Chapter 21
FRANKIE
It’s the evening before Gran’s party and I’m standing at Heathrow waiting for Mum to emerge through customs into the arrivals area.
I hope she won’t mind that I didn’t rent a car for her.
It’s obviously a real schlepp to pick up a rental car at an airport, especially a huge, bustling one like Heathrow, and finding a taxi is obviously expensive and can involve a long wait, so I thought the nicest thing for her would be if I drove to meet her, and then put her on my insurance the whole time she’s here.
I know my car isn’t the flashiest (that’s an understatement) but surely she won’t mind.
It never breaks down and I took it for a serious valet clean, inside and out, at lunchtime today.
(Marcus very kindly covered for me in the café.)
Mum is taking a long time to come out. Her flight landed a whole hour ago, and a few large groups of people with big suitcases have emerged into arrivals since then. I’ve tried calling her a few times, but she isn’t picking up.
Hmm, maybe she hasn’t got a great signal or her phone thinks she’s still in New York, because, now I think about it, I haven’t been getting a UK ringtone.
I check the time. She doesn’t like being hassled, but it’s now over five minutes since the last time I rang. Maybe she has some kind of problem I can help her with. Whatever the reason she isn’t out yet, it should be fine to call her again.
I press the phone icon next to her name, and, yes, a couple of seconds later, there’s that non-UK ringtone again.
Five rings in, she picks up.
‘Frankie.’ She doesn’t sound particularly effusive. She must be having a bad time.
‘Hi, Mum. Welcome to England! How was the flight? Do you have a problem with your suitcase or customs?’ I realise that I’m babbling slightly, but Mum being in a bad mood always does that to me.
Like the more I talk the more the mood will disappear.
Usually the reverse happens so I should actually shut up. Every time.
‘What?’
‘Erm.’ What does she mean by what? ‘Where are you?’
‘In my apartment?’ She says it like a question, like duh, like I’m being stupid.
‘Erm. But you were supposed to fly today? Did you…’ I should not word it in a way that might make her think I’m suggesting it’s her fault, although I am sure I wrote the right date and time in the email.
‘Maybe there’s been a miscommunication. Your flight was today.
It just landed. I think. Maybe I got it wrong. ’
‘I’m not coming. I told you that.’
‘What?’
‘Frankie. I sent you an email. Telling you I wasn’t coming.’
I put the phone on speaker and check through my emails, both inbox and junk.
‘I don’t want to contradict you,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think you did.’
‘For God’s sake.’ There’s a tapping sound, and then she says, ‘Oh I see. It didn’t send. Oh well. I’m not coming.’
‘But…’ I have so many, many things I want to say right now. ‘Why?’
‘I decided I needed to come home instead.’
‘Where were you before?’ I’m very confused.
‘In New York? You know that?’
‘But that is your home?’ I’m doing the question thing myself now.
‘No. My home is in Sicily.’
‘Sicily? What? Sicily as in Italy? What?’
‘Frankie. I told you this. I moved here last year.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I say.
‘I’m sure I told you.’ There’s a bit of a rustling sound and then she says, ‘Well, who knows. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Anyway. I must go. Lovely to speak.’
‘No, Mum,’ I yell. ‘The ticket. Please could you transfer the funds.’
‘Very loud, darling,’ she says. ‘I’m not going to transfer the funds because, remember, I didn’t use the flight.’
‘But I paid for it on your behalf, in good faith, and you didn’t tell me you weren’t coming and I also put you on my car insurance, and I’m skint.’ I’m shrieking slightly, and people are staring at me, but I really don’t care.
‘Darling, so am I. You’re probably insured for this. Speak to the insurance company.’
‘Mum. This is ridiculous. I insist. Morally, you have to pay me.’ It isn’t actually the money that’s making me so outraged (although I really am skint), it’s the awfulness of her behaviour.
‘Darling, it isn’t my fault if emails don’t send.’
‘Mum. I am your daughter and you are treating me appallingly. As though you don’t love me at all. You shouldn’t treat me like this.’ I’ve never, ever said it to her before, but it’s true.
‘Darling, don’t be silly. I love you. Have fun at the party. Speak soon.’ And then she fucking ends the fucking call.
And I stand in the middle of Heathrow arrivals and cry hot, angry, deeply, deeply hurt tears.
After a few minutes, I scrub my eyes, and send Ellie a text telling her everything – I don’t want to speak on the phone right now but I need to tell someone and also everyone will notice tomorrow that Mum isn’t actually there.
And then I go and begin my solitary drive back to Milbury in my sparkling and insured-for-my-mum car.
