Page 26 of We All Live Here
Lila wrestles her way to a seated position. She looks down at her breasts, wondering if they are notably more squishy than anyone else’s.
“Oh. Also Bill says supper is ready and Gene has come back and Bill says he smells like a drunk. And I’m not eating supper because it’s got turnips in it so can I order a pizza?”
•••
For a few years,when the children were small, Lila and her mother would go to the supermarket together once a week. Francesca would accompany her ostensibly to provide back-up, a spare pair of hands to calm a screaming child, or pick up items ejected by chubby little fists from the trolley. They would sometimes have a cup of coffee afterward, if the frozen goods would last that long.
The habit continued long after the children had started school, even though there was no logical reason for them to shop at the same time. Francesca was relentlessly cheerful, treating the weekly supermarket trip like an amazing opportunity to discover new and exotic things. Lila would be pushing her way resolutely along the breakfast cereals, wondering which the girls were less likely to fight over, weighing up the terrifying amounts of sugar against the likelihood of them actually eating any of it, and would hear Francesca exclaiming from twenty yards away: “Lils! Look at this! How do you think you pronounce’nduja? Oh, lychees! I haven’t had a lychee since I was a girl! I must get a whole bowlful for Bill.” Once, when Lila was feeling particularly sour after a sleepless night or a fight with Dan, Francesca had repeatedly urged her to cheer up, to look on the bright side, to look at the wealth of amazing things in front of her and consider how lucky they were, until Lila had snapped at her, asking her why she didn’t just leave her alone.I’m not like you, Mum. I don’t feel bloody cheerful all the time.
Francesca had gazed at her quizzically, her curly gray hair bouncingon her shoulders, and then said cheerfully: “Fine! I will!” And as Lila watched, she had taken a sudden run with her trolley, then lifted both feet onto the back of it, so that she was sailing on wheels toward the far end of the aisle as shoppers moved abruptly, and grumpily, out of her way. As she went, she had turned to Lila and theatrically lifted an arm. “I’m going! I’m leaving you alone!”
Lila had stood there, stunned, as her mother had sailed around the corner, not sure whether to be embarrassed by her or impressed that she genuinely didn’t care what anyone else in the shop thought. She had turned back to the supermarket variety of Chocolate Weetos, and a few minutes later there was a whoop and Francesca was whizzing back toward her on the trolley. “Yum Yums!” she exclaimed, jumping off just as the trolley collided with the dried pasta. “It is biologically IMPOSSIBLE to be grumpy after you’ve eaten a Yum Yum. Here.”
Lila had stood eating the sugary, doughy finger, while her mother watched her with the intent anticipation of a scientist who knows they are about to be proven right. “See?” she had said, when Lila was left licking her fingers, a rueful smile on her lips. “See? Aren’t they the most glorious bringers of joy? Iknewresistance would be futile.”
Lila stares at the two elderly men now sitting at each end of her table, studiously ignoring each other as they pick their way through a plate of spiced swede fritters, and wonders how a woman capable of squeezing such epic levels of happiness out of any situation could possibly have ended up with either of these two. Bill’s mouth has compressed into a thin line of irritation, and he speaks only to offer the water jug, or ask Lila whether the fritters contain enough salt. He does not address Gene, as if by simply ignoring him Gene might spontaneously combust and disappear.
Gene is clearly a little drunk. His movements have a certain deliberateness to them, and periodically he nods, his eyebrows shooting up, as if he is engaged in some silent conversation with someone nobody elsecan see. Violet, who has been told she cannot have a pizza, pushes the swede around her plate with a sullen air, occasionally shooting furious glances at Lila, as if she is responsible for this culinary betrayal.
“So, how were rehearsals, Gene?” Lila says. She notices that her voice has a kind of cool breeziness when she speaks to him, a tone one would adopt with a neighbor one felt obliged to make conversation with when trapped on a train platform.
“Oh. Good. Great. Director’s very happy.”
“What is it you’re rehearsing?”
Gene blinks, chewing meditatively for a minute. “Just…a Swedish director. Not sure it’s anyone you would have heard of.”
“Director? Or writer?”
“What?”
“You said it was a Swedish director.”
“No. He’s English.”
Lila gazes at her food for a minute. “What’s the play?”
“Say, do you have any ketchup? I could do with a little sauce over here.”
Bill looks up from his plate.
“They’re spicy fritters. There’s a natural yogurt dressing. They don’t need ketchup.”
Gene blinks slowly at him. “Well, I like ketchup.”
“They’re not made to go with tomato. Certainly not processed tomato with a load of sugar.”
“Maybe I like processed tomato with a load of sugar.”
Lila gazes at the two of them. Nobody moves. Then, with a sigh, she gets up and walks to the larder. She locates the ketchup at the back of the cupboard, somewhere among the three-year-old tins of coconut milk, and brings it over, handing it to Gene. Bill looks at her as if she has committed an act of treachery. “If he wants ketchup he can have ketchup, Bill.”
“Don’t mind me. I’m just the fool who has spent an hour carefully combining ingredients to replicate a certain delicate balance of flavors. Why should I care if he wants to splatter industrial goop all over them?”
“Can I have some industrial goop?” says Violet, eagerly taking the bottle and squeezing ketchup all over hers.
Bill sits very still.
Lila leans forward. “They’re delicious, Bill,” she says. “Thank you.”
