No – no buts, no ifs. You were not supposed to tell them, which part have you missed? We haven’t discussed this stuff long enough, have we? At least not long enough for your brainless self to make sense of it, that’s for sure. The whole point was to leave it for the last day. We were to do it together, as a family, in the right setting, in the proper context, remember? How difficult could it be? But of course, you had to torpedo the whole reason for this holiday at the first opportunity. Kaput, gone. Useless idiot.

 

Don’t act like such a drama queen. I never agreed to anything, and most definitely not to this burlesque fairy-tale farce of yours. I simply got sick and tired of going along with it. The boys are not that dumb, you know. They knew perfectly well something odd was in the air. They could sense it. It actually stinks, to be more precise. For the record, just in case you might be interested, which I doubt, the subject not being your decadent brilliance, but in the remote circumstance you might be, they took it amazingly well, considering. They won’t be scarred for life or anything. If it doesn’t kill you.

 

You’re the prime sample of selfishness.

 

I am, ain’t I? I wouldn’t dare to question your assessment, you being the authority on the subject. Qualified by experience.

 

I thought they were also your sons. Obviously, you forgot that bit, busy as you were doing your other stuff. Some breeds of your species are genetically prone to being forgetful about these minor bores. Not by fault of their own, oh no, by any means, no. It’s just not in their nature to look after their progeny.

 

Don’t you dare, I’m telling you. Don’t you even think of going there. I’m so warning you. This cannot just be one of your twisted plays, one from the olden days before you had to pay others to write them for you, oops, slip of tongue, dear, dear, silly me. Don’t play your games using the kids as ammunition. Me – fine, plenty of antibodies to deal with your delusional states, but me and them, me as in mother, you’re treading sacred ground now and I can assure you you’ll get scorched. Leave them well out of your histrionics. This is not exactly a stage performance, at least not for us.

 

What isn’t?

 

Everything isn’t. Life isn’t. Our life, for Pete’s sake. We don’t aspire to becoming other than ordinary people, folk that have problems, that sort them out or pretend to and move on. Heartfelt apologies if it comes as a shock, but we’re not pawns for your infantile melodramas.

 

Where’s the melodrama in it? Do you see melodrama? I don’t see melodrama. What’s so irrational about trying to make this palatable for them?

 

They’re seventeen.

 

Yes they are. And?

 

And they can take it as it is, without us having to wrap it up in floral euphemisms. They might feel a sore throat between whiles but they’ll eventually swallow it in their own time. Just don’t overreact, right? It was very thoughtful of you to plan this whole holiday, superb idea to come to these cute beaches, Maimoni, what a find, love the quartz sand and all that, even I myself am kind of enjoying this kitschy thing, yeah don’t ask, but it doesn’t change things one iota.

 

For the hundredth time, and I’ll say it slowly, it is not about changing things, nothing is going to change. You’ve kindly ensured that would never happen. It’s about making them less repulsive, less disgusting, less nauseating. What’s the crime in wishing that one day, when they look back on all this, they might see that we all acted as proper adults and that we tried our best to play it as nicely as humanly possible, given the circumstances? And that it doesn’t linger as a ruinous memory over their lives for years to come? And I mean over them. I don’t care about you.

 

Because no matter how much you doll up the corpse it won’t stop it being a corpse. Lipstick on pigs and all that. But just you trust me on this one, they can take it, give them that. In actual fact they are taking it unexpectedly well.

 

I trust you, all right. Why wouldn’t I? Where are they, by the way? They just went on their own, didn’t they? They were cheerful as birds this morning, weren’t they? Enraptured and floating on cloud nine. That’s definitely not what I brought them here for.

 

Oh yes you did, you were just keeping the whole surprise wrapped for the very last day. Their goodbye present of sorts.

 

You’ve got such a nerve. Of course your genius approach came across as a much more enlightened form of dealing with it. After two days, out of the blue – boys, here we go, dirt is out.

 

It was nothing like that, I didn’t plan a thing, I just snapped, I just felt like a hypocrite playing this Panglossian charade. They pretty much forced me to tell them what the hell was going on, and I did. As I always told you, they’re not stupid, they never were. They don’t exactly take after your side. And they don’t look that miserable, either.

 

They’re thrilled to bits. And you felt like a hypocrite, did you? The poor thing, she felt like a hypocrite.

 

They don’t seem particularly upset to me. All they wanted this morning was to go on a boat trip to some island and I told them it was fine with me. They arranged the whole thing with that guy from the hotel. That’s what boys enjoy doing – stuff on their own. I wouldn’t call this their ideal type of holiday, to come for a romantic vacation package to Sardinia with mum and dad to eat octopus by the sea every other day. They would rather go on one of these backpack trips to some other more exciting place, as kids their age do.

 

I get it. It’s the wrong setting.

 

Oh, just cut it out, will you?

 

We should have gone interrailing, shouldn’t we? Or hitchhiking, that’s it, hitchhiking. Get drunk, night in, night out, smoke a few joints, get stoned together, as a family. They would love it, I’m sure they would. And get some chicks, take them to some seedy motel. Mum knows how to get us some fun, doesn’t she?

 

You’re just being gross.

 

And that would help put things into a more propitious context, wouldn’t it? Now mum has a little secret to share with you boys.

 

You’re sordid.

 

At least I can still look at myself in the mirror.

 

Sure you can, your vision is as blurred as your standards. Poor mirror wouldn’t share your feelings, of course, and would just choke and puke.

 

Like your friends did when they found out what you’d been up to?

 

Oh, they’ll get over it. They’re all aware of the type of scumbag I’m married to and that sort of puts things into perspective. It most certainly covers for any mundane misdemeanours. Living in hell already, everything is atoned for in advance. The kids are getting back already, don’t ask questions, no idea, they were not supposed to be back until later in the afternoon. Just put your hideous smile back on your deplorable face and keep this shambolic piece going. By the way, just so you know, I happened to mention the other thing as well. I know, I’m so terribly sorry.