Shopping’s OK-ish for me now.
I mean, it’s not always easy. I still have to deal with my lizard brain, which springs into action whenever I don’t want it to. Over the last few days I’ve been feeling these, like, waves of panic at random times, which is really annoying, because I thought I’d got rid of them.
But what I’ve learned is not to fight my lizard brain, but kind of tolerate it. Listen to it and then say, ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Just like you tolerate a four-year-old. I’ve come to think of my lizard brain as basically a version of Felix. It’s totally random and makes no sense and you can’t let it run your life. If we let Felix run our lives, we’d all wear superhero costumes all day long and eat nothing but ice cream.
But if you try to fight Felix, all you get is wails and screams and tantrums, and it all gets more and more stressy. So the thing is to listen to him with half an ear and nod your head, and then ignore him and do what you want to do.
Same with the lizard brain.
So when I freeze in sudden terror at the entrance to the supermarket, I force myself to smile and say, ‘Nice try, lizard brain.’ I actually say it aloud, and exhale for twelve beats. (If you breathe out really slowly, it regulates the carbon dioxide in the brain and calms you down, instantly. Try it if you don’t believe me.) Then I saunter in, doing my best impression of someone who really couldn’t give a toss what some old reptile thinks.
And you know what? It kind of works.
When I get back home, holding two carrier bags, I stop dead in astonishment. Frank’s standing at the kitchen counter, chopping.
He’s wearing one of Mum’s aprons and he’s holding a knife I don’t recognize and he’s learned that cool-chef way of doing it. That chop-chop-chop thing. Fast. He’s pink in the face and totally absorbed. Like, he doesn’t even notice me watching, let alone come up with some wisecrack.
‘Great!’ Ade has noticed me and grabs the bags. ‘Let’s get that garlic out.’ He sniffs it and rubs the papery skin. ‘Beautiful. OK, Frank, I want it finely diced. All of it.’
‘Yes, chef,’ says Frank breathlessly, and takes the garlic.
Yes, chef?
Yes, chef?
OK, what has happened to Frank?
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY
The camera enters the kitchen, where Frank is hunched over Dad’s laptop.
AUDREY (VOICE-OVER)
So, we had the fête today. It was OK. I won this in the raffle.
A hand picks up a fluffy pink loo-roll cover from the kitchen table.
AUDREY (V.O.)
You put it on your loo roll. Isn’t it, like, the grossest thing you have ever seen?
She replaces the loo-roll cover.
AUDREY (V.O.)
But everyone LOVED the food. I mean, it all sold out in, like, five minutes, and it got a special mention from the mayor.
The camera focuses in on Frank. He’s watching a YouTube video of a chef chopping.
FRANK
D’you think Mum would buy me a set of knives? Like, proper knives?
AUDREY (V.O.)
Dunno. How much do they cost?
Frank opens a new window on the laptop.
FRANK
These ones are £650.
AUDREY (V.O.)
Yup, that’s really gonna happen.
FRANK
You need good knives. Ade says I can come and learn some more skills at the pub. Only I have to do a bit of washing up or whatever – but you know, if I do that, he’ll teach me.
He looks up, his whole face alive.
AUDREY (V.O.)
That’s amazing!
FRANK
He has this whole thing that he does with a blow torch. He singes a chicken.
AUDREY (V.O.)
Wow. Well, it was delicious food. No one could stop talking about it.
FRANK
The Waldorf needed more seasoning. That’s what Ade said.
AUDREY (V.O.)
Tasted OK to me.
The camera moves out of the kitchen and towards the garden door. There it pauses. We see Mum and Dad standing by the playhouse, talking in low voices. Mum is holding a letter and gesticulating furiously with it at Dad.
MUM
I can’t believe they would even ask this.
DAD
Anne, don’t take it personally.
MUM
How can I not take it personally? How can they have the gall? The nerve?
DAD
I know. It’s preposterous.
MUM
It’s monstrous! Do you realize how much damage they could do to Audrey? I’m going to email this woman tonight, and I’m going to tell her what I think of her and—
DAD
I’ll send it.
