Chapter Seventeen Mothers’ Day
Mothering Sunday — the day that mothers across the land are waking up to partially cooked breakfasts and egg boxes transformed into daffodils.
I smile as I recall Zoe’s childhood efforts. I loved seeing what my completely unartistic daughter would produce. She was always better with practical ideas and every year she’d be more concerned about where I’d keep the eggs if she took all the boxes. ‘They make the boxes to fit the egg shape,’ she’d explain to me earnestly.
And now look at her, graciously helping her gran out of the taxi and into the restaurant. Three generations of women celebrating family together.
As we sit down and clink a toast with our complimentary glass of Prosecco, I relax. After our goat’s cheese starter, we order a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, which I can now bluff my way in appreciating. This is going to be a good day I think to myself as a delicious salmon en cro?te is followed by a fluffy chocolate soufflé.
I am in heaven but Zoe looks a little agitated, almost as if she’s going to make a speech. Instead, she takes a quick gulp of wine and turns to my mum.
‘Aren’t you going to tell her?’ she asks.
I look quizzically at Mum. ‘What have you done now?’
‘It’s not what she’s done, it’s who she’s seen,’ says Zoe.
I can’t for the life of me imagine where this is going and Mum is giving nothing away. I have never seen such concentration on petit fours.
‘Come on then, someone tell me,’ I plead.
‘Dad,’ pronounces Zoe.
I’m confused at first.
‘Alan? When? Why? You’re not even his mother,’ I say.
I’d be hurt by this if I wasn’t so astounded. Without even looking up she mumbles, ‘He says I was like a mother to him and he doesn’t want to lose touch.’
I swear a halo has just appeared over her head. Who the hell does she think she is? Mother Teresa? I’m now livid.
‘It’s a damned shame he wasn’t more like a husband to me then. Mum, honestly, how could you?’
‘I was curious and besides it was a Wednesday and Maureen had cancelled on me.’
I shake my head in disbelief, a lovely lunch ruined (and a daughter betrayed) because my mum’s chiropodist couldn’t make her usual house call.
‘Wait, Mum, listen to what happened.’ Zoe takes hold of my hand tenderly.
‘Go on, Gran.’
Under orders from her granddaughter, Mum shrugs like a spoiled child.
‘All he did was talk about you, it was quite boring.’
‘Gee thanks, Mum.’
‘Said he’d seen you in town and saw that you’d had your hair done. He heard about the book-club weekend and fancies going on one himself.’
News to me — he only ever read the sports section.
‘Even heard that you’ve been out on the town enjoying yourself. He said it was like seeing the old Angela again, that you had some good times together.’
I’m not sure what to say, especially as my daughter is seeing this as a ray of light.
‘He misses you, Mum. He’s made a mistake but realizes it now,’ she tells me.
‘He didn’t say that, did he?’
I’m numb. Is this why everyone else is getting a date but not me? Are the heavens working to reunite us? Zoe obviously thinks so.
‘No, but he might next time.’ Then Mum realizes she’s said too much.
‘Next time?’ I ask.
‘He’s invited me round for lunch. I won’t go if you don’t want me to,’ replies Mum.
Three thoughts enter my head simultaneously:
1. She will go anyway.
2. I’m as nosy as Mum and need to know what’s really happening here.
3. The new woman definitely won’t want the ex-wife’s mother in her house, especially if she asks for a doggy bag.
‘Go,’ I sigh, ‘but I want to know every last detail and do NOT get seduced by her cupcakes.’
We nod and seal our sacred pact.