Page 51 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

Mum serves a plate to Raphael first, who is rather short for his age and needs a booster seat to be able to see his food. His attention span, like most four-year-olds’, is atrocious, and so Leonard passes him the iPad – sound off – to occupy him.

‘What games does he play?’ I ask.

Naya shrugs, running a hand through her hair. ‘We’ll give him anything, as long as it keeps him quiet.’

When Mum returns again, placing the chicken confit down onto the table served in a golden, oval bowl, we all know to marvel. Make the appreciative noises.

Chicken confit was Dad’s favourite. Salted, cooked in fat. Something his own father made for the family when he was growing up.

And yet, it’s one of my least favourite meals.

The smell makes my nose curl, and it feels blasphemous, to have grown tired of something that my family loves so much.

And my mother adores it because it reminds her of him.

Of us, as a family. Before he died. So I dare not say anything, even though, inside, my body feels like it’s shivering – recoiling.

The memories this meal evokes, how easily it thrusts me back into my childhood, when Dad served this dish in that exact bowl.

It’s been twenty years but, in some ways, no time has passed at all.

I detect the blackened herbs, the garlic and the ginger. That tangy aroma tells me that Mum slipped in strips of citrus fruit.

‘Looks great, Penelope,’ Leonard says.

Naya murmurs in agreement. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘You didn’t need to go to all this trouble for me,’ I say. And then Naya’s eyes meet mine, and her expression is unreadable. A little sad, perhaps? I cannot tell.

And then, it’s gone. She’s masked it.

‘Yes, I did,’ Mum says, sitting down on the other side of Raphael.

‘We would’ve been happy with anything.’ I start topping up wine glasses.

Mum smiles. ‘I know. But it was his favourite.’

Slowly, we begin filling our plates. Leonard starts cutting up the breadstick. And then, collectively, we extend our wine glasses towards the middle of the table.

‘To Marco,’ Mum says.

And we follow suit. ‘To Marco.’

Mum places her glass back down on the table and lets out a sigh. ‘Twenty years, my god.’

I try and catch Naya’s eye, but she’s looking down at her plate. I feel for Mum in these moments, bringing up the past. Reflecting on someone I struggle to visualise. Elbows on the table, hands clasped together, Mum rests her chin in her palms.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Naya asks, reaching across to squeeze our mother’s hand.

‘Everything,’ she says tenderly. ‘His cooking, his singing. The way he would tap his foot under the table while he ate. How his favourite time of day was dawn.

‘His singing voice,’ I add. ‘Always off-key, and a bit sharp.’

Mum looks at me, perplexed. ‘He was a baritone.’

One look at Naya, who nods, and I realise Mum is right.

He did not have a sharp singing voice. And I’m overcome with shame, that I didn’t know that.

That I could’ve got that so wrong. I shift in my seat, pick at my food.

Push the chicken around the plate so it looks like I’ve eaten more than I have.

‘The last time we saw him,’ Mum continues, ‘he’d just bought a new scarf, even though he owned so many. I always thought it was absurd, how easily he felt the cold.’

I feel my body start to overheat. The chicken feels thick in my throat. Must his final moments be brought up at dinner? We can talk about anything – anything – but that day.

Naya adds, ‘He was too skinny, not enough fat on his body. Could eat anything he wanted and it never made a difference.’

Mum looks down at her meal and suddenly, as if bulldozed in the face, I remember that he’d cooked chicken confit the night he died.

‘You’re thinking about the last time you saw him,’ I clarify, looking at Naya and Mum.

I cut into my meal. ‘The last time I saw him was earlier that morning when he told me he was disappointed in me because I’d yanked on Naya’s hair until she cried.

Which I only did because she’d pushed me to the ground. ’

‘I pushed you to the ground because you were being a brat,’ Naya says. ‘You pulled so hard my hair ripped out of my head and I started bleeding.’

‘Yeah, well, you must’ve deserved it.’

Naya is unimpressed. She looks quickly at Mum. ‘And you wonder why we barely spoke to each other.’

Mum starts to eat, her eyes downcast. The room feels quieter than it did before, even with three children munching away on their food. The twins make popping noises with their mouths and Raphael drops his fork onto the table every thirty seconds.

‘So, Charlie,’ Leonard starts, pulling everyone’s attention towards him. ‘Graham has finished up now, I see. That’s a shame, I always liked him.’

Bless Leonard for changing the subject. ‘I’m going to miss him,’ I say. ‘Genevieve leaves, then Graham. Not sure how I’m going to manage without them, to be honest.’

Naya and I lock eyes, and again there’s something in hers I cannot place. This time, it feels accusatory.

Mum throws me a smile. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she says. ‘Might not be the most upbeat of occasions, but we got you here.’

‘You got me here?’

Mum’s mouth parts, and her eyes dart to Naya. ‘I just meant it’s nice to have you here. And you can visit anytime.’

‘Yes,’ Naya says, jumping in, the most animated she’s been since I arrived. ‘You could visit anytime.’ The look she’s giving me is more pleading than anything else. Please visit anytime , she’s saying. Please .

