Free The Forrests by Emily Perkins

nearly thirty, he had warped their expectations. Dorothy sat between him and their mother on the reunited family sofa, Andrew across the room on a kitchen chair. The doorbell rang and Ruth let Andrew’s parents in, each of them with new partners, awkwardly joking from their collision on the doorstep. Dot greeted them and went to sit with Andrew because it was hard for him, everyone in the same room, his defensive father and the sullen policewoman stepmother, hismother overcompensating, her second husband oblivious, his mind on a hiking track somewhere, filled with tussock. ‘Lovely,’ said Andrew’s mother. ‘So what time is our booking at Chang’s?’
    ‘It’s not Japanese, is it? I don’t like Japanese food,’ said the stepmother, staring at the peace-sign badge on Dorothy’s cardigan. ‘What is that?’
    ‘She’s allergic to fish.’
    ‘It’s Chinese. Andrew,’ said his mother, ‘are you still vegetarian?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘A vegetarian!’ said the stepmother. ‘Whatever happened to a good steak?’
    ‘Arrest me,’ Andrew whispered in Dot’s ear, and she whispered back, ‘Fifteen to life.’
    His mother shrugged and laughed around the room. ‘And yet he’s so tall!’
    ‘Listen, darling,’ Lee said to Dot as the Lazy Susan spun clockwise, moving the bowls of pak choi and flecky chilli sauce and pale, glistening chicken around, ‘let’s invite some of the Americans.’ Frank was negotiating a possible return to the States. Someone remote had ‘passed’ and there was more ‘moolah rolling about’. Dorothy wished she wouldn’t talk like that, as though money wasn’t real. Ruth wanted to move with their parents; she had always longed for that place she could not remember. ‘They won’t come,’ Lee said, ‘but you’ve got to invite them.’
    ‘Can I think about it?’ She wanted to be a good daughter. But no thanks, none of this I pay, I say. She and Andrew would front the wedding themselves. He’d taken a job in the caretaking division atthe polytechnic, since no one was interested in showing or buying his paintings. Everyone had their own definition of survival.
    They were interrupted by the ting of Frank’s chopstick against his glass. Wine lurched close to the lip as he raised the glass and made a toast to the engaged couple and welcomed Andrew’s parents into their family, although he called Andrew’s mother by the stepmother’s name. She hooted gaily. ‘Wrong wife, dear, wrong wife!’ Evelyn hid her face behind Dot’s shoulder and snorted. Dorothy, the zip of her dress tight up her side, held back the laugh that threatened to rip out.
    Andrew lifted his drink. ‘Thank you,’ he said, cutting Dot’s father off from a relaunch. ‘Thanks, everyone!’ One arm in the air, the other around his fiancée’s thickening middle, his lean face lifted, shadowed by the twisty red tassels that hung down.
    At some point someone mentioned the new anti-nuclear policy and Andrew’s stepmother said loudly, ‘Totally ridiculous,’ and Frank, who hated any talk of politics, began to sing a tune from
My Fair Lady
. Other diners looked over. ‘My family,’ Dorothy said to Andrew’s father and stepmother, who were acting as though nothing was happening except the urgent need to get a pork bun split between them, the stepmother’s chopsticks sawing at the white fleshy dough. On the other side of the round table Michael sat next to the outdoor-enthusiast stepfather, and they were deep in conversation, ignoring the musical interlude too. Andrew’s stepfather was a gesticulator, and he flung a hand back into the approaching waiter’s white shirt so that the waiter dropped a tray of bowls and everyone startled at the crash apart from Frank, who continued singing without pause. Dorothy and Evelyn helped pick up the broken pieces. The zip on her dress didbust a little bit, she felt it split and straightened up carefully, hands full of china. Andrew’s mother bobbed her head along to the