Chapter 27
27
The Hideaway, St Aidan
Answerphones and overtones
Monday
‘M um! How did your early date go?’
Sophie and I agreed that I’m the best one to make the call to Mum and I’m home again before I finally decide how to approach it. When she picks up on the third ring, I’m not out to trick her.
‘So you know?’
I’m trying to be minimal with full transparency. ‘Kit mentioned it.’
There’s a beat of silence before she responds. ‘I knew he’d be good for you to work for.’
Of all the answers, I wasn’t expecting that. I ignore it and press on. ‘And the date went so well that you’re doing it again?’
Another beat. ‘David lived in Australia. It’s a continent, there’s a lot to cover.’
‘I’ll take your word on that.’ She had no interest in the place previously. When we watched Neighbours when I was a kid, she’d sneak off to the kitchen and listen to current affairs on Radio 4.
‘You know how first dates are? We barely scratched the surface.’ She takes a breath. ‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing. Otherwise what’s the point?’
‘Once they’re gone, they’re gone.’ If she starts saying she’s doing this for me, I might just scream.
She picks me up straight away. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
I smile. ‘Nothing. It’s another of those sayings that doesn’t mean anything.’
I can sense her eyebrows going up. ‘On the contrary, they say “once they’re gone, they’re gone” all the time in those upmarket bakeries to make their over-priced cakes sell faster.’
‘In which case, I might have picked it up subliminally on Stoke Newington Church Street. Or in Islington.’ Now she’s nudged my memory, it was actually Hot Cakes, in Notting Hill, at a time when I was randomly wandering around London trying to find anything to make the time pass after Dillon left. I queued for forty minutes outside a tiny backstreet shop for a feta puff dredged in icing sugar that lasted three bites and cost six quid. It was so unexpectedly glorious to find something delicious when it felt like I’d never enjoy anything ever again, I went back three Sundays running.
She carries on. ‘They were talking about those bakery places in Force10 Hair when I had my last layer cut done. You could try that with your puddings – why not put them on Facebook?’
This is the thing about Mum. Not only does she effortlessly pick up what’s bang on trend. But over and over, she also cuts through the crap and gets straight to the heart of what matters.
‘Genius, Mum, thanks. I might do that.’ There’s the small problem that the ice cream would melt, but it’s nice she cares enough to make suggestions.
‘Don’t thank me, you’re the one who brought it up.’ She hesitates. ‘I’ll have to go, Michael’s here measuring up for the plantation shutters.’
I can’t help feeling a twinge of embarrassment that the stuff my mum is doing is so much cooler than me. She also has an army of super-skilled tradesmen she calls on who all ooze charm and good looks.
‘Which one is Michael?’
‘Like Robert Redford. But more sexy and achievable.’
As she ends the call I’m left with one burning question: if she wants a boyfriend and Michael is all that – why isn’t she dating him ?