Chapter 2
TWO
FIVE DAYS LATER
For many people, being alone in a car with my mother for four hours would be a dream; it was my idea of a nightmare. But nevertheless, here we were, hurtling up the motorway and probably both glad of the fact that the back of the chauffeur-driven car Douglas had sent for us came equipped with a couple of bottles of champagne.
‘Your suitcase is very small – are you sure you’ve brought enough clothes for the time we’ll be there?’
Twenty minutes of silent sipping since our last conversation about why I couldn’t get some highlights – as my greys were sure to be coming through soon, given what my mother considers to be my advanced years – and this is how she breaks it. Funny how I seem to be catching her up in age, rather than the gap between us remaining the same, but that is just one of many mysteries my mother is fond of nursing close to her ample bosom. Others include my father’s identity and exactly what goes into her morning ‘vitamin mix’.
I sighed, wishing I was tucked up on my sofa at home watching daytime TV, stroked Runcible’s head, with its random sprouts of hair, and replied:
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. After all, I’m going to relax and recuperate, not much else, so hopefully all I’ll need are pyjamas and fleecy leggings.’
As I had slightly intended, my mother almost choked on her champagne.
‘ Leggings ?’ she hissed. ‘Fallon, I didn’t bring you up to wear leggings . Please tell me you have something presentable with you, or we’ll have to go shopping as soon as we arrive. It is Christmas, after all – you’ll need some sparkle.’
And, as she had fully intended, I instantly capitulated.
‘No, of course I do, there’s no need for that.’
‘And what about the James Bond cocktail party Douglas has arranged to welcome us? Have you got something for that? Please don’t tell me there is just a can of gold spray paint in that suitcase?’
I snorted with laughter.
‘Now there’s an idea! Why didn’t I think of that? No, I’m having something delivered tomorrow – you’ll like it.’
‘It’s not about me , darling. I’ve told you how into Bond Douglas is, he’ll be very disappointed if you don’t make an effort.’
‘Why does he love it so much? I’m a bit surprised, I thought it would be a bit…I don’t know, clichéd, I suppose?’
‘It is – unexpected,’ admitted Mum, ‘but it’s just something he’s loved ever since he first picked up one of the books. Apparently, he’s got quite a collection of memorabilia at the house in Yorkshire. I’ve seen his Aston Martin, of course, but not much else. Anyway, if he wasn’t such a fan, we never would have met, so it was obviously meant to be.’
That was true: my mother and Douglas had met at a Bond convention. He had attended as a superfan and she was there because she had had a very small part – blink and you’d miss it – in Octopussy and, coupled with her fame as a soap actress now, was hugely in demand for these occasions. She would be in her element at this themed welcome party; I was dreading it and could only bear going because I liked Douglas and he was, after all, hosting me for Christmas.
‘What are you going to wear?’ I asked, nervous of any mention of a white bikini. She smirked.
‘Wait and see. Just please make sure your outfit is suitable – and fun , darling. It wouldn’t kill you.’
‘So, not Oddjob, then?’
She glowered at me but didn’t reply and we fell into silence again. I gazed out of the window as the scenery flashed past. I am so used to frustrating and disappointing my mother by not being anything like her that I tend to weaponize it now, mainly to push home the message that there is no point in her even trying. She would so love a glamorous, charismatic daughter to show off and share her clothes with, but, while I am perfectly acceptable-looking and even enjoy a good pair of heels when the wind’s behind me, I am somewhat lower-key than she is, and she has never forgiven me for it. My mother is called Jacqueline Honeywood, although of course that isn’t her given name. That was Jackie Woodcock and is one of the few of her many secrets that I know. She changed it when she got her first acting job, and it has served her well in her stellar career as a soap actor, looking good as it does splashed across magazine covers and newspaper gossip columns. If you ever want to upset my mother, the quickest way is to abbreviate her name; she has worked hard to distance herself from what she describes as her ‘common roots’. I told her once that she shouldn’t use the word ‘common’, but she was typically unrepentant. ‘That’s what we were, darling, and I’m glad we’re not anymore. I’d rather be a snob, if anything – some people do care which way you hang the loo paper, darling, even if you don’t.’ And I really don’t. She named me after her favourite character in the 1980s’ American soap opera Dynasty , and I can only feel that I got off lightly because I didn’t end up being called Krystle or Sammy Jo. Fallon Honeywood is memorable, which is useful when you run an events company, but not so silly that people don’t take you seriously.
I was roused from my thoughts by Runcible waking suddenly from her sleep with a quiet yip. I stroked her head fondly, ignoring my mother’s delicately wrinkled nose.
‘I don’t know why you insist on keeping that…creature. If you must have a dog, I don’t see why it couldn’t at least be something pretty.’
‘Well, I think Runcible is beautiful, and she’s beautiful on the inside as well.’
