you’ll think he’s not as deep as the other dads.”
“But I know he loves me,” I said. “I know he’s proud of me. He did tell me enough when he was alive. No, tell him I’ve never had a minute’s doubt in my whole life, and I’m forty-two. Besides, what’s wrong with shallow? I’m shallow, Jules is shallow; you’re a bit shallow yourself, Mrs Starling; it’s what keeps us cheerful. Why should I want Dad to be any different just because he’s dead?”
She put her arm round me and kissed me on the head. “You’re a good son, pet. You’re your father’s son. And I’ll be back at about twenty to four with the winnings!”
We heard the front door slam and then we saw her sprint past the window with a determined look on her face. Jules turned off her tape recorder and put her notebook away. My phone beeped. It was probably Kippo. I decided to ignore it. Jules and I might be having a togetherness moment.
[
Gentle
] “Have you really always known your dad loved you, Mark?”
“Oh yeah.”
I put my arm round her. I know I’m lucky. I felt I should say something sort-of profound and reassuring.
“So, there’s this bloke driving across the Arctic when his car breaks down.”
“Heard it,” she said.
I nestled closer to her. [
Soft
] “Jules,” I said. “When I said you were shallow just now, I was only being rhetorical, you know that, don’t you?”
“Look, whatever your dad says, I don’t still fancy you, Mark,” she said.
So I said, [
taking arm away; little sigh
] “Oh. All right, then. Fair enough.”
The Mother
JANEY is bright, posh Scottish, brittle.
Scene One: at a health spa. Sounds of swimming pool
“You have the skin of a thirty-year-old, Mrs Phipps,” Maureen said to me this morning. And I said to her, “You’re heading for a very large gratuity, Maureen, if you keep saying things like that.” Whether she heard me I don’t know. I was lying on her massage bench at the time with my face pressed through the face-hole-thing, and Maureen was putting a lot of puff and effort into shoving all the flesh on my back up to my neck – I suppose there’s a chance that one of these days it will stay there. I have to say I smiled to myself – a bit reckless, I know, when you consider the wear and tear on the facial lines. But a thirty-year-old! What would Sasha say? Sasha being twenty-one, that would have me giving birth to her at theage of [
thinks about it
] … nine! Eight? Nine. I was so bucked up. I mean, my hands are good for my age. And I’ve made a point of never plucking above the lip, which Maureen agreed will certainly pay dividends in the long run. The only thing that spoiled it was at the end, when I was just getting back into the fluffy white bathrobe and slippers and Maureen said, “So. Mrs Phipps. How do you find your skin?” Well, I didn’t know what to say. HOW DO YOU FIND YOUR SKIN ? “What a strange question,” I said. “Everywhere I look on my body, Maureen, it’s there.”
How I love dear old Woodlands. This is my fifth time. Of course I get the detox headaches, but somehow I always go home a couple of pounds lighter, rested, and with a sort of glow. I finally had my colours done yesterday – I’m a spring person, which came as no surprise. I should wear greens, yellows, peach, pink, lilac. “There’s a very famous spring person, when you think about it, Mrs Phipps,” the woman said. So I thought about it. Greens, yellows, pinks. “Elton John?” I said. “The Queen,” she said. And it was one of those lovely moments when everything falls into place. Anyway, before that I had the manicure, the pedicure, the astringent neck poultice, the deep sonar navel cleansing, the organza scrub and the all-body Bering Straits seaweed. Oh, and the long-distance hosing, which was a bit like finding yourself in the path of a water cannon, actually, but they promise is fantastically good for the flabby bit under the arm, although I read somewhere in a
“But I know he loves me,” I said. “I know he’s proud of me. He did tell me enough when he was alive. No, tell him I’ve never had a minute’s doubt in my whole life, and I’m forty-two. Besides, what’s wrong with shallow? I’m shallow, Jules is shallow; you’re a bit shallow yourself, Mrs Starling; it’s what keeps us cheerful. Why should I want Dad to be any different just because he’s dead?”
She put her arm round me and kissed me on the head. “You’re a good son, pet. You’re your father’s son. And I’ll be back at about twenty to four with the winnings!”
We heard the front door slam and then we saw her sprint past the window with a determined look on her face. Jules turned off her tape recorder and put her notebook away. My phone beeped. It was probably Kippo. I decided to ignore it. Jules and I might be having a togetherness moment.
[
Gentle
] “Have you really always known your dad loved you, Mark?”
“Oh yeah.”
I put my arm round her. I know I’m lucky. I felt I should say something sort-of profound and reassuring.
“So, there’s this bloke driving across the Arctic when his car breaks down.”
“Heard it,” she said.
I nestled closer to her. [
Soft
] “Jules,” I said. “When I said you were shallow just now, I was only being rhetorical, you know that, don’t you?”
“Look, whatever your dad says, I don’t still fancy you, Mark,” she said.
So I said, [
taking arm away; little sigh
] “Oh. All right, then. Fair enough.”
The Mother
JANEY is bright, posh Scottish, brittle.
Scene One: at a health spa. Sounds of swimming pool
“You have the skin of a thirty-year-old, Mrs Phipps,” Maureen said to me this morning. And I said to her, “You’re heading for a very large gratuity, Maureen, if you keep saying things like that.” Whether she heard me I don’t know. I was lying on her massage bench at the time with my face pressed through the face-hole-thing, and Maureen was putting a lot of puff and effort into shoving all the flesh on my back up to my neck – I suppose there’s a chance that one of these days it will stay there. I have to say I smiled to myself – a bit reckless, I know, when you consider the wear and tear on the facial lines. But a thirty-year-old! What would Sasha say? Sasha being twenty-one, that would have me giving birth to her at theage of [
thinks about it
] … nine! Eight? Nine. I was so bucked up. I mean, my hands are good for my age. And I’ve made a point of never plucking above the lip, which Maureen agreed will certainly pay dividends in the long run. The only thing that spoiled it was at the end, when I was just getting back into the fluffy white bathrobe and slippers and Maureen said, “So. Mrs Phipps. How do you find your skin?” Well, I didn’t know what to say. HOW DO YOU FIND YOUR SKIN ? “What a strange question,” I said. “Everywhere I look on my body, Maureen, it’s there.”
How I love dear old Woodlands. This is my fifth time. Of course I get the detox headaches, but somehow I always go home a couple of pounds lighter, rested, and with a sort of glow. I finally had my colours done yesterday – I’m a spring person, which came as no surprise. I should wear greens, yellows, peach, pink, lilac. “There’s a very famous spring person, when you think about it, Mrs Phipps,” the woman said. So I thought about it. Greens, yellows, pinks. “Elton John?” I said. “The Queen,” she said. And it was one of those lovely moments when everything falls into place. Anyway, before that I had the manicure, the pedicure, the astringent neck poultice, the deep sonar navel cleansing, the organza scrub and the all-body Bering Straits seaweed. Oh, and the long-distance hosing, which was a bit like finding yourself in the path of a water cannon, actually, but they promise is fantastically good for the flabby bit under the arm, although I read somewhere in a
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