Chapter 7
Chapter 7
A couple of days later, I arrive at my family home a few minutes before dinner time. Even though Dad didn’t give me a specific time to get here, I know it’s almost dinner because my family eats at six o’clock on the button every single day of their lives. Once, when I was sixteen and offered to cook, I missed the required time by twelve minutes. My whole family sat in dissatisfied silence for the entire meal, Bert of the mono-brow fame included (okay, he’s called plain old Tim, but man, how I wish that nickname had stuck the way mine did!). I haven’t cooked a meal for them since. True story.
“Hi, it’s me!” I call out as I push through the front door to the cottage I grew up in. I hang my jacket on a spare hook on the wall. There are five hooks: one for Dad, one for Tim, one for me, and one for a guest. The fifth hook is for Mum, and it’s stood empty for months. I feel a rush of sadness before I quickly look away.
I don’t want to think about all that right now.
“Hey, Ernie,” Tim says as he lumbers down the hall toward me in his heavy work boots.
“Shoes off inside, remember? Mum’s rule.” I give him a quick peck on the cheek.
He looks down at his boots as though noticing them for the first time. “Oh, yeah. I’ll take them off.” He leans against the wall and begins to unlace them. “I saw Mum last night. She was doing okay.”
My throat tightens. “Did she recognize you?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Not this time. Maybe she will when we all go visit her on the weekend.”
I force a smile. “Maybe.”
Alzheimer’s is a terrible, terrible thing. It robs you of the person you know, the person you love. It happens slowly, devastatingly, and there’s nothing you can do about it. My mum’s loving smile and passion for life have been replaced by an impassive, blank person, a shadow of the woman she was. It’s heartbreaking, and although I visit her twice a week, it takes all my nerve to walk through the care home doors.
I leave Tim in the hallway and wander down toward the kitchen. The tempting aroma of lasagna has my mouth watering, and when I breeze through the door, I find my dad sitting at the table with his Mum and his aunt—Granny and Gab, the elderly criminal investigating tortoises of the Galapagos.
Dad springs out of his seat and collects me in one of his bear hugs. “Hello, sweetie. It’s good to see you. I’m making your favorite.”
I grin at him. “Lasagna. Yum.” I give Granny and Gab a kiss each and plunk myself down at the kitchen table. “How was your afternoon at Cozy Cottage High Tea?” I ask them.
“Absolutely splendid, pet!” Granny announces as Gab says, “Smashing, love!”
“I do love a good high tea. I don’t know why we don’t eat it all the time,” Granny says. “Wouldn’t that be lovely, Betty?”
“Oh, yes. I love the way you simply pop the thingies into your mouth,” Gab says.
“I can cut your lasagna up into bite sized pieces if you like, Gab?” Dad suggests from his spot by the kitchen counter.
“Oh, Leonard. That would be silly. Now if you were to make those tasty coconutty things with the raspberries, I wouldn’t say no.”
Dad looks up and smiles at her. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Our old family dog comes charging into the kitchen and immediately jumps onto my lap and begins to lick my face. Jellybean, so called not because of her unnatural color and kidney-like shape but rather because she’s a cute little Boston Terrier the size of a jelly bean, would lick my face for an hour if I let her. I don’t because eww , she’s a dog and licks her…well, it would be gross, let’s leave it at that.
“Hello, Jellybean. Hello, girl,” I coo as I pet her head. “Where were you when I came through the front door? No welcoming committee for me today.”
“She was out back,” Tim says, standing in the kitchen. “Granny, you locked her in your house, and she was barking her little black and white head off.”
“Oh, did I? I had no idea,” Granny replies.
“Oh, you’re always doing that sort of thing,” Gab grumps. “Or is it me always doing that sort of thing? I forget.”
“Why don’t we say it’s both of you and leave it at that?” Dad suggests, ever the diplomat. Like me and Tim, he’s used to Granny and Gab’s bickering. They’re a regular Lorelai and Luke from the Gilmore Girls , only without the sexual tension. Oh, and the endless coffee. Being true Brits, they’re tea devotees.
