Georgie Stedman

Extract from Snow Globe

It’s their jaws, hitting the floor, that have made this worth it. The glistening in your husband's eyes has vanished, as he stands in the sponge destruction, littering his suede loafers. Prada. Heads move side to side, with gasps and whispers ruminating. There's a hum of music, but you feel the quiet, a space opens up. The intoxicating moon floats above the garden party, attempting to reach through the twinkling of fairy lights and guests’ overpowering shimmer of their adorned diamonds and pearls tied around their thick necks.

They can’t think of anything to say, looking at each other in disbelief. Yes, you really did that.

Do you feel happy now?

 / \

 Yes No

Static. You can’t move but watch your mother-in-law pick up the celebratory remains and mumble something about it being a sad accident, assuring guests with her toothy personate smile. Your arms cling to your side. Hands: frozen. Fingers spread apart, left in the clawing position from when you dropped it. Animal. Your husband can’t say anything now, can't punish you. So he makes the joke:

Let them eat cak….

That made them laugh. That’s reassured the crowd, as they return to their comfortable conversation away from the scene you conducted. He’s going to be mad but it's not like he will hit you for it. It’s not like he can do anything. Nothing is going to change. They all saw you.

He can tell you that he’s disappointed in you  – again – which is even more tedious than him hitting you. Well, perhaps he didn’t pull the strings tight enough.

That’s all, folks!

You feel the urge to get away and head back to the kitchen. Stage left. That happy feeling lasted for a short time and you’re craving it again. You rely on hits of it. Your husband follows you backstage. His smile starting to fade. A silence is drafted between you, as he loosens his silk tie. Hermes. His hair is immaculately champagne gold, shining against that sharp navy suit – the early birthday gift from his mother for her pretty boy. His whole outfit in fact. You count the pinstripes on his sleeve. Six, seven, eight.

What was that? He scoffs.

     What was that?

Yes, that fucking big mess you caused!

What were you thinking?

His audacity singes your skin. He can’t quite believe it. Then again you can’t either. These embers inside of you flicker as he rattles on:

Did you do that on

you know what – never mind of course you wouldn’t.

It sort of just felt like you—

 might of – purposely wanted to ruin—

It was just so fucking—

He’s figuring you out and now he’s concerned. What will he do with you? He can’t stay mad at you for long though. He’s a bit like that. His attention span always brings him back to doctor mode. Patient. Controlling his heavy breaths to calm down. Nostrils flaring. You did it on purpose, you know you did, and you would do it again – smash the cake in his face next time. Ohhhhhhhhh! Next time it will be bigger. Get your cameras ready. Next time it will be a show. Next time he will crack. He’ll be just like you – not perfect anymore. He massages his temples with his fingers, closing his eyes and figuring out his next move. You lean back onto the kitchen cabinet. Ready. You remember standing at the altar, making vows and matching smiles. What it was.

Calming down. He asks if you are okay. Not in a patronising way either. This a genuine question. The kindness hurts. Confuses you. He’s good at that. You're never prepared for kindness. You don’t deserve it. Frustrating waves of anger and sadness pull like a tide in you. You’re lurking by the kitchen sink, trying to control the adrenaline and steady your breath. Bubbling. You want to look calm but you're giving the game away. He gets to stand looking cool as you hyperventilate.

That initial anger has brushed off him like a speck of dust on his sleeve. His eyes curve as he studies you and his arms switch from being crossed to retreating by his side. He’s waving the white flag; calling a ceasefire. There he is – your love – where has that version of him been? Where’s that version of you? The one where you're head over heels in love with the man of your dreams? Not the one who is secretly fucking her boss. He kicks at his shoes, cake crumbs flaking onto the kitchen tiles, scraping onto the floor. You pull at the hole in your tights further as he watches.

Are you Okay?

You loop his question in your mind allowing the crescendo:

                                                             Are you Okay? Are you Okay?

