Chapter Thirteen
‘Eddie!’ I stumble after him across the foyer. ‘Hang on. Wait! STOP RIGHT THERE!’
He spins around to face me. ‘Stop shouting,’ he hisses.
‘I’m not shouting.’
‘You are! You’re embarrassing me, Mum. Stop it.’
‘But no one’s here!’ I look around the otherwise empty foyer. The gleaming wood panelling is hung with formal portraits of men in plumed hats and full tartan battle wear. None look especially friendly.
‘You can’t do this to us, Ed,’ Frank announces. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘Sorry, I know it’s not ideal …’
‘Not ideal?’ I splutter. ‘You could say that. Why didn’t you warn us?’
‘I couldn’t! I didn’t know it was happening ’til yesterday—’
‘But we’ve just walked halfway across town,’ I point out. ‘All that way, you let us think we were just going for a panini—’
‘I never said anything about paninis!’
‘You’ve basically tricked us,’ I announce.
‘And we’re supposed to go along with this lie,’ Frank exclaims, ‘that you and, uh – this girl—’
‘—she’s called Lyla, Dad—’
‘—That you’re together ?’ Frank says in disbelief.
As Eddie shrugs, looking helpless, I realise how wrong I was, to believe he’d properly grown up. I was fooled by the flat-share, the job in a fancy restaurant, and his bewilderment when the blind for his window turned up at his flat. ‘I don’t need you to order things for me, Mum!’ But was the towel still pinned up? No, the blind was in place. He’d put it up himself, he assured me. It was easy . Did I think he couldn’t operate a screwdriver?
‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ Eddie admits now, unable to look at us. ‘Lyla arranged it with her mum, soon as she knew you were coming over to see me.’
‘So you are in touch with her then?’ I venture.
‘Not really. Yeah, a bit.’ He bites his lip.
‘And they’re here now?’ Frank says, as if he still can’t believe it. Eddie nods gloomily.
My heart feels heavy, like a boulder in my chest. ‘I’m not really up for this, Eddie. Let’s just go.’
‘We can’t just not show up!’
‘Yes, we can,’ Frank insists. ‘Say we couldn’t make it. Something happened. Your mum fell ill—’
‘Why me?’ I retort. ‘Why am I ill?’
‘You just are —’
‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘I don’t know. Anything. Your sciatica’s bad—’
‘I’ve never had sciatica—’
‘Lyla’s mum really wants to meet you,’ Eddie cuts in, desperation in his voice now.
‘But why?’ I ask, genuinely confused. To berate us for our shoddy parenting? I tried to tell him about contraception but he was too busy burrowing for Magnums in the freezer!
‘To see what you’re like, I s’pose.’ Eddie seems to cringe as he looks at us, clearly finding us lacking. And admittedly, I can’t imagine that anyone would mistake us for members of this presumably private members’ club. Frank always looks good – and I often see other women checking him out – but today his ancient denim jacket, black jeans with a small rip in one knee and a yolk-coloured T-shirt with a cartoon bear on the front, plus the slogan ‘I prefer their earlier stuff’, don’t seem quite right.
Not that I look any better. This morning I’d been too preoccupied by Frank’s brooding ill humour, and whether we’d be able to present a united front, to be able to even think about putting an outfit together. I’d simply grabbed an old stripy sweater plus jeans, scruffy Chelsea boots and a jacket that’s definitely tipped over into the realm of gardening wear. My face is bare, my hair unwashed.
Now an immaculate woman in a charcoal trouser suit has appeared from a back room. ‘Can I help you?’ She flashes even white teeth.
‘We’re meeting, uh, Lyla Balfour and, ah … Mrs Balfour,’ Eddie blurts out.
‘Ah, the Balfours .’ She stations herself behind the reception desk. ‘They’re through in the restaurant. Just along there.’ She indicates a corridor leading off the foyer. ‘Like me to take you through?’
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ Eddie says quickly. We follow our son towards the convivial sounds of chatter and clinking crockery, passing a glass cabinet housing a display of what look like ceremonial swords. But what if they’re not? What if they’re real and we’ve been lured here for our execution?
‘What’s her name?’ I whisper to Eddie, grabbing at his arm.
He shakes me off irritably. ‘Lyla!’
‘I mean her mum.’
