A Hundred Pieces of Me by Lucy Dillon Page B

father had been in the four years Janet had been married to him, but she often wondered if some aspect of his personality, rather than the manner of his sudden death, had had anything to do with her mother’s obsession with straightforward men who filed every bank statement and did exactly what you expected them to, every time, in every circumstance. It wasn’t something she could ever imagine asking her. The few times she’d tried to start a conversation about her dad, as an adult rather than an inquisitive child, she’d been met with a wounded expression that had shut down her enquiries. Asking about her father, apparently, was an insult to the man ‘who’d brought her up’. It was, Gina thought, a weird reversal of the way she’d always assumed that liking ‘the man who’d brought her up’ would be an insult to her father.
    ‘Mum, I don’t want to talk about Stuart,’ she said. ‘It’s over. I need to focus on moving forward now. I’ve actually had quite a good weekend so far – all my things have been delivered to the new flat and I’ve been sorting stuff out. Naomi came round yesterday, she says hello . . .’
    Gina ran out of words. Janet was arranging a packet of digestives on a plate, tiling them neatly in a circle. It made her feel like a visitor, even though she knew her mother had done exactly the same thing every night at five forty-five when Terry came in. The biscuits never came out until the tea was made; it stopped them going stale, apparently.
    ‘Mum?’ she prompted. ‘I know it’s sad, but getting divorced isn’t the end of the world. I’m not old. I mean, I’m about the same age as you were when you met Terry.’
    There was a sigh, then a long pause. The local radio station mumbled in the background, and Gina felt a lethargic Sunday-ish atmosphere fill the room. Something about this house at weekends always made her feel fourteen again, complete with the looming sense that she should be getting on with something. In this case, the paperwork she needed to complete for Rory, and for the bank, and all the other faceless individuals who needed to know her new situation.
    ‘Mum?’ It came out more tetchy than she’d meant it to.
    ‘I heard what you said. I was trying to think of the right thing to say, so you won’t jump down my throat,’ said Janet, peevishly. ‘I’m trying to help, Georgina. You can be very hard to help, you know. I lie awake worrying about you. Do you think you might be in shock? I know I’m struggling to make sense of it. You seem to be rushing into all this.’
    ‘I’m just trying to be practical,’ Gina insisted. ‘It’s not that I’m not upset, and I’m sorry you’re upset too, but I’ve got to get on with things. Who knows what’s round the corner?’
    ‘Who knows indeed?’ said Janet, darkly.
    Gina felt her positive mood slowly draining away. It was so much easier to be optimistic in her new flat, even with all the boxes looming over her, than in Janet’s house. It was so . . . airless. The caddies lined up alongside the kettle – tea, coffee, sugar – hadn’t switched positions in twenty years. The only thing that changed was the calendar from the local dairy that hung on the pantry door. Each month featured tastefully backlit cows in different locations around the area.
    Her leg twitched, and she had an urge to move before she said anything she didn’t mean just to shock her mother out of that pursed expression. ‘Do you want me to take the tray through?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a few bits and pieces of yours next door.’
    Janet sniffed, and permitted her to carry the tray into the front room. Gina put it down on the coffee table, next to the remote control and the television guide, folded back at the day’s viewing, then opened her mouth to start a fresh conversation, about the bag of things she’d brought and her new flat. The big wall, and what she could put on it. Work. Anything but Stuart.
    But by the set of her jaw Janet