SUNDAY LUNCH

by
Stephen Shieber

Once again, we've gathered in the family nest. This isn't Buckingham Palace, but it's hardly Bedlam either. Just Sunday lunch in an unremarkable middle class chintzy dream – or nightmare. It depends on your perspective.

To my left we have Dan's brother, Ashley, spearing slices of beef with his fork and swallowing them whole. A Neanderthal who, in other circumstances... Well, let's just say that he fills out his Fred Perry t-shirt very well. Ash is a sanitary-ware salesman. He spends his life talking shit.

To his left is Honey, his wife, tousling a strand of her backcombed bleached-to-within-an-inch-of-platinum hair between two sharply manicured talons. The nails are in the squoval style – a cross between square and oval, which is the next big trend, apparently.

For once, I'm sat next to Dan, so Pamela must believe we can get through a meal without fondling each other at the table. Finally, she might be ready to accept that her darling little boy is corruptor as much as corrupted. Still, the Ice Maiden's keeping one eye on us from her end of the table. Her other eye is glued to Dick's wineglass.

I'm close to screaming pitch. Maybe I'll just fall through a gap in the cabbage roses on the wall and never be seen again.

Thankfully, Paris and Venice, Pamela and Dick's Aryan grandchildren, have been banished to the garden. Otherwise, I’d be out the door without opening it.

I need to get a grip.

I'm on a mission.

Pamela steeples her fingers under her collapsing chin. She and Honey visit the nail-bar together, a bonding session I'm never invited to. Pamela's nails are non-squoval. Neither are they blood red, like Honey's. Pamela's a French manicure sort of woman.

'That beef is excellent, if I say so myself.'

Honey smiles at her mother-in-law. Ash mumbles, his mouth so full that it's about to burst.

I sigh loudly. Dan flinches and grinds his knee against mine.

'Not now,' he hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

'Something wrong Daniel? Alan?'

'No, Pamela, thank you. I just was going to…'

'Al!'

I flash Dan an innocent smile. Beads of sweat form in his hairline. His furrowed brow and jutting chin – clear signs he's stressed – are impossibly cute.

'Daniel, don't be rude. Let Alan speak for himself. He knows us well enough by now.'

Dan drowns his protests in Rioja. Across the table, his father does just the same. I scan Dan's nose for broken veins.

'Thank you, Pamela. I’m glad we’re all here. That you’re all going to hear this at once.'

Ash drops his cutlery onto his plate. Pamela shoots a protective glance at her disrespected china. Hyacinth Bucket owns a similar service.

Dan rises. 'Anyone for more wine? I need more wine. Dad, you'll have some won’t you?'

Of course Dick'll have some. The living embodiment of Brewer's Droop. He's spent the last twenty years sizzled and flaccid. I suspect this is the cause of Pamela's pout.

Honey rises also, draping her arm across Ash's shoulders as she goes. 'I'll check on the twins.'

She trots across the oak flooring, her stilettos causing waves of mass destruction. Pam winces, a gesture so small that, once again, only I see her pain.

'Well I must say, Alan, you’ve got us all intrigued. We’re on tenterhooks here, aren’t we Pammy?'

She shrugs Dick off, her eyes narrow and feline. 'Quite.'

'Dan and Honey’ll be back in a minute. Then I'll…reveal all.'

If Pamela's face gets any tighter, it'll crack.

'Do you want Paris and Venice here as well?' Ash is back with us. 'Only I can tell Honey…'

I wave a hand in dismissal. 'No, no. It's really an adult thing. I'm sure they'll hear about it later.'

'Oh.'

I drum out the passing seconds on the edge of the table. A cord tightens in Pamela's turkey neck. Dick cradles his empty glass. His nose flashes.

Honey clatters back in and sits down.

'Is next door’s cat black and white, Pamela?'

'Yes dear. Why?'

'The kids were chasing it round the garden, that's all.'

'Well, should they be, dear?'

Honey ponders for a moment. I want to put her out of her misery. 'It moves fast enough…I think it'll be fine.'

