in darkness when she pulled up outside. Sighing, Doll unlocked the door and stepped into the chill bleakness. Brett hadn’t remembered to fix the timing on the central heating again. He’d be asleep in front of the full-bore electric fire, with the living-room door closed, leaving the rest of the house to shiver.
As she’d suspected, the living room was like a blastfurnace. The television chattered to itself in the darkness and Brett’s snoring drowned out the manic screeching from the cartoon characters. Turning down the television and switching on the lights, Doll looked round in dissatisfaction.
Brett was very much magnolia-man when it came to interior decor, as Lance had been. The bungalow was clean, neat and paid testimony to a bland lack of imagination. Not, Doll thought, that she’d ever go quite as mad with colour as her mother had, but a few soft edges, a touch of cosiness – pictures, cushions, plants – surely wouldn’t hurt? Brett, sadly, considered such fripperies far too girlie. He became quite sulky and dogmatic when Doll suggested making changes and she’d long become too apathetic to insist. At the tender age of thirty, Brett was a bit of a dinosaur really.
He snored and stirred in his armchair as Doll looked at him, not with passion, but with an almost motherly affection. He was tallish and slimmish and fairish. Not ugly, not handsome, not anything particularly outstanding. He was hardworking and stoic and simply part of her life.
They’d known each other since they were fifteen. Neither of them had had anyone else. They shared a history, and rubbed along okay. The spark, such as it had ever been, had spluttered and died years before, but she still couldn’t imagine her life without him in it. Sad then, that they had probably stayed together out of habit and fear of the unknown.
Hurrying across the hall and into their icy bedroom, Doll pulled off her uniform, changed into jeans and jumper, and pounded across the hall again. Making a cup of tea and beans on toast, she elbowed her way back into the living room with the tray.
‘Brett … Brett … wake up. I’ve made your tea.’
He stirred and blinked at her. ‘What? Oh, I must have dropped off.’ He hauled himself upright and took the tray. ‘Thanks. Where’s yours?’
‘I’m going to Mum’s, remember? She’s cooking for me and Lulu. A sort of girlie supper party.’
Brett attacked his beans on toast and didn’t look up. ‘Oh, yeah. Okay. I’ll probably be in bed when you come home, then.’
In bed and asleep, Doll thought sadly. As always. She longed for a baby, but to have a baby you had to have sex, and to have sex it helped if you were both awake at the same time.
When she pulled up outside her mother’s house she’d almost expected to see the emergency services already in situ. It seemed impossible that Mitzi could cook an entire meal without setting fire to something or poisoning herself while tasting her concoction.
‘In the kitchen, Doll!’ Mitzi called. ‘Come on through, love.’
‘Jesus!’
Doll inhaled the fumes emanating from the cooker – unknown aromatic herbs and spices served to produce a rich exotic fug which wreathed and swirled round the kitchen – blinked at her mother and then, finally, at the devastation.
Mitzi, with a towel tied round her waist, and her sleeves rolled up, was red faced, and her hair was standing on end. The kitchen looked even more scary. Not a work surface was visible, not a pot, pan or spoon appeared to be unused. Heaps of dried leaves, unidentifiable lumps of vegetation, and small bowls of peculiar-smelling unguents were scattered across the table top. Saucepans bubbled happily on the hob, the oven was radiating heat, and Richard and Judy were peering nervously over the top of the washing basket.
Fondling their grey heads, Doll tried not to laugh. ‘Um – how’s it going?’
‘Great, love. Great.’ Mitzi blew a strand of hair away from her face as she peered at
As she’d suspected, the living room was like a blastfurnace. The television chattered to itself in the darkness and Brett’s snoring drowned out the manic screeching from the cartoon characters. Turning down the television and switching on the lights, Doll looked round in dissatisfaction.
Brett was very much magnolia-man when it came to interior decor, as Lance had been. The bungalow was clean, neat and paid testimony to a bland lack of imagination. Not, Doll thought, that she’d ever go quite as mad with colour as her mother had, but a few soft edges, a touch of cosiness – pictures, cushions, plants – surely wouldn’t hurt? Brett, sadly, considered such fripperies far too girlie. He became quite sulky and dogmatic when Doll suggested making changes and she’d long become too apathetic to insist. At the tender age of thirty, Brett was a bit of a dinosaur really.
He snored and stirred in his armchair as Doll looked at him, not with passion, but with an almost motherly affection. He was tallish and slimmish and fairish. Not ugly, not handsome, not anything particularly outstanding. He was hardworking and stoic and simply part of her life.
They’d known each other since they were fifteen. Neither of them had had anyone else. They shared a history, and rubbed along okay. The spark, such as it had ever been, had spluttered and died years before, but she still couldn’t imagine her life without him in it. Sad then, that they had probably stayed together out of habit and fear of the unknown.
Hurrying across the hall and into their icy bedroom, Doll pulled off her uniform, changed into jeans and jumper, and pounded across the hall again. Making a cup of tea and beans on toast, she elbowed her way back into the living room with the tray.
‘Brett … Brett … wake up. I’ve made your tea.’
He stirred and blinked at her. ‘What? Oh, I must have dropped off.’ He hauled himself upright and took the tray. ‘Thanks. Where’s yours?’
‘I’m going to Mum’s, remember? She’s cooking for me and Lulu. A sort of girlie supper party.’
Brett attacked his beans on toast and didn’t look up. ‘Oh, yeah. Okay. I’ll probably be in bed when you come home, then.’
In bed and asleep, Doll thought sadly. As always. She longed for a baby, but to have a baby you had to have sex, and to have sex it helped if you were both awake at the same time.
When she pulled up outside her mother’s house she’d almost expected to see the emergency services already in situ. It seemed impossible that Mitzi could cook an entire meal without setting fire to something or poisoning herself while tasting her concoction.
‘In the kitchen, Doll!’ Mitzi called. ‘Come on through, love.’
‘Jesus!’
Doll inhaled the fumes emanating from the cooker – unknown aromatic herbs and spices served to produce a rich exotic fug which wreathed and swirled round the kitchen – blinked at her mother and then, finally, at the devastation.
Mitzi, with a towel tied round her waist, and her sleeves rolled up, was red faced, and her hair was standing on end. The kitchen looked even more scary. Not a work surface was visible, not a pot, pan or spoon appeared to be unused. Heaps of dried leaves, unidentifiable lumps of vegetation, and small bowls of peculiar-smelling unguents were scattered across the table top. Saucepans bubbled happily on the hob, the oven was radiating heat, and Richard and Judy were peering nervously over the top of the washing basket.
Fondling their grey heads, Doll tried not to laugh. ‘Um – how’s it going?’
‘Great, love. Great.’ Mitzi blew a strand of hair away from her face as she peered at
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