Chapter 5
There I am, minding my own business, doing a final proofread of Tyler’s section and mine in the Quad office before the new issue gets sent to the printers when my phone rings. The screen is illuminated and the word ‘MUM’ glares up at me.
‘Ugh,’ I say aloud to the empty office. I take a deep breath and answer. If I don’t answer now, I’ll only have to ring her later.
‘Hello?’ I say cautiously.
‘Hello, darling!’ she says exuberantly.
‘How are you, Mum?’
‘Oh, I’m fine! I just hadn’t heard from you in ages, and I just got home from one of my classes so I thought I’d give you a ring.’
‘How was the class?’ I ask.
‘Oh, darling, it was wonderful, just marvellous. One of my regulars got into crow pose for the first time ever! Truly remarkable. She was completely effusive, said it was all down to me! Isn’t that lovely?’ I wonder if this is the only question I will get asked in the course of this conversation.
‘Mmmm,’ I say. My mum’s new life as a yoga teacher is simply wonderful for her, a source of great pride and joy, not to mention attention.
I’ve just never been able to figure out why she had to do her 200-hour training a) in India and b) at the precise moment I was doing my A levels.
As if bloody Stephen of all people was going to be any kind of help to me in a time of high stress.
About as much use as a chocolate teapot.
But that’s Alana Baxter for you. If her name sounds familiar to you, it’s because she used to be a model.
Yes, a proper model, like on catwalks and in adverts.
On the peripheries of the Nineties ‘supermodel’ scene, one of the lesser stars but a star nonetheless.
Her trademark was her halo of curls and her doll face, all high cheekbones, pointy little chin and heart-shaped mouth.
Is she the reason I’m a hottie? Maybe. Is she also a bit of a demon? Definitely.
‘Darling, I was just looking at my diary and I realised we don’t have any plans to see each other,’ she says dramatically.
I can picture her now, sitting on the sofa, looking at her enormous hot-pink leather Smythson diary with the gold sprayed edges – extremely Alana Baxter – filled with various appointments and commitments in her huge, looping scrawl. ‘And that simply won’t do, will it?’
‘I suppose not,’ I say, softening a little. She’s my mum. She loves me. She literally gave birth to me. We’ve just got this nineteen-year-long skirmish going on where we wind each other up for no discernible reason. You know how it is!
‘Well, I don’t want to disrupt your studies on a weekday so I was thinking of having a little look around the shops one Saturday and we could meet then? Does that sound good?’
‘Of course,’ I tell her.
‘Wonderful! Ow!’ she says indignantly.
‘What?’
‘I just tripped on a pile of floorboards. Nothing to worry about, sweetie.’
I try to suppress a groan. ‘Why is there a pile of floorboards lying around?’ I suspect I know the answer.
‘I’m redecorating the living room! I wanted to give it more of a cosy Moroccan-riad vibe, you know? All deep-saffron walls and throw pillows, big leather pouffes absolutely everywhere.’
‘Didn’t you just do the living room?’ I ask, but I know it’s useless.
‘I never felt quite at home in that spartan, Japandi space . . . too much pale wood,’ she says as if it’s a regrettable fashion decision from years gone by, which, I suppose to her, it is. ‘Hence taking up the floorboards.’
Look, if it wasn’t the living room it would be another room.
It took me a long time to realise that other people’s parents did not redecorate rooms on a biannual cycle, that this was very much a my-mum thing.
It feels a bit ridiculous, the idea that this thing, or the next thing, is going to be the change that transforms her life.
I take a deep breath. ‘I’m sure it’s going to look gorgeous when it’s finished.’
‘I’ll have it done by Christmas, darling, I absolutely promise,’ she says emphatically, to reassure me we won’t have a repeat of the year she was so deep into her unnecessary kitchen renovation that we had to eat Christmas dinner off our laps because she’d decided the dining table was utterly passé and had to be sold on Gumtree post-haste, and hadn’t read the product description for the new dining table properly so was unaware it involved a four-week wait. Classic.
‘All right,’ I say a little sceptically. The door to the office opens and Felix slinks in, giving me a charming little head tilt and a knowing smirk. ‘Text me the Saturday you want to meet, and I’ll make sure I’m free.’ I pause. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, sweetie,’ she says before hanging up.
‘Who was that?’ Felix asks, the smirk still dancing on his lips. He takes his glasses off and rests them on the top of his head, pushing away his big, thick sweep of blond hair.
‘My mum,’ I say, trying to get back to my work.
He nods, clearly wondering whether to ask more or let it go. I know which one I’d prefer.
‘Are you two close?’
‘Not really,’ I sigh. ‘She’d love you though.’
‘Oh, really?’ he says, his interest piqued. ‘Why’s that then?’
‘She’s always flirting with good-looking men,’ I say, rolling my eyes at a lifetime of irritation.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he says, tapping the side of his pen on the edge of the desk, a lopsided smile on his face.
But for once I’m not in the mood to play the game.
When I’m at uni I try to put some distance between me and my mum, and whenever that gets disrupted I always feel a bit .
. . invaded somehow. Like my little safe uni bubble has been burst. It’s not that there’s anything majorly wrong with my mum, it’s just that things are always a bit difficult between us.
I think she sees me as a Mini-Me, whereas I, naturally, want to believe I’m my own whole person, not an extension of her. ‘Anyway, what are you up to?’