Are you Okay?

Are you Okay?

Are you Okay?

It just… seems like you aren’t yourself tonight

and

I’m just a bit worried about you darling.

Is everything oka….

That’s your cue. You start to respond, raising your hand pathetically actioning him to stop, witnessing your trembling fingers. Feeling shit about yourself. A damsel in a silk dress and ripped tights, needing a saviour. A blonde and helpless cliché. Woman.

   I just feel…

 You can’t complete the sentence, the words crumble in your mouth. All you are is feelings. It’s all you follow. Urges. Saying it out loud just makes it real, the words uncomfortably dance between the space. Salty tears stain your face, falling into the corners of your mouth that you swallow. You let your back hunch over to stare at the cold stone floor. You try to catch the breath that willingly escapes you. Defeated.

He nods, walks over and grips you in a hug. He’s patient with his patient. Silent forgiveness. You almost want to smack him for being so damn lovely. So lovely. A spreading glow.

Locked together, tessellating. Holding each other. You nuzzle your head against his neck like it was designed for you and let him care for you. He kisses you on your head and travels to your neck. You feel loved. It’s warm and fuzzy – it’s what they all write and sing about. For better and for worse. Bodies swaying. Metronomic. In sickness and in heal—

I love you so much, you know that right?

  but all you can think is

 how could anybody

   love

 you?

     I do. I know,

I love you t—

Let’s just get through tonight eh?

They will all forget about it.

Just smile and laugh, yeah?

They won’t remember it for long.

Yesterday’s news. Duty calls as he has to return to the party and you stay in the dark kitchen, to wipe the evidence of your breakdown off your face. He kisses your forehead, stroking your elbows and in a blink, he is readjusting his hair and heading back into the garden straightening the lapels of his jacket, as he exits.

Lonely, you stand in the shadows, wondering how to feel better. You don’t want them to forget about it. It didn’t work. How do you feel better?

Another gin should do it.

You are still shaking in the aftermath. Alone, quivering and trying to slow. The moon’s light peaks through the glass trailing across empty catering trays and your body and calls to you among the roars of applause and laughter as your husband returns to his party. What a guy! You look in a mirror above the fireplace and gaze at the streaked makeup relics which you attempt to remove with your wrists. You practise smiling until you are happy with how you can present yourself. Act normal. You wonder what it would feel like to lie on the moon.

From the window you see the party-goers continuing their revelries. The guests are spilling champagne onto the grass, pulling up dirt with their heels that are wedged in, the previous sauntering figures now distorting to more of a stagger as the night drags. The whistle of the neighbouring tree’s behind is suffocated by the shrill

conversations of these people. Those trees have been there long before any of you. How long will it be until they are ripped from their roots to build another four-floor mansion?

Breatheeeeeeeee- in and out. Back to the party. Back to it- the intervals over. Anecdotes are already assembled for unsettled guests when they ask you what happened. What happened? What - oh that - oh yes well silly me. Butterfingers. Laughs and then it's forgotten- end scene. Or it begins again. Or it just continues. Or it stops. Or it’s forgotten. Or it winds. Or it begins agai…

***

A spring pops, as you roll over in the small double bed in your husband’s childhood bedroom. Morning. It alerts you to the day, feeling the aches of alcohol from the night before. Your head feels swollen, there's pinching at your temples and it hurts to open your eyes fully with the heaviness of the eyelids. You listen to the brushing of trees outside from the wind, jubilantly free to talk and contemplate the peace.

You were dragged to bed a while after the incident. It helped you have a few too many more drinks and you began to slur as you spoke to guests. They smiled politely but their eyes judged. Up and down. Your husband escorted you, pulling on your elbow and helping you get dressed. You remember him pulling, unzipping your dress and giving you a long rugby top and boxers to wear to bed. He placed your head on the pillow, brought you water, kissed your shoulder goodnight as you curled up and then went back for damage control and Jägerbombs.

