Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Have you heard from Aiden?
I am walking around Whole Foods, simultaneously texting and filling a trolley with things I don’t need, only to put half of them back again — and still failing to remember what it is I came in for. Finally, he replies.
Nope. Should I?
Harriet not texting back or answering her phone.
Nothing now. No little moving dots.
I direct my trolley to a less congested corner of the store.
Would you normally have heard from Aiden in a couple of days?
Nope.
Well, I never go more than a few days without hearing from Harriet! I ’ m worried. It’s been almost a week.
Ah. Got it.
Ah got it? Is that all you’ve got to say?
Question. Do you ever think you’re a little co-dependent?
I say, ‘Hah!’ out loud.
What does that even mean?
Two seconds later my phone rings.
‘It means you’ve become unhealthily enmeshed in each other’s worlds. A mother provides her daughter with love and attention but tends to exploit the relationship, fortifying her own needs by living through her child. Like moving from England to LA because her daughter is going to school there for one term. They both grow to depend on the arrangement, despite its dysfunction.’ There’s a pause, then he says, ‘I got that from the internet. Just personalised it for you.’
‘At least I don’t threaten to cut my kid off from his college fund because some fictitious character in my bogus novel did – then steal his passport. Not sure if I could even find what ism that is on the internet!’
Did I really have sex with this man? I mean, what normal person…? I abandon my trolley, abandon the very idea of shopping, and make towards to the door.
‘Bogus novel. That’s one up from stinking, I suppose. But fair enough. I take it back. You’re not co-dependent. You’re just on the verge of filing a missing person’s report because she hasn’t texted you in a day.’
‘It’s been almost a week! Haven’t you heard me?’ I burst into the fresh air. ‘Forget it. I might have known better than to expect any sense, or any help, from you.’
‘It’s funny because I never overestimate you.’
My heart hammers angrily into the silence.
Then he says, ‘Just be grateful you know they haven’t left the country.’
‘Ugh! You’re so helpful. And understanding. In fact, pat yourself on the back.’ I hang up and stomp off down Wilshire in the direction of my car.
Heard from Aiden
I get his text a couple of days later when, coincidentally, I am back in Whole Foods searching the hot prepared food aisle to see what I might pick up for dinner.
Brace yourself… he writes. They’ve left the country.
He picks up on the first ring.
‘What do you mean they’ve left the country?’
‘They’ve flown to Europe.’
I try to think if Europe can mean anywhere other than Europe. ‘But how? They can’t have flown to Europe. You’ve got his passport.’
‘Yeah… I’ve got his old passport. I didn’t realise there might be two.’
‘But…’ My brain is flapping around. ‘You checked, obviously. When you found it in the drawer. You opened it to make sure it was his, and to obviously check the expiry date.’
Silence.
‘You didn’t look inside to make sure it was his, and to see if it was even in date?’
‘Who else’s was it going to be? Chris Rock’s? Of course I didn’t look inside. And I don’t ever remember him telling me that he needed a new one. So why would I need to see if it was in date?’
‘Okay, I can’t believe this.’ I am pacing the floor like a caged animal. ‘I seriously can’t believe this. You didn’t check his bloomin’ passport?’
‘It was still a better idea than any you’ve come up with. All the million ideas you had. Oh… Wait…’
‘You know what this means,’ I say, before pettiness derails us. ‘It means they’ve eloped. Just like she threatened. They’ve eloped because they have despaired of us.’ I drag out those last three words.
Silence again.
‘Are you still there?’ I ask.
‘I’m off to stare at the ocean and smoke a cigarette.’
‘But you don’t smoke.’
‘But it feels like one of those moments,’ he says. ‘Maybe you should try it.’
It takes me about an hour to compose the right message.
Harriet, I hear from Aiden ’ s dad that you’re in Europe!!! Tone is everything, hence the exclamation marks. How lovely! Surprised you couldn ’ t have just said! But I hope you have a fantastic holiday! You deserve it! Love you! Mum. xx
I delete ‘surprised you couldn’t have just said’ because it’s more than a touch passive aggressive than I want to come across. But then again, she could have just said. So I put it back in and press ‘send’.
Two hours later she replies. Two hours! Almost to the minute, which feels calculated. Like she’s read all the advice on the internet about how to respond to texts from guys you’re trying to dump, and then applied it to mothers. When I read what she’s written, the blood drains from my face.
Gutted neither you nor Aiden ’ s dad can be happy for us. Don ’ t need that negativity around us. Sorry I didn’t tell you but please don’t worry about us. We’re fine.
Okay. Okay. She said nothing about a wedding. I’m just thanking the gods for this when up pops a photo. One of a white church with a blue dome; the Aegean Sea twinkling in the background. I emit a cry like a hyena giving birth.
I fly out my response.
I ’ m so sorry I was negative. It ’ s not really how I feel. Honestly! I hate myself for not supporting you. What can I do to make this right? Please tell me.
