Chapter 14
14
GRETA
‘Wait,’ says Tiggy, her hand on my arm. We’re standing on the doorstep of my family home about to have Sunday lunch with Mum, Dad, and Ru.
‘What?’
‘How much have you told them?’
‘Told them?’ I ask, confused.
‘About the articles – your writing assignment.’
‘Oh… Nothing.’
‘But it’s, like, always the first question your mum asks. “What are you working on, Greta?”’
‘First, excellent impersonation as always…’
She dips her head, accepting the compliment.
‘And second,’ I say, starting to panic, ‘you’re just thinking of this now? We had the whole ride over here to come up with something.’
‘I only just thought of it, and better now than when we’re in there,’ she says, jerking her head towards the door.
I have an idea. ‘It’s all right. I’ll just use the lie I’ve been telling Ewan,’ I say, not liking how the word ‘lie’ feels, even if that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.
‘Who’s Ewan?’
‘The bloke from the coffee shop.’ Confusion settles on her face. ‘Surely I’ve mentioned him?’ Her dubious expression indicates that (for some inexplicable reason) I have not mentioned Ewan to Tiggy. ‘I promise I’ll tell you lat?—’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mum’s face in the window beside the front door. She swings it open and looks at us, her head to one side.
‘What are you doing? Why are you standing out here?’
I’m suddenly fourteen again and Tiggy and I have just been caught trying to sneak back into the house after a party Mum forbade me to attend.
‘Hi, Mum – sorry,’ I say, lifting onto my toes to kiss her cheek. The best way to defuse my mother is to shower her with affection.
‘ Hallo, Liebling ,’ she says, her sternness melting away.
‘Hi, Mrs D. These are for you,’ says Tiggy, handing over an enormous bunch of dahlias I picked up at the Sunday market this morning.
‘Oh, Elizabeth, they are beautiful,’ she says, her mouth curling into a smile. ‘Come, come,’ she says, shepherding us into the house.
‘They’re from me , Mum,’ I say, but the moment has passed, and she calls upstairs to tell Dad and Ru that we’ve arrived, then goes back to the kitchen.
‘You were only carrying them because I had this,’ I whisper to Tiggy, holding up the two-bottle wine carrier.
She smirks at me with a shrug. Mum has always had a soft spot for Tiggy – and Mum’s the only person who’s allowed to call her Elizabeth.
My brother flies down the stairs and launches himself at me, winding me with his embrace. I pat his back feebly, waiting for him to release me.
When he does, he stands up straight, his chin lifted. ‘I’m three inches taller than you now,’ he says proudly.
‘Pretty easy when she’s only four-foot-ten,’ Tiggy teases, and they share a conspiratorial laugh at my expense. ‘Don’t I get a hug?’ she asks with a faux pout. She’s known him since he was born – she’s his Aunty Tiggy – but Ru has become slightly shy around her over the past few months. I suspect he’s developed a crush, something she hasn’t noticed and I’ve yet to share with her.
‘Oh, er…’ he mumbles.
They hug awkwardly and Tiggy shoots me a quizzical look over his shoulder. I’ll have to remember to fill her in on the way home.
‘Dolph!’ calls Mum and he rolls his eyes at us and heads into the kitchen. I’m not sure I’m ready for teenaged-boy behaviour from my little brother.
‘There’s my favourite lassies,’ says my dad in his distinctive brogue. He may be the last Scotsman on earth to still use the word ‘lassie’.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I say as he takes the stairs a lot slower than Ru just did.
As has been happening with more regularity, I’m struck by the not-so-subtle impact of time on my dad. He’s quite a bit older than Mum – seventy-two to her sixty – and he moves slower these days, with more care. Whenever I ask how he’s doing, he launches into a litany of ailments, then concludes with, ‘But getting older is better than the alternative, isn’t it, love?’
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he gives me a tight squeeze, then moves onto Tiggy. ‘Are you still growing, Tiggy?’ he teases. This is a running joke between them from when she shot past his modest height of five-foot-six at age fifteen.
It reminds me, as it often does when we’re here, that Tiggy’s not just my best friend – she’s essentially my sister. Growing up, she spent as many nights under this roof as her own, with the two of us sleeping in my single bed, head to toe, until we outgrew that arrangement and my parents bought me bunkbeds.
‘Hi, Mr D,’ she says, returning the hug with a warm smile. She’s told me many times that she prefers my parents to hers. I do as well. Her dad is gruff and distant, and her mum is the most passive-aggressive person I’ve ever met – possibly anyone’s ever met.
