Chapter 6 Christopher
Friday
By all means, take as long as you need. I just love watching things age in real time, I grouse to myself.
My gaze burns a hole through the man in front of me, who is carting his suitcase down the broken escalator and taking up the whole width so no one can pass. The tuts and sighs behind me confirm that I’m not the only one frustrated.
I finally make it to the underground platform, just to see the tube to Hampstead exit down the tunnel. The next isn’t due for another five minutes. I rub my forehead and let out a sigh.
Great.
She’s gonna kill me.
Most families would be understanding if I’m running late, and would maybe even offer to delay lunch to be accommodating—especially after all I’ve been through in the past thirty-six hours and the fact that I still have some work to do later.
But the Foster family, or more specifically my mum, is anything but understanding or accommodating. It’s her way or the highway.
I collapse on a metal bench, noticing the sweat circles forming underneath my armpits are staining the new beige polo I’d bought after finishing in the gym.
The mere thought of my gym interlude this morning causes a wave of irritation.
I rest my elbows on my knees, letting my head collapse into my hands.
How stupid was I to think he’d join me in the steam room, like it was a gay sauna?
What a schoolboy error.
A ping from my phone snaps me out of my pity party, and I retrieve it from the pocket of my black jeans.
Kelly
Please hurry, she’s on one today and I can’t face her on my own.
I quickly fire back a response before returning my phone to my pocket.
Stuck waiting for the tube at Euston. There as soon as I can be.
I feel for my sister, even though the upside to this delay is that I am spending less time with my mum.
Ever since Daniel proposed to Kelly in Paris eighteen months ago, my mother has turned into a Mumzilla.
She’s taken over all the planning and preparation, to the point that you’d think it was my mother, not my sister, getting married.
Thankfully, living on the other side of the world shields me from the worst of her qualities. But I still pick up on the passive-aggressive tone in her messages when I don’t get back to her quickly enough, check in frequently enough, or support her in a way she feels she should be supported.
I rise from the seat and head down the platform to look at the passenger information display.
As I walk, my attention is caught by a poster advertising Alexander’s run of O2 shows.
His gaze seductively draws me in, until the ping of the tube doors opening forces me to look away and board the train, right behind a woman with her stroller.
Thankfully, the carriage isn’t too busy. I manage to find a seat opposite a man reading a copy of the Metro. Alexander stares back at me from the front page.
God.
Do I really need more reminders of him?
My cheeks flush as I pick at the cuticles on my fingernails.
Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t know Alexander Morgan existed. Now he’s there everywhere I turn—except the one place I’d hoped he would be: behind me in the steam room.
The loud sound of the tube rumbling along the tracks sets the baby in the stroller off, its lungs packing a powerful scream.
The mum sits there, lost on her phone, ignoring the baby.
Great. Another neglectful mum, forcing me to ride through purgatory.
I shake my head and cut a death stare toward the baby, who catches my gaze and goes silent.
If only that power worked on my mother.
“Finally, he bothers to grace us with his presence,” my mother bellows. She puts her wine glass down, shaking her head as the waiter escorts me to the table where she and my sister are seated. Her purple clutch, which matches her dress, sits next to her wine glass on the table.
“Lovely to see you, too, Mother,” I say, bending down to lean in for a hug. The embrace is over before it even begins, just like the presence and sudden withdrawing of her love.
I quickly move around the table to hug Kelly, who looks resplendent in a floral summer dress. Her auburn locks are tied back in a loose ponytail, allowing the freckles on her porcelain skin to shine.
“Tread carefully,” she whispers in my ear before releasing me.
I widen my eyes at her. Like I’m not used to navigating the minefield by now, I think.
The waiter returns, pours another glass of Cabernet Sauvignon for my mother, and looks at me.
“Anything for you, sir?”
I open my mouth to speak, but I’m interrupted by my mother raising her hand.
“We’ve already ordered food for you since you kept us waiting.
” Her sideward glance at the waiter says, Can you believe my child?
“But go ahead, let the gentleman know what you’re drinking.
I can never recall what it is you like to drink these days.
” She waves at me, finally giving me permission to speak.
I let out a short exhale, swallowing down my frustration, and look across to Kelly’s drink.
