Chapter Twelve
Enya stared at the tray with the red and white gingham cloth and wondered if she were the worst kind of person, intending to offer Holly’s home-made blondies to Iris and her parents with a cup of tea. Not that they’d know, not that Holly would, but still.
‘I’m nervous, Jonathan.’ She spoke as she put her mug into the dishwasher; the mug she’d put out for him she put straight back on to the shelf, before rinsing and folding the dishcloth neatly over the tap.
‘I feel duty-bound to be a bit cool with the girl, feel like I owe it to Holly, and yet I know that’s ridiculous.
It’s not her fault, is it? And if she’s going to be our daughter-in-law, I want her to like us.
I really do. What if her parents are awful, what if Jenny pops over and finds me sitting there having a cup of tea with her replacement like we’re old friends.
I know that would make me feel terrible.
I don’t do well with disloyalty. I guess it’s nice Aiden wanted them to come to his family home, but I really wish they weren’t. ’
Her son was conspicuous by his absence. Knowing every square inch of the cottage, she could tell he was hovering at his window, this confirmed by the sound of the floorboard squeaks.
She felt both aggrieved by his lack of visibility yet relieved too, as the idea of making small talk, of slipping up and accidentally letting him know that she felt nothing but dread at the prospect of meeting Iris and her family, was a worry.
Or worse, her wish that she’d rather this wasn’t happening at all.
This was the exact situation in which having Jonathan by her side would have made a difference.
He always knew when to make a joke, how to pick a topic that might engage everybody, and, if these failed, the ace up his sleeve: a tour of the greenhouse to have a little look at his tomatoes.
His tomato crop was always a bit crap. She now suspected it was far more about having those stinky plants to talk to, or to prod and water when a distraction was required, than the embarrassingly small harvest they provided.
Although it had been a never-ending source of comedy, his tiny toms that she supplemented with punnets from the supermarket.
And the delightful ritual eating of the sparse fruit with declarations that it was quality not quantity that counted had never failed to be funny.
She looked over at the sink and there he was, leaning against it.
His presence yet lack of engagement a little irritating at times like this.
Aiden’s feet thundering down the stairs told her it must be show time and she closed her eyes briefly and took a breath.
‘Just got a text, they’ll be here in five!’
He practically jumped on the spot with an energy that she hadn’t seen in him since he was a child.
He looked smart, had shaved, tamed his curly hair as best he could, was aftershave-doused, and wore his shirt, one that had hung pressed and ready in his wardrobe.
He might have set up home with Holly, but his room here was just as he’d left it when he had shipped out two years ago.
She kept it that way, for just in case. The two stayed over on occasion, and she now wondered if at the back of her mind she had always hoped he might come home.
‘Are you nervous?’ She filled the kettle in preparation and instantly regretted it; that was always a nice diversion if conversation was stilted or lacking, the old off to fill the kettle trick. It could buy as many as three minutes of face-to-face avoidance.
‘A little bit, about meeting her parents, yes. I really want them to like me. But about seeing Iris?’ He shook his head. ‘Not a bit, just excited. Really excited. You’re going to love her, Mum. She’s amazing!’
So you’ve said . . .
‘I’m sure I will, and I trust your judgement.’
‘But do you really?’ He looked at her quizzically, as if he, like her, recalled their earlier conversation.
‘I do, Aiden. That doesn’t mean I’m not concerned about the whirlwind nature of it all, and my doubts about what comes next, but trust you?
Yes, I do. I’ve worried a little in the past that you and Holly maybe hadn’t seen as much of the world as you might, queried if maybe it might be healthy to see other people before you took the big leap, but I didn’t imagine this. ’
It felt good to be entirely open, like redressing the layers of deceit that the Hudsons were dealing with, a little.
‘I want to talk to you about Holly, and everything that happened yesterday, but not right now. I want to enjoy today.’