‘So, what have you brought us then?’ Dad asks, peering into the wine carrier.
‘Same, same… rosé for Mum, red for us,’ I say, handing it over.
Dad takes out the bottle of red. ‘Ooh, I love Tempranillo. Good choice. Now, you girls go on through, and I’ll open the wine and bring it in.’
Tiggy and I wander through the front room to the dining room and take our regular seats at the table. From the smells wafting in from the kitchen, I can tell Mum’s making a traditional German feast: pork schnitzel, spaetzle (my favourite), and rotkraut.
Mum bustles in with the dahlias in a vase and sets it, pride of place, in the centre of the table. This will make conversation across the table near impossible, but I don’t say anything. Margriet Davies has a certain way of doing things and there’s no convincing her otherwise – and that’s speaking from a lifetime of experience.
When Mum heads back into the kitchen, Tiggy pops out of her chair, pretending she’s forging her way through brightly coloured jungle foliage.
‘And here we have the thirty-five-year-old in her natural habitat, having returned to the familial home for the monthly family luncheon, where she will be grilled by the matriarch about every detail of her life,’ she half whispers, impersonating David Attenborough.
‘Hilarious. And here we have her completely bonkers best friend who has the maturity of a toddler,’ I retort.
She sits down just as Dad arrives with the wine.
‘Does Mum want any help, Dad?’ I ask. ‘I can take over from Ru.’
He gives me a we-both-know-that-isn’t-going-to-happen look, then says, ‘You and Tiggy are our guests, love.’ He pours the wine, then goes back into the kitchen.
‘So, are you going to tell me about Ewan?’ Tiggy asks at full voice.
I lean hard to the left so I can see her around the dahlias and shush her sternly. ‘Don’t mention him here. You know what Mum can get like.’
Her mouth quirks.
‘I mean it, Elizabeth .’
‘Mean what?’ says Mum, bearing a platter of schnitzel. I’m hoping food will distract Tiggy from opening cans of conversational worms – especially any mention of men.
I know Mum is proud of my professional accomplishments, but she’s also started dropping extremely unsubtle ‘hints’. She’s worried I’ve waited too long to start a family or that I might be ‘too picky’. And it’s not lost on me that the more frequent these hints have become, the more I’ve been obsessing about meeting someone and falling in love.
Ru and Dad arrive with the rest of the food – a reprieve! – and we pass around platters and fill our plates, then eat between talking over each other as we share updates about our lives. So, a typical family lunch in the Davies household.
That is until Mum says, ‘Now, Greta, you remember your father’s friend, Ian?’
I wrack my brain for an Ian – any Ian – and no one comes to mind.
‘Er…’
‘You know, the widower – the one who lost his wife the year before last.’
As an aside, I don’t like it when people use the word ‘lost’ to mean someone’s loved one has died. Poor Ian didn’t lose his wife – they weren’t shopping in IKEA. He didn’t misplace her amongst the dinglehoppers and snarfblatts. She passed away.
‘Oh, yes, Ian ,’ I say, even though I have no idea who he is.
‘Margie,’ says Dad, laying his hand on hers. Is he really attempting to stop my mother from saying anything more – with his hand ? Unsurprisingly, Mum does say more. SO. MUCH. MORE.
‘Ian was around last week, and he mentioned it was time,’ she says, giving me a penetrating look.
‘Time?’ I ask, suddenly feeling queasy.
‘To find a new wife.’
Yep, she went exactly where I dreaded she would go.
‘Oh, good for Ian,’ I say lightly, hoping we can move onto anything else . Right now, I’d rather discuss the fact that I needed a bra from the age of ten while Tiggy – and most of the girls in my class – didn’t develop breasts until their teens.
‘And, very good for you too, Greta.’
‘ Margie .’ But Dad’s efforts to steer Mum away from this topic are futile.
Now patently ignoring Dad – and that I’m squirming in my seat – she launches into a lengthy monologue, detailing all the reasons Ian and I would be a ‘good pairing’, the first of which is that our age difference is not much more than hers and Dad’s. This is a lie. Their age difference is twelve years and, as a solo immigrant to the UK, Mum was very mature for her age when they met. Ian is fifty-six. As in, more than twenty years older than me.
Mum concludes with, ‘And he drives a brand-new Range Rover – well, nearly new. It’s last year’s model, but still…’ She raises her eyebrows at me as if I should be impressed.
Tiggy can’t contain herself any longer and bursts out laughing.
Mum scowls at her and says, ‘Elizabeth, being a widower is no laughing matter,’ silencing her immediately.
