I mean, oh God on so many levels. First, he thinks he freaked me out. (Which he did, but not because he’s freaky.) Second, he feels the need to apologize, which makes me feel bad. Third, what do I do now?

I think for an instant, then write underneath:

No, I’m sorry. I have this weird thing. It’s not you.

Audrey

‘Felix,’ I say. ‘Go and give this to Linus. Linus,’ I repeat as he stares at me with blank eyes. ‘Frank’s friend. Linus? The big boy?’

Felix takes the paper and looks at it carefully for a moment. Then he folds it up, puts it in his pocket and starts playing with a train.

‘Felix, go on.’ I prod him. ‘Give it to Linus.’

‘But it fits in my pocket,’ he objects. ‘It’s my pocket paper.’

‘It’s not yours. It’s a note.’

‘I want a pocket paper!’ He screws up his face to howl.

For God’s sake. In movies, they fix the note to a dog’s collar and it trots off obediently, no nonsense.

‘OK, Felix, you can have a pocket paper,’ I say in exasperation. ‘Whatever that is. Here you are.’ I rip a page out of a magazine, fold it up and stuff it in his pocket instead. ‘Now give this one to Linus. In the playroom.’

When Felix finally leaves, I have no confidence that the note will reach its destination. It’s a thousand times more likely that Felix will feed it into the waste disposal or the DVD player or just forget it exists. I turn up You’ve Been Framed and try to forget about it.

But about two minutes later, there’s Felix holding the note, saying excitedly, ‘Read it! Read the pocket paper!’

I unfold it – and Linus has added a new line. This is like a game of Consequences.

Frank explained. Must be tough for you.

I smooth the paper out on my knee and write:

It’s fine. Well, you know, not fine. It is what it is. Hope you’re winning. Btw you were a great Atticus Finch.

I send the paper off with Felix the Wonder Dog and stare ahead at the screen – but I’m not watching You’ve Been Framed at all. I’m just waiting. I haven’t done anything like this in for ever. I haven’t interacted with anyone except my safe people for . . . I don’t know. Weeks. Months. Before I know it, Felix is back, and I grab the paper from him.

Hey, thanks. Actually we’re tanking. Frank is shouting at me because I’m writing this. You are a bad influence, Audrey.

I look at the way he wrote my name. It feels intimate. It feels like he’s taken hold of a piece of me. I try to hear his voice saying the word. Audrey.

‘Draw the words,’ Felix is instructing me. He’s totally got into his role as go-between. ‘Draw the words.’ He jabs the paper. ‘Words!’

I don’t want to give this paper to Felix any more. I want to fold it up and keep it somewhere where I can look at it in private. Study his writing. Think about him forming my name with his pen. Audrey.

I grab a fresh piece of A4 from the side table where all my school supplies are stacked, and scribble on it:

Well, it’s been nice chatting or whatever.

See you.

I send it off with Felix, and half a minute later the reply comes:

See you.

I’m still holding the first paper; the one with my name on it. I press it to my face and inhale. I think I can smell his soap or shampoo or whatever.

Felix is pressing his nose to the other paper and he looks at me over the top with huge eyes.

‘Your pocket paper smells like poo,’ he says, and bursts into laughter.

Trust a four-year-old to ruin the mood.

‘Thanks, Felix.’ I ruffle his hair. ‘You’re a great messenger.’

‘Draw more words,’ he says, patting the paper. ‘More words.’

‘We’ve finished our chat,’ I say, but Felix picks up a crayon and hands it to me.

‘Make red words,’ he commands me. ‘Make “Felix”.’

I write ‘Felix’ and he gazes at it lovingly as I draw him close for another restoring cuddle.

I feel kind of exhilarated. And kind of emptied out. Which may seem like an overreaction, but then, in case you hadn’t picked it up, I am the Queen of Overreaction.

The truth is, if you don’t communicate with anyone new, ever, at all, then you lose the knack. And when you go back to it, it’s sort of draining. Dr Sarah has warned me about that. She says I should expect even the tiniest tasks or new steps to be a bit exhausting. And believe it or not, that silly little exchange of notes was.

Nice, though.


MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

Camera pans towards a closed door.

AUDREY (VOICE-OVER)

So this is my dad’s study. This is where he works when he’s not at the office.

The door is pushed open by a hand. We see Dad, slumped at his desk, gently snoring. On the screen is an Alfa Romeo sports car.

AUDREY (V.O.)

Dad? Are you asleep?

Dad jumps up and hastily closes down his monitor.

DAD

I wasn’t ASLEEP. I was thinking. So, have you wrapped your present for Mum?