There’s silence. I picture them sitting in a Greek taverna drowning their woes in retsina, Harriet dredging up all the times I’ve let her down over the years. I don’t believe there actually are any, except this once, but I expect she’s come up with thousands. Then she types: It’s too late.
No! I fire back. It’s never too late! We can work this out. I am sorry! Truly sorry!
Wish you’d thought of that before.
I’m not sure what bit I was supposed to have thought of, but I accept it – all of it –whatever she wants to hurl at me, I will own it; guilty as charged. I bite down hard on the palm of my hand. I can see she’s typing again.
Very sad how all this turned out. But you’re my mum and I still love you. It’s not really your fault that you’ve become a very jaded person, I understand.
Jaded? Me?
She is typing again.
Think of us next Saturday.
Next Saturday? What’s going to happen on Saturday? Surely not…?
Harriet, can we chat? Can I call you? Please. Not to try to meddle, just to talk.
Dinner plans. Got to go. I love you, Mum. And Aiden still loves his dad. We’re just very disappointed in you both.
What can we do? I type, realising that, whether or not he’d want me to, I’m including Frank in this as well.
Nothing, she writes. Just be happy for us, because we are happy for us.
‘Hello, Moira,’ he says, laying on the ‘tiresome’ tone, when he picks up after the second ring.
‘Hello, Frank. Er… Yes…This is Moira here.’ I clear my throat. ‘I’m phoning because…’ I can barely say it as my chest is in a vice. ‘I was right. They’re getting married in Santorini next Saturday. A week from today!’ I give him the rundown of our conversation – calmly, like a sane person, not the co-dependent nutter he thinks I am.
Silence.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah,’ he says tiredly, flatly. ‘Well, at this point all I can really say is, go for it, kids.’
I think of Harriet calling me jaded and how I truly don’t want to be that person. Of Nat making all the wrong decisions for all the wrong reasons. How – fine – I might have had sex with Harriet's future father-in-law but if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it… ‘Have you ever thought that the fact that we tried to stop them – and failed – is a sign? That they want this because it’s right?’
‘No. You?’
‘No. I mean… Yes!’
It’s only now, as I say it, that I realise that I almost – almost – mean it. ‘The New Scientist says that on average it takes guys eighty-eight days to fall in love, and women one hundred and thirty-four. So Aiden is technically already half way to a normal pace, and, well, the important thing to remember is those numbers are just averages and my daughter is generally sharper and ahead of the curve. She won’t thank me for telling you this, but she was potty trained in nine months and knew fifteen nursery rhymes before she even started school. So the bottom line is, I’m not convinced this relationship will be the disaster you’re convinced it’ll be.’ I wait. ‘You’ve gone for real this time, haven’t you?’
‘No. Still here. Who is the new scientist and why do I care about the dude?’
‘It’s a publication. I googled it. I was researching love.’
There’s another puzzling pause, then he says, ‘You were researching love? Do you do any other fascinating things in your spare time? I’m curious.’
‘I am trying to talk about our kids and the fact that they might be worth believing.’
‘Well, then, Moira Fitzgerald, the woman who researches love, what do you suggest we do? About this and everything?’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ I say. ‘I’m flying to Greece!’
He laughs like he somehow half expected this.
‘Look, if they do in fact go through with it, I can’t let one of the biggest moments of her life be marked out by how much I let her down.’ I’m suddenly galvanised by having a plan. ‘You need to come with me.’
He says, ‘Whoa!’
‘For Aiden.’
‘Try to show him I’m a great father? I think that ship sailed.’
‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘Those ships never sail.’
He doesn’t add anything for a bit, then he says, ‘They eloped. Moira Fitzgerald, who googles everything, must know that the very definition of elope means they don’t want anyone there, least of all their parents.’
‘Actually, I believe what you’ve described is the ancient definition of elope. In the real world in which some of us live, Harriet wouldn’t have sent a picture of Santorini and all but told me they’re getting married on Saturday if she didn’t want me there. So that means it’s pretty clear Harriet wants me there.’
‘But she didn’t tell you until you all but dragged it out of her. It was Aiden who told me they were in Europe.’
‘Be that as it may, he’d have had to get Harriet’s approval before he’d have been allowed to divulge that to you. And I know my daughter. There’s what she says when she’s hurt, and what she really means deep down. After nineteen years, I can read code.’
‘I’m feeling happier for Aiden by the minute.’
‘Oh, I thought I was cynical. You wrote the book on it.’ Then I deadpan: ‘Oh. Wait. You actually did write the book about a young couple who are so in love that they marry despite his miserable father being dead set against it – and cutting him off from his inheritance. How about that for a case of life imitating art?’
‘Life never imitates art.’
‘Not according to Oscar Wilde. And I’ll take his interpretation over yours, thank you. But can’t stop to chat. I’m booking the first flight out of here to Greece to be there for my daughter’s wedding. What about you?’
He says, ‘Have a great trip.’