Chapter 10 Then #2
I like the way James makes me feel: normal, loved, and secure.
There are no games with him, none of that playing it cool or waiting three days to text me back, like there was with Marc and Luca.
I try to feel guilty as he continues to insist on covering our dinners, our trips, but I can’t.
I’ve never known “cared for” before. Not like this.
I want to gobble up as much of it as I can.
James and I have sex, trying not to make any noise on the alarmingly creaky bed, and then ready ourselves to go downstairs.
His father is reading the paper in an armchair in the kitchen.
His mother is busying herself pulling pastries out of the oven.
I hardly have to think about it; I grab an apron and set to helping, shuffling things around the hot stove and soaping dirty dishes.
In my mother’s culture, it’s just good manners, but Hettie is bowled over.
Hettie and I natter while we work: the garden, favorite recipes, best Bake Off hosts.
Even this trite conversation is a Cool Girl act of its own.
A demonstration of how easy I am to get along with.
James tries to join in, asks Hettie a few questions she doesn’t seem to hear.
He turns to his father, and they have a discussion of their own.
For a moment, it feels as if this family has opened up a space for me and said “welcome.” It feels wholesome, normal.
Or at least what I always imagined “normal” might look like.
It feels nice. I think about what it would be like to create my own normal.
To provide a safe space in which my daughter eats fresh pastries on the weekends and we talk about her favorite things she’s seen that week on TV. I smile.
Will doesn’t appear. He’s here, somewhere, tucked into a corner like the persistent dust, too hungover to haul himself out of bed yet, or having an inadvisably early whisky in the bathtub.
This seems to be his favorite pastime. He’s sleeping in the guest room; his old bedroom is now being remodeled.
When I ask James why his own bedroom remains untouched, he simply says an update “isn’t necessary. ”
Hettie seems to catch a corner of our conversation, James having joined the two of us in the kitchen to help me put away the clean dishes.
“You’re not complaining about the renovation again, James?” Her smile and raised eyebrows suggest she’s joking, but there’s something hard in her eyes and tight in her voice that betrays the tension.
James’s reply is just as tight. “No. I was just telling her about it.”
“Because if it really matters that much to you, we can absolutely work something out for you, too. Even though you’re never here. It’s just that Will happens to visit mo—”
“I’m not sure bolting here to dry out for a day or two while Vanessa’s mad at him quite counts as ‘visiting.’ ”
If I were Will’s wife, Vanessa, with two small kids to look after, I wouldn’t be pleased with his drinking, either.
Hettie tilts her head, smiles. Hands me a wet plate. “Are you sure we can’t tempt the two of you into joining our holiday?” she asks.
I freeze, dishcloth pressed against the plate in my palm. Something in the gesture, the tone of voice, tells me the question is a snare, but I can’t get away with ignoring it. “Holiday?” I ask, turning to James.
Hettie answers before James can. “Yes, we’re off to Corfu. We go every year. Although James never seems fit to come with us.”
“You know why I can’t, Mom,” James says, words snapping back like plucked elastic.
I’ve never heard this tautness in his voice before. Not with his family. I don’t want to ruin a wonderful morning, but he’s never mentioned Corfu to me. Not once. “Why is that?” I ask.
He turns his brown eyes to me. I don’t think he means for me to see the minute scrunching of his brows. I’ve upset him. “It’s just work. They always pick our busiest season to go.”
“Will always seems to manage it,” Hettie says.
“Mother.”
She waves her sponge in the air, casting a net of soapy droplets. “Oh, don’t make a fuss, James. We know how committed you are to your little brewery. And at least the lively one of you will be there to keep us entertained.”
When I turn back to Hettie, she’s already swiveled to face the sink, hands working their way merrily around a pan as she whistles a tune.
The ease with which the poison slipped from her mouth leaves me wondering if it even happened.
I try not to let my own mother creep into the kitchen.
Slip her feet into Hettie’s slippers. Fill Hettie’s robe.
Frown disapprovingly at me with her back as she scrubs, scrubs, scrubs, her closed-off posture rejecting me anew, reminding me of my Wrongness.
I want to reach out and hug James, but it feels like the wrong thing to do, like making a spectacle of what is only a small moment of friction between mother and son.
Instead, I continue to dry the dish in my hands while the safe space I’d imagined sags a little under the weight of this interaction.
