Chapter 16 Three months later
‘Do we have to go?’
‘Yeah, and we need to go now, otherwise we’ll be unforgivably late.’ I wriggle out from under the duvet and sit up in bed, ignoring the groans of protest. ‘Come on,’ I tell him. ‘We do have to leave my bedroom at some point, you know?’
‘Do we, though?’ he counters, turning on his side to face me.
‘A few alterations, and I think we’d be perfectly happy living in here full time.
A mini fridge and a bigger TV, and we’d be all set.
And just think, if we stayed in here, we could do this as much as we wanted to.
’ A slow smile creeps across his face, lighting up his eyes mischievously as his hand reaches for me.
‘Yeah, you try cancelling on my mum with an hour’s notice.’
I roll off the bed and grab my dressing gown off the floor, leaving Jordan lying there as I let myself out of the bedroom to get a quick shower before we need to set off.
The welcome blast of warm water hits my skin, and I let it fall over my shoulders for a few seconds before I rush to get out and dry and ready in ten minutes flat.
This morning has been nice. Jordan woke me up, as he often does when he stays over, with a cup of coffee before climbing back into bed next to me.
Once we finished our drinks, and he’d read the news on his phone like he always does, we had slow, lazy sex, before dozing off again.
It’s the exact kind of Saturday morning I’ve spent so many years pining for but unlike Jordan, I don’t mind it ending.
I needed this shower, am looking forward to going to Mum’s for lunch, and I don’t mind having to take a few hours this weekend to mark essays for Monday morning.
I don’t want my world to shrink so it’s just the two of us in a bed and that’s all we’ll ever need.
I like that Jordan doesn’t push for that either.
He knows he’s become part of my life but hasn’t tried to take over the whole of it.
It feels healthier that way, like I’m finally in a real relationship.
Being with Jordan has been an education, one that’s made me redefine what romance is.
Real romance isn’t a ballad, it’s not a Shakespearian play, and it’s not a reality TV show.
What Jordan and I have is real. It’s not earth-shattering, it’s not I can’t breathe without the other person next to me, but it’s ours, and I’m grateful for it.
‘Remember to tell Mum her food is amazing every few minutes, and you can’t go wrong,’ I instruct Jordan on the way to Mum’s house.
He’s determined for this afternoon to go well.
Jordan and Mum have met before a number of times, and it’s always been fine between them.
Jordan insists he loves my mum, and my mum is equally as polite – if not quite so gushing – about Jordan.
But this weekend feels different, and we both know it.
Jordan is the first person I’ve brought round to her house in years, but today is also the first time I’ve ever brought someone round to her house more than three times in a row.
Normally, it’s down to me to ask Mum if I can have someone over, but this is the first time she’s texted me to specifically ask that I bring my boyfriend round.
When I shared that fact with Jordan, it made him nervous, despite his best efforts to cover it up.
It kind of makes me nervous too, as though there’s a test that needs to be passed this afternoon.
It’s not like I can offer him a cosy night in a pub or a night sprawled on the sofa if it goes badly.
Poor Jordan is also booked in for a night with my friends as soon as our afternoon with Mum is over.
Thinking of the intense day I’ve planned for him, I reach over and give him a sympathetic squeeze of his knee.
When I let us in through the back door, the weight of the afternoon and whatever it might hold can be smelt in the unfamiliar air in her kitchen.
‘I’m making a curry,’ Mum declares by way of greeting.
‘Amazing,’ Jordan says, moving forward to hug her. ‘My favourite.’
‘For lunch? Are you sure about this?’ I ask, waiting in line to give her a peck on her cheek.
I scan the counter for a pre-made jar of sauce, but no, it looks like she’s making it from scratch, which may go some way to explaining the overwhelming smell of garlic.
‘You didn’t need to go to so much effort. ’
She bats my comment away with the tea towel she’s holding in her hand. ‘No effort at all. Besides, I told you, didn’t I, I was going with the girls to that new Indian round the corner? It was so delicious, all I’ve wanted to eat since is saag chicken and dhal. I hope I do it justice.’
I was hoping for a frittata and salad or jacket potatoes – two of Mum’s specialities. Curry is the last thing I want before a big night out, but Jordan seems to think differently.
‘Amazing! Judging how incredible your kitchen smells, I’m sure you’ll more than do it justice,’ Jordan says.
