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I snort my laughter as I remember explaining the mechanics of self-insemination. She’d talked me into going to the pub after ante-natal class, saying we were officially allowed two units a week.
‘I was intrigued by you saying you’d chosen to be a single parent. The rest of them annoyed me in their cosy coupledom.’ Grace squeezes my arm.
‘Aw, remember when we bumped into each other again after they were born. Me with my ancient gabardine pram,’ I start.
‘Babe, it reminded me of pushing my little brothers and sisters in just such a thing!’
‘We went back to yours for a coffee, remember? Exchanging life stories in about half an hour.’ I loved Grace right from the start, and she was totally unfazed by my lesbian lifestyle. She’s a good ten years younger, but we practically raised those kids together.
‘All that time gone by, look!’ She to points to the lacy cap that she knitted Gethin. ‘Do you remember everyone thought he was a girl?’
I nod, suddenly choked with the loss of those simple times. I glance across to the junior school days: Sheffield United badge from when football ruled, then his Top Gear cool chart. That tinge of guilty disappointment at how boy-orientated he’d become.
‘I had such ideals of bringing up a child, you know, to value themselves and question the status quo.’ My voice chokes as I say this.
‘And that’s exactly what you did. Gethin’s a credit to you. He’s open, sensitive…?’
I nod unconvincingly. ‘He won’t talk to me anymore.’
‘And he’s growing up, feeling a bit lost. Show some faith in him.’ Grace stiffens her shoulders and moves along the collage.
I take a breath, hold back the protest I feel at this. She thinks I have no faith in him?
Grace unrolls the end of the calico and points to the picture of Gethin and Francesca at the school prom. So beautiful. I bite my lip as she looks up at me.
‘It just shows how I directed all my creativity into him. Quite unhealthy, really.’
‘Aw, how can that be unhealthy? You should finish it, take it up to eighteen.’
‘He won’t want it – all he does is rage at me.’ I feel my voice swell with resentment.
‘You should hear Francesca when she gets going. Believe me, he will treasure this.’ She pauses at the last picture of Gethin waving his GCSE results with that loony grin. ‘Look at him there, so pleased with himself.’
‘But there’s been nothing but torn Rizla packs for the collage since then.’
She pulls back as if shocked at my tone. ‘How about a Champagne cork from his party?’ she says, forcing a lightness.
‘So, perhaps I should have cracked the Champagne at midnight instead of spending half the night at the studio and coming home to yell at his friends.’
‘I can see that might piss him off.’
I look at the picture of Gethin a couple of years ago in that shirt with the blue roses I gave him. It’s my fiftieth and he’s got his arm round me, glass of bubbly in the other hand. I sigh, remember how we’d argued the day before. Grace touches my hand.
‘We had Cava today when I took him out for lunch,’ I say.
‘There you go, cork from his first legal drink.’
‘Just drop it with the collage, will you?’ I yank the end of the calico away from her.
She takes a step back, picks up her bag and turns to face me, hands on hips.
‘I don’t know what’s got into you these days. I’ve hardly seen you, so I thought I’d pop in and see how you’re doing, drop off a card for Gethin, and I get my head bitten off.’
‘It’s just, Gethin’s not here, Grace.’
‘They’ve gone out camping, Fran said. But it’s hardly the point.’ She fiddles with her bag clasp.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I try to explain. ‘He stormed out of his birthday lunch and I’ve been so deflated and pissed off with him, to tell the truth. I should be focussing on my installation.’
