Copycat Read Free

G-plan Sixties furniture, and pot plants, a timid green in the passionless air, sitting sadly in spindly wicker stands.
    ‘What do you two get up to all evening, hiding away in your bedroom like this? You can’t possibly be comfortable. For goodness sake, come in and join Howard and me in the lounge. We won’t eat you,’ said Graham’s mum, Ruth, aggrieved.
    But Graham and I, cuddled up on the bed watching telly, were just happy to be together, at one, married, a front to the world.
    Graham said, ‘Leave us alone, Mum. We’ll come through if we want to. We’re fine.’
    ‘Well, excuse me for interfering.’
    Because I worked I didn’t have time to help with stuff like laundry, shopping or housework but I knew Ruth expected more of me, and sitting with her and Howard in the evening seemed to be part of the deal. We ate with Graham’s parents even though we had made it clear we would rather eat alone. Gravy with everything. Stewed fruit in various guises in shell-shaped dishes of watery green. On the day after we moved in I came home to find the table set for four.
    ‘Ruth, you should have left that,’ I said. ‘I’d have done it.’ But my voice trailed away as I undid the buttons on my mac while she tied on her apron.
    ‘You can do the potatoes, dear, if you really want to help. Let Graham and his dad watch the news in peace.’
    Oddly, as if she resented me, Ruth seemed deliberately to do her chores in an order which made it impossible for me to help. I simply was not there to do my duty, so her irritation was self-induced.
    The dishes could never be left to drain. ‘We don’t want smeary china,’ she told me. She eyed me through a stiffening distaste. ‘In this household, Jennie, we have always dried up.’ And then she watched me carefully. ‘One plate at a time, dear, please. I’ve kept these plates for twenty-five years and I don’t want chips in them now.’
    Clean sheets would be folded and pointedly left on the end of the bed every week, as if she guessed ours would be stained. Every Friday, top sheet to bottom and a fresh one on top. I said, ‘Please don’t bother to iron our sheets, Ruth. They really don’t need ironing.’
    And Ruth smiled staunchly.
    I don’t think Ruth disliked me, but maybe she was trying to tell me something I had failed to grasp about marriage. Graham and I were married now and so the romance was over. As a wife, self-sacrifice came next on the list and this was a mild initiation.
    I would look at Graham reproachfully but all he could do was shrug his shoulders.
    When we drank wine it was secretly and in the morning Graham smuggled the bottles out of the house in his briefcase, rolled up in serious newspapers.
    Another couple would have made a fuss but not me and Graham, oh no. We hated to argue, we dreaded scenes and we felt so grateful to have found each other. Neither of us had imagined we were special enough to be chosen, neither of us had had a best friend; we were so similar in that kind of way. Middle of the road, fifteenth in a class of thirty, sixth in a team of twelve, friends with everyone but special to no-one.
    Fair to middling. Could do better.
    One of the best things about being married was sharing somebody else’s name. There was strength to be had in this pooling together; a name was a stout wooden fence and meant we could peer at the world through the knots. And Gordon, a good strong name, was near the front of the alphabet whereas my maiden name, Young, had kept me last in life, near the back.
    Every day during that first summer we went to look at our sprouting house, pacing round it and imagining what our new furniture would look like inside. I would walk up and down the stairs, running my hand along the smooth wooden banister. Graham planned out the garden. Unsure of the house to begin with, I came to start loving it then. It signified such a great escape and I whispered to it, ‘Oh hurry, house, hurry up, please hurry.’
    Heaven. We could