MUM
(fiercely)
Well, I’m contributing. And you’re NOT censoring me, Chris.
DAD
We’ll work out an email together. We don’t want to be too antagonistic.
MUM
Too antagonistic? Are you joking?
AUDREY (V.O.)
About what?
Both parents whip round in shock.
AUDREY (V.O.)
What’s going on?
MUM
Audrey!
DAD
It’s nothing, sweetie.
MUM
Nothing for you to worry about. Um, wasn’t the fête fun?
There’s a pause as the camera surveys their anxious faces and zooms in on Mum’s hand, clutching the letter.
AUDREY (V.O.)
(slowly)
Yes. It was super-fun.
What were they looking at? What?
I’m totally flummoxed. Mum and Dad have never been like that before. They were so anxious that I shouldn’t know what they were talking about, they were kind of aggressive. I mean, Mum was almost snarly.
So whatever it is, they don’t want me to have even the slightest inkling of it.
I’m nonplussed. I can’t even go through all the possible theories in my head and eliminate them, because I don’t have any theories. Maybe something to do with Dr Sarah? That’s all I can think of. Maybe she wants to do some weirdo experimental treatment on me, and Mum and Dad are mad at her for asking?
But Dr Sarah wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t just land something like that on me. Would she? And Mum and Dad wouldn’t call her they.
That evening at supper I bring it up again, and both Mum and Dad practically bite my head off.
‘It was nothing,’ says Mum, eating her pasta very fast and crossly. ‘Nothing.’
‘Mum, it was something.’
‘You don’t need to know every something in the world, Audrey.’
As she says that, I feel a sudden shaft of fear – is Mum ill or something? Is there some massive family tragedy coming along to hit us like a juggernaut and that’s why she won’t say anything?
But no, she said damage Audrey. And they. It’s all about they, whoever they are.
That evening Mum and Dad are closeted in Dad’s study for, like, two hours, and then eventually they emerge, and Mum says, ‘Well, there we are, then.’ There’s a kind of dark, satisfied cloud surrounding her. I have a feeling her email didn’t hold back.
Dad announces he’s off for a quick half with Mike who he plays squash with, and Mum says she’s going to have a bath. I wait until I can hear the water running, then sidle along to Frank, who’s in his room, listening to his iPod.
‘Frank, can you hack into Dad’s emails?’ I say in a low voice.
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Can we do it? Now?’
From the way Frank gets straight into Dad’s inbox, it’s clear he’s done this before. He even knows Dad’s weirdo password, which is all signs and numbers and gibberish.
‘Do you often look at Dad’s emails?’ I say curiously, perching on the side of the office chair.
‘Sometimes.’
 
; ‘Does he know?’
‘Course not.’ Frank clicks on a couple of emails from someone called George Stourhead. ‘There’s some quite interesting stuff. Did you know he applied for another job last year?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t get it. But his mate Allan reckons the company’s in trouble anyway, so Dad’s well out of it.’
‘Oh.’ I digest this for a moment. ‘That’s not interesting.’
‘It’s better than geography coursework. Oh, and they’re planning a surprise birthday party for me, so don’t let on you know, OK?’
‘Frank!’ I wail. ‘Why did you tell me?’
‘I didn’t.’ He draws a line over his mouth. ‘I said nada. OK, what are we looking for?’
‘Dunno. Some email where Mum’s angry.’
Frank raises his eyes so comically, I can’t help giggling. ‘Can you narrow it down?’
‘OK. Well . . . Dunno. It’s about me. Search Audrey.’
Frank gives me a funny look. ‘Every other email is about you, Audrey. Don’t you realize that? You’re Topic A in this family.’
‘Oh.’ I stare at him, taken aback. I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t want to be Topic A. Anyway, I’m not.
‘That’s rubbish,’ I counter. ‘I’m not Topic A, you’re Topic A. All Mum talks about is you, all day long. Frank this, Frank that.’