‘Of course.’ She forced a smile, and wondered how much Holly might be enjoying today. The tray of blondies sat like a sweet tempting poke in the ribs, making her presence felt.
The sound of a car outside saw her son run to the front door.
In that instant Enya wasn’t sure where she should be.
In the kitchen? Her worry was that it made her seem too domestic and mumsy.
Sitting on the sofa, reading? That might give the impression she was aloof, disinterested or, worse, lazy.
She hated how much thought she gave to such an inconsequential thing and how much it bothered her.
The kitchen was where she’d stay. She was, after all, both domestic and mumsy and knew there was no shame in that.
‘Oh, this is so sweet, really cosy!’ A woman’s voice floated from the hallway, referring to Enya’s home. ‘We don’t really have a hallway at The Mount, this is so cute!’
It spoke volumes. It was a nice thing to say, complimentary in its way, yet with distinct undertones of comparison.
The Mount, the woman’s house, was no doubt bigger, more contemporary, better.
Enya stood tall and glanced downwards at the back door, where with horror she spied two slender turds in Pickle’s litter tray.
Her heart sank and she made the executive decision to get rid of them right now!
Moving quickly, hoping Aiden took his time and showed them the sitting room, which was even ‘sweeter and cosier’ than the hallway, she grabbed the litter tray, ran towards the open French doors, and in a moment of sheer panic threw the whole thing, grit, shit, and all, over the fence.
With her pulse racing, her face no doubt a little flushed, she hurriedly returned in time to see two women, Iris and her mother, who were identical in both look and dress.
She could now confirm to Angela that yes, Iris, like her mother, was indeed beautiful.
They had layered, buttery-blonde bobbed hair that fell over sharp cheekbones, an abundance of silver jewellery with turquoise stones sitting strikingly against their summer tans, and they both wore skinny cropped jeans with crisp white shirts.
On their neat and well-pedicured tootsies, they sported leather sandals that suggested their feet, so delicately encased, would never be troubled by bunions.
Enya wasn’t sure whether to curtsy in her frock with the voluminous sleeves and beads or run away.
It was always the way. She was quietly confident in her own skin, went about her routine without giving too much thought to her attire, ancient hairstyle and lack of make-up.
Yet put her in the presence of a goddess and she shrank, dissolved inside, and morphed into her fourteen-year-old self who no one wanted to snog as she stood a full head taller than most of the boys; and if you were a girl no one wanted to snog, the popular girls did not want to be your buddy, fearing the lack of snoggability might be contagious.
‘You must be Aiden’s mum! I’m Trish.’
Trish was friendly, confident and with an air of someone who lived a golden life, and one who had invested in very good teeth. Her make-up was shiny and perfect. Enya cursed her own pathetic two coats of mascara, the ancient tube of which she’d had to spit into.
‘I am, it’s lovely to meet you, all a bit strange, but lovely!’ She walked forward, and she and Trish held each other’s hand. It was a moment of connection that set the tone. She just hoped Jenny wasn’t anywhere close.
‘I’m Iris.’
The girl – assured, calm, a little cool, and oh so beautiful – smiled.
It felt only right to hug her. Enya took a step forward and opened her arms, when, much to her humiliation, Iris reached for her hand and shook it.
It was a demotion. By declining the hug, Iris had made it clear that Enya was not someone she wanted to hold or be held by; a stranger, no matter that this was the girl who was going to marry her son.
Enya’s heart hardened a little towards the girl, and flexed for Holly, who was affectionate in the way it was possible to be with such a shared history.
Holly, who right now couldn’t sit up, speak, or open her eyes, so great was her distress, a little rag doll, and who she guessed would probably welcome a hug right now.
‘Hello, Iris. It’s lovely to meet you.’
‘Show Aiden’s mum your ring!’ Trish clapped, her glee evident. Her own mammoth rock glinted in the sunlight.
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Enya had quite forgotten this detail.
Iris splayed her manicured fingers and showed off the whopping gem that nestled on a white gold band.
