I’m so taken aback, I don’t know what to say. Like, first of all I didn’t think Frank ever noticed things about me. And second of all, is that true? I try to think back, but it’s a bit hazy. This is a side-effect of depression, Dr Sarah has told me. Your memory gets shot to pieces. Which, you know, can be a good thing or a bad thing.

‘Really?’ I say at last.

‘You would have just hidden in your room. Everything got you into a state, even the doorbell ringing. But now look. You’re in charge. You’re on top of it.’ He nods at me holding the tray. ‘It’s . . . well . . . It’s good. It’s cool.’

‘Thanks,’ I say awkwardly.

‘No probs.’ He looks equally awkward. Then he opens the fridge, gets out a carton of chocolate milk and plugs in his iPod buds. I guess this conversation is over.

But as I walk up the stairs with the tray, I’m replaying it. You’re in charge. You’re on top of it. Just the thought gives me an inner glow. I haven’t felt on top of anything for . . . for ever.

I tap on the door and go into my parents’ room. Mum’s lying in bed, her eyes closed. I think she’s fallen asleep. She must have been exhausted.

I put the tray down as quietly as I can, on her dressing table. There’s a bunch of framed photos on the polished wood, and I linger, looking at them all. Mum and Dad on their wedding day . . . me and Frank as babies . . . and one of Mum with all her workmates, winning some award. She’s wearing a pink jacket and clutching a Perspex trophy and beaming, and she looks totally vibrant.

Mum is a freelance brand consultant, which means that she does projects all over the country. Sometimes she’s really busy and sometimes she has weeks off, and that’s how it’s always been. She came to my school and talked about her job once, and showed us this supermarket logo redesign she’d worked on, and everyone was really impressed. I mean, she’s cool. Her job is cool. Only now I’m looking at this photo I’m wondering: When did she actually last work?

She was on a project when I got ill. I can vaguely remember hearing her talking to Dad about it, hearing her say, ‘I’m pulling out. I’m not going to Manchester.’ All I felt then was relief. I didn’t want her to go to Manchester. I didn’t want her to go anywhere.

But now . . .

I look at the photo again, at Mum’s happy, shiny photo face – and then down at her tired, asleep, real-life face on the bed. It hadn’t occurred to me that Mum had stopped working completely. But ever since I’ve been at home, I realize, she hasn’t gone to her office once.

I feel like I’m slowly coming out of a fog and noticing things I didn’t before. What Dr Sarah said is true: you get self-obsessed when you’re ill. You can’t see anything around you. But now I’m starting to see stuff.

‘Audrey?’

I turn to see that Mum is pushing herself up on her elbows.

‘Hi!’ I say. ‘I thought you were asleep. I brought you some Lemsip.’

Mum’s face cracks into a smile, as though I’ve made her year. ‘Sweetheart,’ she says. ‘That is so kind.’

I bring the tray and watch as she sips the hot drink. Her face is so distant that I think she might be falling asleep again, but suddenly she focuses on me.

‘Audrey,’ she says. ‘This Linus.’

I feel my defences rise at once. Not Linus. This Linus.

‘Yes?’ I say, trying to sound casual.

‘Is he . . .?’ She trails off. ‘Are you . . .? Is he a special friend?’

I can feel myself squirming inside. I don’t want to talk about Linus to Mum.

‘Kind of.’ I look away. ‘You always say I need to make friends. So. I did.’

‘And that’s great.’ Mum hesitates. ‘But, Audrey, you need to be careful. You’re vulnerable.’

‘Dr Sarah says I need to push myself,’ I counter. ‘I need to begin building relationships outside the family again.’

‘I know.’ Mum looks troubled. ‘But I suppose I’d rather you began with . . . Well. A girl friend.’

‘Because girls are so nice and sweet and lovely,’ I retort, before I can stop myself, and Mum sighs.

‘Touché.’ She takes a sip of Lemsip, wincing. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose if this Linus is a nice boy . . .’

‘He’s very nice,’ I say firmly. ‘And his name isn’t This Linus. It’s Linus.’

‘What about Natalie?’

Natalie. A tiny part of me shrivels automatically at the name. But for the first time in ages, I can also feel a kind of longing. A longing for the friendship we had. For friendship, full stop.

There’s quiet in the room as I try to pick through my muddled thoughts. Mum doesn’t push me. She knows it sometimes takes me a long time to work out what I think. She’s pretty patient.

