On Saturday afternoon, my wife comes into the sitting room to issue a general warning. “Constance is coming to supper,” she says.
“Tonight?” I say.
“I tried to stop her, but she wasn’t having it,” my wife says.
“I’m out,” the middle one says. He rolls off the sofa, lurches to his feet and leaves the room.
I am at a loss as to what to do with the last quiet hours before supper. I end up spending them in front of my computer, in silent communion with that portion of the internet that thinks I’m an idiot. At 7.30pm, the entryphone buzzer is pressed by someone with a heavy thumb.
“Hey, handsome,” Constance says when I open the door. “You’re looking unusually handsome today.” She walks past me into the kitchen.
“I’ve been feeling more handsome lately,” I say.
“Christ, pour me some wine,” Constance says.
“Did you bring any wine?” my wife shouts.
“Hello to you, too,” Constance says. I take a bottle from the fridge, and fill three glasses.
“Grownups bring wine when they’re invited to supper,” my wife says.
“You usually text to remind me,” Constance says, rolling a fag.
The youngest one walks in. “Hey, brother,” Constance says. “Did you miss me?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Do you love me?”
“Um,” he says, taking his jacket from a chair.
“Where are you going?” my wife asks.
“Just out for a bit,” he says.
“But I’m making a prawn curry,” my wife says. “Which I suppose you wouldn’t eat, anyway.”
“Where’s the other one?” Constance asks.
“He’s already out,” my wife says.
“Hang on, does that mean I’m stuck here with you two?” Constance says.
“Bye!” shouts the youngest one from the door.
“Love you!” Constance shrieks. “Can you please put some more wine in here?” She points a finger into her empty glass.
“I’m going to make you go and buy a bottle of wine,” my wife says.
“You can’t send me back out!” Constance says.
“We have wine,” I say, refilling Constance’s glass. “I bought a lot of wine.”
“Yes, but we’ve got people coming round tomorrow,” my wife says.
“We’ll take stock when she leaves,” I say. “There’s no point in making plans while she’s still here.”
“Otherwise she becomes part of them,” Constance says.
“Go and get wine!” my wife shouts.
Constance goes to the corner shop and returns with a bottle of wine and a large bar of chocolate, which she opens and eats. Under my wife’s close questioning, she tells us stories from her young person’s life, including a recent trip home for the weekend. “Did you see everyone?” my wife asks.
“A few people,” Constance says. “We went and had drinks with the local mean-bys.”
“The local what?” I ask.
“The mean-bys,” Constance repeats. “As in, ‘Do you know who I mean by…’ ”
“And how’s mum?” my wife asks.
“Fine,” Constance says.
“So, wait,” I say. “Like posh? Does it mean posh?”
“Yeah, sort of,” Constance says.
“Are they famous? Or just well-known in the immediate area?”
“It’s not that specific,” Constance says. “The local mean-bys.”
The conversation moves on, taking in work, summer plans, and recent misconduct among mutual acquaintances. I listen without hearing, until a silence presents itself. I look up to see Constance rolling another cigarette and my wife at the sink, filling a pot with water. “So would I be one of the local mean-bys?” I ask. “Round here?”
“Definitely not,” Constance says, holding out her empty glass.
