The Switch(36)

‘You just got talking, did you?’

‘Why don’t you come in, Leena?’ Penelope says.

I step inside. The house is like a time capsule from the sixties: an autumnal patterned carpet in oranges and browns, dark oil paintings, three china ducks flying their way up the hall wall and past the stair lift. It’s stiflingly warm and smells of potpourri and gravy.

Roland, Betsy, Basil and Penelope are sitting around the dining table, all clutching cocktails with variously coloured umbrellas and slices of pineapple adorning their glasses.

‘Hello,’ I say, as pleasantly as I can manage. ‘So. What’s on the menu tonight?’

‘Just a roast,’ Jackson says, disappearing into the kitchen.

Oh, sure, just a roast.

‘And brownies for pudding,’ he says.

I’m glad he’s no longer able to see my expression because I’m confident I have not managed to disguise my dismay at this news. I quietly set down my plate of blackened brownies on the Welsh dresser by the dining-room door, wondering whether there’s somewhere I can hide them so Jackson doesn’t see them. That’s quite a large pot plant over there. The brownies could definitely pass for soil if I put them around the base.

‘What was it you wanted to talk about, dear?’ Penelope asks, making her way back to her spot at the table.

‘The car!’ I say, after a moment of trying to remember what my cover story was for bringing around my please-like-me brownies.

‘Oh, yes. Serving you well, is it?’ Roland asks.

‘Yes, I just wanted to say thanks – it’s been brilliant,’ I lie.

That car is an absolute wreck. I have discovered in the last week of driving it that the air conditioning switches inexplicably between sauna hot and see-your-breath cold, and no amount of reading the manual online can help me figure out why. It is definitely making me a more dangerous driver. I now regularly remove or put on clothing while at the wheel, for example.

‘Let’s hope for Penelope’s sake that you’re better at parking than Eileen,’ Basil chortles.

I frown at that, but Betsy’s snapped back before I have the chance.

‘At least Eileen’s got enough sense to tie her shoelaces before she marches down the street, Basil,’ she says tartly.

Basil scowls, rubbing his knee. ‘That fall was no laughing matter, thank you. And it wasn’t my shoelaces, it was the potholes on Lower Lane. They’ll be the death of us, I know they will.’

‘It’s true,’ Roland says. ‘I nearly toppled my scooter down there the other day.’

‘Cocktail?’ Jackson says, reappearing from the kitchen with the oven gloves over his shoulder and a fresh cocktail in his hand.

I eye the cocktail. It does look excellent. And it’s good to sample the competition. ‘Yes, please. Though if any future May Day pitching sessions are occurring, I would appreciate an invite,’ I tell him, raising my eyebrows.

‘It wasn’t a …’ He sighs. ‘Fine. No more tropical cocktail-tasting without your knowledge. Happy?’

‘Perfectly.’ A thought occurs. ‘Whilst I’ve got you all, actually, I’ve been meaning to ask something. Getting a sponsor for May Day – had Grandma decided against it, for some reason?’

‘Ah,’ Basil says, ‘Eileen’s latest project. She didn’t get anywhere with that one either, from what I remember.’

‘And now she’s off in London, I thought we’d take it off your plate,’ Betsy says, sipping her cocktail.

Basil shakes his head incredulously. ‘Eileen has some strange ideas, but taking off to London has to be her strangest. You know she’s living with a lesbian?’ he tells Betsy. ‘And a pregnant one at that? Can you believe it?’

‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘That pregnant lesbian happens to be my flatmate and one of my closest friends. Do you have a problem with lesbians, Basil?’

Basil looks startled. ‘What?’

‘Or perhaps you have a problem with lesbians having children?’

‘Oh, I …’

‘Well, you might be interested to learn that children fare just as well if raised by a same-sex couple in a stable environment as those raised by a heterosexual couple. What matters, Basil, is being there for your child, loving them, looking after them – that’s what makes you a parent.’

I’m about to continue when Jackson stands abruptly and leaves the table, startling me into silence.

I watch him go. Did I offend him? Is Jackson secretly homophobic? That’s … disappointing?

‘Jackson doesn’t have the privilege of being there for his child,’ Betsy says quietly into the silence.

I turn to her. ‘What?’

‘Jackson’s daughter. She lives in America.’

‘Oh, I … I didn’t know.’ My cheeks burn. ‘I didn’t mean you can’t be a good parent if you’re—let me—I should go and apologise—’

Penelope stands and puts a hand on my arm. ‘Better not,’ she says, not unkindly. ‘I’ll go.’

*

‘Grandma! How did you not tell me Jackson has a kid?’ I ask as I walk home from Penelope’s house, cheeks still hot.

‘Oh, the Greenwood family have had a very interesting few years,’ Grandma tells me, dropping into the lower-octave, this-is-really-juicy voice she reserves for her finest pieces of village gossip. ‘When Jackson’s mother left Arnold she … Sorry,’ Grandma says, ‘I’m getting a message on my phone, let me just …’