I feel like I’ve been on this massive long, lonely journey, and none of my friends could ever understand it, even Natalie. I think I kind of hated them for that. But now everything’s feeling easier. Maybe I could see Natalie some time? Maybe we could hang out? Maybe it wouldn’t matter that she can’t understand what I’ve been through?

There’s a photo on Mum’s dressing table of Natalie and me dressed up for last year’s Year Nine prom, and I find my eyes swivelling towards it. Nat’s in a pink lacy dress and I’m in blue. We’re laughing and pulling party poppers. We did that picture about six times to get the party poppers just right. They were Nat’s idea. She has funny ideas like that. I mean, she does make you laugh, Nat.

‘Maybe I will call Natalie,’ I say at last. ‘Some time.’ I look at Mum for a reaction, but she’s fallen asleep. The half-full Lemsip is tilting dangerously on the tray, and I grab it before it can spill. I leave it on her bedside table in case she wakes up, then tiptoe out of the room and head downstairs, full of a kind of new energy.

‘Frank,’ I demand as I enter the kitchen. ‘Has Mum given up work?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘For good?’

‘Dunno.’

‘But she’s really good at her job.’

‘Yes, but she can’t go out, can she?’

He doesn’t say it, but I know what he means. Because of you.

Because of me, Mum is hanging around at home, worrying and reading the Daily Mail. Because of me, Mum looks all tense and tired instead of shiny and happy.

‘She should work. She likes work.’

Frank shrugs. ‘Well. I expect she will. You know . . .’

And again, the unspoken hangs in the air: When you get better.

‘I’ll go and get the grapes,’ he says, and ambles out of the kitchen. And I sit, staring at my blurry reflection in the stainless steel fridge. When I get better. Well then. It’s up to me to get better.


MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

Dad is making a call at his desk in the study.

DAD

(into phone)

Yes. Yup. I’ll check that. (He taps at the computer.) OK, I’ve got it up now.

Frank barges into the room without knocking.

FRANK

Dad, I need to look something up for my geography homework.

DAD

You’ll have to do it later. Sorry, Mark—

FRANK

But I can’t do my homework till I look this up.

DAD

Frank, do it later.

Frank looks at him, wide-eyed.

FRANK

You always tell me to prioritize my homework. You always say, ‘Don’t put off your homework, Frank.’ But now you’re telling me to put off my homework. I mean, isn’t that mixed messages? Aren’t parents supposed to be consistent?

DAD

(sighs)

Fine. Look it up. Mark, I’ll call you back.

He gives way to Frank at the computer. Frank taps a few times, looks at a website and scribbles something down.

FRANK

Thanks.

As Frank leaves, Dad redials and summons up his document on the computer.

DAD

Sorry, Mark. So, as I was saying, these figures really don’t make sense—

He stops as Frank comes in again.

FRANK

I need to look up the population of Uruguay.

Dad puts his hand over the phone.

DAD

What?

FRANK

Uruguay. Population.

Dad stares at him, exasperated.

DAD

Is this really essential right now?

Frank looks hurt.

FRANK

It’s for my homework, Dad. You always say, what I do at school will affect my whole life. I mean, I would do it on my own computer, but . . . well.

(He looks sombrely at the floor.) That was Mum’s decision. We’ll never know why she did what she did.

DAD

Frank—

FRANK

No, it’s OK. If you want to put your phone call above my education, then that’s your decision.

DAD

(snaps)

Fine. Look it up. (He gets up.) Mark, we’ll have to do this much later. Sorry.

FRANK

(at the computer)

It should be on histories . . .

He summons up a page entitled ‘Financing Your Alfa Romeo’.

FRANK

Wow, Dad. Are you buying an Alfa Romeo? Does Mum know?

DAD

(snaps)

That is private. That is nothing—

He breaks off as he sees Frank tapping at the keyboard.

DAD

Frank, what are you doing? What’s happened to my screen?

Dad’s bland, seaside wallpaper has been replaced by a leering graphic character from LOC.

FRANK

You needed a new wallpaper. Your one was rank. Now we need some new sound settings . . .

He clicks the mouse and ‘Boomshakalaka’ blasts from the computer.

Dad completely loses it.

DAD

Stop that! That is my computer . . . (He gets up and stalks to the door.) Anne? Anne?


MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

From the door of the kitchen we can see Dad and Mum, having a low-pitched fight.

DAD