‘But all she emails about is you. Audrey this, Audrey that.’ He gives me a serious look. ‘Believe me.’
I’m silenced for a minute. I never thought of Mum having a secret email world. But of course she does. I wonder what she says. I could look. Frank could show me, I could ask him . . .
Even at the thought, it’s as if a big iron gate clanks down in my mind. No. I’m not going to look. Not at anything more than is necessary. I don’t want to know what Mum secretly thinks. We’re all allowed our private places.
‘You shouldn’t spy on Mum and Dad,’ I say.
‘You’re spying too,’ retorts Frank.
‘OK, but . . .’ I wince, knowing he’s right. ‘This is necessary. This is a one-off and it’s about me and it’s important and . . . I won’t ever do it again.’
‘This’ll be it, I bet.’ Frank is clicking on a recently sent email called Your request.
As the text comes up I scan straight to the bottom and it’s signed from Anne and Chris Turner.
‘Oh my God.’ Frank is chuckling. ‘Mum’s really let this person have it.’
‘Sssh! Let me read it!’
I peer over his shoulder and squint at the words.
Dear Mrs Lawton
We are writing to you in shock, horror and dismay. First, that you would have the nerve to write an email directly to our daughter Audrey, in a completely inappropriate manner. Second, that you should make such an outrageous request. I am sorry that your daughter Izzy is having problems, but if you think that Audrey would be willing to meet her, you must be quite mad. Do you recall the situation here? Do you recall the fact that our daughter was persecuted by your daughter (among others)? Are you aware that Audrey has not returned to school since the events and spent several weeks in hospital?
We don’t care if Izzy wants to apologize or not. We are not risking any further psychological damage to our daughter.
Yours,
Anne and Chris Turner
‘Who’s Izzy?’ says Frank. ‘One of them?’
‘Yes.’ I’m getting the sick, poisoned feeling again. Just that name, Izzy, does it.
‘I can’t believe she wants to see me,’ I say, my eyes fixed on the words. ‘After all this time.’
‘Well, they said no. So you’re off the hook.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are! Look, Mum and Dad will back you up. You don’t have to see anyone. Audrey, you practically don’t even have to go to school ever again. You can do whatever the hell you like. Do you appreciate your position?’ Frank clicks on another email. ‘You don’t, do you? It’s wasted on you.’
I’m only barely aware of him. Thoughts are spinning around my brain. Thoughts I don’t even understand myself. Thoughts I don’t want.
Without realizing I’ve done it, I’ve crumpled down on the floor and buried my head in my hands. I need all my energy for thinking.
‘Aud?’ Frank suddenly seems to notice. ‘Aud, what’s up?’
‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Reading this – knowing that they’ve asked – that’s put me on the hook.’
‘Why?’
‘Because . . .’
I can’t say it. The words are in my brain, but I don’t want them there. I don’t know why they’re there. But they won’t disappear.
‘Maybe I should see her.’ I force it out. ‘Maybe I should go and see her.’
‘What?’ Frank looks aghast. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘I don’t know. Because – I don’t know.’ I clutch my head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s a crap idea,’ proclaims Frank. ‘It’s like inviting bad stuff into your life. You know, it’s been shit enough for you already, Aud. Don’t make things worse. Hey, Dad’s got a link to this quiz on Which Simpsons character are you?’ he adds. ‘You should do it. Where is it . . .’ Frank’s clicking randomly all over the desk top. ‘Dad’s actually quite a funny guy—’
‘Stop it. I need to think.’
‘You think too much. That’s your trouble. Just stop thinking.’ Frank breaks off mid-click. ‘Oh. Shit. I don’t know what I just did. Did you see what I did?’
‘No.’
‘I think I deleted a document. Oops.’ He clicks madly. ‘Come on, you bastard – undo. Hey, don’t tell Dad we did this, will you? Because if I’ve lost anything, he is going to go insane . . .’
Frank says something else, but I walk out, not even hearing him. My head is a whirl and my heart’s thumping and I feel surreal.
