‘Excuse me?’ I say, turning swiftly towards him. ‘What did you say?’
‘You’re all wound up. I’m just trying to de-escalate,’ he says, placing his palms in the air.
‘Jesus, Mike. I’m not taking them hostage. I just want my kids to eat a croissant. I want to have a holiday where I see my children, where they get out of their rooms and enjoy thesunshine, where they use the pool and don’t spend the whole time glued to their phones like cretins.’
I see Jay lean into Bella as she explains to him what a cretin is.
‘Why are we fighting about croissants?’ a voice murmurs from the shadows.
‘Oh, Louis, you’re up! Thank you for joining us! Come join the pile-on,’ I say, completely exasperated by all of them.
He frowns, confused. ‘Why are you so angry? I haven’t done anything.’
‘Exactly my point,’ I say sharply. ‘No one here is doing anything. I really don’t know why I bother!’
‘Can anyone say menopause?’ he grumbles. And then they all laugh. Mike closes his eyes slowly. This is the problem when you’re outnumbered. I don’t think I’ve raised particularly cruel children. I have moments where I like being with them, where they make me proud and I enjoy their company. They can be sweet and funny and a delight. However, there are times when they drive me up the fucking wall, and at the top of said wall, I want to scream, loudly and from my gut. Because I can’t handle the constant banter and apathy when I’m constantly trying to work them out and pouring everything I have into them, getting nothing in return.
‘Oh, piss off. All of you.’ I look down at my feet on the warm tiles, trying to stop it all from getting to me.
‘Ooooohhh,’ they all chant.
Bella remains defiant, as she always does. I can see it in her eyes. She won’t back down. It’s unfortunate that she gets that from me, that I created my own undoing. Mike looks at her, almost begging her to persuade her brothers to come over and calm the situation down with a hug. Apologise. But no. And then it comes. The eye roll.
Really? I look at all of them in turn. And then a glorious force from within overtakes me. A surge in anger sees me crawl onto our bed and grab Mike’s phone and then burst through the bedroom door and down the hallway. Bella’s room is first, I barge in and grab her phone which is plugged into the wall, still pinging with notifications. I catch her eye and see her face fill with confusion at what’s happening. But I’m on a mission. The boys’ room is next, their phones in full view on their beds; I reach for them, feeling a gleeful sense of satisfaction to see their faces drop.Menopause? Overreacting? You don’t feel like croissants?I hold on to all the phones and burst outside, lowering my sunglasses, the sunshine bristling against my skin.
‘Mum, what are you…?’
‘We didn’t mean it, Mum. Seriously…’
‘Zara!’
They all half hang out of the villa, barely clothed, blinded by the light, unable to focus and give chase. So much so that they don’t see me run towards the pool and throw their phones in. Yes, into the swimming pool. I expect they hear it though. The faintest of splashes. There is an almost slo-mo period of silence as I watch the phones fly into the blue of the sky then land in the water: it is a moment of overwhelming childish power. When my family realise what I’ve done, they all stumble outside staring at me.
‘MUM! What…’
‘Bloody hell, Z.’
They all go to the edge of the pool and for some reason I begin to laugh as Jay grabs the net and starts trying to fish them out. Louis has his head in his hands, Bella is shrieking something about unfairness and I think I hear the words ‘cow’, ‘mad’, ‘deranged’. I laugh again. I look at the inflatable crocodile.At least you’re smiling with me, Carlos. You look like a Carlos.I hear a splash as they all finally enter the water to rescuetheir beloved devices, Louis still in his boxers, Mike wading in and doing an awfully embarrassing shallow dive. Alright there, David Hasselhoff. My laughter gets louder, tears streaming from my eyes.
Happy holidays, everyone. I’m glad we’re all out here enjoying the sunshine.
Though I think there may have been easier ways to get them in the pool.
APRIL
BEN
Notting Hill, London
I fucking love potatoes. They can literally do no wrong with me; in every form they are simply delicious, hearty comfort food. Give me a potato and I’ll transform it for you. I will literally take something dull and beige, inject life into it and turn it into a golden, top-tier dish. I can bake it and serve it with a mound of oozy cheese and butter. I’ll dauphinoise that shit, grate her into a hash brown, triple cook that bitch into the best steak-cut chip you will ever put in your mouth, and if that sounds vaguely sexual then that’s fitting because it’s how I’m sitting here now, my restaurant empty, the last customer gone, eating my bowl of post-service mashed potatoes with butter. Proper French butter, tonnes of the stuff grated in so it’ll melt beautifully: freshly cracked pepper, cream, sea salt. Potatoes.Yes. Yes. Yes. Get in my mouth.
‘I don’t know anyone who just eats mashed potatoes on their own,’ Phoebe says, looking at me strangely. Phoebe who often likes to end a shift by finishing off people’s half-drunk bottles of wine. This is why I keep my youngest sister on staff in myrestaurant: she’s student cheap. Sometimes she even lets me pay her in cheese. She dances on her own in the middle of the restaurant to Olivia Dean, wine glass in hand, broom in the other. She’s the sister who sings along to every lyric, who is two glasses away from the point where the dancing will start to miss the beat.
‘I love mash,’ I tell her, knowing I must look slightly feral, perched on a stool at the bar, my spoon caressing the sides of the bowl. A bit splashes onto a menu on the counter –across theLorenzo’slogo – and I wipe it off with the tea towel still hanging off my shoulder.
Phoebe curls her lip up at me. ‘Yeah, I can tell. You’re making those strange sex sounds you make when you eat.’
I pull a face. ‘I don’t make sex sounds when I eat.’