‘Uh, Shelley, I think …’
That’s a friendly name, I try to reassure myself. A Shelley won’t have a list of questions ready for our interrogation – or a gun.
We step into the bustling restaurant and stand close together, like small woodland animals huddling for safety. ‘I’m too ill for this, apparently,’ I murmur. ‘My sciatica’s so bad …’
‘Mum, don’t start,’ Eddie says through his teeth.
‘I need to go to hospital. Get an ambulance, Eddie. Call 999—’
‘ Mum! ’ His sharp nudge shuts me up, and I gaze bleakly around the restaurant. There’s more polished wood panelling, lit by glowing wall lamps with tasselled shades. Although the room is sizeable the effect of all this copious dark wood is making me feel like I’m trapped in a box. Or a coffin, more like. A coffin with the lid just put on. There are windows, but they’re almost obscured by drapes and swags, like giant tartan knickers. It’s all very posh, old-school Scottish and somewhat overheated. Or is that just me?
I tug off my jacket and glance down at my sweater, noticing with horror how bobbly it is. Did this happen suddenly as we power-marched here? It must be ninety-five per cent bobble. I can’t take it off and stuff it into my bag, as I have a rank old T-shirt on underneath, unfit for public display. Maybe, I think wildly, Lyla and her mother aren’t here after all. The receptionist got it wrong—
‘There they are,’ Eddie announces in a tone more suited to, There’s a parking attendant. Look, she’s sticking a thing on our car.
‘Where?’ I ask, heart thudding.
‘Over there.’ He nods towards a tiny blonde girl in a distant corner. She’s raised an arm to attract our attention, and my mouth’s interior is as dry as toast as we make our way towards her. Now an older, equally beautiful – also blonde – woman is waving too. Then they’re both up on their feet, and we’re greeted in a blur of introductions and unexpected hugs and artfully dishevelled hair.
‘Hi, hi!’ I say, inanely. How to act? They say I’m unflappable in the library, and despite what Eddie might think it’s not all stamping books and tidying shelves. The odd drunk person blunders in, mistaking us for the kebab shop. We’ve had people falling asleep in the poetry section, vomiting by the kids’ books and one crazy man shouted at Jamie for apparently ‘looking at’ him. Whatever happens in the library, I know what to do. And now I don’t know.
‘Lovely to meet you, Lyla, Shelley,’ I start.
‘It’s Suki actually.’ Lyla’s mother beams, dismissing my apology with an elegant hand. I can see now that she’s quite a bit younger than me – possibly early forties. Or maybe she’s just better preserved.
‘Don’t worry! It’s a silly name—’
‘Not at all! It’s a lovely name,’ I insist.
‘—A nickname from back in my teens. But it stuck. Please, sit down …’
I glance at Eddie as we take our places at the circular table. Panic is radiating from him as he lands next to Lyla. He looks as if he’s realised he’s in the wrong exam hall; the one for final medical exams when he’s only done a day’s workshop in cake decorating.
‘Really nice to meet you both,’ Lyla says, echoing her mother’s easy charm. ‘I’ve heard lots about you.’
I take a moment to register her calmness and poise. So we’re plunging headfirst into the lie. ‘We have too,’ I manage. ‘About you, I mean. We’ve been so looking forward to meeting you …’ I glance at Frank in panic and he shoots me a warning look. Am I talking like a terrible actress, struggling with her lines?
‘Well, you’re lucky!’ Suki casts her daughter a fond glance. ‘All this time and she’d never even mentioned you, Eddie. Not until last week. And now this. Such a dark horse!’
He chokes out a dry snigger and twitches in his seat. ‘You don’t need to know everything about me, Mum,’ Lyla chuckles.
‘No. Obviously.’ A wry smile from Suki. ‘Hope you didn’t mind coming here,’ she adds.
‘Not at all,’ Frank says with forced enthusiasm.
‘It’s my ex’s club.’ Suki grimaces. ‘Used to bring all his girlfriends here …’ She chuckles again and I glance at Lyla, wondering if that’s her father she’s referring to. ‘Not Lyla’s dad,’ Suki clarifies. ‘Jonathan was far too dull for that. Left him down in Gloucestershire with his hunting, shooting, fishing buddies. And Sebastian never comes here anymore because I’m never out of the place …’
She laughs again huskily. Everything about her suggests old money and ponies and a house in the country with soil-encrusted wellies lined up in the porch. And now she’s telling us, ‘I bought Lyla a little place just round the corner from here when she came up to study. And I was so jealous, because it’s such a beautiful city, that I ruined it all for her by renting out my house down south and buying myself a place five minutes away! Didn’t I, darling?’
