7
My parents’ house is a classic example of an upper-middle-class semi with a decent-sized garden. The neighbourhood is known for its great school catchment, a low crime rate and a garden centre that sells above-average custard slices and always boasts two-for-one bargains. Basically, nothing ever happens here unless you count Mrs Baxter’s cat going missing every second week and the Doyle kids occasionally drawing a cock and balls with their finger on the dusty window of Mr Cox’s van.
I’ve always been aware of how lucky I was to grow up in an area where you didn’t have to dial 999 when walking around after dark. But it only occurred to me how very fortunate I was when I met Alex. His mum rented a studio flat in the East Town where streets were unkept and half of the shops were littered with uncollected bins. I always remember feeling being watched.
I could only remember a handful of times Alex invited me over to his. Most of the time, we were tucked in the recesses of a local greasy spoon, sipping the same coffee for hours, sharing a plate of chips and stealing kisses in between the aforementioned.
Thinking about those times still makes me raw. Perhaps it’s because I never expected to see him again. Yet, a part of me so small it’s almost non-existent always hoped to see him again and demand why things ended the way they did. In that faraway future, I always pictured myself much braver, more mature and sophisticated.
Now standing in front of the white-washed house, it reminds me of everything I hated about myself when I went out with Alex. This place used to be a haven until it wasn’t. My chest feels tight, but my legs don’t slow down, and my hand doesn’t hesitate when it presses the bell.
The door opens, and the sight of my dolled-up mother breaks the vicious cycle of looping thoughts. She’s had her blonde hair freshly permed, her stiff updo making her resemble a poodle competing at Crufts. She’s wearing a floral garment that I can only describe as a frilly-apron-dress-thing . I’m all into vintage clothing, but my mother takes it to the next level. Today she’s playing the fifties hostess. She opens the door holding a tray full of canapés that look like something that has been regurgitated by an animal and garnished with rocket and watercress to hide the sickly purple colour. There’s much to be said about my mother and her obsession with micro herbs, but nobody wants to be that bored.
When she sees it’s only me, her round-with-age body sags in disappointment, and the pleasant smile that embellished her face vanishes. Any minute, I’m waiting for a female voice from behind my mother’s back to shout out, ‘Doilies, Pam?’ and my mother to respond in a clipped tone, ‘Third drawer from the top, Una. Under the mini gherkins.’
Instead of greeting me with warmth and affection accustomed to other mothers, she gazes disapprovingly from my green patent shoes, past the orange corduroy skirt and fixes on the satin shirt. Her nose crinkles. ‘Couldn’t you have put on something more…’
I don’t let her finish. ‘Hello to you too, Mother.’ I inject some cheer into my compliment. ‘You look fantastic.’ She gives me a mock, self-deprecating wave, swatting her hand like it’s nothing, but it somehow ends up in her hair, plumping it absentmindedly like she’s shaping a ball of candy floss. I will be doomed the day that compliments don’t redirect my mother’s attention.
I follow her into the kitchen, trailing in the wake of her sugary perfume. She deposits the tray of appetisers on the faux marble breakfast island with a dramatic huff and immediately checks her rose gold watch. She mumbles the word late and shakes her head.
I can guess that whoever is late isn’t scoring well so far. I can even go as far as to guess that someone is not Carol the next-door neighbour or the old university friend of my dad’s, Martin, who often frequents our Sunday lunches. No, my mother keeps a score for only one type of visitor, which means that she is matchmaking. Again. My suspicions are confirmed when I make to pick one of the strange-looking appetisers just to see her reaction and she slaps my hand with the words, ‘They’re not for you!’ making me feel like an errant five-year-old raiding the sweets cupboard.
Her face crinkles up, her foundation creating orange lines on her forehead and under her eyes, reminding me of the leftover rind bits you get at the bottom of a marmalade jar.
‘Mother,’ I start and decide there’s no point beating about the bush. ‘Who have you invited over?’
She ruffles her hair all innocently, but her words are rushed. ‘Nobody. Just a friend from my pottery class.’
‘Does this friend happen to be male?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘Don’t be sexist. Can’t I have friends who are men?’ Her voice is suffused with defensiveness. ‘Just for your information, it’s a female friend.’ She starts twisting her engagement ring. I sigh. That’s her guilty tell. When I count the number of plates set out on the table and encounter an extra one, my mouth opens.
Before anything comes out, she interrupts, finished with this conversation. ‘Go say hello to your father and tell him the dinner is almost done. I bet he’s fallen asleep in that ridiculous sun lounger of his. I should have gotten rid of that old, tatty thing years ago.’ For a moment, my eyebrows draw together in confusion. I’m unsure whether she’s referring to my dad or the sun lounger.
