Lobster
So, I stood at the back of the lab, and Beatrice stood at the front, and she went over her lines until she nailed it.
We only have Monday and Tuesday left, and then it’s the presentation.
On the one hand, I’m bricking it because of the topic, but on the other, the girls have worked their arses off, and it’s a bloody good presentation.
The best I’ve ever done, in fact. The judges may look past the controversy, and we may even win it.
And if we win it, Dr Therone will have to reconsider me for the head of the department role.
Mum finally appears. She unwraps herself from her wool coat and scarf and hands them to the man at the front desk.
When she was Robert Elman’s wife, she dressed in a conservative white shirt and straight beige trousers, with a silk neck scarf that changed depending on her daily activities.
When she was working, it was navy blue. When she was lunching with the girls, it was orange.
She saved the brighter ones for holidays.
I’m not sure where the inspiration came from to dress like a Republican from Virginia, but that fashion phase ended abruptly with the marriage.
Now, Charlotte Dennis is a woman who dresses in vibrant, flowy dresses that she buys from cruise ship shops.
Today, it’s bright pink with sequins sewn on it.
‘So, three weeks . . .’ she says, laying the napkin on her lap.
‘Three weeks . . .’ I prepare my napkin in the same way.
‘And how are you feeling?’
I go through my list. ‘Venue is signed off. The cake is a carrot cake, but I’ll survive. Bridesmaids are happy with their dresses. The hen party is tomorrow in Reading, but again, I’ll survive. So, yeah, good.’
Mum doesn’t look impressed, but before she can comment, the Whispering Angel arrives.
She takes her time tasting it properly, swirling the wine in the glass, sniffing it, swirling it some more, and finally tasting it.
A few years ago, she went on a two-day wine course and now fancies herself as a wine connoisseur. She gives the waiter a nod.
‘Cheers,’ she says, raising the glass of rosé. ‘To your last three weeks of being free.’
‘I suppose that’s one way to put it,’ I say and clink her glass.
‘Are you still going to change your name?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Amy Butters?’ she says with a scrunched nose.
I know it’s not the sexiest name in the world, but it’s not like I’m a model or an influencer.
I’m a teacher who’s going to live in the countryside and spend evenings looking at the stars through my telescope.
Besides, it will make it easier when we have children. Amy Butters will do.
I shrug. ‘It’s tradition.’
‘A lot of paperwork if you ever have to switch back . . .’ Mum says this like a warning. It’s bizarre; most mothers would be over the moon that their daughter is getting married, but I feel like I’m being discouraged from signing up for the military.
‘Hopefully, it won’t come to that,’ I say with a smile, and then distract her away from the anti-marriage talk.
‘Have I told you about my science contest?’ I launch into the story from beginning to end before she can stop me.
Usually, I don’t brag about my job to Mum or Dad, but I’m feeling oddly proud about what I’m doing at work.
‘And you’re not going to get into trouble?
’ Mum says once I’m done. Before I can answer, our food arrives.
I waste no time digging into my pasta. I swirl the doughy carb strands around my fork and stuff them into my mouth.
Mmmm . . . God, I’ve missed food. Mum is scraping the flesh out of the belly of her lobster. She takes the first bite.
‘Good?’ I ask.
‘Delicious. You?’
‘The best.’
She wipes her mouth with her napkin. ‘A week before marrying your father, I discovered he had seen this other woman throughout our engagement.’
‘Barbra Speck. I know,’ I say. Mum mentioned Barbra Speck a few times when Dad left.
She was so mad at herself for not leaving him then, and I had this thought that if she had left him, then I wouldn’t be alive, and it made me realise how flimsy our existence is.
One dick move can change the course of a family tree.
‘I confronted your dad,’ Mum carries on as if I hadn’t heard the story.
‘He said he would never do it again, putting it down to cold feet. I was the idiot who believed him, and 20 years later, I find an erotic text conversation with a moulding punk singer on his phone.’ She drifts off.