Lyla nods and laughs. ‘Absolutely ruined it,’ she jokes. ‘Mum would’ve enrolled on my uni course if she could.’
‘So are you still studying, Lyla?’ I ask because clearly, neither Frank nor Eddie are planning to say anything.
‘No, it wasn’t really my thing,’ she says breezily.
‘It’s not for everyone,’ I concur.
‘Lyla was keen to get out in the real world,’ her mother goes on. ‘Wanted to start working and earning, didn’t you, darling?’ Lyla nods. ‘… So she started a freelance copywriting business, all by herself. Does all the marketing, client liaison, everything. Inundated with work, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Lyla agrees. ‘It’s crazy hours sometimes.’
‘I’m so, so proud of her. She’s so driven—’
‘Mum, you’re embarrassing me,’ Lyla announces, looking pleased and not embarrassed at all. And I wonder how Eddie would react, if I were to gush about his achievements like this; how apparently he can pan-fry scallops perfectly and make a roulade. How just weeks ago he was sweeping the kitchen floor and how very proud we are.
I flick my gaze towards my son who’s supposed to be familiar with Lyla’s life and her wildly successful freelance business. How will a baby fit into all of this? Will Suki sweep in and take care of everything? I’ll help, of course, if they’ll let me. But what about Frank? How will he slot into a granddad role? I glance at him now, sitting there mutely in his yellow bear T-shirt, as if carved out of rock.
‘I hear you’re from Glasgow, Carly?’ Suki says.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ So Eddie and Lyla have exchanged a few basic facts as well as the other stuff. ‘We live on the Ayrshire coast now,’ I add, thinking: isn’t it glaringly obvious that they’re not a couple? They’re both attractive young people but there’s no chemistry, no spark between them. They could be strangers sitting together on the bus.
‘And you’re Portuguese, Frank? Is that right?’
‘Yes. Yeah, that’s right.’ He nods grimly.
‘My ex, Sebastian, has a place on the Algarve. A beautiful part of the world …’
When are we going to talk about the baby? Not yet, as now Suki is telling us about her childhood in rural Gloucestershire (‘So, so, dull, I basically spent my first ten years swinging on a farm gate’), and how her current boyfriend – ‘an incredible plumber’ – is refitting her Edinburgh bathroom. ‘Finally, a regular guy. Isn’t he lovely, Lyles?’
‘So lovely,’ Lyla agrees.
‘Nightmare, though,’ Suki declares with an eye-roll. ‘I know which taps I want. It’s only my flat, my bathroom. But no, Tom knows best. But he’s a sweetie really, I shouldn’t complain, should I, Lyles? After all the duds I was due a good one …’ All of this is delivered in a breathless stream while Frank watches her, agog, as if he’s never encountered anyone quite like her before. Admittedly, there aren’t many Sukis in Sandybanks. While sweat pools on my chest beneath my second-hand sweater, she looks as fresh as a daisy in a pale blue linen dress.
Finally, she stops to draw breath. ‘We should order, Mum,’ Lyla remarks, glancing around for a server.
‘Yes, darling,’ her mother says. ‘They’re awfully busy today, aren’t they?’ As if all this is normal and no one is pregnant and Eddie are Lyla are madly in love.
‘So, um, Suki,’ I start, grabbing at my chance to jump in. ‘I wondered … I mean, I’ve been thinking, with this situation with Lyla and Eddie …’ I catch a wave of horror crashing across my son’s face. Well, it’s happening, I transmit back to him. We might as well face it instead of pretending we’ve all been thrown together to discuss Suki’s bathroom fittings! ‘So I was thinking,’ I go on, my heart thumping as I look around the table, ‘that we should probably talk about how we’re all going to—’
‘—How we’re going to celebrate?’ Suki cuts in. ‘Yes, of course. Excellent idea!’ She cranes her long, slender neck and waves to a young waitress. ‘Nina, love? When you have a minute?’
‘Oh, Suki.’ The girl hurries over. ‘Sorry, it’s nuts in here today …’
‘No worries, darling. No worries at all. But when you have a minute I think we’d all love some champagne.’