Chapter Thirteen
Visiting home – particularly if I had to stay overnight – almost always put me in a terrible mood afterwards.
I’d never quite worked out why, but if I was going to dig deep on the subject, I’d say it had to do with being rocketed right back into being a teenager again and constantly having the feeling I was about to do something wrong.
Dad had been a taxi driver then – or a ‘chauffeur’ as he used to prefer to call it, because he had an executive car and mostly did airport runs for businessmen who were prepared to pay a bit more (or their company was, more like) for a marginally more luxurious start to their journey.
It had suited Dad – he loved cars, and although he wasn’t particularly chatty at home, I reckoned he could be pretty jovial when he had a passenger in the back seat, plus he could choose his own hours.
I assumed they needed the money because he seemed to be out driving almost all the time and often did night shifts at the weekends.
As a result, it would mostly be me, Mum and Cassie at home, a dynamic I always felt distinctly on the outside of.
‘The coals are hotting up,’ said Mum, bustling inside to pick up the carefully laid-out barbecue utensils that appeared each year at the first hint of sunshine.
It was now the end of May, just before Marcus’s next tournament, and although the days were generally warm, it was typical that today wasn’t.
I shivered at the thought of sitting out in the garden for hours on end with goose-bumped skin and windswept hair while we pretended that we were all having a brilliant time.
‘Lovely,’ I said, looking up from prepping the salad.
We each had our jobs for Cassie’s annual birthday barbecue and preparing the salad side dish had always been mine, along with doing absolutely all the clearing up, a task I’d long ago given up complaining about.
I supposed Cassie couldn’t be expected to do the dishes on her birthday, could she, but the thing was, she never did them on any other day either, even though she lived at home, and nobody ever appeared to challenge her about it.
Mum came up behind me. I could feel her peering over my shoulder, clutching her utensils like weapons.
‘Don’t cut the cucumber too thick, will you?’
‘I’m not,’ I protested. Did I really need direction on how to slice a cucumber?
I was aware that Mum was still hovering and thought this probably meant there was something she wanted to say. Might as well get it over with.
‘You still seeing that tennis player, then?’ she asked.
I stopped chopping, laying the knife flat on the board.
Lately, I hadn’t been able to focus properly when I thought too hard about Marcus, and I didn’t think trying to talk about him and cut things at the same time was a good idea.
It was fine if I was working on my article and thinking about him in a professional capacity, about his game, about the public perception of him.
But if I thought back to him and me in that lift on the way down from the rooftop restaurant in Monte Carlo, I felt thrown for a few seconds, like I couldn’t breathe.
This was not good, even if it felt like it was, because I had to spend a lot more time with Marcus over the coming months and I absolutely could not start feeling things for him.
Him of all people, who went through women like water and was clearly incapable of feeling anything for anyone other than himself.
I was still badly missing Charlie and smarting from his rejection; the last thing I needed was to start lusting after a man who was never, ever going to like me back.
He’d said it himself (or at least I thought he had): he was not prepared to allocate headspace to anything other than his career progression this year, and even if he had been, I didn’t think I’d be anything close to his type.
He liked Slavic blondes with athletic bodies and healthy bank balances – I had dark hair, was a solid size 12 and was almost permanently overdrawn.
Therefore I could not – and would not let myself – imagine that there had been a spark that night.
We’d been forced into close proximity out of circumstance, and it was only in my head – when I let it be – that there was anything more to it than that.
‘He’s away at the moment,’ I said, doing what I always did when talking about Marcus to my friends and family – focusing on the half-truths. Avoiding answering direct questions about the nature of our relationship at all costs.
‘At a tournament, or something?’ asked Mum.
‘Hmmm,’ I said non-committally, reluctantly turning to face her.
I really wished she’d put the utensils down, I was finding them quite intimidating.
‘He’s been in Rome for a bit and now he’s in Paris preparing for Roland-Garros.
Hadn’t one of us better be in the garden?
You’re not supposed to leave a barbecue unattended.
I’ll go,’ I said, attempting to walk away.
‘Dad’s out there,’ said Mum sharply, touching my arm lightly with a black plastic spatula. ‘Ava, have you got a second?’