It is true that my beloved dog hasn’t been blessed with conventional good looks. She is small with long, thin grey fur that tufts up at random over her body, neglects to grow at all on her chest but forms a lavish beard on her chin. She has skinny legs, huge sticking up ears, a small but plumy tail and a protruding bottom jaw, due to an injury as a puppy, before I got her. When I saw her at the rescue centre, the only remaining member of a litter unwanted by the mother dog’s owner, I knew we were meant for each other. Mum wishes I had the same reaction to men, or babies, that I do Runcible, but my heart has never melted quite enough over those I’ve met so far. I named her Runcible after the spoon in The Owl and the Pussycat because no one knows exactly what it means, and it’s impossible to know my little dog’s heritage; a bit of Chinese Crested, for sure, some Yorkshire Terrier maybe, perhaps a bit of Chihuahua? Anyway, it doesn’t matter – I love her, even if other people tend to shrink away and whisper about gremlins.
‘I don’t know what Douglas is going to make of her, let alone his son and grandson. The nobility are used to proper dogs, particularly in Yorkshire. They’ll probably think she’s some sort of lure.’
I hugged Runcible to me, and she snuggled into my neck.
‘Don’t be horrible. Douglas seemed nice the one time I met him, and I’m sure his family will be too. Anyway, if they’re as noble as you say they are, they should be too polite to comment.’
‘It’s not just what I say, darling, they’re bona fide titled, and so will I be soon.’
I tried to stop my eyebrow flickering heavenwards. My mother never misses an opportunity to drop in the fact that if Douglas proposes, as is fully expected, she will be Lady Knight, and her happiness in life complete. Apart from her only daughter’s dowdy spinsterdom, of course. Feeling too tired to needle her about it, I decided to change the subject.
‘Have you met his son or grandson? What are they like?’
‘No, I haven’t. They rarely come down to London, and although Douglas is often up there helping with the boy – Theo, his name is – this is the first time I’ve had a long enough break in filming to be able to go with him. His son, Alexander, has had a hard time of it, and Douglas is nothing short of a saint the way he steps in.’
‘If you do get married, won’t he expect you to go to Yorkshire with him?’
‘Not at all. Douglas, for all his pedigree’ – she shot another scowl at poor Runcible – ‘is a very modern man. He knows that I have to work and understands that Mayfair Mews can’t keep giving its star long periods of time off. My fans wouldn’t allow it.’
This much was true. Mum had worked on the soap about upmarket Londoners for over twenty years and was much-loved by millions of people. She had steered the role of Ophelia Cromwell from little more than a walk-on part to being the central character: the classic soap matriarch who presided over her extended family and ran the neighbourhood, yet still had time for a dramatic love life. I was glad when she found someone who had never heard of her or seen the programme, yet fully supported and respected her work. She was a formidable woman who had achieved a great amount and, complicated though our relationship was, I did admire her. I poured us both some more champagne, hoping it might perk me up.
‘So, why has Alexander had a hard time?’
‘Well, his wife left him and his son about four years ago when the child was only little – about five – and went off with an Italian banker. But then she was killed in a car accident a year or so later.’
‘How awful.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? But it’s not just that. Alexander was a wildly successful heart surgeon, but before she left – maybe part of why she left – he had an accident of some sort himself and damaged his hand, so had to give up surgery.’
‘Sounds a bit like a storyline from Mayfair Mews ,’ I said, sipping my champagne and wishing I felt uplifted by it, rather than even more tired.
‘Doesn’t it? Although there’s not been much of a happy ending for him. He’s teaching at the university and has started some sort of drinks business on the side, but he’ll never regain the status – or the salary – of a surgeon.’
‘Must have been so hard, though, being a surgeon. Imagine the pressure and the weight of expectation – quite literally holding people’s lives in your hands.’
‘Maybe, darling, but plenty of people cope with pressure better than you do.’
And there it was. Just as we were having a pleasant conversation, out shot the barb. Tears stung behind my eyes, and I tried to take some deep breaths, as I had been told by my doctor to do. The problem with my mother is that if you spend too long trying to compose yourself before replying to her, she has a tendency to carry on the attack. For about the millionth time, I deeply regretted agreeing to come away with her this Christmas; she was exhausting at the best of times, but I felt too fragile to cope with it all right now. I could see her gearing up again, so I spoke quickly, but as calmly as I could:
‘I am able to cope with pressure, and I think I’ve proven that, Mum. I built my business from scratch and it’s very successful.’
‘But—’
I carried on, sounding more determined than I felt.
‘However, I made a mistake in taking on too much work and not enough help. I am driven to produce excellence for my clients, and these things combined led to complete exhaustion but not, thankfully, a complete breakdown.’ I was talking like a mental health manual now, but it was the best way to get my point across without letting emotion in. That only succeeds in irritating Mum and stopping me from thinking clearly. I continued, ‘I do need some recovery time, as you know, but I will return to the business in the new year better equipped to deal with the pressure than I was previously – and with more understanding of and sympathy for how people can be affected when life becomes overwhelming.’
