Mutton, page 10
‘Well, except men are allowed to be silver foxes,’ I say. ‘Being a silver fox is easy. We get bloody cougars, who are pleased with themselves for shagging boys Charlie’s age.’
‘Mum!’ says Charlie.
‘What? It’s true. Women my age ogling kids my children’s age! That’s not an achievement, it’s a psychological disorder. It’s incest by proxy.’
‘Mum!’ says Jack.
‘It disgusts me,’ I say. ‘It disgusts me when men do it, and it also disgusts me in the other direction. Also, cougars. For God’s sake.’ I am warming to my theme. ‘They’re not sexy felines, they’re maladjusted oddbods who so can’t interact with normal adults that they have to pick on children. They’re old woman sex pests. They’re the twenty-first-century equivalent of flashers. Urgh.’
‘But do we actually know any cougars?’ says Flo. ‘Aren’t they a made-up thing? How many women do you know who are shagging men young enough to be their sons? They don’t exist, or not much. They were invented by the Daily Mail. There are probably four of them in the entire country.’
I am considering my response to this when the conversation is interrupted by Ben getting up quite suddenly and offering everyone a cup of tea.
‘It’s funny what you’re saying about silver foxes,’ he says, now by the kettle and clearly not wanting to talk about cougars any more. ‘The silver fox thing. It’s reminding me of my dad.’
‘How old’s your dad?’ I ask. ‘Is he old ram or fox?’
‘Not fox or ram,’ says Ben sadly. ‘I kind of wish he were. He’s much older than my mum. He’s seventy-two. He’s very sort of correct. Old school. And – my stepmother – she … she doesn’t think any of this stuff matters. His eyes aren’t brilliant, you know? And so he has these, these sorts of whiskers on his cheekbones, just from where he hasn’t shaved properly. And hair on his ears. And his nose. And – ha, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know any of you, but …’
‘Carry on,’ I say. ‘It’s all fine.’
‘It’s only a small thing,’ Ben continues, ‘but it mentalizes me. He used to be a handsome guy. But she lets him have this old-man hair, because she doesn’t care. Like, mad old-man hair. Professor hair.’
‘Of the face,’ says Flo thoughtfully.
‘I’m sure she does care,’ I say soothingly. ‘She probably loves him so much she doesn’t even notice.’
‘Yeah,’ says Ben. ‘Maybe. She’s all right. She’s not horrible or anything. But he took pride in his appearance. He was – what’s the word? – dapper. He’d be appalled if he knew what he looked like. I just want to take a razor to him.’
‘You should,’ says Kate. ‘You should make a joke of it, or say, “Let’s go and get wet shaves.” There’s an excellent place in St James’s Street.’
‘Do you think?’ asks Ben. ‘Maybe I should. I don’t know what my problem is. But we haven’t lived together since I was fifteen, so it’s not really that … easy a relationship. And it shouldn’t really matter, should it? A bit of ear hair. So what, right? But it just makes me feel sad every time I see him,’ he says, petering out. ‘It makes me feel sad for him and in a weird way for myself.’
‘I wouldn’t worry quite yet on that front,’ says Robert. ‘You’re, what, thirty?’
‘Twenty-nine,’ says Ben. ‘No, you’re right. We’re spring chickens,’ he says, stroking Gaby’s thigh and putting on a bright smile. ‘Aren’t we, babe? Plenty of time for that later.’
‘Mm,’ says Gaby, snuggling in youthfully. ‘Too right.’
It is at this precise moment – just as Kate catches my eye, raising both eyebrows in incredulity at Gaby’s breathtaking chutzpah (mine are raised all by themselves, as we have seen) – that Flo’s two children come stampeding into the room like mini-wildebeest, breathless and squealing. Flo’s husband is halfway up the stairs, I notice, having just arrived from work and bearing yet another present.
‘Mummy,’ says the youngest. ‘Maisy is chasing us with a monster’s tail, and we are scared.’
‘And she’s going to put it on us,’ says her brother. ‘And it’s a real tail and it’s horrible.’
‘And we are scared,’ the little girl repeats.
They are giggling like mad, frenzied from the game and from a sugar-rush.
‘Raah,’ says Maisy, who has galloped upstairs and is now framed in the doorway. ‘THE TAIL WANTS TO SIT ON YOUR HEADS, BABIES.’
‘Waaah,’ the children scream, racing about the room and clinging to their mother, at that intersection between terror and laughter hysteria.
