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It might actually, dare I say it, be sort of nice, were it not for the fact that we simply cannot allow Mum and Dad to get close again, and just having the plan hanging in the balance is making me feel nervous, like I’m standing in the wings, waiting to go up on stage and give a speech. I laugh to myself, when I remember what Jess said to me earlier, about how the best way to tackle not feeling confident in front of people is to imagine them naked, because she clearly didn’t properly consider the fact that, with the people in question being my parents, that is a far from ideal solution.
With dinner all done, and at least a couple of glasses of wine in each of us, it’s time to pull the pin out of the grenade.
‘We were looking through the old games, from when we emptied the house last night, and we found this one,’ I say as I set A Matter of Morals down on the table in front of us. ‘And we remembered that you never used to let us play it as kids, so we’d love to give it a go now that we’re grown-ups.’
I do see the irony in me describing Jess and myself as grown-ups when we’re clearly playing a very immature game tonight – a game inspired by a movie we watched when we were kids, no less.
‘Oh, I’m not sure that’s appropriate,’ Mum says, her eyes wide with horror simply laying eyes on the box. The sight of it alone is enough to freak her out. ‘This game was famous for ending marriages, back in the day.’
‘Good thing none of us are married to each other then,’ I point out with a smile.
‘Don’t worry, we were looking through it earlier, and we took out the dodgy questions,’ Jess says. ‘Your generation is messed up, by the way.’
‘Yeah, the really offensive cards are all out – although lots of them are still quite dated. I guess, when it comes to the questions that mention things like fax machines, we’ll just substitute things for a modern equivalent. What do you say?’
‘I suppose it could be fun,’ Dad says, looking over at Mum. ‘It might be good, playing it with the girls, if all the controversial questions are removed. Are you sure there are any cards left?’
‘There are,’ I say confidently.
The idea is that question one will set them on their way to having clearly very different opinions, Jess and I will have an easy one, to usher us swiftly through our turn, but then the next question for my mum and dad will be the one that implodes the evening, so much so we didn’t even bother setting up any more questions after that one, it will most definitely be game over after that.
‘Okay, go on then,’ Mum says. ‘What teams are we going to be on?’
‘Billie and I thought we might be on the same team,’ Jess says quickly. ‘So long as you and Dad don’t mind teaming up?’
‘Not at all,’ Dad says. ‘It will be just like old times.’
Hopefully this will be the last time.
‘Okay, let’s do it,’ I say with a nervous excitement.
I set the game up, handing out the little notebooks and pencils that come with it, so we can each write our answers down. I can’t help but notice, on my notebook, the imprint of what was previously written, the last time the game was played. As best I can tell, it says ‘fake my own death’, which is genuinely terrifying. I wonder what was on the card, to make someone say that.
‘You guys can go first,’ I instruct. ‘Dad, why don’t you read one for Mum?’
‘All right, then,’ he says as he draws a card. ‘A woman’s place is in the kitchen – agree or disagree?’
It’s a gentle-ish one to get them started, but Dad always had really traditional ideas about gender roles, whereas Mum is (rightly) the type to think that a woman can do anything that a man can if she wants to, and vice versa. I remember the two of them having a huge argument when we were younger, because Jess wanted to join a football team – one that was only for boys (obviously there wasn’t a girls’ one, it was the nineties) – but Dad didn’t think they should even mention it to the boys’ coach, because the team was only for boys and that was that.
Mum jots her answer down on her notebook. Dad writes down what he thinks Mum will say.
‘Okay, what are your answers?’ I prompt.
‘Well, obviously that’s a load of rubbish,’ Mum says. ‘I spend time in the kitchen because I want to, not because I have to. A woman’s place is wherever she wants to be.’
‘And, Dad, what did you put?’ Jess asks.
‘Exactly what your mum said,’ he replies. ‘Your mum has always been a firm believer that you girls could do whatever you wanted.’
‘Okay, but what doyouthink?’ I ask him, which is the point of the game, but it’s also the first step in reminding my mum and dad why they are so wrong for each other.
‘Obviously it’s in my interest for your mum to be in the kitchen as much as possible, because I do love her cooking,’ he jokes. ‘But your mum has clearly always been right. Look at the two of you, growing up, doing what you want in life, making yourselves happy. Billie, this house is amazing, and to have done it all yourself just goes to show that women and menareequal.’
I narrow my eyes at him. How can I be so mad at him for giving such a good answer? I suppose because that question wasn’t the slam-dunk we thought it was going to be.
‘Okay, my turn to read one for Billie,’ Jess says, moving on. ‘You find £1,000 in an envelope in the street. Do you keep it?’
I write down my answer. Jess writes down what she thinks I will say.
