Marj knew more about their everyday lives than anyone because she listened and never judged or criticised, although she did give advice if she thought it was needed. She cooked, kept the house spotlessly clean, and the linoleum and the pot plants shone. The rooms were freshly painted and her decorating style was pure kitsch, with flying ducks on the wall, black ballet dancers holding up pleated pink plastic lampshades, Fler chairs, and even a framed Tretchikoff print. Akira dubbed it a retro collector’s treasure trove.
“Marj,” he said, but not in her hearing, “is so far out she’s in.”
On their birthdays she cooked a special meal, usually a roast followed by her specialty, lemon meringue pie, and a birthday cake, complete with candles – one for each year of their life. And there was a car
