Page 66 of We All Live Here
“Shall we get the bill?” Lila looks at her watch. “Surely Bill and Penelope will have finished their main course by now.”
“You said we could have ice cream.” Violet crosses her arms.
“Honey, it’s only half past eight. Give the guy a chance.” Gene puts a hand on her arm. “You know Bill—it will have taken him this long to warm up! Let him have a couple of glasses of wine with her at least.”
Lila smiles awkwardly. “How do we think he’s getting on, then?” she says brightly, trying to change the conversation. “Do we think Penelope will be wearing something extraordinary?”
“Butterfly shoes!” says Violet, delightedly. “And a hat made of zebras!”
Lila lets out a small breath, and waves for the pudding menu. But when she looks over again Celie is still watching her.
•••
They walk backto the house at a sedate pace, Gene off to the side, taking advantage of the walk to smoke a cigarette. Normally, Lila would be slightly frazzled by the girls bickering animatedly behind her, but tonight she registers the snappy conversation and muttered insults with only half an ear. She had never considered the possibility that Celie might be interested in the contents of the book. What would happen if she actually read it? Would Lila need to have a conversation with her to prepare her for it?
She tries to imagine how her mother would have handled it. Francesca had Scandinavian levels of nonchalance when it came to sex and nudity. She would walk around the house with nothing on while searching for things to wear, and because she had done it since Lila was small, Lila had thought nothing of it. When Lila, as a teenager, had protested about the noise emanating from her mother’s bedroom one night, Francesca had looked bemused. “But, darling, sex is lovely! You can’t be inhibited just because someone might hear you. It’s only happy sounds after all.”
Lila is not convinced Celie would be entirely overjoyed to hear about Lila’s happy sounds. For a start, Lila has never been a walking-round-the-house-naked kind of person. It was fine when Celie was a baby (although she could probably have done without Toddler Celie telling her she had a “funny floppy belly”) but Dan had never been hugely comfortable with random nudity and she had slowly absorbed that vague discomfort for herself. They got up; they showered; they were always dressed downstairs. They only had sex when they could be sure both girls were fast asleep, and often checked on them twice beforehand just to be sure. Is Celie likely to take after Francesca, relaxed about sexuality, comfortable with the idea of her mother having an erotic life? Or will she be appalled?
As they approach the front door, she is pulled from her thoughts by the tinkling of Penelope’s laughter. The sound of a jazz piano recording drifts toward them. She checks her watch: 9:40 p.m. Gene mutters, “Attaboy,” and grins at her, and they let themselves in.
Penelope Stockbridge and Bill are bent over an old photograph album, their heads almost touching. The lights are low and two candles burn gently in the middle of the table, the detritus of the meal pushed to one side. The dirty plates, unusually for Bill, are piled up on the work surface, for washing later. The air is filled with the smell of good food and wine. Penelope looks up abruptly as Lila walks into the kitchen, as if she has been lost in her own little world.
She glances down at her slim watch, then back at Lila, her neck flushing. She is wearing a 1940s-style tea dress in dark red silk, and an ornate comb made of something like ivory pins her hair into an elaborate dark brown twist.
“Hi,” says Lila.
Penelope looks instantly awkward. “Oh, is that the time? Goodness. I had no idea.”
Gene’s voice booms from behind them. “Hey, kids, don’t break up the party on my account! I’m headed into the garden for a smoke anyhow.”
Lila sets her handbag on the side and gives Penelope what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’ll be putting the girls to bed. Please don’t get up.”
“I don’t need putting to bed,” says Celie. “I’m sixteen.”
“Yes, you do,” says Violet, gazing at Penelope. “Or you’ll be playing gooseberry.” She saysgooseberrywith salacious relish.
Penelope blushes. “Oh I really wouldn’t want to outstay my welcome…” She glances at Bill, uncertainly.
“We were just looking at pictures of me in my army days,” Bill says. His voice is cheerful and he looks open and relaxed, a little like he did years ago. Lila feels a weird pang, unsure if the fleeting feeling is because of her mother, who should have been sitting across the table, or because she, Lila, is not having evenings like these, basking in the adoration of someone who wants nothing more than to be with her.
“Bill was terribly handsome in uniform, wasn’t he? Still is,” Penelope adds, then blushes again.
Truant, furious at having been left behind, has bolted to Lila and is now weaving himself through her legs, his eyes slightly manic and his tongue lolling, so that she has to grab the work surface to stop him knocking her over. In doing so she manages to unbalance a delivery box, which falls to the floor, along with an open cookery book. The noise and sudden chaos of the kitchen seem to unsettle Penelope. Orperhaps it is just that the atmosphere has shifted, a fragile little bubble broken. She stands, and smoothes her skirt.
“I should go. It’s late and you’ve all got things to do.”
“Oh, really. You don’t have to,” Bill begins, but she is already reaching for her coat, holding it in front of her with thin, pale fingers. “Then let me walk you back to your house.”
“Goodness! It’s only four doors down.”
“I absolutely insist,” Bill says, helping her into her coat.
Penelope is glowing. She smiles at them all. “It’s been so very lovely. Bill, the food was exquisite. What a wonderful cook you are. Thank you so much. I really have had the loveliest time.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” says Bill. “You are wonderful company.” And with a last burst of breathless thank-yous from Penelope they head to the front door.
“Are they going to snog?” says Violet, fascinated, as it closes behind them.
