In the Kitchen by Monica Ali Read Free Book Online Page A

call a good influence. Is on our Harley, anyway, because you know he's had his share of troubles and only the other day I was saying to him, Harley, I think Violet's got you under the thumb, I only mean in a good way because, well, when he was younger ... and Violet is quite an old-fashioned name, don't you think? She's nineteen, year older than Harley, and ...'
    Gabe held the phone away from his ear. Two years ago – was it three? – he had been affronted when Jenny walked into the kitchen in Plodder Lane and he saw how old she had become, how middle age had enveloped her like the layers of fat on her arms, her legs, her neck. Jenny, who used to wear torn denim miniskirts and a fuck-off glare. Who used to drop one laconic word in the pub and send everyone scurrying to pick it up, frame it and hand it around. She used so many words now and all of them passed you by.
    He pressed the phone to his ear again.
    '... pleased about that but you can't help but worry. Worry about every little thing when you're a parent, you know, suppose you don't, not yet, but you know Bailey, always headstrong, and I said to her, Bailey, I know I'm your mum and you don't want to listen ...'
    'Jenny,' said Gabe. 'It's a bit late, even for me. I'll call you ...'
    'Tomorrow,' said Jenny. 'I'll call you tomorrow. You always say that.'
    'Do I?'
    'Yes,' said Jenny, lighting another fag or taking another puff on the inhaler.
    'But you never do.'
    'Don't I? I mean, I do. I'm sure I do, when I say it.'
    'No,' said his sister firmly. 'You don't.'
    There was a pause.
    'Well,' said Gabriel.
    'I need to talk to you, Gabe.'
    Gabe went to stand by the sink under the kitchen window. The kebab shop opposite was closing. One man humped bags of rubbish to the kerb, another pulled down the metal shutter. Yellow light seeped from under it. A plastic bag flew across the road. 'I want to talk to you as well,' said Gabriel, finding, to his surprise, that he meant it.
    'I'm sorry,' said Jenny, 'I haven't asked about you. How are you? Tell me how you really are.'
    'Fine.' The word just popped out when he opened his mouth. He tried to think of something else to say.
    There was only static down the line.
    He tried again. 'Busy at work. Thinking about opening up ...'
    '... your own place ...'
    '... my own place ... And me and Charlie are thinking ...'
    '... about moving in together ...'
    '... of moving in ... but it's hard ...'
    '... to find the time ...'
    'Yes.' Did she end everybody's sentences for them? Why did she do it? Was everything he said really that predictable, that boring?
    'I hope I'm going to meet her soon, Gabriel, time you made an honest woman ...
    and I bet she thinks so too, even if she's not prepared to say. But I won't go on about that now, that's not what I'm ringing for, not at this time of night though I knew you'd be up most likely ...'
    Did they end each other's sentences, Jenny and her women friends in Blantwistle? Bev and Yvette and Gail and whoever else at the call centre.
    '... and I wanted to talk about Dad ...'
    Perhaps they did. Perhaps having their sentences finished made them feel understood. Every completed sentence a small act of loyalty, of love. The thought of it was exhausting. Gabe wanted to go to bed.
    '... those ships he used to build out of matchsticks, do you remember? Had all the drawings and photos of the Titanic and made her out of matchsticks, oh, so beautiful and the way he'd spend an hour just looking, deciding how to do the next bit ...'
    Gabe had taken one into the bath once without permission and broken it. He'd been terrified about telling Dad, but Dad only said, well, why don't we fix it together, as if it would give them something nice to do.
    '... so I know you're very busy and honest to God believe me I'm not saying you're not but when I heard you hadn't rung him and this was three days ago now I thought ...'
    The light in the kebab shop was off. The moon was nearly full but so pale it made little impression, hanging