Filthy swearing was the first thing to hit Maggie's ears as she walked through the door. Peeling paint and flaked wallpaper hung everywhere, and the dour smell of beer and sweat seeped through the walls of the house, despite Marge's attempts to make the house presentable. In the living room sat Homer, fifty three years old, with only a bigger stomach and larger winkles on his face to show for it.
"Dirty bastard!" he roared at his twenty four year old son who stood next to the television, a large smirk on his face.
"Gee dad, way to talk about yourself," Bart smiled, the picture of innocence on his unwashed face.
Oh god Bart, don't make him angry, thought Maggie, a frown slipping on her face.
The men looked up the soft sound of her guitar hitting the floor.
"Hey Mags," Simpered Bart, sidling out of the room to the kitchen, where Marge prepared Homer's dinner.
The man in question looked at his daughter, muttering a hello, before turning back to Animals Behaving Badly.
A shrill laughter drew Maggie's attention to the door; her sister stood, swaying in the doorway, a tight red dress with threads hanging down and sloping heels making up Elizabeth Marie Simpson's outfit.
Bright red lipstick and eye shadow caked her face, clumps of thick mascara hanging down her cheeks. Lisa sniffed back a sob, before waltzing tipsily into the kitchen where Marge and Bart were seated. Homer belched, before crunching a beer can and joining them.
Maggie sighed, a weary noise she felt in her bones, before clumping up the stairs to her warm bed.
Whilst packing her backpack for a trip to the Springfield National Park the next day, a light buzzing drew her to her mobile.
It was only a simple text to report a sale on at the Kwik E Mart, but it reminded Maggie of the scrap of paper in her jacket pocket.
In a sudden burst of confidence, she typed out Bob's number into her cheap phone and began to write.
I'm playing a gig at Moe's in two days.
It was three minutes before her phone let out a light buzz again.
Anything you want me to do with that information, dear?
I thought that I could educate you on Grunge music.
I might brave the cold and wind to learn all I can.
Two minutes.
If I feel like it.
Pleased with his answer, Maggie resumed climbing into the cold bed, locking her bedroom door firmly before jumping between the cold sheets. She was surprised to hear a vibration from her still mobile.
Anything interesting planned for tomorrow, Margaret?
omHHhYou know fully well my name is Maggie. And yes, I'm visiting the National Park tomorrow, 'Dearie'.
And yet you never address me as Robert, my name.
Pay me.
I make only a pittance, although I have some of the most delicious sandwiches- fit for a picnic, really.
Before Maggie could respond to Bob's teasing, a slight tapping on the door had her burying under her thin duvet. "Maggieeeeeee,' whispered Lisa through the door.
"Open the door Mags.'
A second passed; or maybe an hour. But eventually the tapping faded into retreated footsteps.
The buzzing had grown on her phone until it chimed into a short ringing noise; Bob was phoning her.
"Hello?"
"I must say dear, I didn't expect you to give up on the conversation so soon.' Bob's voice drawled out at her.
"I never had you down as the needy type."
"Anything the matter?" Bob asked casually.
"No, no, a minor family dispute took centre stage. Were you serious about tomorrow?"
A chuckle was heard down the phone.
"When am I not serious dear?"
"Ten o clock. And bring a bike."
Robert Terwilliger prided himself on his intelligence and clear thinking. It was a key trait of his, if you will.
But recently, all he could think about was the silent Simpson, Margaret Penelope.
She had grown since Robert had last seen her, and not at all for the worst. Her hair, once a spiky quiff akin to her sister's, now resembled long choppy waves down her back; she dressed in dark tartan clearly from the thrift shop, small piercings in her lips.
Robert had always wondered about that family.
Sighing, he popped the cork on a bottle of Grigio and leant back in his barstool in the kitchen, gazing down at a paltry meal of beans on toast. It would have been more suited to his long estranged son then Robert.
Just thinking about his boy made Robert chuck the slightly rotting food in the bin, his appetite forgotten.
Perhaps I'll ring Krusty. Arrange an evening out.
Until a buzzing from his phone distracted him.
Smirking, he conversed with Margaret until she mentioned a trip to the Park the next day.
Smoothly does it, thought Robert, until he had secured an invitation to the park from the Simpson in question.
However, Margaret had still not replied back after minutes. Was she asleep? Fallen down the stairs? Or perhaps her family had caused her injury?
When Robert pulled beside the house, shouting had echoed from the small home. He had not missed the look in his young charge's eyes as she emptied his trunk of her guitar.
She truly was a talented artist. Having gone to several of Marge's exhibits when she was a young student in the 80's, Robert was not surprised creativity ran in the feminine side of the family. Perhaps obesity and drunkenness ran in the male.
Picking up the phone, he decided to ring her.
Robert decided to play it cool when Margaret picked up the phone after two rings.
'So, what made you interested in performing?' he wondered, after they had conversed for a few minutes.
A deep sigh was heard on the other end of the phone.
'I'm not very good at much else, and besides, as soon as I'm eighteen I'm hopping on the back of a Kwik E Mart truck and bailing to London.'
"I had no idea you had such... Ambition."
"I wouldn't want to end up like my sister," Giggled Maggie.
"Why ever not? I thought she was the brains of your bunch?"
"Since that British toad Hugh Parkinson dumped her at the alter she is a frequent member of Burns' Bar and Casino."
"How very quaint."
Maggie laughed, before saying her goodbyes and hanging up, leaving Bob with a pleasant feeling in his chest.
But it was obviously just the wine.