I also heard about the erotic texts that Dad sent Jean-Ivy, and they have scarred me for life.
It’s not as bad as Charles wanting to be Camilla’s tampon, but it was close enough.
‘Josh and Dad are very different men,’ I say.
‘Still men.’ She snaps a claw off.
‘Yes. Men. Humans – not snails or monsters.’
‘All I’m saying is that ring is not magic, it’s a piece of jewellery. It’s not going to solve your problems.’ She glances at my ring and scrunches her nose again. Like everyone else, she hates it.
‘Josh and I are happy,’ I say.
‘Well, if you’re happy, then I’m happy.’ She takes a mouthful of claw flesh. I’m surprised she can fit anything into her mouth after that loaded comment.
‘I mean, every couple has their problems, but . . .’ I stop. It’s too risky even to hint that things aren’t perfect. If she knew about the dry spell, I imagine she would tell me to pack my bags tonight. ‘I’m happy. I’m really happy.’
Mum snaps off the next claw. ‘Good,’ she says. We carry on eating, and I know in my bones she still has more to say. ‘Be prepared . . .’
Here we go. I exhale as I put down my cutlery.
‘Be prepared to hate him when you’re 60.
’ She glances up from her plate. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Amy.
Find me a postmenopausal woman who doesn’t roll her eyes when she says her husband’s name.
’ She gestures to an elderly couple in the corner who are dressed to the nines but haven’t said a word to each other all evening.
The woman does look particularly miserable.
‘You really don’t want me to get married, do you?’ I say.
‘You can do what you want, darling. But you were born after 1970, which means you may not be able to afford a house, but at least society isn’t pressuring you to have a husband.’
‘But I don’t want to be old and die alone.’ That came out wrong. ‘Sorry. I mean I want to give the family thing a go.’
Mum takes her glass and swirls the wine around again before taking another sip.
I need to change the subject. She’s nearly at the end of her second glass, which means she’s tipsy enough for me to talk to her about Jean-Ivy.
I do a big inhale as I think of how to approach it.
‘So, speaking of moulding punk singer.’ Her eyes shoot up.
Even the hint of Jean-Ivy kicks Mum into killer mode.
She’s like a shark with blood, ready to dig her teeth into the woman who ruined her life.
‘Oh, Jesus, she’s not performing at your wedding.’
‘No,’ I say. I then remember what Dad said about getting the band back together for my wedding. ‘Well, I hope not.’ (Note to self: tell Dad, no surprise performances.)
‘You’ll be doing your first dance to “Choke! Choke! Choke!”’ Mum laughs into her lobster. I smile even though I don’t find it funny.
‘Mum,’ I say. I pause to think of the best way to word this without seeming like I’m attacking her.
I focus on the lobster carcass, knowing that if I look her in the eye, I may be unable to say what I want.
‘I understand it’s not easy for you, but for this one day, could you just .
. . hold it in? You don’t have to drink champagne with them, or do the Macarena, or be friends, but could you please not make any snide comments? It really winds them up.’
I finally look up. She’s not mad, she’s smirking.
‘Snide comments? Me?’ It’s as if she is proud of her mean streak.
‘Please?’ I plead.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Just don’t put me anywhere near them. Where am I sitting?’
‘On the top table next to Dad.’
‘She better not be sitting with us,’ she says and goes pink at the thought of it.
‘No.’
‘But your dad and I have to sit next to each other?’
‘Yes, it’s tradition,’ I repeat. She slouches in her chair like a teenager being told to be on her best behaviour for her relatives.
‘Heaven’s sake,’ she mumbles. I choose to ignore it.
‘Linda will want to talk to you. She’s really excited about seeing you again.’ If Mum rolls her eyes one more time, they may just roll out of her skull. I didn’t have half this attitude when I was a teenager. ‘Mum, it’s one day, and it’s my day, so can you please—’
‘Oh, Amy, what kind of mother do you think I am? Don’t answer that. Let’s get more wine and talk about this new hair colour of yours.’ She searches the restaurant. ‘Waiter?’