Close Relations Read Free Page A

strengthened her character, sharpening the edges that had been blurred when she was younger. Robert was a demanding husband, easily bored. He expected her to amuse him and to be a sophisticated hostess when their guests came to stay. She had always wanted to please him – too much, according to her sisters. They suspected that deep down she felt that her background and intellect were inferior to his and that she had to stay in trim, mentally and physically, to keep up with him. Theydespised this lack of self-confidence, this female compliance. Didn’t Robert realise how lucky he was to have her?
    Louise carried some muddy lettuces in from the garden. Her son had appeared. His face was bleary with sleep. He leaned against the sink eating a bowl of Nutty Cinnamon Shapes.
    â€˜Jamie, it’s twelve o’clock.’
    He raised one eyebrow. It was a new mannerism, caught from his father. ‘Chill, Ma.’
    â€˜They’ll be here in a minute.’
    â€˜It’s only Granny and Grandad.’ His withering tone, too, resembled his father’s voice. She hoped that he wasn’t growing up to be a snob. Jamie was eighteen. Next year he was going to university. He was tall and bony, with thick fair hair. Judging by the number of phone calls for him he was becoming attractive to girls. This wasn’t improving his character. They spoiled him. One would have imagined that in these post-feminist times this would be a thing of the past. But then Louise had spoiled her son too. Her sisters had always accused her of being slavish with men.
    â€˜Budge up,’ she said, dumping the lettuces in the sink.
    Imogen came in, yawning. ‘Where’s my black top?’
    â€˜Is nobody going to help me?’ asked Louise.
    â€˜It’s my birthday!’
    Jamie, still eating, sauntered away into the living room. Sound bloomed from the TV.
    â€˜Why does he always leave the room when I come into it?’ asked Louise.
    â€˜Because he thinks you’re boring.’
    â€˜Gap year my foot. Gap from what?’ She pointed to the potatoes. ‘Scrape these, will you?’
    â€˜That’s sexist. What about Jamie?’
    â€˜He’s not here. Where’s your dad?’
    â€˜He went to buy some lemons.’
    â€˜That was hours ago.’ Louise thought: the trouble with the country was that you spent the whole time running out of things and the rest of the time in the car.
    Her daughter popped a slice of salami into her mouth and wandered off. She paused to pat the dog. ‘How’s my sweetie today?’ she crooned. It often struck Louise that her children were nicer to their pets than they were to her. Yet neither the dog nor the rabbits had ever lifted a finger to help them, they had never been bored rigid by playing card games with them, nor had they nursed them through the night. Imogen had a sugary voice that she only used with Monty. When Louise pointed this out Imogen showed no surprise. ‘But he’s so sweet,’ she said. ‘So if I rolled on the floor with my legs in the air you’d be nice to me?’ asked Louise.
    Imogen was a small, wiry girl. Her hair was dark, like her father’s, but she hadn’t inherited his good looks. The person she most resembled was Aunty Maddy, a fact that her brother pointed out when he wanted to upset her. Like Aunty Maddy she was no intellectual; she was a direct, loyal girl whose slow responses irritated her father and caused Louise to jump to her defence. Robert wanted dazzling children. When Louise pointed out that success could be measured in quieter, more internal ways – didn’t niceness matter? – he said that niceness was the most tepid word in the English language and should be banned. Besides, Imogen was never nice to
him
.
    Upstairs, Louise brushed her hair. The arrival of her parents always filled her with trepidation. She could trust neither of the men to behave themselves; they brought out