“Great idea, Dad,” Tim says. “Hey, is dinner nearly ready? I’ve gotta go out in thirty.”
“To find your own apartment?” I ask with a sweet smile. Even though Tim is only two years younger than me, he still sponges off Dad with seemingly no sense of guilt.
“I could always come and live with you and Darcy,” he offers with a glint of hope in his eye. Tim’s had a thing for Darcy for, well, all his adult life.
“Still no,” I reply.
“Pity.”
“Why are you skulking off in thirty minutes?”
“I’m meeting the guys for a poker game.”
“Well, that sounds like a good use of your money.” I channel every ounce of my older sister bossypants-ness in my tone. (And yes, that’s definitely a word, particularly where my stay-at-home-until-I’m-forty-kid-brother is concerned—and at only twenty-three, he’s got many, many years ahead of him in this house.)
He pulls up a chair. “We bet ten bucks, twenty max. It’s not a big deal.”
“I think it’s wonderful you’ve got such lovely friends, pet,” Granny says. She pats his cheek, and I throw my eyes to the sky. Even though Granny’s a fully carded member of my cheer team, Tim’s always been her favorite, right from the day he was born. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy about it. Ecstatic, in fact, although I’m not sure it’s exactly helping him transition to full adulthood. Or even partial, at times, if the packets of candy she buys him on a regular basis are anything to go by.
I wander over to the counter. “Need any help, Dad?”
He looks up at me and smiles. “You can add the vinaigrette to the salad and then sit down to eat.”
“Sure thing.”
Once we’re sitting at the table, we all tuck into the lasagna.
“Yum, Dad. This is so good,” I say.
“Almost as good as Mum used to make,” Tim says as he shuffles another loaded fork into his mouth.
I glance at the end of the table, the spot where Mum used to sit, and feel hollow inside. Although it’s been five months since she was moved into the care home, it still hurts to think of her as being gone.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Tim says between mouthfuls. “Ernie has something to tell us.”
“What?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do.”
I pull a face at him. “Tim, what are you talking about?”
He leans his fork on his plate and reaches into his back pocket. He takes out his phone and begins to scroll through.
“No phones at the table, Tim. You know Mum’s rule,” Dad scolds.
I hold my breath and watch Tim closely, hoping he’s not about to show everyone what I think he’s about to show everyone: an image of Nick and me together. Photos from our first “date” at Cozy Cottage High Tea are out there in cyberspace already, including some of us with the fangirls. One of them had included #OffTheMarket and a sad face emoji with her image.
Ed and I had looked at them in the office together, and he was very pleased with them. The candid shots of us sitting at the table make us look like a real couple, although it’s hard to see my outfit properly. I’ll need to rectify that on our next public outing, because the whole reason I’m doing this is to get my designs out there, after all.
“Yeah, sure, Dad. I know about the rule, but this is big,” Tim protests. He turns the phone around, and I almost spit my lasagna across the room. It’s an image of Nick and me at High Tea taken through the window. I’d not seen this one before and can only assume it’s courtesy of one of Miranda’s stealth operators. Nick and I are laughing and looking quite the couple. Comfortable, easy, like we’re the real deal. Authenticity? Check. Aspirational? It’s a work in progress.
“Care to explain what you’re doing with Nick Zachary at Sophie’s café?” Tim asks as he waggles his phone at me.
“Give me that,” I say, my hand outstretched.
He passes me the phone. Part of me admires the rather flattering image, and I take a mental note to compliment Miranda on her choice of photographer. The other part of me, the much, much bigger part, is going into freefall right now, hoping I won’t have to field any tricky questions, but knowing I most certainly will.
“So?” Tim questions, his eyebrows high on his face.
Slowly I place the phone down on the table. “It’s a work thing. Nick Zachary is on the team, as you all know, and I was talking with him about his sponsorship deal with Bennett Motors.”