Your husband remains asleep. You note his recognisable soft snore, gently reverberating around. His room – a time capsule of THE GLORY DAYS. Embellished with school cricket trophies, MCAT textbooks, Abercrombie polo shirts, sprawled gym weights and crinkled posters featuring half-naked women his mother for some reason allows for decoration. Boys will be boys.

You check your phone charging beside you.

6:23 AM

Slinking out of the bed, you peek through the curtains to watch the branches of Alders and Beeches pleasantly waltzing. A peaceful communion undisturbed by the weekend guests who have scattered. Away from the city, you can hear yourself think. When everyone's awake you can barely hear a thing.

2 miles away.

Dad.

A 30-40 minute walk.

Bra, Change of Pants, T-shirt, Hoody, Leggings, Socks and Shoes. Phone.

Everyone’s still asleep. You use the bathroom, managing to not wake them as you quietly walk down the creaky oak stairs. Let sleeping lions lie. No toe out of line. The weather is composed. No need for an umbrella or a coat. There's a tranquillity to witnessing this early September Sunday alone whilst everyone else misses out. Just yours.

You’re going to a graveyard: Journey estimated 2.1 miles— suggested walking route:

1. Take your first left and go through a white gate, following a footpath down a slope past a variety of large, wealthy houses with matching Range Rovers.

2. Cross the road and take another left by a large stone monument and continue until you reach a fork in the road. Follow the path veering right and continue for 1.1 miles following signs towards the main village, where you frequently go with the in-laws you detest.

3. After 1.1 miles you will reach the village. Once you're at the village, follow the signs for the nearest city’s cathedral, which will also take you to the cemetery where your dead dad is buried. This will be a  sharp right turn parallel to a field with the South Downs in the distance. Ignore any smiling people.  

4. Follow this path for 0.7 miles. You will pass a school, old people’s home and a peaceful woodland on your left. The further steps you take toward your father the further you are from his family.

5. Continue along with the field on your right, and keep going – until you reach a stone Celtic Cross that has been defaced which makes you smile. Then you will reach a roundabout. Take the first left to continue on a path down a slope for 0.1 miles until—

You have reached your destination.

The gravel slips beneath your shoes. Morning light peaks through the gaps of branches and the gates of the cemetery. Waking up. In the buzz of the day, there would be grieving families and joggers following the path you tread now. Sunday. For now, it's yours. Limboing.

You go to see your father. His headstone has begun to decay to fit in with the space he was allocated. It reminds you of hospital beds, waiting rooms, long corridors and disinfectants. The sounds of the heart monitor going flat, after frustrated climbing. You’d never seen his hand so still. He used to tap on tables,

twiddle his thumbs, and flex his hands together to stretch. Never sat still. They’ve stopped now, forgotten, six feet underground. Rotting. He looked like Dean Martin and laughed like Marlon Brando. You read the headstone, but see different words scramble before you:

HERE LIES A DEAD DAD, HUSBAND, FRIEND,

KEEN ORNITHOLOGIST, TERRIBLE GARDENER, UNSUCCESSFUL PATIENT

DIED BEFORE THEIR TIME

(LIKE MOST)

RESTING HERE UNTIL HE PROBABLY GETS MOVED WHEN THEY RUN OUT OF SPACE

BUY 2 GET 1 CRYPT

DAD

THE VIEW’S LOVELY DOWN HERE

You feel compelled to speak to the headstone to provide some comfort, to feel happier. Update your father on all the good things happening to you. You try to think of all the good things that have happened to you. Why? So he can brag in the afterlife? Or you can convince yourself that you are doing well too? Why do we talk to the dead, yearning for them? Living is meant to be easier than dying.

Do you feel happy now?