The garden is a spacious lime-green rectangle wrapped around by perfectly manicured hedges from all sides. The space is penned up by two metal, arty-farty bird baths whose phallic shapes have always reminded me of the male anatomy and a double-apex wooden shed whose floor plan is probably bigger than my entire studio flat.
Together with the timber casement window and a mini porch, the shed looks like a micro pool house minus the pool because we’re in England and the chances of swimming in a pool are somewhere between never and don’t-hold-your-breath-forget-it-once-in-a lunar-eclipse never. But my dad always says that no respectable gardener would go without a decent shed. Apparently, neighbours judge other neighbours based on the size of their shed. Euphemism? Perhaps.
I pause. My throat tightens at the sight of a mop of greying hair peeking from above the infamous sun lounger.
At my approaching steps, my dad stirs and the lounger creaks. First, the sharp nose adorned with old-fashioned rimmed glasses and then the rest of my father’s profile appears. The glasses and his solemn stoic look mark my dad as the scholar he is. His lined face pulls into a smile.
‘The prodigal daughter returns to the nest.’ He stands up with a heavy groan. Before I have a chance to say a word or decide what to do, he envelops me in a second-long hug like he’s worried I’ll pull away if he makes it any longer.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I say stiffly. ‘Mother says the dinner is almost ready.’ At this, he rests his hand on my shoulder, steering us towards the house.
‘Let’s not make her wait because otherwise she’ll turn into a roastzilla and god knows what she’ll do.’
Despite myself, amusement lifts the corners of my lips because talking about my mother’s shortcomings behind her back used to be our thing. My half-grin turns grim.
To fill the awkward silence that follows, I hastily ask, ‘What’s all the hoo-ha about?’
‘You mean the vomit-looking appetisers and the…?’ He motions with his hand around his head in the vague shape of my mother’s soufflé hair. But I hear the affection in his voice that has always been a mystery to me. I love my mother, but sometimes she can be hard to like.
‘She found the recipe in Good Housekeeping magazine. They’re supposed to be vol-au-vent spinoffs. I did tell her there was nothing wrong with the old-fashioned vol-au-vents, that nobody would eat purple food and that there was a reason why purple carrots didn’t go down well in history. That’s when she booted me out of the kitchen. I’ve been exposed to the elements since eleven. Don’t ask me about the hair because I have no clue.’
The grinding sound of a car parking on the gravel in front of the house travels to my ears. I strain to hear the bell and then the door opening and closing. My mother’s over-polished and suddenly very posh voice greets two guests. Judging by the deep quality, one of them is positively masculine. Colour me genius.
I clasp my hands in front of me in nervous anticipation. Let the show begin.
As soon as I stroll into the kitchen, I think I’m suffering double vision. Unbeknown to me, I’ve walked into a Stepford Wives revisited set. I’m greeted by an older woman dressed in cigarette trousers and a puff-sleeve blouse. Her resemblance to my mother is uncanny; she could be my mother’s twin except her beehive hair is light brown and she’s not wearing floral wallpaper.
I’m surprised when Penelope is followed by a tall brown-haired man with ocean-blue eyes and a perfect five o’clock shadow that one could grate Grana Padano on. Involuntarily, my insides tighten at the perfection, but otherwise, I’m unaffected. I’ve always preferred Domhnall Gleeson to Liam Hemsworth.
‘Nickolas, this is my daughter, Holly-Anne.’ My mother doesn’t give up on her posh accent. Until this very moment, I didn’t realise I had a middle name nor that it was hyphenated like we’re in an episode of Downton Abbey .
‘Holly,’ I correct my mother and grab his strong hand. He smirks, obviously entertained.
‘Nick,’ he quips, and I smirk back. I think I like him. Not in an I-want-to-jump-your-bones kind of way, even though he’s easy to look at.
The dinner proceeds from there onwards in a similar fashion. My dad is quiet and detached but polite as he usually is with anyone who isn’t me, Mother or his limited number of university friends. Nick’s mother answers all my mother’s relentless questions about their house and garden like it’s the pinnacle of modern life while Nick’s glazed eyes follow the conversation from left to right like it’s a mediocre game of tennis. I stifle a few yawns when their conversation naturally turns to curtains and how difficult it is to arrange fittings with John Lewis these days. I should have been more grateful for the topic because a moment later the conversation switches to me. Correction, my mother forcefully steers the conversation towards me.
‘Nickolas, did you know that Holly-Anne is a teacher?’ she asks in between two bird-like bites. One would think she’s been eating air the entire time.