Apologize. I can’t imagine Izzy apologizing. I can’t imagine Izzy saying a lot. She was never the main one. She sort of hung back and agreed and went along with Tasha. Well, let’s face it, everyone in my class went along with Tasha. Because if I was the victim, then they weren’t. Even Natalie stopped standing up for me—
No. Let’s not go there any more. Natalie was freaked out. I’ve made my peace with Natalie. It’s all good.
Tasha is the one who’s really scary. She’s the one who makes my flesh crawl. She’s bright and smart and motivated and pretty in that strong-jawed athletic way. All the teachers loved her. They loved her. You know, till they found out the truth and everything.
I’ve had a long time to think about this. And I’ve decided she did it for fun. You know. Because she could.
My theory is that Tasha will win awards one day. She’ll be some top advertising creative, selling a message to the public and getting everyone to believe it and doing it in a relentless, unremitting, really inspired way. She’ll be one of those advertisers who tricks you so you don’t even realize you’re being advertised to, you just give in and start to operate the way she wants you to. She’ll use other people then discard them. Everyone she smiles at will fall under her spell and join the team. The people who hate her will feel totally used and wretched, but who cares about them?
The real truth – which, by the way, no grown-up would ever admit to – is that probably the whole experience will do her great in life. It was, like, the most put-together project you could imagine. It was innovative. It was sustained. If it had been a GCSE project – Torment Audrey Turner Using a Variety of Imaginative Methods – she would have got A* highly commended.
I mean, yes, she got excluded in the end. But small detail, right?
In the end, I can’t rest till I’ve had it out. So I march downstairs, way past eleven when I should be asleep, and catch Mum and Dad in the kitchen making herbal teas.
‘Mum, I read your email and I think I should go and see Izzy,’ I say.
There. Done.
So that was a no from Mum. And from Dad.
Mum got
pretty mad. I mean, she was mad with Mrs Lawton, she kept saying, but it sounded like she was more mad with me, from the way she kept coming back to the same topics.
I do appreciate that reading private emails is beyond the pale.
I do appreciate that Mum and Dad are juggling some big issues, and they can’t do that if they’re constantly afraid I’m going to hack into their email account all the time.
Do I want to turn into a household with locked doors? (No.)
Do I want to live in a family with no trust? (No.)
Wait a minute, was this Frank? Did Frank help you? (Silence.)
Mum’s nostrils were white and her forehead veins were throbbing, and Dad looked grave, seriously grave, like he hasn’t looked for a while, and they were both one hundred per cent adamant that seeing Izzy was a non-starter.
‘You’re fragile, Audrey,’ Mum kept saying. ‘You’re like a piece of china that’s just been mended.’
She pinched that from Dr Sarah.
Does Mum talk to Dr Sarah behind my back? This has never occurred to me before. But then, I can clearly be quite slow off the mark.
‘Sweetheart, I know you think it’ll be a cathartic experience and you’ll say your piece and everyone will come away the wiser,’ says Dad. ‘But in real life, that doesn’t happen. I’ve confronted enough assholes in my time. They never realize they’re assholes. Not once. Whatever you say.’ He turns to Mum. ‘Remember Ian? My first boss? Now, he was an asshole. Always was, always will be.’
‘I’m not planning to say a piece,’ I point out. ‘She’s the one who wanted to apologize.’
‘She says,’ mutters Mum darkly. ‘She says.’
‘Tell us why you want to do it,’ says Dad. ‘Explain.’
‘Do you want to hear her say sorry?’ says Mum. ‘We could tell her she has to write a letter.’
‘It’s not that.’ I shake my head impatiently, trying to shift my thoughts into making sense. The trouble is, I can’t explain it. I don’t know why I want to do it. Except maybe to prove something. But to who? Myself? Izzy?
Dr Sarah isn’t wild about hearing about Izzy or Tasha or any of them. She’s all, like, ‘Audrey, you aren’t validated by other people,’ and ‘You’re not responsible for other people’s emotions,’ and ‘This Tasha sounds very tedious – let’s move off the topic.’