Pamela adjusts her pearls, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the delinquents through the window. She won't get up for a proper look. She's not the interfering kind of mother-in-law.

Dan returns with the new bottle of wine. His face has collapsed into the hangdog look he wears whenever he has to visit the doctor or dentist. I feel equal amounts of love and contempt for him.

He can't look at me. His hand trembles as he refreshes wineglasses. I refuse any more wine though, god knows, I could do with the courage.

'I’ve got something for you.'

'How kind. A present.'

'Mum!'

'Daniel?'

'Nothing.'

I reach into my jacket pocket and draw out two envelopes. One is addressed to Honey and Ash; the other, of course, is for Pam and Dick. I deliver them and then lean back in my chair, draining my glass.

Dan has turned grey. Honey squeals with excitement.

'Oh, look Ash. A wedding invite…I'll need a new dress.'

Dick is confused. 'Let me see Pamela.'

Pamela's lips have narrowed to a single line. She gives an equine snort. I try not to smile. She hands the stiff cream card to her husband and fixes me with a look of utter contempt.

'You've decided to take the plunge, then?' Ash surprises me with a big smile. He grabs Honey's hand and squeezes it. 'Best thing I ever did.' Honey shoots him a look of uncomprehending adoration. They're so well suited to each other.

'Well, of course, it’s not a marriage, Ash. That sort of thing isn't allowed for people like us. But Dan and I feel it's time we took on some commitment.'

'You boys already have a mortgage. Isn’t that enough? Marriage is just one more hassle, eh Pammy?'

I think my future mother-in-law may well swallow her own lips.

Dick squashes her into a hug and smacks a kiss onto her cheek.

'Get off. I think you’ve had more than enough.'

'If only Pammy. If only…'

Dick chokes on his own joke. The rest of us look down at our plates, or at the William Morris table linen. When Dick stops laughing, he's the colour of raw liver.

'Ahhh! My ball and chain. Thirty-five years and counting. Isn't that right, Pammy? You boys go ahead and do it. I hope you'll be very happy.'

'Thank you very much Dick.'

'Mum, Dad. Al…'

Dan tries to rescue the situation, but it's no good. The damage is done.

Pamela sighs. She's turned violently pale.

Silence. Ash picks at his teeth. Honey teases out a strand of hair, struggling to grasp the moment. Dick reaches for the Rioja. And Pamela rises, gathering up plates as she goes.

'Of course, I never voted for a Labour government,' she says.

I look to Dan, but he's sitting with his head in his hands.

'I thought that went rather well.'

Dan doesn't answer. He hasn't spoken to me since lunch. I wind down the window and take deep gulps of air. Petrol fumes scour my throat.

Every third Sunday of the month. I count down the days until the call, until once more the summons is issued in those fake bright tones.

'It would be lovely, Alan, if you and Dan could join us for lunch on Sunday.'

And each time, I find myself answering in an equally bright, equally false voice, 'Our pleasure, Pamela.'

'Shall we say about one?'

I tried reciprocating, but Pamela doesn't visit. She doesn't 'do' other people's Sunday lunches. She doesn't 'do' anyone else's life but her own. And I think my Dan is the same. The thing with the civil partnership? Just a point-prover. God forbid that we should actually admit to his family, the rest of the world, or ourselves that we have something going on here. Some things are tolerated as long as they're never spoken of.

'She was absolutely mortified, Alan. Absolutely mortified.'

I nod dumbly. It's not the first time I've heard this, either.

Back home, Dan stomps into our bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I pour myself a gin.

The bedroom door flies open. A pillow sails through the air and lands at my feet.

'I take it I can't have two.'

'Only if you get it yourself.'

'What about a quilt?'

It lands next to the pillow a second later.

‘How about a good night kiss?'

The door slams shut. I pour myself another gin and make up my huffy bed on the sofa.

'Night, Dan.' Of course, I don't get an answer. Draining my gin, I worm under the quilt, close my eyes and sigh, counting down the days until the next invite.

© Stephen Shieber
Reproduced with permission

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