 / \

 Yes No

Dad. This immortal autumn season. The pull of time; a stretching of dough. Birds trail the sky, clouds avoiding each other like arguing lovers. Headstones are interrupted by dying dandelions, sow thistles and weeds. You notice by the graves all the new bouquets of flowers, all the old flowers, all the graves with no flowers. You’d like pansies at your grave. Next time, bring dad pansies. You manage to whisper:

    I miss you.

That’s enough. You know he’s saying it back. You sit by the edge of the path and crave to scroll through your phone turning your back away. Social media provides a list of friends’ and acquaintances’ joy from the night before, archives of success. You like a few images, feeling numb with each double click. Teeth, tans, engagements and expectant parents are the debris you wade through. Like like like. Hit after hit. Scrolling through white screens that itch and dry out your eyes.

And there.

Your best friend lives in Italy. She’s still with her partner and teaches English at a local school. She spends her weekends visiting beautiful cities. She stopped messaging you when you stopped replying to her and rescheduling her calls. You let her go of your physical relationship and can barely maintain your virtual one. You watch her life exist through a white screen. She’s smiling and exploring. Visiting Pisa. You said you would go too. You got lost in this life, while she lived another. Different seasons.

She was there when your father died. Held you when you cried, cooked for you, went through bank statements and cleared his house out when your mother couldn't. Listened to you whenever you felt mad, lost, hopeless and joyful. She kept listening. Kept asking. Kept checking. Kept being what you couldn’t. You used to dress as the Spice Girls, she demanded to be Ginger and you were Posh. You used to make daisy chains and now you make excuses.

When you faded into your marriage, you censored her out. Didn’t celebrate her successes, check in on her new life or even just fucking wish her Happy Birthday. She politely bowed out. You can see now that you dismantled the relationship. Bruises to your soul, that won't heal. What’s it been? A year? Two? Message drafted:

I miss you!

How are you?

I’m sorry for all the missed calls

the unread messages

the ignored postcards from Puglia

and being a terrible friend

when you were the best.

I promise to be better

I really miss you.

And my monster-in-law is psychotic. I have barely survived the weekend with the bitch!

 and still, have a roast to go to later. Wish me luck!

SENT

7:38 AM

Relief. You hug your elbows stroking the warm fleece of your hoody and resting your head on your knees. You imagine your dad hugging you and telling you it’s okay. That you did the right thing. You feel like he’s there. You pat the grass, six feet above, delicately stroking your fingers in the dirt, like running your fingers through his hair like he used to do for you. He loved to brush your hair until it felt like satin ribbons, pulling

the knots you left in.

Dad.

   ***

I heard you went out early this morning dear.

      Just for a walk.

She nods agreeing, her pigeon-like head rolling around. She looks as if she hasn’t eaten anything since 1997 or changed her hair since 1985. The kind of woman who wears gingham in summer and tartan for the rest of the year.

That will clear the head. A good walk!

It’s soooo lovely here, isn’t it?

Did you walk through the village?

   Yes, I went that way.     Just such lovely weather isn’t it?

Indian Summer!!!

   Climate change more likely.

Beautiful.

Like Tuscany or something.

Just a really quaint place.

Full of good people.

Great stock.

She shuffles around the long rectangular dining table, laying down carefully folded napkins in each place setting.

Would you like to help me set the table?

     Sure. Of course. No probl—

The cutlery is just there – yes by the Chinese cabinet

 and if you could get the plates too, dear.

It’s all about the presentation you see

I’ll teach you!

Leeching family members assemble for Sunday lunch. You dress the dining room table, which is located in the glass conservatory overlooking the 3-acre Edenic garden. Every piece of cutlery you lay on the table, your mother-in-law repositions a centimetre or so. Just a little further to the left…

The meal itself consists of ceremonially passing around an overdone leg of Lamb, which you must praise with each bite. Everyone ignores the event of last night and remarks on how well the crowd looked, how swell the caterers did, how perfect of an evening it was. No mention of any cake.

Happy Birthday, Son!

