Tell Me I'm Wrong

Chapter 4

4 Megan

Evie’s finally gone down for a nap. Although it’s such a battle to get her down, she tends to stay down for at least a couple of hours once she’s gone. That means I get some time to myself, a chance to relax. Of course, that never actually happens. There’s always hoovering to do or paperwork mounting up. Now, I’ve got to prepare dinner.

Just as I’ve opened the fridge door and have started to piece together in my mind what I could make which might come close to resembling a meal, the phone rings. I answer it without looking at the screen. It’s Mum.

‘I just wondered how you were both doing,’ she says, despite the fact she saw us yesterday.

‘We’re fine. She’s just gone down for her afternoon nap,’ I say, as if Evie’s on a schedule, which she keeps to perfectly.

‘That’s good. I told you she’d get the hang of it eventually.’

It’s comments like that which make me wonder about my mum sometimes. Not that I’d get the hang of it, that I’m the one who has to go through all the work of getting Evie down to sleep. No, it’s Evie’s achievement for actually shutting her eyes and drifting off like every normal baby does.

‘So how are you and Dad?’ I ask, knowing nothing will have changed since yesterday. Nothing ever changes in their house.

‘We’re fine. Lauren called earlier. They’re moving house, apparently.’

‘Oh. That’s nice,’ I say, hoping she’ll move on to another topic. I don’t really want to hear about how well my sister’s doing. I don’t want to hear about her full-stop.

‘Five bedrooms, three bathrooms and half an acre of land,’ she says, despite the fact I haven’t asked.

‘Great,’ I say.

‘Needs a bit of work doing to it, but they’ve got big plans. Apparently they want to knock the downstairs bathroom through into the study and turn it into a wet room. Why you’d want one of those downstairs is anybody’s guess, but it’s their money. You know what Lauren’s like.’

I don’t know why she says things like that. I do know what Lauren’s like. I know exactly what she’s like, and accidentally spending a few grand on a bathroom conversion isn’t the worst of it. But the way Mum says it is almost as if it’s designed to get me onside, as if to pacify me, knowing my sister and I don’t speak.

I don’t say anything in return, but she still carries on, not getting the hint.

‘Oh you should see it, Megan. It really is beautiful. It’s got a thatched roof and everything.’

‘Good. I’m pleased,’ I say, hoping this will at least shut her up for a while. If she’d been prodding to see how I’d react, this should defuse the situation.

‘And how are things with you?’ she asks, as if I’m not going to notice that she’s making a direct comparison between me and my sister. Look how well she’s doing, juggling a busy career and buying a five-bedroom thatched mansion while you’re sitting at home unable to even cope with a baby.

‘We’re all good,’ I say, despite the fact she knows exactly how things are.

Mum and I have a funny relationship. I readily admit I couldn’t get through most weeks without her. She’s there when I need her and she does her fair share of looking after Evie for me. But at the same time there’s this dirty undercurrent of knowing that I’ll always play second fiddle to Lauren, who’s always going to be the favoured daughter. Especially while she’s ‘doing so well’.

Sometimes I have half a feeling that Mum’s willing me to do better, secretly hoping I’ll outdo Lauren and be both the more human and more successful daughter. If truth be told, I really don’t care. We’re happy. Happy enough. We don’t need enormous mortgages and exotic holidays to feel like we’re doing well.

At least, that’s the spin I put on it. Happiness is a veil we all wear. But, deep down, we all have our problems, all have our issues, our insecurities. And they’re the things that keep us going. The c****s in our armour which make us want to keep improving, that give us something to focus on as we plod on towards our inevitable deaths.

Morbid.

I don’t know how, but Mum has this wonderful knack of ringing me for a nice friendly chat and inadvertently making me feel like utter s**t. Maybe she’s just trying to make me feel better. Perhaps she thinks hearing how well other people are doing will spur me on and make me want to do the same thing. It’s funny how family politics work. How no-one ever says what they’re actually thinking. How it’s all smoke and mirrors and veiled comments designed to try and elicit information or gauge a reaction. It’s sad really. I often wonder why people can’t just come out with it and be honest with each other. It saves all the James Bond bullshit.

‘Anyway, sorry to cut it short but I’m just in the middle of preparing dinner,’ I say.

‘Oh, no worries. Give my love to Chris and Evie, won’t you? Is he fishing?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, trying to make it sound like it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. And there I am, playing the game. Falling right into the trap and doing exactly what I hate other people doing. ‘He should be back soon, though.’

‘Okay. You call me if you need me, alright?’

‘I know, Mum. Thanks.’

And it’s times like this that I get really, really confused about my family. Is it some sort of passive-aggressive thing which makes them need to sound as though they care, when actually they’re just probing and poking their noses into my business, trying to find some sort of salacious scandal or gossip?

This is one of the reasons why I’ve tried to keep them at arm’s length, emotionally speaking. Mum’s great with Evie, if a little contrary. It sounds bad saying it, but her willingness to babysit and take Evie off my hands on a regular basis has been a godsend. I won’t say it’s been her only redeeming feature, but it certainly helps.

I smell burning and turn around.

‘s**t!’ I hiss, opening the oven and flinging open the kitchen windows as I try to fan the smoke out of the room.

I sit down at the kitchen table, put my head in my hands and wish I’d never answered the phone.