My mother’s lips tightened, a rare occurrence which is usually quickly corrected, due to her terror of how it might accelerate the forming of fine lines. I decided it was a prudent move to return the conversation to her favourite subject: her.
‘Anyway, Mum, you haven’t told me how you managed to get a month off Mayfair Mews over Christmas. I can’t remember the last time you had such a long break.’
Her mouth relaxed into its familiar pillowy smile, and she topped up our glasses.
‘True, true. Being the axis of the whole show does come with some penalties – uneasy lies the head that wears a crown and so on, darling.’
I debated with myself whether a bit of idle provocation along the lines of ‘well then, don’t you think it’s time to retire?’ might be an enjoyable way to pass a few minutes but decided to save that for another day, when more serious distraction tactics might need to be employed. She continued.
‘But I said to them that Douglas was simply pining for more time with me. The festive season spent at his family seat, getting to know them all, was the perfect opportunity, especially seeing as the big Christmas episodes are filmed weeks in advance.’
I hid a smile in my glass. I suspected that Douglas and his family might not have warranted quite so much of her company if the visit had interfered with the seasonal ratings war between all the big soaps, which Mayfair Mews had won for seven years straight.
‘Have you got a juicy storyline again this year? I liked last year’s brush with death at the hands of that deranged doctor.’
She shot me a sideways look.
‘I’m sure you did, darling, but – and I’m sorry to disappoint you – this year we decided to go for something equally dramatic but more feel-good. I’m at the heart of the story…’
Naturally.
‘…naturally, but it also features Margot leaving Dirk when she hears the news about him and the online account.’
‘Margot leaves Dirk? But I thought they were one of the Soap’s most solid couples?’
‘Well, yes, but the producers seemed to think that Lucinda was pushing for too much screen time and have decided to edge her out. I’m devasted, of course, such a wonderful actor and a dear friend, but I’m sure they know exactly what they’re doing.’
And I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing, too , I thought. The producers – yeah, right. This had Jacqueline Honeywood written all over it. Poor Lucinda: she’d been playing the popular part of Margot for five years, but it didn’t look as if she’d make it to six. Mum could be ruthless, but it was part of the reason she’d made such a success of herself, as I know full well as her daughter. Although she brushes any memories I have of growing up with her aside as if I were making it all up, my recollections of my childhood are clear. When I was little, I was often left with random friends of hers when she needed to go away for work or to socialise, and there never was any sense of stability. She often wasn’t there, and when she was, she would spend much of her time telling me not to get used to it because she would be going away again soon. When I was six or seven years old, a teacher at school once asked my class to write about their families and all I could come up with was: ‘My mummy is the lady in the Martini advertisement on telly. My daddy has gone away.’ I found the exercise book it was written in not long ago and such a pang of sorrow shot through me for that child. I remembered how alone I felt. But my mother’s success became mine too. Her status and salary rose stratospherically, and I was sent to a fancy boarding school in Devon aged eleven. I absolutely loved no longer being alone all the time and I was blissfully happy for seven years. After university, I got a few work placements and finally a job in a small events company whose main customer base was discreet millionaires who wanted fabulous parties for themselves, their children and even their dogs. I appreciated their high standards, which I not only reached but usually surpassed, and when the woman who owned the company decided to retire, I took over, at first as a salaried manager then eventually buying her out. I have resisted letting the business grow too big, holding on to our niche and very exclusive status and sticking with only two other permanent members of staff – Sam, who our customers worship, and Talitha, as sharp and organised a PA as anyone could hope for. Despite all this, I worked so hard, with so few breaks, that my stress, exhaustion and inability to sleep all eventually caught up with me. It was Sam who had given me the final push I needed to take a break, that night after the party at the V it was Mum, tapping her long nail on the glass barrier between us and the driver. I saw him touch a button and it slid smoothly to one side.
‘Madam?’
‘How much longer?’
‘Only another minute or two now, madam.’
‘Thank you.’
The glass slid shut again and I smiled tentatively, a little flock of butterflies taking a stroll around my stomach.
‘Why are you looking so tragic?’ said my mother, taking out a small compact mirror and starting to dab at her already-immaculate face and hair. ‘It’s going to be a good Christmas. I’m the one who should be worrying, I have to pass muster with his bloody son and God knows how many more family members.’
As she took out a golden tube of lipstick, I saw her hand trembling; for the first time in a long time Jacqueline Honeywood was nervous, and I reached out to squeeze her knee. Our eyes met with a flicker of unprecedented mutual understanding, and I would have spoken had the car tyres not crunched to a gravelly stop and the sepulchral tones of the driver come through the speaker:
‘We have arrived.’