“James.” His dad, Peter. “Be a good lad and help me with six across, will you?”
James’s eyes snag on his mother’s figure as he departs the kitchen and moves toward Peter’s chair to help with the cryptic crossword. “Mom—”
And then the williwaw of Will falls upon us all. He cuts across James’s path, dark hair gleaming wet from his bath, fresh aftershave radiating off him even more boldly than his glassy-eyed smile.
“Mommy, looking particularly resplendent this morning.” He sweeps her up in a bear hug, rocks her like a metronome.
The years fall away as she giggles. She either doesn’t notice that he’s already been drinking or chooses to ignore it.
When it seems he’s squeezed the brightest laughs out of her, he lets her go.
“Edie,” he says with a smug nod to James, whose expression goes blank.
Hettie cackles like Will’s told the world’s greatest joke.
He turns his attention to me. “Natalie.” And he plants a kiss behind my ear.
The cloud of cologne isn’t strong enough to completely mask the sweet and sour smokiness of the single malt.
His hand on my back is too low. I step away.
“Morning, Will.” Because it is morning, but I am less sure it is any good. He gives me a long look, mouth twisted in a way that suggests he’s holding back laughter.
I turn away, ask Hettie where the dish in my hand belongs.
Bored of me, Will heads for Peter, eyes alive with mischief.
He comes to rest on the arm of Peter’s chair, back to James, who can no longer see the paper spread across his father’s lap.
Will and Peter laugh conspiratorially. Peter’s need of James seems to have been forgotten.
James retreats to the dining table, drinks his cold coffee.
It only takes a moment to file away the dish and then I’m beside James, my hand on his thigh, my breath in his ear. “You okay?”
He gives me a “yes” devoid of conviction. Hettie seems to finally notice us, drying her hands on a tea towel and laughing.
“Jesus, James. What are you sulking about now?” she asks.
Knowing it’s often easier to kill a blossoming argument with kindness, I whisper, “Don’t rise to it.”
James nods his acknowledgment. “I love you, Mom. Let’s not fight.”
She only laughs again in response. “Oh Jesus. Edie as I live and breathe.” She turns her attention to me. “Be careful when you have children, Natalie. They’re so manipulative.”
Will cuts in. “Bloody ouch, Mommy.” He leaps off the arm of Peter’s chair. “Are we not your pride and joy? Am I not the greatest gift you’ve been given?” He sweeps her into a bear hug.
Fresh giggles leap from Hettie as she and Will pick up a creepily flirtatious banter.
She swats at him, bats her lashes, tells him how much he looks like James Dean.
But he shouldn’t forget how much of a smoke show she was in her day, either.
I’ve seen one or two videos on socials about middle-class mothers who flirt with their sons and never really got it.
But watching Hettie carry on with Will, I want to unfasten the gold brooch from Hettie’s blouse and blind myself with the sharp end.
When breakfast is over, James and I prepare to leave.
Will stands in the doorway of the country manor as James slams the car boot shut, a trace of last night’s wine appearing in shadows beneath Will’s eyes.
James and I brush past Will on our way to say farewell to their parents, and after stilted hugs, we make our way back out the door.
Will is still there, muttering a tired goodbye to his brother. He throws a wolfish look my way.
“Nice to have you. Hope you enjoyed your stay.” And he pulls me into a tight hug that I don’t know how to escape. As he lets go, he leans into my ear and whispers, “It’s never going to work between you two.”
I hardly have time to process this before Will is retreating into the house, the front door closing.
As we begin our drive, I can’t help but turn to James and ask, “What’s the Edie thing?”
Emotion flees James’s face. “It’s a remnant from a long time ago that’s brought up to make me feel small. I don’t like it. Don’t like talking about it. Can I please invoke our pact to leave the past where it belongs?”
Message received. I wonder if this Edie is a she, an ex. The one who got away?
Curious as I am, I can see James’s walls coming up and so change topic. “I don’t think Will likes me much.”
James’s brows stitch together for a moment and then release. “What makes you say that?”
A pause for consideration and then a simple shrug. “I don’t know. Just a vibe, I guess.”
“He’s not…He’s not said anything inappropriate, has he?”
I turn my chin toward James, curious. “What do you mean, ‘inappropriate’?”