Chapter 7
Loud, intrusive and completely terrifying – my mum singing happy birthday to me.
It’s not her usual singing – like when she sings Engelbert Humperdinck songs to herself while dusting – she’s belting it out with enthusiasm, louder than I knew her voice could go. It almost feels like an attack. At best, it has to be sarcastic.
I pull the duvet over my head, which hasn’t worked for me thus far, and wonder what kind of illness I’d need to fake to be allowed to stay here all day.
Maybe if I don’t acknowledge the day, it won’t count – which is okay, if people stop trying to force me to celebrate, but I suspect it will be more like parking fines, where ignoring them only makes things worse.
‘Happy birthday, darling!’ Mum yells for her grand finale.
Ugh. Thirty. Fucking Thirty. It sneaks up on you, truly, because I swear I’ve only just started to feel like I was in my twenties.
In your early twenties, you still feel like a teen, but by the time you hit your late twenties, it’s more like ‘young adult’ territory.
Thirty, though, oh my God. It’s not that I think thirty is old, it’s just that I really thought I would have had my life together by thirty.
Thirty is supposed to be a milestone – I’m supposed to have things to show for it.
But look at me. Really look at me. No job.
No home of my own. No romantic prospects.
No plan, to be honest with you. I’m back living in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by Leonardo DiCaprio posters, and I know I joked about it before, but it’s true – looking at the age of Leo’s recent girlfriends, I am actually officially too old for him.
I can’t get my head around it. Then again, I’m a long way off being able to date twentysomethings and be double their age.
Bloody hell, I can’t imagine being fifty and dating a twentysomething man – they annoy me now.
Mum hands me a mug – presumably a cup of tea, but something a little stronger for my birthday would have been a better shout.
She’s wearing a pumpkin jumper, specifically one with two large pumpkins, one intentionally covering each boob, which she probably didn’t realise when she bought it. I bet she’s still none the wiser.
‘I can’t believe my little girl is thirty,’ she says brightly, putting the mug on my bedside table. ‘Thirty! Can you believe it?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘And can you stop reminding me?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. It’s a wonderful age.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes,’ she insists. ‘You’re still young, but people take you seriously. You finally start seeing the shape your life is taking at thirty.’
I stare at her.
‘Mum, I’m unemployed and living in your house.’
‘Well,’ she says after a beat, ‘people will take you seriously once you’ve figured those minor details out.’
I close my eyes.
‘Please tell me you haven’t made a fuss.’
‘I haven’t made a fuss.’
Her compliance in repeating the words back to me is exactly how I know she has made a fuss.
‘Mum…’
‘It’s just a little lunch.’
‘How little?’
‘Just… a bite, with a few people…’
‘Who’s coming?’
She attempts to make my bed – that I am still in – to buy herself some time.
‘Your dad, obviously. Rory said he might pop in with Jack. Sally’s resting. And Mel said she and Angie might drop by later. You might see your auntie – a cousin or two. I invited a couple of my friends to, you know, boost the numbers.’
‘Boost the numbers?’ I blurt, unable to suppress my cackle.
‘It’s a day to celebrate – people want to pop in and see you,’ she insists.
‘I just… I’m not sure I want to see anyone,’ I reply. ‘Or celebrate at all, to be honest with you.’
‘That’s why I arranged a lunch and not a dinner,’ she says, as though it’s supposed to make me feel better. ‘It’s eleven forty-five now – I thought you’d appreciate a lie-in on your birthday.’
‘Thanks,’ I say with a sigh. At least there’s that.
‘But I did tell guests they could drop in for a bite from midday, so you should get ready – wear something nice.’
I don’t say anything. When she’s gone I fall back against the pillows, not that I’ve got time to. I can barely drink my tea and get dressed in fifteen minutes, never mind compose myself or psych myself up for the day.
I mean, what else can I do, other than comply? I blast my hair with dry shampoo, cake on some make-up and slip into a dark brown dress. I can say it’s brown for autumn, rather than the truth, because I’m not feeling all that bright.
By the time I make it downstairs, Mum has transformed the kitchen into what appears to be a harvest festival in my honour.
