Dessert
Published in the Connecticut Literary Anthology 2024
Chris arrives at the restaurant on time and her mother is already there. Always early, determined to occupy the seat facing the door as well as the moral high-ground. Although Chris knows and expects this about her mother, a sour twist of annoyance rises in her throat and clenches her jaw.
She remains outside, watching her mother watch the door. The older woman is reliably dressed in her tweed coat and has had her hair done especially for their monthly luncheon. Although she holds the menu in front of her with her glasses perched towards the end of her nose, her eyes focus on the entrance. A hungry starling watching a grasshopper. No one in Chris’s life awaits her presence with as much anticipation.
It repulses her. Both her mother’s neediness and being the subject of her need. The familiar feeling of claustrophobia descends upon Chris. She looks up. Beyond the clay chimney pots and bare February trees, the sky offers a watery light. It’s not a wide horizon, but enough to pull her from the crush of emotion she will not allow herself to feel. She can no longer be responsible for her mother’s happiness.
Chris adjusts her handbag on her shoulder and scans the restaurant to ensure no one she knows is inside. Her mother believes they meet here because it’s convenient—the restaurant is close to Victoria station where the train from Brighton arrives around sixty times a day—but truthfully, it’s because it’s far away from the theater where Chris works, her apartment, and any place she or the people she knows might frequent.
As she pushes through the front door her mother smiles and lifts her hand. A blue paper bag from The Bakery sits on the table.
Every month her mother texts Chris to say: “Your father wants to know if you’d like me to bring you anything.” Her father’s bakery is an institution in Brighton, where Chris grew up. He begins baking before dawn and works the till until closing time. Because her father always offers, Chris always asks for a pain au raisins, and her mother always replies: “We’ll do our best!” as if the offer did not come from them to begin with. As if her father did not have rows of pain aux raisins in the display case. As if Chris has asked her mother to make an unplanned trip to an impossible destination to retrieve a rare artifact.
Chris hangs her bag on the back of her chair and sets her phone on the table before she sits down. She acknowledges the bag from The Bakery with a light touch of her fingertips. The small blue shape squats between them like an accusation and an apology.
“How’s Dad?”
Her mother knocks the question away with a flick of her hand and a short puff through her lips. The dismissal says all Chris needs to know; ‘your father’s mixing up sweet batter for everyone in our town but me. He has not been invited to lunch and does not deserve a moment of our time.’
“You decide what you’re having?” Chris says as she scans the menu. The question is rhetorical. Her mother will order the French onion soup and a glass of house wine.
Her mother sets down the menu and removes her glasses from her nose. “How's the new script coming along?”
“Good,” Chris gives a quick nod of her head but keeps the menu up between them. The play she is working on is about to go into production. Casting begins that afternoon.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a horror. You wouldn’t like it.”
“Horror? What do you mean?”
Chris lowers the menu an inch to meet her mother’s eye. “It’s about a girl who gets sucked down a wormhole and finds herself in a universe made entirely of cake.”
There’s a pause as her mother searches Chris’s eyes for sincerity.
“You’re joking.”
“Yes.”
* * *
EXT. SUBURBAN GARDEN - DAY
CHRISTINE’S 6th birthday party. She is dressed as a ballerina. At the center of a decorated table is a tiered cake with a fondant ballerina on top. Children line up while FELICITY, 32, hands out triangles of birthday cake.
FELICITY
(Singing) Happy Birthday, to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, Christine. Happy Birthday to you.
CHRISTINE
May I have the piece with the ballerina?
FELICITY blows up her cheeks to fatten her face.
FELICITY
Chubby ballerinas can’t eat cake.
* * *
Chris checks the time on her phone. “I have an appointment with the theater director this afternoon. I need to get going in about an hour.” She looks around the restaurant and waves to the waiter.
“So soon? I wish you’d said.”
“Sorry, it was very last minute,” Chris says. “You know I have a lot on my plate.”
“All work though.”
Right on cue, her mother inserts Chris’s lack of partner and family into the conversation.
“Yes, Mum. By choice, as you know.”
“I do know. You’re very important.”
“Mum!”
“No, I mean it. You’re a famous playwright.”
“Hardly.”
“All right then, well known,” she air quotes. “Award-winning. Featured in The Guardian.” She lifts her eyebrows, pleased to let Chris know she’s seen the latest article in the paper. “Your father pinned it up in the shop.”
“Oh, God.”
“You should be proud. It’s deserved.” Her mother does jazz hands. “Except you’re on the wrong side of the curtain, of course. You were such a natural on stage.”
