I haven’t written much about Zara and by God it’s time to put that right. There are, after all, not just four people resident in this house, but five. Besides me, Nicola, Samuel and (when she isn’t having a sleepover) Rachel, there is also Zara. I suppose you’d have to call Zara our lodger.
Zara is 26. She entered our world about five years ago via her friend, Cousin Steve – who is, lest you have forgotten, my wife’s cousin’s son. Back in those days, Steve was living in our spare room – a room Zara now occupies, a room long referred to as The Steve Room, a room recently re-christened The Zara Room.
Oh yeah. Suck on that, Steve.
Zara first came to live with us for a couple of months in the summer of last year. Then, for six months or so, she chose (unforgiveably, in my view) to hang her hat elsewhere. Around February this year, however, she came back. She is still here. And is, I hasten to add, welcome to stay as long as she wants.
Obviously – otherwise we’d have mercilessly kicked the young lady out on to the street months ago – we all love Zara. And not just because she waters the plants and feeds the cats whenever we’re away. Nor just because her guidance was largely responsible for getting Sam through his maths GCSE last May. Nor even because she likes romcoms as much as we do and is happy to watch Mamma Mia! for the ninth time. And on the flimsiest of pretexts.
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I can’t deny all of the above are a bonus. And yet Zara’s main attraction is the same attraction offered by anyone else to whom you feel an attraction: she’s cool; she’s clever; she’s a laugh. Plus, she’s young. Not that there’s anything wrong with old people, and certainly not (God forbid) with middle-aged people, nonetheless I have to say, although cliché it may be, keeping company not just with Zara but with the yoof in general is especially rewarding. Aside from anything, they defer to you in conversation. You get to bang on – unending, uninterrupted and, unless you’re spouting utter crap, unchallenged. It really is highly agreeable.
No doubt partly the kids are simply exhibiting good manners. And partly they’re putting the time in so the old folks stay sweet. But partly, I like to tell myself, the truth is also these lovely youngsters realise … and it’s difficult to put this politely … that, well, you know more than they do about pretty much everything. Any of them with a shred of humility or intelligence opts to shut up and soak up the wisdom of the ages.
As I say, highly agreeable. Not that Zara is in any way subservient. Not to me at any rate. The girl can, in fact, verge on the cheeky, making fun of my cooking, my dress sense, my physique, my lack of DIY skills, my patent inferiority to my wife. “Yes, Robert, you are SO the head of the household, we all know you’re secretly in charge, when you put your foot down, what you say goes,” and so on and so forth.
Sometimes I suspect Zara might be taking the piss. Sometimes I feel as if a second, albeit older, daughter has infiltrated the house. If so, the joke’s on her. Because although Zara is a full-grown woman, with a nice family and nice friends and a nice job and a nice boyfriend and a lot more sense than I had at that age (or this age, come to that), I still can’t help feeling responsible for her.
If it gets to 10 o’clock and she isn’t home (which more often than not she isn’t, the little madam), I’ll turn to Nicola and I’ll say, “Where’s Zara?” To which Nicola will say, “Out.” To which I will say, “Yes, but where? And when is she coming back? Has she been in touch? What shall we do?” To which Nicola will reply, “Stop worrying. Zara is fine. We don’t need to do anything.” That might mollify me for a while. But not for long.
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The three of us went out for a drink the other night. Several other friends – friends of mine and Nicola; Zara had met them but didn’t know them well – came too. Around 11, Nicola and I yawned and stretched and said, sorry guys, we’re going to head home.
“I’ll hang on here for a bit,” said Zara.
“Oh … er … OK, fair enough,” I said, utterly flummoxed.
I made a meal of getting up out of my chair, fussing over our share of the bill, collecting my bits and bobs.
“Ready yet?” said Nicola. I realised the whole table was staring at me, a quizzical expression on every face.
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“Yeah, I’m good,” I said. Long pause.
Longer.
Longer.
Awkward.
“Don’t stay up too late, Zara,” I heard myself say, powerless to resist.