Tuesday & Max

19

WE'RE SETTING FIRE TO OUR INSIDES FOR FUN

COLLECTING PICTURES FROM THE FLOOD

THAT WRECKED OUR HOME

IT WAS A FLOOD THAT WRECKED THIS HOME

On January third, Tuesday gets the train a few stops, where Max is waiting on a bench by the station exit. He looks tired. They embrace a little awkwardly, exchange vague explanations of how Christmas went, then start the short walk to Max's house.

What to expect?

Looking at Max, he could come from any sort of background. He dresses simply; his clothes are always clean but he doesn't wear big brand names or anything flashy, sticking to muted greys, blues and blacks. She's never seen him in a fan t-shirt of a show or videogame. His shoes, usually trainers, look well-worn but hardly falling to pieces. He doesn't look down on her little flat with Julia; or, if he does, he's polite enough not to say anything about it.

They turn down a street that backs onto a nature reserve. It's dotted with tall trees and the houses are on the big side. Max leads her to one right at the end of the road. Tuesday almost trips over a couple of roots that burst from the pavement, distorting it, their desperate brown arms reaching out for her horror-movie-style; but Max helps her regain her balance around the lopsided tree that they belong to.

"Are we here?" Tuesday asks stupidly, as if they've just stopped on the pavement inside some random person's house instead.

"Yes."

The house has two tidy front lawns parted by a concrete path that leads to a big, old, wooden front door. Even from the front, it looks massive; the dark brick makes the abundance of white doubled-glazed windows pop, and Tuesday can see a garage hidden off toward the bushes on the right.

Tuesday steals a glance at Max.

"You fancy."

He laughs. "Shut up."

They start up the path and Tuesday's eyes wander over well-manicured flowerbeds and a meticulously parked navy blue car on the front drive. "What's your mom's job?"

"She works from home," he answers, pulling his keys out of his pocket. "She's an author."

"That's so cool! Is that your car, then?"

"Yeah. The L plates are in the garage."

The door swings open and they step inside. It's darkly decorated in a classic style, with a tiled entrance and benches that look like church pews beneath coats hung up on a rack on the wall.

"Mom?" Max calls, taking off his shoes. Tuesday's nerves triple as she does the same.

It's time to meet her.

"I'm in the living room, darling," a disembodied voice calls back.

She doesn't sound at all like what Tuesday expected. Hers is a voice that booms, commands. Tuesday can't imagine her panicking over perfectly-cooked dinners or being cheated on by anybody.

"We don't have to spend long with her," Max murmurs, and leads Tuesday through an archway nearby.

The living room is grand, all white walls with exposed wooden beams, lots of mirrors, a smattering of frames with family faces in them, a dated floral suite comprised of a sofa and two chairs and old but thick carpet.

On the sofa opposite the fireplace lounges a slim, dark-haired woman wearing a pair of cream trousers and a baby-pink silk shirt. Her hair is long and dark, movie-star shiny; face carefully painted in makeup, but not too much. Tuesday quickly identifies Max's plump lips and eye shape; they're crinkled and smiley on him, but look fox-like and focused on her.

There's a laptop on her lap and a glass of wine in her hand and she deposits both on a mahogany side table to greet them.

"Hello, darling," she says, using the same pet name again, "how was college?" She doesn't wait for an answer, eyes flicking to Tuesday instead. "And you must be Tuesday."

"It's nice to meet you."

"Wonderful hair, my love. Bright."

Tuesday blinks, then smiles. Most adults disapprove of the blue. "Thanks?"

"You're welcome. Twenty years ago, I had pink hair. Gets you noticed, doesn't it? Children tend to stare." She plucks up the wine glass and takes a sip as Tuesday laughs. "And old people like to tut. Make yourself at home!"

Obliging, Tuesday perches on one of the armchairs and Max hovers, sentry-like, near the arm.

"Max says you like to make clothes." It isn't a question, but rather a gentle sort of probing. An attempt to get to know her. Warm, but Tuesday can see something in her eyes; the shine of close observation.

"Yes," Tuesday confirms. "I'm helping to make some of the costumes for The Sound of Music, our college's end-of-year musical."

Max's mother makes a tragic facial expression. "Lots of nun outfits."

Tuesday laughs again. "Yeah. But there are some nice dresses to make too."

"I hope it goes well." Max's mother rises with a quiet rustle, brushing off her clothes. Three downward strokes remove lint that, by the quality of her clothing, was non-existent. She kisses Max on his cheek, a belated greeting, but the action is robotic and he's expressionless.

"I'm going to have a little lie-down," she says. "I thought we might order dinner tonight. Whatever Tuesday likes."

"Okay," Max responds, although Tuesday can tell from his expression that the subject of food here is an awkward, hostile one.

Just before she steps back, Max's mother turns back. "My name is Diana, by the way," she says. "It's lovely to meet you."

"You too," Tuesday says, and then she's gone.

The atmosphere in the room lifts immediately. Max turns on the TV to a comedy channel to fill the background with noise and they both move to the couch. Tuesday's eyes wander to the bookshelf closest to them as Max apologises needlessly for the few minutes they spent in the presence of his mother.

The top two shelves are filled with spines in similar colours and styles, and they look familiar. Beneath a variety of creative titles is one name. Diana Hughes.

"Yeah," Max says, following her eye line. "She's written a lot."

"No, it's just..." Tuesday pulls one out carefully. It hasn't been read. Its spine is perfectly unmarked, unbent. Pristine. "Hang on, your mom is the Diana Hughes? The one that writes all the thrillers and crime stuff?"

"Yeah."

"My aunt is obsessed with her. This bookshelf looks like her bedside table."

"Seriously?" Max's expression is sceptical.

"Seriously."

"Mom will sign something for you to take, if you want."

Excitement blooms in Tuesday's chest. A way to make up for her terrible Christmas gifts! "Really?"

"She'd love to. Most of her audience is old people. She'll be happy you even know who she is. I can get her to do it after dinner."

Tuesday falters. "I don't have to stay for dinner."

"It's okay. I'll order the food and I'll serve it up. It won't be a big thing. She's had a good couple of days." Max's face is open. He wants her to stay. "But you don't have to. It's okay if you don't want to. After everything I've told you."

Tuesday's mind flits to the hours Max has spent tutoring her, helping her catch up, playing Lost World, critiquing tiny changes to the same work-in-progress dresses that the average person wouldn't even have been able to pick up. She can endure this: a takeaway dinner in this strange, cold castle of a house.