The way they’re both looking at me, and sneaking glances at each other, I’m trying to decipher it. We got you here .

‘Is that why you put this on?’ I ask Mum. ‘To get me to come home?’

Mum raises her hands in defence. You caught me .

No one says anything for a moment, but I feel all eyes on me. What a numpty I was, not realising the ruse. I cannot face anyone, cannot bear to look them in the eye.

My own family, tricking me.

I feel enraged. Around me, there’s the squeak of cutlery on the plates, the dull tap of Raphi’s finger on the iPad, and munch munch as the twins devour their food. Somebody say something, for Christ’s sake.

Turning to Mum, I ask, ‘You organised an entire weekend just to get me here?’

‘Actually, no.’ She points at Naya, who straightens.

‘Guilty,’ my sister says, pointing to herself. Looking smug. ‘Worked though, didn’t it?’

I can feel anger building in my chest. No, not anger.

Embarrassment. Shame. It’s like I’ve just walked into my own intervention.

Three other adults at this table, all scheming to get me here.

Talking about it. Strategising. Makes me think of Josie and her group, dissecting my marriage.

Genevieve and Bruce, working out how to tell me they’re leaving.

Graham, disappearing from the country, never to return.

I look around the table. ‘You could have just, I don’t know, asked?’

Naya drops her cutlery onto her plate, immediate and loud. We all jolt. ‘Oh. Really? We could’ve just asked? Why didn’t I think of that?’ Her voice is deeper than normal – guttural, gravelly. Coming from the gut.

Leonard taps her arm. ‘Naya.’

‘Sorry.’ She picks up her knife and fork again. ‘That was rude. But we did ask, Charlie. So many times.’

‘It’s hard, with work. I don’t always have time off.’

‘I’ve got four kids, and I have time.’

‘We get it, you have children.’

She looks up at me, eyes narrow and sharp.

‘It’s like no one else is allowed to be busy or tired or poor or unwell, because you have four kids.

We get it! You have four kids! Sorry I’m calm , Naya.

Sorry I have a calm life and you don’t. Sorry you can’t arrive on time to a dinner because you chose children and I didn’t. I’m still allowed to be busy.’

The room is painfully, awfully silent, except for the sound of Leonard chewing chicken confit inside his closed mouth. He’s slowing down the chews to try and quieten it, but it’s not working. I can sense that oiled piece of chicken stewing in his mouth and it makes me want to vomit.

‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say all that,’ Naya says. Taking a deep breath, she attempts to calm herself. ‘You are not going to ruin this night. After all we’ve done.’

Oh, she’s fuming. Holding a lid on her emotions so tightly, her body must be quivering. I want to reach out and poke it, to watch her go off.

‘You seem like you have more to say,’ I reply.

‘Don’t, Charlie.’ Mum looks at me. ‘Don’t provoke. Now is not the time; we’re having a lovely meal.’

Are we?

Naya is back to eating. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you that. I was having one bad day.’

‘You lured me here,’ I continue. ‘You used Dad’s death to guilt-trip me.’

‘I’m not saying anything further,’ Naya snaps. Then, she turns to Leonard, who is still. ‘Eat your chicken confit please.’

And now, with permission, he resumes chewing and swallows.

Naya glares at me. ‘Can you stop staring at me, please? It’s creepy.’

‘Creepy?’

‘Yes. I’m not used to having you here, looking at me so much. Look somewhere else.’

Lord, it’s all getting a bit out of hand. I’m now staring at my chicken. ‘You called me impossible, remember? And I didn’t get angry at you. In fact, I forgave you.’

‘ Forgave me?’ she cries. ‘For what? Telling the truth?’

‘I think you’re being a little ridiculous here, Naya—’

And then she explodes. ‘I shouldn’t have to guilt-trip you into coming here.

I shouldn’t have to try so hard to see my own sister.

You don’t get to forgive me, because there’s nothing I need to be forgiven for.

You left us and you pretend Dad doesn’t exist. You pretend his death doesn’t exist. We all loved him too, but you disappeared and you never called, and you married a man who was exhausting and unobservant and nowhere near good enough for you, which was just so insulting.

You didn’t love that man, Charlie, you just met him when you needed someone – anyone .

My kids don’t even recognise you, and I miss you all the time but I also hate that you left us.

And honestly, sometimes, when it’s been months since we’ve talked, I think of you as dead, too.

Dad’s dead, and you’re dead. That’s how I see it. ’

Leonard’s eyes bulge. Mum has her hand over her mouth. Naya’s looking down at her meal because she cannot seem to meet my eye. These past few weeks, I thought she was embarrassed about what she’d said to me. But no, she’s furious with me.

She’d know how much this guts me. Drains me of anything I had left. My stomach feels like it’s fallen through my legs, to the floor below.

And then one of the twins starts screeching, slamming their fists down on the tray below them. A high-volume tantrum ensues, and it triggers the other children.

Screaming.

Crying.

Screeching.

The dinner is now, most certainly, ruined.