I get back to the village just after 11 p.m.
I park very badly outside the café, too miserable to be bothered to manoeuvre backwards and forwards. The lights are all on; Simon must be in there.
‘Oh,’ I say when I have the door open.
Simon is there, and so are Ellie and Marcus.
Ellie springs straight up out of her chair and envelops me in an enormous hug.
‘I love you,’ she says. ‘I’m just going to say it once but that woman does not deserve you. You’re an amazing person and she’s awful.’
‘We love you too.’ Simon joins the hug, and Marcus stands up and nods.
‘We’re here to talk or drink or listen to music or watch TV or go and finish decorating the church hall tonight rather than tomorrow morning so you can have a lie-in, or anything you like,’ Ellie says.
‘Or Scrabble,’ Marcus adds. ‘Or a film with post-apocalyptic sex.’
‘Thank you,’ I sniff. ‘You’re all amazing.’ I turn to Marcus. ‘Are Ruby and Sam at a sleepover?’
‘Jack’s gone over to keep an eye on them,’ Ellie says.
‘Marcus and I were both at Miranda’s earlier when your message came in and I decided we should wait here to try to cheer you up.
We can leave but I don’t think we should.
Stuff like this has happened so many times.
You shouldn’t be sad for even a minute.’
‘We can leave if you like,’ Marcus says. ‘Or I can.’
‘No,’ I say, a little too loudly. ‘Scrabble it is.’
‘I was hoping for the post-apocalyptic sex whatever the fuck that is,’ says Simon.
We play an incredibly sweary, ranty, rude Scrabble, accompanied by wine, and I actually have fun.
‘No,’ says Simon very strictly when Ellie stands up to open a third bottle of wine. ‘No more alcohol. We all want to enjoy the party tomorrow, and we should not be hungover. Half a bottle each is more than enough. We now need to drink a lot of water.’
‘I’m going to say something at this point,’ says Ellie. ‘We will all have more fun without your mum. She’s very high-maintenance.’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’ Sad but true.
‘Let’s tell Gran she’s ill,’ Ellie continues.
‘Yeah,’ I say again.
And then we carry on with the rest of our game, accompanied by water, and it is fun.
And then Marcus goes home, and Simon to his flat, before Ellie comes upstairs with me to sleep in my spare room.
She admires the cushions I bought for my mother, and we leave our bedroom doors open so that we can carry on talking, so in the end it feels like a very nice sleepover, and I do know that I would infinitely rather share my flat with Ellie than Mum.
* * *
We wake up quite late on Saturday morning – thankfully hangover-free due to Simon’s foresight with the no more wine and lots of water – and both leap out of bed fast, in a big panic about party preps.
Ellie goes home to shower, having agreed with me that we’ll meet in the church hall as soon as possible. (After a successful first shift in the café last Saturday afternoon, Ruby is working in the café all day today with Simon to allow me to continue sorting the party.)
We’re so busy finishing the preparations that, happily, I really don’t have time to think about Mum at all.
We’re no longer doing fireworks (health and safety plus we weren’t sure what the weather would be like) but we have a huge amount of Halloween and Bonfire Night decorations in the hall.
If anyone thought of something, we sourced it (except for an actual real human skeleton, which was Simon’s idea; we got a fake one instead from a shop in Chartfield).
Gran ummed and ahhed over dress code – she was going to go for Halloween/fireworks fancy dress but then decided that she wanted to go full glamour and she wanted to see her granddaughters dressed the same way. So that’s the dress code: glamour.
Gran’s wearing a floor-length black velvet dress with pearls and long white gloves.
Ellie’s wearing a gold, flapper-style dress.
Jack’s in a tux.
And I’m wearing a floor-length red satin dress, very fitted through the body, with a fuller skirt. I love my dress and always feel good when I wear it. I do not love the fact that it’s crossed my mind more than once that I’m looking forward to Marcus seeing me in it and to seeing him in a suit.
I don’t want to be thinking things like that about him.
He’s given no indication whatsoever that he wants to take anything between us to another level, and I don’t think I want him to.
It hurts so much to be rejected, as I’ve been reminded recently by my mum.
Marcus is the kindest, nicest, funniest, most attractive man I’ve ever met – very different from all my exes – and I just can’t bear to be rejected by someone I like as much as I like him.
And it might well happen if we got together.
There must be a reason that other people walk away from me.
Maybe I’m just not lovable enough. So I am not going to think about him in any way other than as a friend.
I will enjoy his company, I will allow myself to appreciate him the way you would appreciate any gorgeous sight, but I will not be thinking about actual attraction. I will be immune to it.
* * *