We’re all sitting about smiling and thinking how sweet they are – or at least, I am – when Gaby leaps out of the sofa and says, in an unfriendly voice, ‘Give me that, Maisy. Maise. Give it, now.’
‘The tail?’ says Maisy, looking nonplussed. ‘But we’re playing!’
‘Give it now,’ Gaby hisses, holding out her hand.
‘THE TAIL! THE TAIL!’ scream the children. They pronounce it ‘tay-yool’.
‘Darling, give Gaby the tail,’ I say, nonplussed myself. ‘She just wants to have a look at it.’
‘Nooooo!’ says Maisy.
‘You can have it back,’ I smile, getting up and going over to the sitting-room door to see what on earth all this is about. There, in Maisy’s hand, is a two-foot-long red hair extension, faintly matted at the tip, sinister now it’s disembodied. Gaby, whose eyes didn’t even flicker throughout our Botox–mutton conversation, is scarlet. Her back is to the rest of the room.
‘I’ll have it,’ I say, keeping my voice breezy and sticking the tail in the pocket of my dress. ‘Come on, children. Let’s go downstairs and find a new game, and then it’s bathtime.’
‘I don’t want to turn around,’ whispers Gaby. ‘What if he saw?’
‘It’s fine,’ I whisper back. ‘Men that age zone children out, unless they have some themselves, and besides, everybody’s talking. He won’t have heard.’
‘Jesus,’ says Gaby.
I was right: Ben appears to have been oblivious to the whole episode. When Gaby turns around he’s on his Black-Berry, head down, tapping away. ‘Drink?’ he says to her, looking up. ‘A bunch of my mates are in a bar in Kensal.’
‘Yes please,’ says Gaby, and you can hear the relief in her voice. ‘Give me two minutes to pretty myself up.’
10
My eyebrows hit their heights ten days later. Every day they’ve become slightly more quizzical and arched – fine qualities in a person, less so in facial hair – and by day ten they look like I’ve stolen them from Ming the Merciless. It is an appalling look. Happily it coincides with the beginning of the school holidays and with an intensive period of work, so I try to leave the house as little as I can and pray – literally pray, every night: health for my children, succour for the afflicted, world peace, my eyebrows – that some miraculous intervention will take place to make them go back to normal. I emailed Dr Halliday photographs of the brows, and he replied saying that yes, this sometimes happened, and he’d know for next time. I’m thinking: there won’t be a next time.
The enforced period of rest reminds me of how I lived before Gaby came to stay, before Bel the silver fox, who remains present via text and email and via a smart dinner here, a cocktail there. Before I started preoccupying myself with things that I am slightly ashamed of being preoccupied by. Gaby hasn’t been around that much – she’s often at Ben’s overnight, and in the daytime, having finally found a site for her first yoga centre, she’s busy racing about getting things organized. But she had something done to her hands three days ago – something called ‘fat transfer hand rejuvenation’, and so now she’s at home, lying at the other end of the sofa from me, reading a magazine. The backs of her hands will remain covered in weird mittens for several more days, so she doesn’t want to go out in public.
Sky – also on holiday, obviously – has rather taken to our newly home-bound existence, and appears now bearing two mugs of tea and a bacon sandwich (for me. I’ve started to rebel. I’m fed up with the kale. I don’t think the kale is worth it. So what if I’m a size 14? I mean, really – so what? Also, I went round the supermarket feeling childish excitement at the Christmassy tins of biscuits and the pyramids of Christmas puddings and the jars of Stilton, except that every time I went past something I liked the look of, I thought, ‘Not for me.’ I found it quite depressing).
‘There’s some post,’ Sky says, handing me a bunch of envelopes. ‘And one for me from Dad! He always draws a baby Beakstrel when he writes to me. Look, Clara. It’s a bird, from the Chronicles.’
‘Ah yes,’ I say. ‘Very nice. How’s he doing?’
‘He’s still majorly blocked, he says. He’s sounding a bit desperate. I was wondering – should I go and see him, do you think? Or would that be, like, really unhelpfully distracting? It’s crucial that he delivers this book. The Lapidarians – that’s his readers – are pleading with him for volume seven. The blogosphere’s gone mad and his website keeps crashing. He’s had to close the comments section.’
‘I’m sure he’d love to see you,’ I say. ‘He must be really missing you. But the point of the thing is isolation, so I’m not sure. Why not write back and ask him?’
