Finding Audrey

The first step is catching Mum in a good mood, when she’s not going to freak out or overreact or anything. I wait till she’s just finished watching an episode of MasterChef, then casually sit on the arm of the sofa and say:

‘Mum, I’d like a phone.’

‘A phone?’ She sits up, her eyes wide circles, her mouth open. ‘A phone?’

If I’m the Queen of Overreaction, Mum is the Empress.

‘Um, yes. A phone. If that’s OK.’

‘Who are you going to call?’ she demands.

‘I just . . . I don’t know. People.’ I know I sound scratchy, but she makes me scratchy.

‘Which people?’

‘People! Do you, like, need all their names?’

There’s silence, and I know what she’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too. My last phone wasn’t exactly a success. I mean, it was a nice phone. It was a Samsung. But it became like this portal. A kind of toxic portal to . . . all of it. It used to make me quiver with fright, just hearing the buzz of a text, let alone reading it. I don’t know what happened to it. Dad got rid of it.

But I mean, that was then.

That was them.

‘Audrey . . .’ Mum’s face is strained and I feel sorry I’ve ruined her nice evening of MasterChef and Grand Designs or whatever.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I reassure her.

‘Do you want to call Natalie? Is that it?’

The name Natalie makes me shrink away a little. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to talk to Natalie. But nor do I want to give anything away to Mum.

‘Maybe.’ I shrug.

‘Audrey, I don’t know . . .’

I know why Mum’s sensitive on this issue. I mean, believe me, I’m sensitive too. (In fact, I’m over-sensitive, which basically the whole world has told me.) But I’m not giving in. I feel resolved on this. I should get a phone.

‘Audrey, be careful. I just . . . I just don’t want you to be . . .’

‘I know.’

I can see a few grey hairs among Mum’s vivid brown highlights. Her skin looks kind of thin. I think all this has aged her. I’ve aged her.

‘Dr Sarah would tell me to get the phone,’ I say, to make her feel better. ‘She always says I can text her any time. She says I’ll know when I’m ready. Well, I’m ready.’

‘OK.’ Mum sighs. ‘We’ll get you a phone. I mean, it’s great that you want one, darling. It’s wonderful.’ She puts a hand on mine as though she’s only just seeing the positive side. ‘This is progress!’

‘I haven’t used it yet,’ I remind her. ‘Don’t get too excited.’ I sit properly on the sofa and shift up a bit. ‘What are you watching?’

As I’m moving the cushions around, I see a book nestled in Mum’s lap. It’s entitled How to Talk to Your Teens by Dr Terence Kirshenberger.

‘Oh my God.’ I pick it up. ‘Mum, what is this?’

Mum flushes pink and grabs it. ‘Nothing. Just some reading matter.’

‘You don’t need a book to talk to us!’ I flip through the pages and see lots of lame-looking cartoons, then turn to the back. ‘Twelve ninety-five? You spent twelve ninety-five on this? What does it say? I bet it says, “Your teenager is a person too”.’

‘No, it says, “Give me my book back”.’ Mum grabs the book before I can stop her and sits on it. ‘OK, now, are we watching TV?’

She’s still pink, though, and looks kind of embarrassed. Poor Mum. I can’t believe she spent £12.95 on a book full of crap cartoons.

She read it! She read the £12.95 book!

The reason I know is that on Saturday she suddenly starts talking to Frank at breakfast like she’s speaking a foreign language.

‘So, Frank, I noticed you left two wet towels on the floor of your bedroom yesterday,’ she begins, in weird, calm tones. ‘That made me feel surprised. How did it make you feel?’

‘Huh?’ Frank stares at her.

‘I think we could find a solution to the towel issue together,’ Mum continues. ‘I think that could be a fun challenge.’

Frank looks at me, baffled, and I shrug.

‘What do you think, Frank?’ persists Mum. ‘If you were running this house, what would you advise about towels?’

‘Dunno.’ Frank looks a bit unnerved. ‘Use kitchen towel and chuck it away.’

I can tell Mum is a bit frustrated with that answer, but she keeps on smiling this weird smile. ‘I hear you,’ she says. ‘Interesting idea.’

‘It’s not.’ Frank looks at her suspiciously.

‘Yes it is.’

‘Mum, it’s a stupid idea I invented to piss you off. You can’t say “It’s interesting.”’

‘I hear you.’ Mum nods. ‘I hear you, Frank. I can see your point of view. It’s valid.’

‘I don’t have a point of view!’ Frank snaps. ‘And stop saying “I hear you.”’

‘Mum read a book,’ I tell him. ‘It’s called, How to Talk to Your Teens.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Frank rolls his eyes.

‘Do not swear, young man!’ Mum snaps straight out of her Stepford Mum mode.

‘Oh, for futtsake!’ chimes in Felix joyfully, and Mum inhales furiously.

‘You see? You see what you did?’

‘Well, stop talking to me like a bloody robot!’ shouts Frank. ‘It’s totally fake.’

‘Bloody robot!’ echoes Felix.

‘That book cost twelve ninety-five,’ I tell Frank, who gives an incredulous laugh.

‘Twelve ninety-five! I could write that book in four words. It would say, “Stop patronizing your teenager”.’

There’s silence. I think Mum’s making an effort not to lose it. From the way she’s crushing her napkin into a tiny ball, I think she’s finding it quite hard. At last she looks up with a smile again.

‘Frank, I understand you’re frustrated with life at the moment,’ she says, in pleasant tones. ‘So I’ve found you some occupations. You can do some jamming with Dad today and next week you’re volunteering.’

‘Volunteering?’ Frank looks taken aback. ‘Like, building huts in Africa?’

‘Making sandwiches for the Avonlea fête.’

Avonlea is the old people’s home in the next street. They have this fête every year and it’s quite fun. You know. For a thing in a garden with old people.

‘Making sandwiches?’ Frank looks aghast. ‘You’re joking.’

‘I’ve volunteered our kitchen for the catering. We’re all going to help.’

‘I’m not making bloody sandwiches.’

‘I hear you,’ says Mum. ‘But you are. And don’t swear.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I hear you, Frank,’ says Mum implacably. ‘But you are.’

‘Mum stop it, OK?’

‘I hear you.’

‘Stop it.’

‘I hear you.’

‘Stop it! Jesus!’ Frank brings two fists to his head. ‘OK, I’ll make the bloody sandwiches! Now, have you finished ruining my life?’

He swings away from the table and Mum gives a tiny smile.