“I was never a natural, Mum.” Chris jazz hands back. “You hoped I’d be. There’s a difference.”
“Pssht,” Chris’s statement gets the same hand-flick-puff-of-air dismissal the question about her father had received. “I only wish you’d told me that you were pressed for time, especially today.”
Chris has no idea what her mother means by, especially today, and no desire to excavate meaning. Apart from their monthly lunches in London, Chris is sure nothing interesting or extraordinary happens in her mother’s life. She catches the same train at the same time to the same place to order the same soup. Especially today. Chris refuses to give her the satisfaction of biting.
* * *
INT. LIVING ROOM IN A NEAT TERRACED COTTAGE IN BRIGHTON - NIGHT
A lit Christmas tree stands in the corner. The TV volume is down and Kylie Minogue’s I Should Be So Lucky plays in energetic silence. FELICITY, 35, enters with a vase of flowers she sets on the coffee table. She lights the fire and moves to the sofa to plump the cushions. CHRISTINE, 9, enters. She is barefoot and wears a nightgown.
FELICITY:
You should be in bed.
CHRISTINE:
Not tired.
FELICITY:
Read your book.
CHRISTINE’S eyes are fixed on the music video.
CHRISTINE
Who’re the flowers for?
FELICITY
Mind your beeswax.
FELICITY crosses to the television and turns it off.
CHRISTINE
Why?
FELICITY
It’s bedtime.
CHRISTINE
Where’s Daddy?
FELICITY Steers CHRISTINE toward the door by her shoulders.
FELICITY
Finishing Christmas orders. Up you go. I’ll bring you water.
CHRISTINE
Milk please.
FELICITY
No white food after six p.m., you know the rules.
They exit together.
* * *
Her mother’s hint sits between them on the table alongside the blue bag, while the waiter takes their order. Chris orders a salad. Felicity orders the French onion soup and a glass of white wine.
Seeing her mother’s look, Chris says, “I can’t. I’m working.”
Felicity pinches her lips but does not make eye contact. “One glass won’t hurt.”
Chris’s phone buzzes on the table. “It’s the director.” She rises and takes the call outside. He’s running late and they postpone their appointment to later that afternoon. When Chris returns to the table, her salad is waiting. Her mother is scooping the cheese and croutons out of her soup and piling the soggy, elastic mess on her side plate.
“Sorry, he was confirming the appointment.”
The waiter has poured two glasses of wine. “I told you I didn’t want—,”
Her mother interrupts by grabbing Chris’s hand across the table. Her wedding ring digs into Chris’s skin and her eyes flash with urgency.
“It’s not my fault your father couldn’t love me.”
* * *
INT. LIVING ROOM IN TERRACED COTTAGE IN BRIGHTON - CONTINUOUS
The fire burns, the TV has been turned off. Christmas music plays on a record player. FELICITY, 35, enters and attends once more to the flowers and the cushions. There’s a low knock on an outside door. She checks her face in a mirror and exits. A tall MAN, 37, enters the living room. FELICITY helps him with his coat. They stand very close.
MAN
I’ve missed you.
FELICITY presses her finger to his lips and points upstairs.
FELICITY
(mouthing) Christine
The MAN takes his coat from FELICITY and tosses it onto the sofa. They kiss deeply.
* * *
Chris snatches her hand away. “I’m not doing this now.”
“There are things about your father . . .” Her mother remains forward in her seat. She watches Chris’s fork travel from the salad to Chris’s mouth and back. Apart from her excavation of calories, the onion soup sits untouched in front of her. “Things you need to understand.”
“I don’t need to do anything,” Chris’s voice carries a note of warning.
“Your father is not an honest person.”
“That’s not true, Mum.”
“Well, he’s not an honest husband then.” She finally sits back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest.
Chris imitates her mother’s flick of the wrist to dismiss the conversation. Her parents married for tradition and convention at a time when people had few choices. She knows her father is neither a good husband, nor a very good father. He was never meant for those roles. He pours his love into baking. She forks a leaf and half a baby tomato into her mouth and chews for longer than necessary.
Her mother watches her like a sparrow might watch a cat. The cheese on her side plate has congealed and separated.
“Eat your soup,” Chris says.
* * *
INT. A THEATER DRESSING ROOM, BACKSTAGE - NIGHT.
CHRISTINE, 12, stands in front of a mirror ringed by light bulbs. She is dressed as the Nurse from Romeo and Juliet. FELICITY, 38, tucks CHRISTINE’S hair into a headdress. JOSIE, 12, enters wearing an Elizabethan dress and gold headband.
JOSIE
OMG, Chrissy, you look amazing.
CHRISTINE
Same! Your dress is so pretty.