AUDREY (V.O.)

That’s why I’m here. Do you have any wrapping paper?

DAD

I do.

He reaches for a roll of wrapping paper and hands it to Audrey.

DAD

And look what else!

He produces a white pâtisserie box and opens it to reveal a large birthday cake. It is iced with a big ‘39’.

There is silence for a moment.

AUDREY (V.O.)

Dad, why have you put ‘thirty-nine’ on Mum’s cake?

DAD

No one’s too old for a personalized birthday cake.

(He twinkles at the camera)

I know I’m not.

AUDREY (V.O.)

But she’s not thirty-nine.

DAD

(puzzled)

Yes she is.

AUDREY (V.O.)

No she’s not.

DAD

Yes she—

He breaks off and gasps. Aghast. He looks at the cake and back at the camera.

DAD

Oh God. Will she mind? No. Of course she won’t mind. I mean, it’s one year, what’s the big deal—

AUDREY (V.O.)

Dad, she will SO mind.

Dad looks panic-stricken.

DAD

We need a new cake. How long do we have?

We hear the sound of a door banging downstairs.

MUM (OFF-SCREEN)

I’m home!

Dad looks freaked out.

DAD

Audrey, what shall I do?

AUDREY (V.O.)

We can fix it. We can change it to ‘thirty-eight’.

DAD

With what?

He picks up a Tipp-Ex pot.

AUDREY (V.O.)

No!

There’s a knocking at the door and Frank comes in.

FRANK

Mum’s home. When are we doing her birthday tea?

Dad is uncapping a Sharpie.

DAD

I’ll use this.

AUDREY (V.O.)

No! Frank, go to the kitchen. We need some writing icing or something. Anything edible you can write with. But don’t let Mum know what you’re doing.

FRANK

(baffled)

Anything edible you can write with?

DAD

Quick!

Frank disappears. The camera focuses on the cake.

AUDREY (V.O.)

How did you get her age wrong? I mean, how did you manage that?

DAD

(clutches head)

I don’t know. I’ve spent all month writing financial reports about next year. My whole mindset is next year. I guess I lost a year somewhere.

Frank bursts into the room holding a squeezy bottle of Heinz ketchup.

AUDREY (V.O.)

Ketchup? Seriously?

FRANK

(defensive)

Well, I didn’t know!

Dad grabs the bottle.

DAD

Can we turn a ‘nine’ into an ‘eight’ with ketchup?

FRANK

You won’t fool her.

AUDREY (V.O.)

Go over the whole number with ketchup. Make the whole thing a ketchup cake.

FRANK

Why would you ice a cake with ketchup?

DAD

(hurriedly icing)

Mum loves ketchup. It’s fine. It’s all good.




OK, so here’s a life lesson. Don’t try fixing a birthday cake with ketchup. Tipp-Ex would have been better.

As Dad brought out the cake, Mum’s jaw dropped. And not in a good way. I mean, if you take a white iced cake and pipe all over it with ketchup, it basically looks like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

We all launched into ‘Happy Birthday’ extra loudly, and as soon as we’d finished and Mum had blown out her (one) candle, Dad said, ‘Great! So let me take that away and cut it up—’

‘Wait.’ Mum put a hand on his. ‘What IS that? That’s not ketchup?’

‘It’s a Heston Blumenthal recipe,’ said Dad without blinking. ‘Experimental.’

‘Right.’ Mum still looked puzzled. ‘But isn’t that . . .?’ Before anyone could stop her, she was scraping the ketchup off with a napkin. ‘I thought so! There’s a message underneath.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Dad quickly.

‘But it’s piped in icing!’ She wiped away the last blobs of ketchup and we all stared in silence at the smeared red-and-white cake.

‘Chris,’ said Mum at last in an odd voice. ‘Why does it say thirty-nine?’

‘It doesn’t! It says thirty-eight. Look.’ Dad’s hand traced over the vestiges of the ketchup. ‘That’s an eight.’

‘Nine.’ Felix pointed confidently at the cake. ‘Number nine.’

‘It’s an eight, Felix!’ said Dad sharply. ‘Eight!’

I could see Felix staring at the cake in puzzlement and felt a twinge of sympathy for him. How’s he supposed to learn anything with nutso parents like ours?

‘It’s a nine, Felix,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Daddy’s joking.’

‘Do you think I’m thirty-nine?’ Mum looked up at Dad. ‘Do I look thirty-nine? Is that what you think?’ She squashed her face between her hands and glared at him. ‘Is this a thirty-nine-year-old face? Is that what you’re telling me?’