were you looking at one?â Mum says, as if sheâs caught me out with a particularly clever logical manoeuvre. She shakes her head from side to side slowly, rhythmically, as if she intends to carry on for ever, as if Iâve given her more than enough cause for eternal anguish. In her mind, Iâve already bankrupted myself and brought shame on the family. She has the capacity to enter a dimension thatâs inaccessible to mostordinary mortals: the ten-years-into-the-future worst-case scenario. Itâs as real to her as the present moment; so vivid is it, in fact, that most of the time the present doesnât stand a chance against it.
âDonât you ever look at things you canât afford?â I ask her.
âNo, I certainly do not!â
Conversation over
. Like the metal clasp of an old-fashioned purse, clipping shut. I should have known. My mother never does anything apart from the most sensible thing. âAnd nor should you, and nor
would
you, unless you were tempted, and considering mortgaging yourself up to the hilt for theââ
âMum, thereâs no way theyâd get a mortgage
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