She turns back to me and I can tell she’s about to continue the onslaught – I need to say something before she invites Ian to join us for dessert.
‘Mum,’ I say firmly, ‘I can’t start seeing Ian.’
‘And why not? I’ve told you, Greta: don’t be so picky. Not at your age.’
‘I’m not being picky, Mum. It’s just… I’m already seeing someone.’
To her credit, Tiggy does not ask who. Though, when I glance her way and our eyes meet through the dahlias, hers are wide with astonishment.
‘You are?’ asks Mum, her eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Since when?’
‘It’s fairly new, but he’s wonderful, Mum.’
‘Is he into gaming?’ asks Ru. ‘Will he play Minecraft with me?’
‘When do we get to meet him?’ asks Dad.
‘What’s he called?’ asks Mum.
The questions overlap, overwhelming me, and there are too many bloody dahlias for me to telegraph ‘Help’ to Tiggy.
Somehow, she divines that I need it and says, ‘He’s called Harrison.’
As far as fake boyfriends go, I could do worse.
‘Harrison. A good, solid name,’ says Dad.
‘But is he a gamer?’ asks Ru.
Mum says nothing. She’s too taken aback.
‘It’s very new, Mum, but he’s lovely,’ I say, going purely on what I’ve surmised from the information Poppy gave me.
‘And he’s a teacher,’ says Tiggy.
‘Yes, right,’ I say. ‘He teaches music in inner London. And he does voice-overs – you know, for advertisements and the like. And he?—’
I’m dangerously close to rambling off the entirety of Harrison’s biography when Mum interjects with, ‘When do we get to meet him?’
Panicked, my eyes meet Tiggy’s.
‘Mrs D,’ she says, ‘they’ve just started going out. I haven’t even met him yet.’
After this, I’m buying Tiggy whatever the hell she wants. An ice cream… a pony… a car .
Mum’s lips stretch into a line and, miraculously, the corners of her mouth lift. ‘This is wonderful news, Greta,’ she says, patting me on the hand. Then, to really drive home her approval, she squeezes it.
Wonderful news…
Yes, Mum, it’s bloody wonderful that you swallowed the lie I’ve fed you.
It’s no wonder I instantly lose my appetite. For the rest of lunch, I barely hold up my end of the conversation, grateful for Tiggy entertaining the family with tales about contrary clients who say they want one thing but really want another. At one anecdote, about a client who described her preferred colour for the company logo as ‘the colour smoked salmon takes on if it’s been sitting out too long’, Mum hoots with laughter.
When Tiggy and I climb into an Uber after lunch and I rest against the seat, relieved the ordeal is over, Tiggy starts singing ‘It’s Raining Men’ under her breath.
‘Oh, sod off,’ I say, entirely over this whole thing.
Half cut on wine and the absurdity of the past two hours, she giggles beside me. ‘Now, tell me about Ewan,’ she says.
After I get home, I flop onto the sofa, emotionally wrung out. The (bloody) lies are mounting. Now I’ve told my family that Harrison and I are dating. Have I gone completely bonkers?
Speaking of Harrison…
I lean over and pick up his photo from the coffee table, my eyes tracing each detail of his face. His biography says he’s tall – more than a foot taller than me – and I look over at the door to my bedroom, imagining him standing there. He’s smiling at me, his eyes filled with lust and beckoning me to join him in the bedroom where he will have his way with me (and I will happily let him).
I cross to him and he takes my hand, pulling me to him so urgently, I collide with his formidable chest. He clasps me around the waist, his huge hands splaying on the small of my back, and leans down to kiss me. His mouth is warm and wet against mine, his lips hungry for me…
I shake my head to dislodge the scene from my mind. I’m not a heroine in a bloody romance novel!
It’s also ridiculous that I’m obsessing about a man I’ve never met. I haven’t done that since I was fourteen when I convinced myself that Chris Martin would dump Gwyneth Paltrow for me , if only he knew I existed.
‘Greta, you total muppet. Next, you’ll be ordering a pillow with Harrison’s face on it.’
I eye the photo again – it’s practically taunting me.
‘Gah!’
I get up, taking the photo – and Harrison’s biography – to my desk. I slip them into the top drawer and lock it. Then I take the key into the kitchen and standing on tiptoes, I slide it onto the highest shelf in the pantry. If I want to open that drawer, I’ll have to get my step stool out of the loft and I never go up there – too many spiders.
This would be a brilliant tactic to stop me from staring at Harrison’s photo and re-reading his biography, except that I’ve already committed everything to memory.
‘Hang in there, Greta. Not long now and then you’ll get to meet him for real,’ I tell myself.