‘Yeah, I will,’ Sky says. ‘I just wish I could think of something to help. He’s trying to link back to this stuff that happened two volumes ago, when the Hornfels laid siege to the Amphiboles, but he just can’t get it right. It’s an ongoing siege and a very parlous situation for the Amphiboles, but he can’t resolve it in a way that makes sense.’
I’m touched by the way Sky speaks like her dad’s books sometimes, and I smile at her.
‘What?’ says Gaby, looking up from her magazine.
‘My dad,’ says Sky. ‘He writes these books.’
‘I’d love to help, darling, but I haven’t read them,’ I say. ‘The Hornells mean nothing to me.’
‘Hornfels,’ says Gaby. ‘What – what are you saying, Sky?’
‘Huh?’ says Sky, puzzled. ‘About what?’
‘Your dad,’ Gaby says, sitting bolt upright. ‘Are you saying that your dad, your dad is Bernard Frossage?’ She gives a wild little laugh. ‘You’re not, right? I mean, he can’t be.’
‘Uh,’ says Sky. ‘Yeah. Yes. He is.’
‘Oh my actual fucking God,’ says Gaby. ‘I love those books.’
‘You and about ten zillion people,’ I say, laughing. ‘There’s no need to look like Brad Pitt just goosed you.’
‘Clara!’ says Gaby. ‘God! Don’t you remember?’
‘Remember what?’
‘When I say I love them, I mean I really love them. I love them best in the world. I loved them before they became well known.’ Her eyes are shining: I haven’t seen her so animated in weeks. ‘Way before the TV thing. Way before he was famous.’
‘Cool,’ says Sky, smiling. ‘I really love them too. They’re the best.’
‘What year did I change my name?’ says Gaby, addressing me.
‘Um … I don’t really remember,’ I say. ‘Long enough ago for me never to think of you as Laura.’
‘Do you remember what I changed it to?’
‘Well, er, yeah. To Gaby. To Gaby, Gaby.’
‘No!’ yells Gaby triumphantly. ‘Not Gaby. I changed it to Gabbro. Gabbro.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ I say. ‘Lost me utterly. What kind of name is that? You’ve always been Gaby.’
‘Short for Gabbro!’ Gaby practically shouts.
‘What the fuck is Gabbro?’ I ask, now beyond puzzlement.
‘Gabbro!’ says Sky. ‘Oh my God! That is so cool. High five, dude.’
They slap palms, beaming at each other.
‘Anyone want to enlighten me?’ I say. ‘I’m feeling a bit baffled, to be honest.’
‘The Lady Gabbro,’ says Sky. ‘She’s the main female character in Men of Granite. She’s The Matriarch. She’s in it from the first one. After her husband …’
‘The Magma of Magma,’ says Gaby.
‘… The Magma of Magma, perishes in battle against the Greywacke, The Lady Gabbro rules over Caldera.’
‘The Lady Gabbro?’ I can’t quite believe my ears, so I say it again. ‘Seriously, Gaby – The Lady Gabbro?’
‘But her ambitions are greater than the smallness of the land,’ says Gaby. ‘And soon she invades Pippilin, home to the Pippil peoples.’
‘Dad’s little joke,’ says Sky. ‘Get it? The Pippil People.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘What humour.’
‘They are very rich, the Pippil,’ says Sky. ‘Their coffers are plump with gold.’
‘The Pippil’s wealth is abundant, their natural resources infinite,’ says Gaby. ‘And their men are hornèd.’
‘Hornèd?’
‘Yes, when they reach manhood. But Gabbro, The Matriarch, lays waste to their lands. She subjugates them and harvests their riches. It is only the beginning. There are many checks and reversals of fortune, but the Chronicles chart the course of her ascent to power over all of Lapidosa. There’s a hint of irony in the title: Men of Granite. Do you see? Oh, Clara, I can’t believe you still haven’t read them. They’re epic.’
‘This is so great,’ says Sky happily.
‘It is very astonishing,’ I say. ‘Though now I think back – yeah, you were always trying to shove those books at me.’ When you were still plain and nerdy, I want to say, as opposed to hot and, clearly, even nerdier. ‘But since I never read them, I just didn’t make the connection. The Lady Gabbro, eh? By Bernard Frossage, rhymes with sausage.’
‘So,’ says Gaby, ignoring me. ‘What needs to happen with the siege? That’s the central question, isn’t it?’ She has risen from the sofa and is now pacing up and down the sitting room.
