She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

have reproduced—as many of the women in the top spots have done—often multiple times. They need their solid salaries to pay for the painfully expensive day-care bills, that probably hurt more than giving birth itself. But I don’t approach this topic. Not in front of Zach. Shit, I forgot to buy any red wine.

      ‘… not if you can be totally sure that the magazine is secure, i.e., supported by other products …’ I continue. ‘And that would mean going to a publication which is part of an umbrella company and, trust me, those jobs are hard to come by because applicants for the second-job-down nearly always come from the inside.’

      Zach nods. In a few seconds, he will give me the same half-understanding/half-tolerating look he has been doing ever since I started to talk at him, as opposed to with him. He knows there is no point trying to engage because this is a rant, not a discussion. Everything I say to him I have already made up my mind on. He reaches back down into the cardboard box and straightens up a batch of records even though they are stacked perfectly. Zach used to own a ton of vinyl, most of which he stored along the walls of our flat—literally, sound insulation—but sold most of it in the New Year because we would be ‘needing the space’. I told him he would regret selling his collection (mainly rare remixes of classic pop songs) because he started it when he was a kid. But he went ahead and bunged pretty much all of it on eBay as a job lot. All those tunes he had meticulously chosen and added one by one over the years … gone in three days and seven bids. It made me uncomfortable. I felt as if he wasn’t so much preparing for the future, as forcing it.

      He looks up at me. But the look I was expecting is not there. I can tell he is nervous.

      ‘Is Kat Moss okay?’ I ask quickly.

      ‘Yes, yes … she is fine.’

      ‘Still establishing her territory?’

      ‘Mmm … almost there, I think.’

      ‘But she’s getting back into her usual routine of late nights and sleeping all day?’

      ‘Yeah …’

      ‘Well, you’d still better not have a Chinese takeaway any time soon. Not until she’s totally settled in. MSG is feline crack. She might get involved in something she’d regret. I can only imagine what her police mugshot would look like, all dilated pupils and bushed-out tail …’

      Zach manages a smile. ‘… and hanging from her mouth, the bloody remains of an urban rodent only identifiable from its dental records.’

      I laugh. So does he, but then we both stop. Abruptly. Zach clears his throat again.

      ‘Ash, the reason I called you tonight …’

      ‘… was because you needed to show me your financial report for the …’ I don’t say it. The D word. I don’t call it that. If forced, I replace it with a generic term that covers the legal aspect, like ‘process’ or ‘arrangement’ or I simply trail off. ‘I heard you. Give me five minutes.’

      I need to go to the off licence. The only booze in the fridge is my three-week-old half-drunk public ‘decoy’ bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that I keep there to pretend I can have it in the flat without drinking it.

      ‘No, no, Ash … I said that so that you would come back home as soon as possible. I need to tell you something.’

      I blink hard. Six very average words. I need to tell you something. But how they are spoken makes all the difference. Quickly, short spacing … the something is Some Thing which may affect part of your day. Slowly, wide spacing … the something is The Thing which will affect your whole life.

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘I.’ SPACE. ‘Need.’ SPACE ‘To.’ SPACE ‘Tell.’ SPACE. ‘You.’ SPACE. ‘Something.’

      ‘What.’ No intonation.

      ‘Your mother … she’s passed away.’

      I look down at the box of records. The only visible one is an (I’m imagining appalling) house remix of Don’t Speak by No Doubt. I was never a big fan of Gwen Stefani’s fifties rockabilly look when that song came out. The overtly punk style that came afterwards lacked authenticity. And then the geisha thing was too … well, it had been done. (Madonna, Kylie, Janet Jackson … who hasn’t put their hair in a bun and sweated through a video in a silk dress with a dragon motif?) But now … wow. Stefani is a street fashion icon. Okay, it’s structured, expected, formulaic almost …

      ‘Ash?’

      … but no one can deny that she hasn’t been hugely influential on the general look of girl groups from the Pussy Cat Dolls to Little Mix. Or as Fitz calls them, Wind in the Willows. Ha!

      ‘Ash. I’m so sorry. I don’t know any of the details but when I was here, a woman called and left a message on the answering machine about the memorial service. She must have thought you already knew.’

      MOLE. BADGER. RATTY. TOAD.

      Zach steps forward. I step back.

      ‘I didn’t mean to shock you but the last thing I wanted to happen was for you to listen to the message on your own and th—’

      I interrupt him. ‘She had a husky voice … the person who left the message. Right?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Her name is Sheila. She ran the pub next to the block of flats where I grew up. She had white-blonde hair and always wore skintight shiny black clothes. Not leather … PVC. She always laughed—chestily, in fact, thanks to a forty-a-day Lambert and Butler habit—in the face of breathable fabrics. I lik—’

      Now he interrupts. ‘Rewind. How can you be sure it was her?’

      ‘Because I already know.’

      ‘What? You know what?’ He manages a double intonation.

      ‘I know that my mother is …’ Another D word. Another one I—or anyone would—want to think about. Let alone, articulate.

      ‘And you didn’t tell me?’

      ‘No. Look, it’s not as if it wasn’t …’ Around the corner? Bound to happen? A matter of time? I pause, knowing I sound like an automaton, but I don’t want Zach’s sympathy because he feels obliged. ‘… you know the relationship she and I had. And let’s face it, you and I are in a difficult situation too.’

      ‘Come on, Ash. Don’t be like that. How long have you known?’

      ‘Two months.’

      ‘Two months!’

      ‘Yes, Zach, two months. That’s what I said. Look, you don’t have to feel guilty. You weren’t to know this was going to happen.’

      ‘Guilty? You think that’s why I want to be there for you?’

      ‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’

      ‘Ash, don’t be so brutal. I’m here because I care about you. This is a massive thing to have happened—irrespective of the timing and irrespective of your relationship with her. This must have—must still be—bewildering for you. I think “bewildered” would be totally understandable in this situation. How did it happen?’

      ‘All that coconut water. It’s a lesson to us all. Clean living gets to you in the end.’ I squirm at my wholly unnecessary joke. ‘It was liver disease, Zach. Sheila told me that there are around seven thousand alcohol-related deaths each year and sixty-five per cent are because those livers have just said, “Nope. No more. E-fucking-nough!”’

      He shakes his head, sadly. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how I would be feeling if it were my mother.’

      ‘Don’t make me look bad by personalising the conversation. It’s a slightly different situation. I have not seen mine once in the last decade. You