‘Just a cheeky proofread.’ I shrug.
‘You’ve only got one page – surely it doesn’t take that long?’
‘I check another section too,’ I say lightly, trying to get back to my task.
He frowns. ‘Why?’
I swallow guiltily. ‘I mean, I’m just checking another section today because the section editor’s busy . . . I don’t, like, do it habitually.’
Felix nods slowly. ‘I don’t know, man, feels kind of like you’re lying,’ he says, trying to keep his tone light but clearly annoyed that I’m keeping something from him.
I shrug again. ‘Not everyone is amazing at spelling and grammar. Some people are dyslexic. I figure I might as well help out where I can.’
‘Who?’ He frowns, curious.
‘I’m not going to share people’s medical information, Felix!’
‘It’s not that,’ he says. ‘It’s that everyone’s meant to take responsibility for their own sections, not get other people to do the work for them. I’m trying to save you a job!’ he adds defensively.
‘Well, I don’t mind,’ I say, so sharply that it officially marks the matter as closed.
You can fancy slightly bad people, can’t you? I mean, it’s not illegal to fancy someone a bit awful as long as you know they’re a bit awful?
Tyler’s section out of the way and Tyler’s (anonymous) honour duly defended, I move on to my own page, the advice column I started hastily answering on the bus home from the union. I think I’ve done quite a good job with it, you know?
Dear M-E,
I recently started seeing a new guy and I’m worried I like him too much and it’s ruining my life.
Is it normal to like someone this much? Any time I don’t spend with him feels like wasted time, and I find it hard to think about anything other than him.
It’s scaring me! Or should I just enjoy liking someone this much?
Hopelessly Devoted Girlie
xx
Dear Hopelessly Devoted Girlie,
I always think having a crush is just the best thing in the world.
That fizzy excitement at knowing there’s a person you’re excited about is one of the main reasons for getting out of bed in the morning!
If that feeling is continuing now you’re in a relationship then I would just lean into it and enjoy it.
Life can be hard and long and boring (eurgh), and going out with someone you really fancy is a guaranteed bright spot, so don’t look a gift horse in the mouth!
Obviously, if you literally can’t do anything other than think about him or spend time with him, maybe that’s a problem, but it doesn’t sound like you’re going to break up with him even if you do acknowledge that it’s a problem, so I say you might as well ride the wave of obsession while you’re feeling it and expect that everything will mellow out in time.
Love,
M-E
Of course, me writing a column now means Laurie, or should I say ‘Mr No Nonsense‘, has to make his opinions known, too. The very next issue of Quad News contains this little gem, which makes me regret picking up a copy of the newspaper after my lecture.
Hey No Nonsense,
I fancy this new guy I’m seeing, like, a lot. Everyone’s all about playing it cool, but I want to act like I like him as much as I actually like him. Is that a recipe for disaster? Should I maintain an air of mystery?
Thirsty Gal
Dear Thirsty Gal,
God, that sounds like a horrendous feeling.
Can’t say I’ve experienced it myself. First things first: never overestimate the power of mystery.
What’s the old expression? Familiarity breeds contempt.
So I would recommend keeping your cards close to your chest rather than letting him know how much you like him.
The less you give, the more he’ll want. The less available you are, the more desperate he’ll be to hang out.
That’s just science, my Thirsty Gal. A little bit of playing hard to get never killed anyone, and in fact, probably prolonged more relationships than it ended.
Every relationship has someone who needs it more, and if you – horror – are that person, you’d bloody better not let on.
Always leave them thinking you could be out the door at any moment, that’s what I say.
In frosty coolness,
No Nonsense
Ugh! That’s terrible advice! Horrible, even!
I throw the paper in the nearest recycling bin and wonder how people can even live like that, holding everything back, not wanting to feel the feelings, let alone express them.
To clear my head, I walk down from Bloomsbury towards Trafalgar Square to visit my favourite exhibition.
I saw it for the first time during the summer holidays and I go back every so often to see it again.
If I’m in a city full of free art, I figure I might as well make the most of it.
Once I make it to the Portrait Gallery, I head up the stairs and to the little tucked-away side room that’s been painted a deep forest green, the perfect contrasting backdrop for the 450 portraits of Saint Fabiola, rescued from second-hand shops, flea markets and God knows where else by the contemporary artist Francis Al?s and displayed here together.
I can’t explain why I love it so much, but I find it so calming to be in this room.
The effect is so striking: it’s not just that they’re all paintings of the same person, but that the paintings are the same.
The same side-view pose, the same red cloak, the same hood.
It’s like a meme: infinitely reproduced and reproducible, all springing from the same source.
But they’re inevitably all different, because they’re all made by people.
And not professional people – amateurs. People painting this saint because they needed her, or wanted to sell an image of her, or wanted to practise their art.
Some are on canvas like a regular portrait, some on glass, and there’s even one made out of painted sesame seeds.
There’s something so human about that. Imagine painting a sesame seed?
It’s the sort of stupid idea only a human could have.
Maybe that’s what I like about it: the humanness of it all, the subtle and not-so-subtle differences of each portrait speaking a little bit to the individuality of the person making it, even if they’re all pictures of the same thing.
And the humanness of collecting the portraits, the effort of scouring through flea markets, hunting for hundreds of the same thing.
It feels like an act of love, to collect them and display them like this.
It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it, that art and love are everywhere?