I slide an extra roast potato onto my plate from a green ramekin and shove it in my mouth to avoid speaking. Immediately, a foot kicks my shin, and I barely suppress a yelp. I don’t think Mother is impressed with my third helping of potatoes and general lack of conversational input. But the payday is far, and my fridge is stripped bare minus skanky-looking ketchup and a three-week-old Saint Agur rind.
To make matters worse, the potato gets stuck in my throat, and I end up guzzling a glass of water in one go. I know I’m behaving like a neanderthal but better to send a clear message now and avoid embarrassment later.
‘No, I didn’t. What do you teach?’ he asks politely.
‘Primary,’ I answer when I can speak but don’t elaborate.
‘I’m sure Nickolas would like to hear more about that. One can’t really get a feel from one-word answers,’ my mother adds icily, her eyes boring into me with the intensity of a nuclear reactor about to explode.
Up till now, every lunch where my mother’s tried to set me up with yet another single man between twenty-five and thirty-five, I’ve been polite and detached. But after the week I’ve had, I’ve had enough. I barely contain the vexation I feel.
‘I don’t want to bore you, Nickolas.’ I imitate my mother’s posh voice. My father gives me a warning tap of the foot under the table that I choose to ignore. ‘You spend around forty-odd hours per week at work. Who wants to talk about it in their spare time? Nobody wants to hear about a year four peeing in his chair because he couldn’t be bothered to go to the toilet or two year fives sending messages to each other during a literacy lesson with a stick person who looked suspiciously like me. Except for the fact it was fishing in its overlarge nose for bogies with a speech bubble saying, “ At last, I’ve found ya .” Truth be told, I was impressed that they used an adverbial of time followed by a comma despite the unconventional spelling of you .’
Nickolas coughs into his drink but recovers quickly, however, Nick’s mother is turning distinctly appalled.
Before I have a chance to really give them a proper description of what being a teacher is like, my mother interjects resolutely. ‘That’s enough.’ I don’t know what has gotten into me. She carries on smoothly like I’ve never spoken. ‘Before that, Holly-Anne worked at Nigel Longfleet Academy and singlehandedly improved their school’s Ofsted rating from requires improvement to good ,’ she boasts.
‘Mother,’ I warn her. The rebuke comes out sterner than I meant to. ‘That’s not true. It was a shared effort.’
She ignores my protests. ‘Instead of being grateful, they told her they no longer needed her.’ She huffs on my behalf. I’ve never been this embarrassed.
I interrupt her before she goes on a tirade about Aaron because I wouldn’t put it past her. ‘What do you do for a living, Nickolas?’
‘I’m glad you asked, Holly-Ann,’ he responds with a similar cheer. No doubt he’s having a whale of a time. If not a pod of whales. ‘I’m a vet.’
He’s just scored triple points in my mother’s eyes. She’s probably planning our kids’ names and where they’re going to go to college.
‘Nice,’ I say dumbly because I have nothing to contribute to this conversation.
‘I rather like it myself.’ His grin is wide. I bet I will be an anecdote at his next pub meeting with friends, but I’m at such a low point in my life, I actually don’t care. However, he surprises me by adding, ‘But I won’t bore you about how a five-year-old Staffy once puked in my face, or an old Yorkshire Terrier pooped all over my new watch because who really wants to be having conversations about work on their day off.’
This time I can’t help it and burst out laughing. His mother hisses, ‘ Nickolas ’, but he only shrugs and grins at me.
After that, both mother hens revert to discussing home decor and the last pottery class.
I endure another half an hour of my mother’s chitchat, silently grinding my teeth; at this speed, I will need a mouth guard soon. My easy-going, always-ready-to-avoid-conflict dad seems more interested in his cabbage than the conversation. I grip the fork with perhaps a little too much pressure.
Later, I help my mother load the dishwasher in the kitchen. It gives me an excuse to talk to her while our guests are drinking coffee and enjoying a slice of my mother’s famous Victoria sponge that is actually bought from the local bakery. Only I know, and I’ve been threatened on numerous occasions that if I ever have the desire to divulge that secret in front of any guests, I might not be invited to Sunday lunches for the rest of my life.
The clinking of mugs and plates being loaded interspersed by the clock ticking loudly in the lounge as the conversation stalls are the only sounds between us.
Silently, I pass my mother a prewashed plate because, of course, she prewashes all the crockery.
‘Nickolas seems nice, doesn’t he?’ Her look is positively dreamy. ‘A vet. A steady profession. Despite your ogre ways back there, I can tell he likes you.’ She puts a tablet in the dishwasher and closes it with a firm click. ‘I could ask for his number if you wanted.’