“I’ll take the same as her,” I say, nodding at Kelly.
“It’s just a soda,” Kelly says, grabbing the glass and sipping through the straw.
“Then I’ll take mine with vodka, please.” I smile at the waiter as he heads off and then cut a confused look at Kelly, who shrugs my look away and places the glass back down.
“I’m glad to see that one of you is still willing to drink,” my mother says. Her hand pats the back of mine while she rolls her green eyes at Kelly. Kelly chose to cut back on her drinking after Dad died. My drinking habits stayed the same. My mum’s, if anything, increased.
I’d have thought today would have prompted Kelly to have at least one alcoholic drink to deal with Mum and her constant disapproval. But it’s displayed differently to Kelly than it is to me.
By the time the three Caesar salads arrive twenty minutes later, mine thankfully graced with chicken and bacon, my mother has barely taken a breath. She barely notices as the waiter sets the food down.
She’s been walking us through the minute details of the next week.
Fittings to attend here, final samples to sign off on there.
The rehearsal dinner. All of this prompts reassuring nods and um-hmms from Kelly and me intermittently.
My mum doesn’t mind our indifference; she really just wants an audience.
The conversation only stops when she asks me who I plan on bringing to the wedding.
“You know,” she begins, placing her cutlery down in the bowl and leaning forward, “I may have come to terms with your sexuality over the past couple of years, but the wider family still doesn’t know. I think it’s best we keep it that way.” She arches her eyebrows and narrows her eyes at me.
I’ve taken too big a bite of my salad, so I cover my mouth to stop myself from spitting my food at her. I chew instead, buying some time to swallow down my anger.
“I was thinking of renting one of those mail-order brides. You know, to keep up appearances. But apparently there’s been problems with getting them in the country since Brexit.” I slouch back into the padded chair, crossing my arms.
“That’s not funny.” Her lips purse.
My mum has always been convinced I have no sense of humor, which quite frankly is ridiculous.
Kelly kicks my shin under the table and widens her eyes at me. Before I have a chance to respond, she jumps in. Fine, I think, scowling at her.
“He’ll be sitting next to you and Aunt Brenda, so there’s no need to worry there.” Kelly is ever the diplomat. My mum ignores us both, waving down the waiter and signaling for the bill.
Clearly, we’re done here. Thank God for that.
When the waiter comes over with the bill and card machine, Mum insists on covering it, removing her credit card from her clutch.
It’s all a ruse to look good in front of the waiter, and for once I don’t pretend to play along with fighting to pay for the bill.
With her though, there is never such thing as a free lunch.
“Christopher, darling…” Ah, there it is. She taps her card on the machine, then slides the card back into her clutch and slowly gets up from the chair. “Would you be ever so kind and order us an Uber to your sister’s final fitting appointment?”
I glance at Kelly as I get up, who looks away sheepishly.
Clearly, she hadn’t told Mum that I have work to do and won’t be able to attend.
Typical. Always avoiding dealing with the issue.
I let out a deep exhale and reach for my phone.
“What’s the address?” I ask, looking between the two of them.
“Kelly, give him the address. I’m going to use the toilet.” Mum waves dismissively, tottering away in heels a size too big that clink on the tiled floor.
“Really,” I say, once she’s out of earshot, and hand Kelly the phone to type in the address. I cross my arms, leaning over the back of the chair.
“You’d think I haven’t got enough battles to fight, without having to take on yours too,” she says, shoving the phone back at me and shaking her head.
Fair enough. I quickly order the Uber and shoot off a text to Stephen while we wait for mum to return.
The Uber arrives a few minutes later, and as we step outside, Stephen calls in response to the SOS message I sent him, right on cue.
“I’m not with my laptop right now, but I can be back at the hotel in thirty minutes,” I say, pausing for dramatic effect when my mum turns. Then I continue, “Okay, can you hold a minute?”
I’ve learned it’s best not to lie to her, but be what I call truth-adjacent with a parallel truth. In this case, I do need to work, but no one would be calling me from the West Coast at this hour.
I clutch the phone to my chest, and turn my gaze to my mother, who has rage forming in her eyes.
“I need to get back for work; it’s an emergency.” My voice rises a semi-octave higher than usual in an attempt to be as convincing as I can.