‘Thank you.’ I don’t know if it’s my imagination, or if it’s because there must be a thousand things Mum has to do in the next hour to make the mess in her kitchen come together to produce three plates of food, but I swear there was an uncharacteristic coldness to her tone.
‘Come on, Jordan. We should get out the way for a bit. Do you mind if we help ourselves to a glass of wine and head into the lounge?’ I ask.
‘Good idea. I’ll call you if I need some help.’
‘Make sure you do, Stella. I’d love to learn how to make a good curry.’
Mum gives Jordan a curt smile before turning her back. Jordan goes past me, seemingly unaware of the cold shoulder Mum’s giving him, but I stay for a moment, watching Mum through narrowed eyes.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask.
‘Fine,’ she says without turning back to me. ‘You go through with Jordan.’
I do as I’m told. Instinctively, I reach for the remote and turn on the TV. I flick channels until Jordan asks me to stop on an old episode of The Big Bang Theory. It’s not a show I’ve ever particularly liked, but I’m happy to sit there sipping my wine and chuckling at the TV whenever Jordan does.
I don’t realise Mum is standing in the door watching us until I stand up to refill Jordan’s glass and catch her turning away.
‘How’s it going in here?’ I ask her while opening the fridge and pulling out the wine.
‘Fine.’
It doesn’t look like much has happened since we left her to it, but I’ve learned not to question her methods.
‘Good. Still need no help?’
‘Nope.’
It’s there again. There is, without doubt, something odd going on with Mum today. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was angry with me – with Jordan, but that doesn’t make any sense.
I go back to the lounge and sit next to Jordan again. He holds my hand, and I gradually turn the volume up to mask the slamming and banging coming from the kitchen.
‘Right. It’s ready,’ Mum shouts nearly an hour later. When we join her in the kitchen to sit at the little table by the window, her face is as red as the poppies in her borders, and the sweat dripping off her matches the rain sliding down the window.
‘Wow, Stella. This all looks amazing,’ Jordan gushes. ‘If it tastes as good as it looks, I’m in for a treat.’
He’s only doing what I advised him to do in the car, but it’s over the top for three plates of brown sludge and some rice from a packet. Mum barely acknowledges the compliment and tells us to dig in before it gets cold.
‘Why don’t you tell Mum about your charity boxing match?’ I suggest to Jordan when we’re halfway through our meal, which, to be fair to her, tastes remarkably better than it looks.
He swallows his mouthful and smiles. There’s been a distinct lack of interaction between Mum and Jordan so far.
Mum’s not grilled him, not told him about any one of the many clubs she goes to each week, not asked him if he watches football before launching into a spiel about how much she hates it thanks to my dad and the hours she had to put up with it blaring out of the TV when they were together.
Instead, she’s mainly watched us, and I’m not entirely sure she’s been happy with what she’s seen.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘It’s next month, and I can’t lie to you, Stella, I’m dreading it. I’m sure Lizzie will back me up when I say I make a terrible boxer. It’s for a good cause though, so I reckon a black eye and a few bruised ribs will be worth it.’
‘I won’t back you up at all,’ I tell him before starting to smile. ‘He’s being modest as always, Mum.’ I put my hand on his arm in a show of support. ‘He’s been training for it for ages.’
‘Yeah, if you call a few gym sessions a week and the odd protein bar training. It hardly puts me up there with Tyson Fury.’
We both laugh at that, a little too much perhaps because there’s no way Jordan won’t be feeling the chill coming from my mother, but her face remains resolutely stony.
‘Right. Tell me, will you still get the sponsorship money if you lose?’
The rest of the meal passes in much the same way, with me trying to make conversation, Jordan being as charming as he possibly could be and Mum being surly and short with us both.
Bewildered, I suggest Jordan returns to the lounge for a bit after we’ve finished so I can help Mum tidy up.
He offers to help – of course he does – but I insist we’re fine.
He must know I’m planning on asking Mum what the hell is wrong with her, as he gives me a small smile and walks quickly into the lounge, shutting the door behind him.
I gather up most of the plates and take them to the sink. Mum takes what’s left and follows me.
‘What was that?’ I ask, turning to face her. ‘Why were you acting like that with Jordan?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’ Her eyebrows rise, and she gives me a challenging glare.
‘What? I was being normal. I was trying to have a perfectly nice meal with my boyfriend and mother. It was you that made it uncomfortable.’