What was this about? Mum wasn’t one to have deep and meaningful conversations unless she was forced to, and I could really do without it myself.
‘Sure,’ I said, keeping it light. It couldn’t be that bad, I told myself, ignoring the nagging memories of my adolescence when it felt like either Cassie, my mum or my dad were telling me off for something. Most of the time, I’d never quite understood what I’d done wrong.
‘Is it serious, then? With this Marcus?’ asked Mum.
Oh God, why was she still talking about him? She’d barely shown any interest in my relationship with Charlie, so why was she being so different this time?
‘It’s early days,’ I replied vaguely.
‘But you like him?’
I swallowed. ‘Yes?’
She nodded. ‘Thought so.’
‘What makes you say that?’ I asked, frowning.
As if Mum was tuned into the inner workings of my mind.
‘It’s the way your face goes all funny when you talk about him. And you’ve never been one to have your picture taken, but now you’re splashed all over these celebrity magazines and you don’t seem bothered. It’s like he’s changed you overnight.’
‘Okay . . .’ I said, unsure how to answer, when what I really wanted to say was my face looked ‘all funny’ because I was Lying to them all!
‘What’s your point?’ I asked, knowing she wouldn’t like me putting her on the spot because she’d never been very good at expressing what she was actually upset about.
‘My point, Ava, is that your sister’s been very quiet since all of this came out. She’s been going for long walks on her own.’
‘She’s allowed to go for walks, Mum. What makes you think it’s got anything to do with me?’
Mum sighed heavily. ‘I think she’s been struggling with all this . . . attention you’ve been getting. She was enjoying having you to herself when you split up with Charlie, but then about five minutes later you’re off with the next one.’
I shouldn’t really blame my mum, we were all guilty of it, trying to work out what Cassie was thinking or what she needed or what had upset her at any given moment.
She never really told us but instead acted out in other ways.
But she could totally be going for long walks because it was late spring and the weather was nicer, couldn’t she?
‘It’s not just the walks, she goes straight to her room afterwards. And she’s been late home from work some nights and won’t tell me where she’s been.’
‘Mum, she’s not a child. She shouldn’t have to explain herself every time she’s a couple of hours late home. Maybe she’s finally getting on with the girls from work?’
Mum tutted. ‘I doubt it, Ava. Do you think she’s having one-night stands again?’
‘I don’t know, Mum. She’s an adult, so yeah, probably.’
I didn’t think all of us babying Cassie was the best thing, and my parents certainly didn’t need to know the details of her sex life.
‘All I’m saying is, please consider your sister in all of this,’ said Mum. ‘Because do you really think it’s going to last with this bloke Marcus? He’s a millionaire, from what Dad says.’
‘His finances are none of my business,’ I said.
‘And he’ll have his pick of women, won’t he? Plus he always seems to be travelling, so where’s the future in that?’ said Mum, hammering home her point – i.e. that he wasn’t going to stick around either, like Charlie hadn’t. As if I didn’t already know that.
I turned back to the salad, heaping it into a bowl, not caring how it looked, even though I knew there’d probably be some comment about shoddy presentation later.
‘What are you trying to say exactly, Mum?’ I said, irritated now. I couldn’t bite my tongue any longer.
‘That it’s not all about you, Ava.’
I actually laughed, I couldn’t help it. As if I’d ever thought it was. I picked up the bowl, needing to get away before I said something I would regret.
‘Let’s get out into the garden and try to enjoy the day, shall we?’ I said, zipping past Mum before she could ask me any more questions or say anything else to annoy me. I didn’t want to spiral into a bad mood.
I pushed through into the garden, the uninspiring square piece of grass surrounded by sparse little flower beds that Dad half-heartedly dug over once a year.
Luckily, the roses must have been of a particularly hardy variety – they had to be to survive the onslaught of weeds that were visibly poking through the earth.
And they had the audacity to comment on my presentation skills.
‘Salad’s up!’ I trilled.
‘Yum,’ said Cassie, looking up from the book she was reading. She had her feet on one of the chairs and looked happy and relaxed in a way I didn’t feel now, and probably wouldn’t until I was back on my sofa in London.