JOSIE spins.
JOSIE
Thanks. Break a leg!
JOSIE exits.
FELICITY
The thin girl always plays Juliet.
* * *
Chris finishes her salad and checks her phone, deliberately ignoring her mother who is slouched in her chair, sulking. The waiter offers them the dessert menu.
Chris shakes her head, “Just the bill please.”
Felicity’s soup remains untouched. The waiter begins to clear the table. “Can I bring you something else?”
“No, thank you,” Chris says.
Felicity sits forward and thrusts her hand out for the dessert menu. “Actually, I’ll have dessert. I can’t travel home on an empty stomach.” She leans back in her chair, perusing the options. She reads the descriptions aloud, “Cheesecake, baked, served with a selection of berries. Homemade pecan nut pie with fresh whipped cream. Vanilla bean ice cream and hot chocolate sauce . . .”
“Since when do you eat dessert, Mum?” Christine's stiff smile does not reach her eyes.
“Everyone needs a little bit of sweetness in their lives, Christine.” Felicity smiles up at the waiter and orders two slices of cheese cake.
“Not for me,” Chris shakes her head. “Just the bill.”
“Two slices,” Felicity repeats. “It's my birthday.”
The waiter flicks his eyes from Felicity to Chris then to his notepad. He scribbles a quick note before heading to the kitchen.
Chris leans toward her mother and stage whispers with the energy of a shout, “what the fuck, Mum? Now they’ll make a huge fuss and probably sing.”
Felicity places her hand on her chest. “I deserve a treat.”
“What do you mean? Is this why today is supposed to be special?”
Felicity looks pleased with herself. She slips her arms out of her coat and drapes it over the back of her chair. She’s wearing a sage green dress that Chris has not seen before. She notices how it brings out the color of her mother’s eyes. The care she’s taken with her makeup. Her neatly manicured nails.
“Surely you’re able to stay and celebrate your mother’s birthday?”
“It’s not your birthday, Mum.”
“Well, they don’t have to know,” she gestures towards the kitchen, “and anyway, I do have a surprise.”
Chris steels herself and takes the bait. “Something apart from your imaginary birthday?”
“Wait for dessert to arrive.” Her mother rubs her hands together.
* * *
INT. BACKSTAGE AT A SCHOOL PRODUCTION OF THE CRUCIBLE - NIGHT.
On a dark stage, CHRISTINE, 16, and JOSIE, 16, dressed as Mary Warren and Abigail Williams, peer through the curtains at the audience.
CHRISTINE
I’m going to throw up.
JOSIE
Why do you do this if you hate it so much?
CHRISTINE
Mum says stage fright is a sign you care.
JOSIE
Bollocks.
CHRISTINE
She wishes I looked more like you.
JOSIE
(American accent as Abigail) “But God made my face; you cannot want to tear my face. Envy is a deadly sin, Mary.”
(Normal voice) She’s just jealous.
* * *
The waiter returns with two slices of cheesecake, topped with thinly sliced strawberries, and drizzled with a raspberry coulis. A few servers follow behind. Her mother’s slice has a small candle burning in its center. The staff clap and sing “Happy Birthday.” When the song ends, the waiter sets the bill at Chris’s elbow. A few patrons around them offer scattered applause. Her mother waves her thanks like she’s taking a bow.
“Happy?” Chris asks.
Her mother blows out the candle and grins.
Chris sits back and regards her mother. A lonely woman who lives on an imaginary stage with no guiding script, no audience, no awards ceremony. She feels a moment of sadness. For her mother’s dreams of acting, of fame and recognition, and how she has pressed her dreams onto her daughter.
Chris softens. “Okay, so what’s the big news?”
Her mother’s face lights up. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. His name is Derek.”
Chris is immediately wary. Her mother has been known to dredge up old contacts from her brief stint in the theater, or worse, to try and set Chris up with someone.
“Mum, absolutely not, I’m not interested in meeting anyone.”
“Derek’s not for you,” her mother laughs. “Derek’s my boyfriend!” She speaks too loudly into the quiet restaurant, which attracts a few glances. Her mother giggles, thrilled with the scene she’s creating. A teenager in the first blush of a crush.
Christine allows the amateur performance to settle and arranges her expression and her voice around the pitch of surprise. “Your what?” she says, while thinking, ah—so that’s his name. She considers how she’ll revise the script when she gets to the theater this afternoon.
The existence of a boyfriend in her mother’s life is not a surprise to Chris. She remembers the tall visitor from her childhood who she glimpsed through the banister on the nights her father worked late. Nights when her mother made a special effort with flowers, her makeup, and her clothes. She remembers the music. The muted voices through the floorboards. Her mother’s muffled laugh.