“At a high tea place instead of at an office?” Tim questions, clearly still dubious.
“Business people like myself have meetings at any number of different venues around the city, Tim. We simply chose to meet at Cozy Cottage High Tea for our meeting, that’s all.”
“Oh, we had high tea there, didn’t we Betty?” Granny interrupts.
“Oh, yes. I loved the little things they served on the thing. And a right smashing cup of tea, too,” Gab replies.
“I know you like that Cozy Cottage place,” Tim continues, ignoring Granny and Gab, “but I was meaning more Nick Zachary. A guy like him and a place like that don’t exactly mix. You’ve got to admit that, Ernie.”
“Why not?” I say defiantly. “Nick Zachary is a citizen of this country, free to do whatever he chooses. And if one of those choices is to meet with me to discuss business at a place that just so happens to serve delicious morsels of food on a three-tiered cake stand, then that’s his prerogative.”
Tim pulls his eyebrows together and asks, “You done? Because by the looks of that photo, it seems to me like there might be something in the rumors about you and the guy you have ‘business meetings’ with over bite-sized morsels of food.”
“Rumors?” Dad questions.
I give a nonchalant flick of my wrist. “It’s nothing, Dad. Tim’s just teasing me for fun.” I throw Tim the most patronizing older sister look I can manage while balancing precariously on the back foot. It’s not an easy feat, I can tell you. “And anyway, Tim, you work construction. You don’t know about the world of business and how it operates.”
“I think I know about the world of Nick Zachary and his wild reputation,” he retorts.
“This man’s got a wild reputation?” Dad asks, his face creased in concern.
“Ooh, a wild reputation isn’t good for our Ernie. She’s a good girl,” Gab states.
“Yes, she is,” Granny agrees.
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the media, Tim? Half the stuff they write is made up, anyway. You know that. Look at all those stories about the royals. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother reading anything about Nick Zachary at all.” I look around the table. “Any of you. I know the guy, and I know it’s all made up.”
“Is that so?” Tim questions.
“Yes, Tim. It is,” I reply firmly. Casually I pick up my fork and take another mouthful of lasagna. “Dad, this is so good tonight. Did you do something different?” I can still feel Tim’s eyes on me, boring big smoking holes into the side of my head.
“Mum’s old recipe, just like always,” Dad replies. “But I’m concerned about this. What is Nick Zachary’s reputation, exactly?”
Before I get the chance to reply, Tim begins to count off his fingers. “Drunk, womanizer, partying too hard. Oh, and his car got washed out to sea.”
“Let me see that,” Dad said as he points at Tim’s phone on the table.
I know the headline states clearly that Nick and I are officially a thing. I’ve seen it before, and I read it on Tim’s screen. I don’t want Dad seeing that. “Dad, it’s nothing, really,” I reply nervously.
“Well, it’s enough to make you look like you’ve eaten a live snail,” he replies, referring to the time when I was about three and plucked a snail from the garden and made the cortically-undeveloped decision to eat it. It did not taste good. Crunchy. Slimy. Ugh.
“What?” I say with a laugh that’s easily a few decibels too loud for the size of the room. “That’s crazy, Dad. I’m fine. And this is nothing, you gotta believe me.”
He gives me a stern look. All he does is say, “Erin,” and I know I’ve got no choice but to hand it over. No one in my family calls me by my actual name, not unless a) I’ve been naughty, and being a grown-up that doesn’t happen all that much these days, thank goodness, or b) they’re telling me on no uncertain terms that they’re the boss. Dad’s doing that right now, and I’m powerless to resist.
With as much enthusiasm as a kid told to go to bed early, I pick the phone up from the table and pass it to Dad. I bite my lip as he looks at it, scrolling through the article with his finger. Eventually, he places it down on the table and looks up at me.
“Erin, are you dating Nick Zachary?” he asks.
This is it. This is the moment I’ve been dreading ever since Nick told me it was inevitable that my family would find out. And so freaking quickly! Damn him for being right.