‘Well, yes,’ says Sky. ‘You remember when Horno, son of Hornki, finally routs the Amphiboles, after, like, three years of trying, and they retreat to the Citadel?’
‘Of course, of course,’ says Gaby. ‘Horno is invigorated by drinking from the Cup of Thark, and there’s the skirmish with the Plumèd Few at the Gates.’
‘Exactly. But even during the siege, Bold Olivine remains. Remember? And she is great with child by the end of that volume.’
‘Horno’s child. They calve early, the Amphiboles,’ says Gaby, looking thoughtful and nodding. ‘And the needs of the Hornfels are known throughout the land. I mean, woe betide the Amphibole maid who finds herself before a Hornfel’s lust.’
‘And then there’s the Quest going on in the background, and Dad says something about needing to tie the two together, and it’s all extra complicated by the fact that Calcite, that other son of Horno’s, has now reached manhood and …’
‘I feel like I’m on drugs,’ I say. ‘Am I on drugs?’
‘… and he’s now narrating the odd chapter,’ says Sky. ‘Calcite, I mean. And Dad’s also stuck with a thing to do with that. He said something about “unreliable narrators”. You know? Because it’s going to be Calcite telling some of the Bold Olivine story. And you know the state of play between them!’
‘Hm,’ says Gaby. ‘Hm. I do indeed. And then there’s the Hippolith, of course. That needs to be resolved too. Oh God’ – and here her voice darkens, like a shudder – ‘and Strong Gossan. What’s he doing with Strong Gossan? I mean, there’s only so many places he can go. Now. After the massacre that happened in Gneiss.’
‘Dude, you should write to him,’ says Sky excitedly. ‘I’d say call him up, but there’s no phone. You could maybe help him.’
‘Oh!’ says Gaby, and she actually blushes. ‘God, no. Imagine! Ha! God! No! Help Bernard Frossage! Hahaha!’
‘He really is stuck, though,’ says Sky. ‘He’d really appreciate it. He’s getting desperate.’
‘Darling,’ says Gaby. ‘There are five zillion fansites and forums where all people do all day is discuss the Men of Granite Chronicles. He just needs to dip into one of them and he’ll get millions of ideas.’
‘Oh, he does that,’ says Sky. ‘But he says if the fans have already predicted it, he doesn’t want to write it. That’s part of the problem. They’ve thought of everything. Dad says they’re “forensic”. They’re kind of ten steps ahead. Five steps wrong, usually, but still. It was bad enough a couple of years ago, but after it was on telly – well, it just went mad. It gets him down badly sometimes. It freezes his creativity.’
‘Really?’ says Gaby, sounding awed. ‘Do you think? I mean, he wouldn’t even have to read it – it would be such an honour just to communicate with him. Oh man!’ she says. ‘Bernard Frossage! Bloody hell, Sky. You might have said.’
‘Here,’ I say, opening my laptop. ‘Here’s the address. Jot it down. Or have it tattooed across your face, or something.’
‘I’ve got to go – I’m going to meet Jack in town,’ says Sky. ‘I wish I could stay a bit longer: this is amazing. Do write to him, Gaby. He’d love to hear from you, I know he would.’
‘Haflorka!’ Gaby says. ‘Haflorka, Sky!’ And here, unbelievably, Gaby makes a salutation at Sky: she extends her right arm in front of her, folds it across the lower part of her face and nods her head into the crook of her elbow. She does this slowly, at a stately pace.
‘What the actual fuck are you doing, Gabs?’ I say.
‘Haflorka, Gabbro,’ says Sky, returning the greeting. They look like a pair of shy elephants, using their trunks to hide.
‘Haf-whatty?’ I say, turning to Gaby, who is pink with excitement.
‘It’s sort of “cheerio”, “au revoir”,’ she says, looking misty-eyed. ‘In Lapidosan. And this’ – she does the salutation again – ‘is either “Thou hast returned” or “Strong voyage”.’
‘I don’t know what to say, really.’
‘You know what?’ Gaby says, ignoring me. ‘I think I’m going to do it. Why not, right? What have I got to lose? God, I queued for three hours just to get him to sign my book once. I flew to San Francisco. Do we have any writing paper?’
‘Anything for The Lady Gabbro,’ I say, still utterly incredulous at the bizarre turn of events the morning has taken. ‘In the desk drawer. In the, ah, the broogle finnibo, you’ll find ample gromble.’