There are leaf-print napkins, fairy lights twisted around pinecones as a centrepiece – even the food, which does look great, is definitely autumn coded.
Truthfully, I think my mum just really loves this time of year.
It’s how she pre-games Christmas, which she loves even more.
Any excuse for a theme, an extra bit of décor, lights.
My dad, as you’d expect from a Yorkshire man, is, by his own admission, ‘not arsed’.
There are tiny pumpkins on the windowsill – although I think they were already there, now that I think about it – but the jug of flowers in rusty reds and yellows might be new. And then there’s the banner, hanging proudly in the archway, that reads: Happy 30th Birthday Lia!
Mum appears beside me, wearing the proud expression of a woman who has been up since dawn, making her own root vegetable crisps.
‘Isn’t it lovely?’
It isn’t, but I don’t say that.
Dad looks up from the table, from behind his newspaper – where he often hides from Mum when she’s in ‘event’ mode.
‘Morning, birthday girl.’
‘Morning,’ I reply.
‘Thirty,’ he says, grinning.
‘Be careful, Ken, she’ll bite your head off if you say her age too many times,’ Mum tells him.
Dad chuckles as I sit down at the table. That’s when I notice a glittery tiara with a big ‘30’ at the centre.
‘I don’t have to wear this, do I?’ I check.
‘I’d love it if you did,’ she tells me. ‘Even if it’s just for a photo, just for me…’
‘Is the photo just for you?’ I check. ‘You won’t post it on Facebook?’
‘I could tell you that I wouldn’t but, you know, my darling, I inadvertently post all sorts.’
I know – I’m the one who has to help her remove things in a panic.
Rory appears, holding Jack under one arm like a sack of potatoes, a gift bag hooked on his other arm.
‘Say “Happy birthday, Auntie Lia”,’ Rory says, dropping Jack off on my lap.
Jack grabs my face and says… something.
‘Thank you, gorgeous.’
Rory drops the gift bag on the table.
‘Happy thirtieth, little sister.’
‘She doesn’t like hearing the number,’ Mum warns him.
‘Give over,’ Rory says with a scoff. ‘Take it from someone who turned forty a few years ago. What I’d give to be thirty again. I’d do it all differently.’
‘What a lovely thing to say with your child in the room,’ I say with a laugh.
‘Obviously I wouldn’t change this little weirdo,’ he says in his ‘dad voice’. He takes Jack by the arms and dangles him in the air, which he always seems to love. I’m always worried he’s going to pull his arms from their sockets but I guess kids are tougher than they look.
‘Thirty is great because you’re officially old enough to know better, but still young enough to get away with it,’ Rory tells me. ‘I think you’ll like your present.’
I look inside the bag. I can see nice girly things, presumably I have Sally to thank for those, but then there’s a mug that says ‘29 + 1’ – except instead of a number one, it’s a hand with the middle finger stuck up. Okay, I like that. That’s so Rory.
‘This, I love,’ I say, holding it up.
Mum leans in close to read it, squinting to see what it says. She clicks her tongue.
‘Rory!’
‘It’s perfect for her,’ he insists.
He’s right.
Rory wanders over to inspect the food.
‘You’ve made soup for a party?’ he checks, pulling a face. ‘She’s thirty, not ninety.’
‘I thought it would be civilised,’ she tells him.
‘She doesn’t want a fuss. So I made butternut squash soup with warm crusty bread, roast chicken and stuffing sandwiches, little sausages wrapped in bacon, roast potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and some sort of apple-and-red-cabbage thing that I saw online. ’
‘And that’s not making a fuss?’ I check.
Just as I start to relax, there’s a knock at the front door.
‘Ooh, let’s see who it is,’ Mum says giddily.
Oh, gosh, who is it? If it’s my auntie, I’d love to hide. I haven’t been awake for long enough for a woman who is essentially my mum on crack.
Before I can make any sort of escape, Mel bursts into the kitchen carrying two gift bags.
‘Birthday girl!’ she shrieks.
Jack screams because Mel has screamed.