“Derek has been the sweetness I deserve, Christine.” Her mother’s tone challenges Chris to deny her this. She pushes the tines of the fork into the soft cake and licks them clean.
“You remember you have a husband?”
The same flick of her mother’s wrist. “He has his own interests.” Air quotes around interests.
Christine ignores what her mother is suggesting. “He’s still my father.”
“Little good that ever did you,” Felicity says, but the animation has left her. She deflates and abandons the dessert fork on the plate with a clatter.
Chris glances towards the door. “You didn’t invite him here today, did you?”
“It seemed like a good opportunity . . .”
“Mum! I can’t meet your boyfriend like we’re two friends sharing a secret.” Chris drops her serviette onto the table. “I’m going to the ladies, and then I’m leaving.” She tucks her credit card into the billfold, picks up her phone and pushes back her chair.
The bathroom is down a short passage at the back of the restaurant. The room is occupied so Chris leans against the wall. She texts her father: —Thanks for the P aux R. You should come too next time.— She’s aware she's reaching out to him purely out of spite. A show of loyalty that excludes her mother. She watches the screen until it goes dark.
* * *
INT. KITCHEN IN A NEAT TERRACED COTTAGE IN BRIGHTON - MORNING
CHRISTINE, 16, dressed in school uniform sits alone at the table eating breakfast. Her FATHER enters wearing his baker’s jacket. His hands are covered in flour.
FATHER
Morning, Pet.
FATHER kisses her forehead and sets a small blue bag on the table.
Your favorite.
FATHER Exits.
FELICITY enters.
FELICITY
Cereal again? We do have fruit you know.
FELICITY picks up the blue bag and drops it in the rubbish bin. FELICITY exits.
* * *
Chris looks up and catches herself in a mirror. She realizes she has worn her coat throughout the meal. An oversized, vintage trench she can’t button closed that gives her a retro 1950’s movie actor vibe. Her expensive haircut is cropped around her full, round face. She has pretty eyes and a wide mouth, both expertly made up. Not beautiful, she acknowledges, but attractive. She turns sideways in the mirror and admires herself. Ample and approachable, she sees a creative woman with a full life. Not a mean bird pecking at scraps. Her focus shifts to the room reflected behind her. Alone at their table, her mother keeps her hands in her lap but hovers over the cheesecakes. Her eyes dart from the slice in front of her to the one on Chris’s side, like a heron watching frogs in a pond. There’s hunger in her stare, and rage, and when she abruptly reaches across the table and picks up Chris’s cheesecake in her hand, Chris worries she might smash it into the tablecloth, or hurl it across the room. Instead she takes a huge bite, then another; swallows without chewing, then takes another. Bits of cheesecake stick to her cheeks. Crumbs and strawberry slices drop onto the table. Red coulis smears her chin. She keeps on going, until she’s eaten the entire slice.
Chris is rooted to the spot. She does not turn to face the room. She can’t risk catching her mother’s attention, but neither does she want to confirm what she is seeing. Watching her mother through the remove of the mirror’s reflection, she can persuade herself she’s watching a play. In that reflected theater, her mother exists in an imaginary dimension. The woman in the mirror licks her fingers and turns her attention to the second cheesecake still on the plate in front of her. She glances up once, then pecks and tears through the second slice. Too fast to swallow, too fast to chew, her lips curl around the dessert as if she resents every mouthful.
The lock on the bathroom door clicks. A young woman offers a quick apologetic knee- bend as she exits the ladies, but Chris ignores her. When her mother wipes her face with her serviette, Chris drags herself away and locks the door behind her. When she is finished, she stands in front of the basin washing her hands. She does not meet her eyes in the bathroom mirror, afraid the illusion will crack and she will have to face reality. She focuses on her hands. Rubs them together, over and over, adding more soap and allowing the water to get hotter and hotter until they are red and raw.
When Chris returns to the table, everything has been cleared. Her mother’s face and hands are pristine. Chris does not acknowledge the missing cheesecake. She signs the credit card slip, and slings her handbag over her shoulder. “Mum, are you all right?”
She smiles. “Of course I am.”
Chris tucks the blue bag containing her father’s pain au raisins into her coat pocket. “Well, I’m off then.”
“I’ll stay for a bit.”
As Chris reaches the door, a tall man approaches from outside. He holds the door open for her. She thanks him and they make eye contact. Derek is grayer than when she first saw him kissing her mother. He’s grown a beard and wears glasses. Chris makes a mental note for the costume department.
* The End *
