7
I wake up the next day to a pounding headache and a few texts from my mum. I check the time: 1 p.m. I’m meeting her for lunch at 2 p.m., across town. Fuck.
I scramble out of bed and fling on the first thing resembling an outfit that I can find in my suitcase. Orange trousers and a bright red jumper – not exactly a stylish combination, but it’ll have to do. I drag a brush through my hair, splash some water on my face, grab my handbag and head for the door, rushing straight into Jack Carlson.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ I snap. He scared the shit out of me, creeping outside of my door like that. Who does he think he is? And why does he always have to look so effortlessly put-together, especially when I’m looking my worst?
‘Good morning to you, too.’
‘It’s 1 p.m.’
‘So it is.’
I stare at him. ‘I repeat. What are you doing here?’
‘I was working up the courage to knock on your door, if you must know.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re quite scary.’
I roll my eyes. ‘ Why were you knocking on my door? It’s our day off. I’m not contractually obliged to spend time with you today.’
‘I have a message for you.’
‘Email it to me, then. I’m running late.’ I say, moving past him and heading down the corridor.
‘Have a nice time with your mum!’ he calls after me. I stop in my tracks and turn slowly back towards him.
‘How do you know I’m having lunch with my mum?’
‘She called the hotel, and they gave her my extension. She was worried that you hadn’t replied to her texts yet, and asked me to check if you were on your way.’ He pauses, and an ever-so-slight smirk crosses his face, which sends rage up my spine. ‘She’s quite a nice lady.’
‘You don’t get to have an opinion about my mum,’ I snap, folding my arms. ‘Or anything in my life, for that matter.’ You revoked that right a long time ago.
He holds his hands up in mock-surrender. ‘I was only trying to help.’
The irritation from last night surges again, more powerful this time. ‘I don’t need your help, Jack,’ I say, my voice cracking slightly.
I watch him deflate, shrinking into himself like he did on that first night. ‘I’m—’ he starts, but I’ve already turned away and am halfway down the corridor before he can finish.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I call back, without looking.
I get out of the tube station in Hampstead and am hit by a wave of familiarity so painful it makes me nauseous. I grew up here, but I have spent very little time here in the last five years. Its streets serve mostly as a painful reminder of the life I had before my dad passed away – the café we used to frequent for Saturday coffee; our favourite bookstore. it’s what I moved to New York to get away from, unable to bear the constant reminder that he was gone. I shut it out, making my way across the road to the restaurant as quickly as possible.
My mother is sitting at our usual table, by the window. She’s dressed, as always, impeccably and simply in a red wool jumper and jeans – we accidentally match, though where I’m clashing, she’s chic. She wafts towards me in a breeze of bergamot perfume.
‘Andie! My love. It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you.’ She pulls me into a hug, and I bury my face in the softness of her jumper. Freshly laundered, as always. She’s clutching me like I might run away, and she suddenly feels so much smaller than me. A wave of guilt hits me at how little I’ve spoken to her recently, at how delicate and easily breakable things have felt between us since I moved an ocean away.
‘Missed you too, Mum.’
We sit down and the waiter sweeps over and takes our usual order – carbonara for Mum, pizza for me, a bottle of red wine for us both. There’s a bit of an awkward silence at first, but that’s how it has been since my dad died: so much lies unsaid between us that we have to grope for safe conversational land.
‘Jack seems delightful,’ she says. I choke on the water I’ve just gulped. This land is not safe. Very much not safe. If it were an island, it would be full of snakes.
‘Mmhmm,’ I say, as noncommittal as possible. She doesn’t know about any of my history with Jack. It was so close to my dad getting sick that I kept it from her at the time. I shielded her from my grief when Dad died, too. I’m very good at shielding my mother from things.
‘Very nice indeed. Such a deep voice. Is he good looking?’
‘Mum!’ I roll my eyes.
‘Just asking, darling. There might be a prospect there, you never know.’ You have no idea . And there’s, you know, the fact that he’s now my author . I won’t even get into how inappropriate that would be.
‘Please can we talk about something else?’
‘I have something to ask, actually.’
‘Sure,’ I say, taking a large sip of wine. Whatever it is, at least it’ll steer the conversation away from Jack.
‘Do you think he’d be willing to come to my book club on Friday?’ I almost drop my wine glass in shock.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ I say without thinking, momentarily forgetting that she has no idea how I feel about him. She looks confused, then sad, and she covers it up by pretending to examine her napkin. My heart drops.
‘I knew it was a silly idea. Of course it would be unprofessional to ask, love. Forget I said anything.’ Guilt surges up again at how incapable I seem to be of being a good daughter, even when I’m not on the other side of the world.
‘Sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s OK, Andie. I shouldn’t have asked. I just thought it might be nice, that’s all. See a bit more of you while you’re here, too. But I can see now that I shouldn’t have said anything.’ She looks down at her lap, again, twisting her hands. She seems so small, so vulnerable. So lonely , I think, and suddenly my throat feels thick.
‘I think he’d love to come, Mum.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can consider the implications, but I can’t let her down, especially not when I’m already in competition for the World’s Worst Daughter award.
‘Are you sure?’
I reach across the table for her hand. ‘Of course. I’ll ask him. Promise.’
The rest of the lunch passes uneventfully – my mum retired a few years ago from her job as a solicitor, so now spends her time between local committees and volunteering. By the time we’ve finished our food and moved on to coffee I’ve heard about Victoria’s outburst at the local council meeting, the scandal of twenty dildoes being donated to the charity shop down the road, and what sounds like a lengthy and vicious back-and-forth over whether they’re going to install steps at the local tennis club. I listen intently to all of it, determined to give her my full attention.
Just before we get the bill, Mum shifts in her chair like she’s about to say something important. Here it comes , I think, a slow sense of dread pooling in my stomach. Every time I see my mum, she tries to get me to open up about dad. I think she’s concerned by how little I talk about him, perhaps, that I haven’t fully processed my grief. And she’s not wrong, judging by the deep well of loss that opens every time I come home, every street I pass that reminds me of him opening a new, fresh wound. But I made my choice, I’ve built my life: I don’t see what can be done about it now. Talking about it this far on feels too painful. And either way, it’s not going to bring him back.
‘Love, I need to talk to you about something important.’ She pauses, folding her napkin neatly and setting it on her plate, not meeting my eyes. ‘You know I’ve been going to a grief group? Well, I—’
Ah, the therapy angle. We’ve had this conversation a hundred times before, where she tells me about the benefits of therapy and tries to convince me to go. I went to see a therapist once, a few years ago, and it was awful. We talked about my dad for all of five minutes and I came out feeling like Pandora’s box had been opened. I couldn’t get the lid back on for weeks. Safe to say it’s not for me, and in any case I don’t feel like having this conversation again. Not today, at least. I reach over and place my hand over hers, gently interrupting her before she can go any further.
‘That sounds great, Mum,’ I say, squeezing her hand. It’s soft: she’s been using the hand cream I got her for Christmas. A lump forms in my throat at the thought of her applying it, thinking about me. Missing me. ‘I’m so sorry, though – I’m a bit jet lagged. Can we talk about this another time?’ She looks disappointed, and my heart contracts with guilt. I almost relent, getting ready to send myself to the place I usually go to when she starts these conversations – where I can listen to her words from a safe emotional distance, without being overwhelmed by the feelings they bring up. But after a few seconds she nods, and I feel myself relax, letting out the breath I’m holding.
‘OK, love.’