They eat chicken salad.
They always eat salad.
Claire’s mother likes to say she doesn’t believe in carbohydrates. It’s not true, but that’s what she does in public. And Claire plays the game when they eat lunch in one of these boring, ultra-modern little cafés. Her mother likes the style, all clean lines and surfaces—as if choosing no décor is better than choosing the wrong décor.
Claire goes along with it because it’s easier. For every battle she fights with her mother, there’s a handful she can’t take up. If she did, she’d never have time for anything else.
They’ve been shopping. This is one activity they usually get through without an eruption between them, so it’s how they spend most of their Christine-designated “quality” time.
Claire sighs as her mother slices neatly through the chicken breast perched on top of a rainbow of leaves. For as long as she can remember, they’ve been locked in this mutual charade of watching what they eat, ordering salads, and making conspicuously healthy choices. Claire would rather eat whatever the hell she wants and not think about food as a social statement.
On the other hand, Christine believes she really is that disciplined and health conscious. Claire remains complicit in the fantasy because time and experience has proved that it decreases the chance of her mother initiating another conversation about how Claire looks. There have been enough of those.
Her mother has this mysterious capacity to notice the slightest shift or flux in Claire’s weight—faster than Claire herself. She also instantly picks up on any small changes in her hair, the way she dresses, or how she applies her makeup. Even though Claire has always fallen on the slender side of average, any gain comes with a swift reminder that, if her mother can stay trim on the march toward fifty, Claire should be able to do so at her age.
The thing is Christine complains if she goes the other way too. Months ago, when everything went to hell with Brendan, Claire was so miserable she wasn’t even compelled to eat her feelings. She came out of those depressing weeks bored of her own misery and a few kilos lighter. Suddenly, instead of snide comments about weighing too much, Christine switched to snide comments about nobody liking women who are too skinny. That was confirmation of what Claire already knew—there’s no reason to try since she can’t do anything right in her mother’s eyes.
Claire forks a piece of cucumber drowned in dressing into her mouth and idly watches the waiter zip over and top off her mother’s water glass. Her mother gives the waiter a brief nod and takes an obedient sip.
“I am still not sure about that jacket,” Christine says as the waiter places a coffee in front of her. “It’s a bit tasteless, don’t you think?”
Claire sighs. Of course her mother doesn’t like the jacket because Claire loves it. It’s a snug, waist-length, black-leather jacket that will take her through the cool nights of spring. More importantly, it looks good. She loves the way it makes her feel both hot and armoured as if she’s protected somehow.
“It’s not tasteless, Mum. It’s just not your taste.” She picks up her fork again and frowns as she spears a piece of tomato. Claire doesn’t even like salad very much. It’s not that it doesn’t taste good. It’s just so exhausting. All that chewing for so little payoff. And then she has to eat all over again a couple of hours later.
“Well, anyway, it’s nice to finally spend some time with my daughter,” Christine says, casual, as she pulls the coffee toward her.
Claire doesn’t respond because she’s learned to ignore comments about her supposed neglect. This is one of the smaller battles she ignores.
As expected, her mother goes in again. “I just feel like I don’t get to see you much these days.”
“Well, I’m working a lot.” Claire scoops more leaves onto her fork. “Saving.”
A lie, of course. Luckily, her mother doesn’t know anything about the contents of her bank account—especially not after the jacket. She says “saving” because she knows her mother will approve.
“I do wish you’d find a nicer place to work, sweetheart.” Christine sighs as she takes the bread from the side of her plate and tosses it into the basket—a show of self-discipline. “That bar sounds positively seedy.”
“It’s not that bad, Mum. It’s just a regular old pub.” Claire folds her napkin and drops it on her plate. “Andrew, the boss, is nice.”
“Did you know he was arrested for drug possession a few years back?”
“How would I know that?” Claire frowns, irritated by her mother’s ability to turn every conversation into a well-planned interrogation, how she always drops in little bombs to shake things up. “And the more obvious question is how do you know that?” she snaps. She can’t help it. She’s pissed, and there goes the path of least resistance.
“I had him checked out.”
“Why did you do that?” Claire sits back against her chair and glares at Christine. “Jesus, Mum!” She really shouldn’t be surprised, though. Her mother would get a background check done on the postman if she were suspicious enough. The lawyer in her never rests, and her father’s old police friends are always ready to do a favour.
“I wanted to know what kind of establishment my daughter is working in. So I checked.” Christine sips her coffee calmly. “Concern is a natural part of being a mother, Claire. You’ll find out one day.”
“It’s part of being the mother of a child, Mum. Not someone who is nearly twenty.”
“Well, I don’t see an adult anywhere.” Christine gives her that exhausted look she favours whenever this conversation starts, as if she doesn’t know what to do with Claire anymore. “An adult would be planning her future, thinking about her career, not wasting time in a place like that.”
And, because this conversation is the backing track to her life, Claire gives it a nod and moves the hell on. “As ever, I do apologise sincerely for the unbearable wretchedness of my existence, Mum. So, what was it?”
“What was what?” Christine frowns and pushes her plate to the side.
“What was my boss caught possessing?” Claire picks up her coffee. “Something tells me it wasn’t meth.”
“It was marijuana.” Her reply is grudging. They both know that a little bit of pot is hardly indicative of a criminal life. Claire smirks into her coffee. Besides, it kind of explains Andrew’s general dopiness.
Christine moves on, clearly aware of the weakness of her last attack. “And will I ever meet this Nina girl? The one you stay with in town?”
Probably never, Claire thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, she shrugs and pretends to inspect a fingernail.
“I don’t like the thought of you spending so much time with strangers.”
“She’s not a stranger to me, Mum. And if she ever finds herself out in the deep burbs, I’m sure she’ll drop by.”
“What does she study again?”
“She doesn’t.” Claire sighs. Her mother knows the answer. This isn’t the first time she’s asked.
“Then what does she do?”
“She works in the bar.”
“But what does she want to do?”
“I don’t know.” She’s not going to tell her mother about Nina’s supposed memoir. Christine’s not likely to be assuaged by that prospect. Besides, Claire has never seen Nina write a word.
“Surely she doesn’t want to work in bars for the rest of her life?”
“I don’t know, Mum,” Claire repeats with a sigh. “I don’t ask. It’s none of my business.”
“By the way, speaking of your friends, Michelle called the house the other day. Why isn’t she calling your phone?”
Claire shrugs. She really should call her friend. It’s been a month. “Michelle’s not so bright,” she jokes. “Can we go now?”
“Now that’s not true.” Christine whisks her bag off the back of her chair and pulls out her purse. “At least she’s working toward her future. She’ll have a job when she finishes her degree.”
“Yes, she will, Mum.” Claire ignores the bill the waiter left on the table. Her mother can get it. Payment for pain and suffering. “And I bet she’ll have that job for, oh, roughly three years before she’s married and pushing out babies instead.”
“There’s nothing wrong with making the choice to leave work and raise a family, young lady.” Her mother slaps some notes on the bill tray. “Not everyone wants or can manage work and a family, you know.”
Claire hears the silent “like I did” at the end of that sentence and fights the urge to roll her eyes. Only her mother could make that defence of Michelle into an actual ego stroke for herself. Her mother is a master at making herself look good—in the eyes of her employees and clients. That’s how she has gotten so far. If Claire and Cam gave her performance reviews, maybe she wouldn’t do so well.
“Well, don’t worry, Mum,” Claire says cheerfully as they leave the sterile café behind. “I’m much tougher than Michelle. I’ll keep working in the bar right up until I give birth to Andrew’s crack baby, okay?”