The now-familiar annoyance burns down my throat like I’ve swallowed a whole tub of Toxic Waste sweets without chewing. ‘He was feeling sorry for me.’ He’s probably thinking I’m a desperate woman who needs her mother to set her up like cattle at an auction. ‘If you invite another man to Sunday lunch, I’ll stop coming,’ I threaten. Because my tone is as mild as the curry in Wetherspoons, she confuses it for disinterest.
‘Don’t be silly. I didn’t invite him for you. Penny just happened to have a son who was visiting today.’
When I speak next, my voice comes out more of a hiss. ‘You can’t have it both ways. Either you’re still upset over Aaron, or you want me to meet another man.’ She pales, unused to this assertive version of me. That makes two of us. I inhale before she has a chance to say another word. ‘I’m more than capable of finding a man myself.’ She’s about to dispute that. ‘And I’m not looking right now.’
‘It wouldn’t harm you to keep your options open.’ She concedes her intentions, undeterred by my flinty stare.
My dad marches stiffly into the room with a pile of dessert plates decorated with crumbs and whispers in annoyance, ‘Can either of you please return to your guests? I didn’t ask for this nonsense and I’m the one stuck with them in the lounge talking about cricket finals. I have no blimming clue about cricket.’ His words vex me because he makes it sound like inviting all the available bachelors of Mountbatten Road was my idea and Mother only helped to orchestrate it.
I take a deep breath, about to argue, but the air whooshes out of me together with my confidence. I’m saved by my phone buzzing. When I see the number on it, my stomach clenches.
‘I need to take this.’ I head to the garden, grateful for the distraction.
I force a smile into my voice. ‘Hey, Vick. How are you?’ I’m not fooling anyone with my overdone cheer.
‘Hey back at you. I’m in town for a while. I wanted to get in touch so we could catch up on all the exciting things happening in your life.’ She sounds high-pitched and manicured like her persona, but I’ve always admired that quality about her. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. We grew up on the same street and were shaped by the same high-maintenance-mother upbringing. For some time during sixth form, we were joined at the hip until we were seventeen and drifted apart. We’ve still kept in touch, but because she travels for work a lot, we only see each other sporadically. Nevertheless, it always makes me feel like I’m seventeen again, playing at being an adult all these years.
‘Not much,’ I mutter reluctantly.
‘How’s the loser?’
‘Everything is alright.’ I sigh because I have yet to update her on the latest happenings with Aaron. She oh-ohs . My mind drifts to Alex, and I know I have to tell her about him as well. I’m reluctant because Alex has been a taboo between us for the last ten years.
‘That’s what you always say and then Armageddon is unleashed. Your life is a series of unfortunate events sometimes.’ Despite any spite on her side, her words spear me in the chest, nevertheless. She’s never minced her words and maybe that’s what I’ve always liked about her. ‘Put me on your calendar next Friday. We’re going out.’
The cheek of Vicky to always expect people to drop everything and do whatever she wants. But I can’t resist being pulled by the charm of her personality because, where Vicky is concerned, I’m a shrimp lured by the anglerfish’s luminescent fin ray before being eaten. I can hear Catherine’s disapproving tone in my head, but I shove it in a mental cupboard, lock it and throw away the key.
An unwelcome thought stops me in my tracks. ‘Vick, I’ve had a few additional expenses this month with moving and starting a new job. Should we meet after the next payday?’ I don’t really want to divulge this, but I’m totally skint.
‘Don’t worry about that. There’s a new cool bar on Christchurch Road called Loungers. I know the manager, so drinks are on me. Or rather on him,’ she adds coquettishly. We make plans, chat for ten more minutes, and when I hang up, I feel better until I turn around and almost bump into Nick.
‘Hey.’ He thrusts his hands deep into the pockets of his dark jeans, eyes riveted to the bag resting in the crook of my arm. A bag that I retreated on my way to the garden in the hope that I’d be able to escape straight after the call. ‘Ready to run?’
‘A bit of an emergency,’ I lie unconvincingly.
He sweeps his head in the direction of the lounge where our mothers are chatting away.
‘No hard feelings. I can see what our mothers did there. She started doing it when I turned twenty-seven.’ He continues. ‘I have really enjoyed myself.’ I give him a withering look and he laughs. ‘Even you must admit that your mother and my mother’s double act has been quite something.’
‘I bet your favourite part was straight after the dessert. I have to admit my mother’s rendition of me breaking up with my ex-boyfriend at the ripe age of twenty-seven was the best.’ I repeat her words with a haunting quality that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges.
‘Your mother has got a bit of a dramatic streak. Has she ever tried am-dram?’ he jokes, but when he sees my deadpan expression, he howls with laughter.
He passes me a napkin with his number. ‘If you ever fancy going out with me and my boyfriend, give me a shout.’ He winks at the word boyfriend , making me cough. Then he shrugs and leaves me to my musings.