Chapter 55
‘Soapy? What a surprise! You should have told me you were coming!’
Mum is dressed to the nines as usual. White wool sweater, knee-length pink skirt, Vivien Westwood pumps. There’s not a hair out of place.
‘I did tell you I was coming,’ I reply as she air kisses me. ‘I called you three times, I sent two messages, and a voicemail.’
‘Oh, I haven’t checked my phone. Are you coming in?’
No, Mum, I just thought I’d stand here until it gets dark and then peer through the windows.
I follow her into the living room and stop in my tracks. As different as Naomi’s childhood home now looks, mine is beyond recognition. It’s hard to believe that this is the same home I grew up in.
‘Did you knock down the dining room wall?’ I exclaim, looking at the huge gap where the dining room wall used to be. I throw my bag beside the couch. Which is also new.
‘Really opens the space up,’ she replies, like she’s a participant on Grand Designs. ‘Much better, don’t you agree? I’ve also added a breakfast bar to the kitchen.’
‘It’s lovely! I just had no idea you were remodelling.’
‘Oh, just here and there. I actually . . .’ She pauses. ‘Oh dear.’
‘What?’
‘Soapy, you weren’t planning on staying over, were you?’ she asks. ‘Only, your bedroom is now a wet room. I’ve kept the freestanding tub in the downstairs bathroom but it’s nice to have the use of both.’
I laugh in disbelief. ‘You have a freestanding tub? Well, that’s handy, I’ll just sleep in there. Problem solved.’
She looks horrified. ‘Heavens, no, I couldn’t—’
‘Mum, I’m kidding. I’m just passing through. I’ll get an Uber to the station later. Don’t panic.’
I sit on the couch while she plonks herself down on the love seat by the window.
‘Shall I make some tea?’ Mum asks, jumping up again. ‘Though I think I only have Earl Grey. If you’d told me that you were coming – ’
‘Two texts, three calls and a voicemail.’
‘ – I would have bought in some Tetley or something.’
‘I’m all right for the moment,’ I tell her. ‘I had one on the train. So, good holiday?’ I enquire, staring at the Venus de Milo statue on the bookcase. Has that always been there?
‘Paul bought it for me in Greece,’ she informs me, following my gaze. ‘Very generous. He’s taking me to the golf club for dinner tonight. Meeting a few of his friends.’
‘That’s nice, Mum,’ I say. ‘You look happy.’
‘I am,’ she replies. ‘What did you think of him? Wonderful, isn’t he?’
I smile. ‘He seems really nice.’
‘He’s madly in love with me already, you know.’
I laugh. ‘Well, who can blame him . . . And you? Are you head over heels?’
She beams. ‘I’m playing my cards close to my chest. Don’t want him to think he’s won me over quite yet . . . but he just might have. Anyway, talking of handsome . . .’
‘Were we?’
‘Your American friend. Ellis. You two seemed rather pally.’
‘Yeah, we got on really well.’
She leans forward. ‘Anything more?’
While the urge to launch into my usual eye-rolling is strong, this time I don’t. ‘I liked him. He’s a really great guy. We kissed.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Well, isn’t that exciting. Are you keeping in touch? Did you exchange numbers? Are you seeing him again?’
I shake my head. ‘It was a little complicated. He’s a widower. He just wasn’t ready to take anything further.’
She nods. ‘I understand. Losing someone you love . . . Once your heart is well and truly broken, it’s never quite the same again.’
She takes a beat and sighs. ‘But eventually you find that it mends enough to make room for someone new.’
‘Yeah, I get that.’
‘Bad timing,’ she says. ‘But the right one will come along, Soapy. You’ll see.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then he doesn’t,’ she replies firmly. ‘And you’ll be absolutely fine.’
I think this is the longest chat we’ve had in months. I move over to her chair and hug her. She smells like Estée Lauder White Linen.
‘I just really liked him. It’s been a while since I liked anyone, you know?’
‘I know.’
‘I feel foolish. I’m not a kid any more.’
‘You’re not foolish,’ she replies, softly patting my back like mums do. ‘You just hoped that it might turn into something more. That doesn’t make you foolish, it makes you human.’
We hug in silence for a few seconds. I’ve missed this.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asks.
‘A little,’ I reply, my cheek resting on her shoulder.
‘I’m not sure what I have,’ she says. ‘I can maybe do you a ham sandwich. Some soup? If you’d told me that you were coming—’
‘Two texts, three calls and a voicemail . . .’