It was really something. She wondered how much of Aiden’s savings he had blown on the impressive piece and cursed the fact that her thoughts had fled to what would happen if they didn’t make it to the altar.
Would Iris get to keep it? It was unkind and fatalistic, and she felt suitably ashamed to have mentally gone there at all.
The ring was a symbol, maybe a little gaudy for her tastes, but it was not her tastes that counted. Nor her opinion on the whole carry-on, apparently.
‘The whole thing was pretty perfect.’ She tuned in to Iris’s slow rhythm of speech, her low tones, very different to the giddy way in which Holly spoke, chattering and laughing and hopping from topic to topic with such speed that Enya often lost the thread.
‘We wandered down to the Spanish Steps area, and AJ had the whole thing planned.’
AJ?
‘The jeweller had all these rings laid out on little silk pillows, waiting for me to try. I cried, of course. Pathetic, I know, but it was special. The boy did good!’
Enya stared at the statement piece that Aiden had planned. ‘Wow! It’s beautiful.’ She turned to comment to her son, acknowledging that the boy had indeed done good, to give the approval he had already explained they were not seeking, when she realised he wasn’t there. ‘Where is Aiden?’
‘Chatting to my dad outside.’ Iris shook her head. ‘I know they’re going to get on. Which is both great and intensely annoying. My dad will steal him for hours.’
‘I think that’s lovely.’ She found a smile, feeling suddenly outnumbered here in her own home. Even Pickle had done a runner, although in fairness she had left a parting gift. God, how she missed Jonathan.
‘Has he told you all about the proposal?’ Trish grinned.
‘No! He hasn’t actually.’ She clicked on the kettle.
‘We’ll have to get him to tell you his version of the story,’ Trish gushed, ‘I’m never going to get sick of hearing it!
We were watching TV, eating supper, the next thing, we’ve got madam here on the phone, and she’s got this huge dazzler on her finger!
We had a virtual toast – they had a bottle of champers at their end, and we did the same.
I don’t mind telling you, Enya, I cried too!
Still can’t believe it! My little girl is getting married! ’
Enya could relate as she too felt like crying, picturing the joyful celebration across the miles while she had only got to hear of the impending nuptials in the car park yesterday. She felt left out, excluded, lost.
‘Yes, it’s all so exciting!’ She hoped she sounded excited and not knackered and wishing she could curl up in bed.
‘How long have you lived here?’ Trish looked around the kitchen, taking in the island, the French doors, the pale oak floor, the Danish oiled wooden countertops, and cabinetry the colour of winter sage, with knobs in matt brass to match the taps, door handle and all the other ironmongery.
‘A long time, we moved in when we got married and just, stayed!’
‘You never wanted a bigger house?’
Enya stared at the woman, considering several responses, none of which she decided were polite to share.
‘No. That’s why we’re still here.’
Me. Why I’m still here . . .
She busied herself with the fetching of cups from the cupboard of her unimpressive kitchen of her clearly inadequate home.
The sound of men laughing came from the hallway and for a split second, as she sometimes did, she was relieved that Jonathan was finally home.
He’d take over from here, maybe organise a greenhouse tour.
But of course, it wasn’t Jonathan. This realisation one that never got any easier, the fact that he was never coming home.
‘Here he is!’ Trish shouted, as if Aiden were a special guest they’d all been awaiting. Her son stood tall for sure, and it was nice, they clearly approved and quite right too, he was lovely, and Iris was lucky, as of course, no doubt, was he.
With the stack of saucers nestling in her hand, she was about to place them on the counter, figuring if she couldn’t impress her guests with the vastness of her palatial home, she could at least treat them to tea from her grandmother’s vintage china, which only ever saw the daylight on special occasions.
It was as she looked up that Enya was torn as to whether she should scream or faint, deciding neither would be a good look when trying to appeal to Iris and her family, although it would be a story to tell her grandchildren, no doubt.