The celebrations continue mid-meal and crystal glasses clink and hit the table between mouthfuls. Cheers. Yes – cheers! So great of you all to come.

How’s your mother dear? Your mother-in-law pries, noting your family's absence, scraping the edge of her fork against the china plate. That china is what you will inherit when she dies, she tells you all the time. From her mother, and her mother’s mother—

You respond with HOW WELL SHE IS, and everyone nods agreeably. Splendid. Politely, they repeat this question about your sister. They insist on asking about her children, her husband, and her property – it's formulaic. That’s how their conversation works. You’re in the hot seat. They continue to probe whilst stuffing roast potatoes down their gullets, you're nausea growing. They rip at their food, barely allowing air in, piling more onto their plates before they have finished what's on it, gulping wine.

Your brother-in-law notes how excellent the gravy is.

Yes YES yes YES.

The gravy is excellent which means the family is excellent. Fucking good stock. When your father died your mother-in-law comforted you by saying that they didn’t get cancer in their family. So the chances are much less now! Reminder: do not bring cancer into the family. Don’t spoil the excellence. Cancer is not a good vibe.

Your mother-in-law finally probes you about your work. Your aspirations.

So what do you want to be?

What do you want to do?

Surely you are not happy with what you have now?

Happy. Yes, happy. You instead mumble something about progressing from an assistant level, uncertain of what next that would be but you do your best to impress the crowd and show them how ambitious you could be. Something with the word Senior in. Senior Executive Assistant of your company. They are impressed enough. Ambitious, certainly. It means nothing to you, nothing does anymore. Your mother-in-law continues:

Well, you could always…you know…

You might need to consider if you want that responsibility…

Well, you know it’s a lot to take on…if you are planning a family…

The eyes dart. They wait for your response. Drumroll, please.
Mum…leave it - your husband intercepts. He smiles anyway as if he pre-planned for her to bring it up. They continue to scrape their plates. The family dog sniffs at your feet under the table. You place your knife and fork to signify you are done, even though you are starving. The dog rests at your feet, his warm stomach consoling you. He whimpers, saying what you can’t. His heartbeat is helping you gain the same rhythm. Trying to help you slow down.

WELL you know… if you do want a family you should start thinking about it.

You two won't be young forever.

And Grandchildren are such a blessing.

The words churn into familiar noise. You smile and nod. Then after a few moments of a different conversation, you excuse yourself to use the bathroom, apologising to the dog on your way. You hear the word again – grandchildren – floating in the ether. Of course, your babies wouldn’t just be your babies. Renting out your womb like an Airbnb to produce trophies for them to brag about at the club.

The study faces the front of the house away from lunch. You slip in through the open door and take a look around. Dusty, unread books decorate the walls, with lumpy armchairs gravitating around obnoxious desks attempting to pass as the oval office. There’s a Hockney above the fireplace, photos of the family’s achievements and awards to match.

On the coffee table lies a priceless gold figurine of Eros your mother-in-law obsesses over which she purchased at a Christie’s auction. She has shown this on numerous occasions, the first time you visited and every other time after that. You take a permanent marker from the desk drawer and enjoy the power you hold as you study the figurine.

She hurt you.

You were never good enough to marry her son and she makes that known. You pick up Eros, feel the cool marble in your hands and draw a small dick on the back of the statue. Small enough that you may not notice it straight away, big enough to completely devalue the thing.

You smile and place it back on the table straightening it out. Perfect.

   Do you feel happy now?

 / \

                                                                  Fuck Yes    No

Better but not enough. You walk to the Hockney, marvelling at the signature on the side. You spit in the palm of your hand and rub your thumb into it. Smudge and scratch the ink until it's gone.

  D. H O. C K. N. E. Y

What's in a name? You return to the dining room and make sure to remark to your mother-in-law about how wonderful the hand soap is in the downstairs bathroom. She proudly agrees and reaches for her glass and asks:

Could you pass the Châteauneuf Du Pape?

***