What am going to say? I love my family more than anything—chocolate, karaoke, ABBA, even Darcy and Sophie—and the very last thing I want to do is lie to them. But I can’t tell them the truth, that we’re faking it to repair Nick’s terrible reputation. They wouldn’t understand, let alone approve, particularly when I tell them I’m doing it to get publicity for my designs. They’ll think I’m manipulating people for my own means, trying to find a shortcut to realize my dreams, rather than simply working hard.
There’s a small part of me that agrees.
I purse my lips and throw daggers across the table at Tim. Ooh, the things I’d like to do to my kid brother right about now… I flick my eyes to Granny and Gab. As well-meaning and sweet as they are and as much as I know they love me and would never do anything to hurt me, if they knew the truth, everyone at their knitting group, at their book club, and down at the local stores would know. Project Fake Relationship would be blown to smithereens, and all our efforts would be for nothing.
When I don’t respond, Dad asks, “Well? Are you dating Nick Zachary, Ernie?”
“Oooh, I know him!” Granny says excitedly, the reading glasses she wears on a string around her neck now balanced on the end of her nose as she peers at the phone.
I let out a relieved breath of air as the spotlight is taken off me, at least for a momentary reprieve.
“Yes, Granny. We’ve watched him on TV,” Tim says.
“No. We met him. Didn’t we, Betty?”
“Who?” Gab asks. She’s been so focused on eating dinner, I’m not sure she knows what’s been going on at all.
“This one. The handsome young man we met at the high tea place with Ernie,” she explains as she passes the phone to Gab.
Gab holds the phone at arm’s length and squints at the screen. “I can’t see him,” she complains. “I need my glasses.”
Tim points at Gab’s bouncy hair. “They’re on top of your head, Gab.”
“Oh, so they are, pet.” She puts them on and says, “Oh, he’s the one we thought did that home improvement show.”
“Oh, I do like that show,” Granny replies. “It was a shame he wasn’t the one who did it.”
This again?
“He plays rugby for the Hawks,” Tim explains. “And he’s been in the All Blacks squad, too, although I think that’s up in the air right now.”
“And you think Ernie here is dating him?” Gab asks incredulously.
“That’s what the article says, Gab,” Dad replies.
Gab gives a flick of her skinny little wrist. “Oh, don’t be silly, Leonard. Ernie’s not thingy-ing anyone. She would have told us if she was. Wouldn’t you, love?”
“Oh, no. Our Ernie’s not the dating type,” Granny adds with a shake of the head.
I blink at her. I’m not the ‘dating type’? What does she think I am, a nun?
“She’s a good girl,” Granny continues. “She doesn’t need to go dating men all over the place. She’ll know when the right man comes along, the one she’ll marry. Isn’t that right, poppet?” Granny looks at me with such confidence in my ability to choose a husband, my insides begin to twist.
“That’s right,” I reply feebly.
“So, you’re not dating Nick Zachary?” Dad asks, like Jellybean with a bone.
I bite my lip and shake my head. “No. Not.”
“But—” Tim begins, only to be stopped in his tracks by a swift kick to the knee under the table. High heels have additional benefits to increasing my height, you know.
“Oww!” he complains loudly.
I shoot him a pleading look, and despite being the one who caused this whole furor at the dinner table in the first place, he glares at me but clamps his mouth firmly shut.
I let out a relieved puff of air.
“Well, that clears that up,” Dad pronounces. “Who’s for dessert? I’ve made Mum’s apple and rhubarb crumble.”
As the chorus of yeses ring out, I clutch my hands under the table. That twist in my belly tightens. Even though I know it’s for the best, when it comes to my family, not pretending I’m dating Nick is my only option. If I told them the same thing we’re telling the world, they’d get their hopes up at a time when my family needs as much happy news as they can get. And when we break up , as we inevitably will, it will feel completely real to them.
Seeing the inevitable hurt in their eyes would almost kill me.