Dad flinches, like the grumpy old man that he is.
Angie follows behind her, much calmer, holding a bottle of something fizzy and wearing a cream jumper that we need to make sure Jack doesn’t get close to at all costs.
‘Happy birthday,’ Angie says, giving me a smile. ‘Thirty. Wow. You’re the first one to fall.’
She talks about it like it’s a disease.
‘Thanks,’ I say, letting that one go.
Mel kisses me on both cheeks and plonks the gift bags onto the table.
‘We brought presents. And later, we’re taking you out.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that,’ I insist.
‘We absolutely do,’ she replies. ‘You’re coming to my house, I’m going to doll you up and it’s going to be great.’
‘It’s just, I—’
‘Lia, you cannot spend your thirtieth birthday sitting at home eating parsnips with your parents,’ Rory points out. ‘That’s tragic – even for you.’
‘None taken,’ Mum replies with a frown. ‘But you should go out, darling, it will do you good.’
It’s funny. When I was a teen, I used to beg to be allowed out with my friends. Now she’s pushing me into it.
They all said it would do me good last time, and I ended up trapped in the toilets and waking up with the hangover from hell.
‘Anyway,’ Mel says, reaching into one of the gift bags. ‘First present.’
She hands me a small box wrapped in gold paper. Inside is a lipstick – it’s bright red.
‘It’s your colour, without a doubt,’ she says.
‘That’s lovely, thank you,’ I reply.
‘Open your card next – it will all make sense,’ she continues.
I do as I’m told, only to find a badge that says: Kiss me, it’s my birthday.
Oh boy. I think I’d sooner wear the tiara.
‘Well, that’s…’ Rory’s voice trails off. He’s clearly amused, but also speechless.
‘You have to wear it tonight,’ Mel says.
‘No, no, no,’ I insist.
‘It’s cute,’ she replies. ‘You can put on your new lipstick and see how many people you can get it on.’
I turn to my mum – the person I can always rely on to be the voice of respectability.
‘I say give it a go,’ Mum says, examining it. I shoot her a look. ‘What? It can only help, darling.’
‘Kissing people indiscriminately?’ I check.
‘It’s an icebreaker,’ she replies.
It’s ridiculous and embarrassing and overwhelming. Like everything else is at the moment.
Thirty wasn’t supposed to look like this – back home, no prospects of any description, begging for kisses. It was supposed to be cocktails in London, a nice dinner somewhere with tiny portions and huge prices, a present from the man I thought loved me.
Instead, I’m here. Back where I started.
‘Make a wish,’ Mum says softly when it’s finally time for me to blow out my candles.
I don’t even know what to wish for. A job? A man? A time machine? Or even just a chance to bump into my mystery man again? Perhaps that’s more realistic.
In the end, I just blow them out without really bothering with one formal wish. I’m sure the universe knows what I want.
After dessert, Mel corners me by the sink while Mum wraps slices of cake in napkins for people to take home.
‘So,’ she says. ‘Tonight.’
‘Are you really sure about this?’ I reply. ‘Because I’m happy keeping it low-key. To be honest with you, I’m a bit freaked out to be turning thirty.’
‘Lia,’ she says, suddenly a little softer.
‘You don’t have to want your birthday. You don’t even have to enjoy it.
But you do have to let us drag you out for a drink, because sitting in your room thinking about how you don’t want to be thirty isn’t going to make you feel better about it.
It won’t make you younger, it will age you if anything, so come out with us.
Try to have a laugh. Forget about the number. ’
That is annoyingly difficult to argue with.
‘I don’t know…’
‘One drink.’
‘Your “one drink”s are never one drink,’ I remind her.
‘Fine. One location,’ she replies with a smile.
‘Okay, fine…’
‘And wear the badge,’ she insists.
I frown.
‘Yes, you should wear the badge,’ Mum calls out. I didn’t realise she was eavesdropping, but I should have known.
I’m not sure about the badge but I suppose I can do the night out. Rory is right, I’m still young, I can’t celebrate my birthday with soup.
I just wish I could have hung on to my twenties a little longer, at least until I’d got my life back on track.