Falling

by Jane Green

  “What’s going on?” says Dominic. “I’m very confused. It must be an English thing, but is Henry a man or a woman? I think George is a man, although I’m not totally sure. And Henry is marrying George? Have I got that straight? Meanwhile, I think Henry’s got the hots for your mother.”

  “Oh God.” Emma snorts with laughter. “Don’t. That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s true. You know it’s true. That’s why you’re laughing.”

  “Yes. Henry was looking at my mother rather adoringly.” She winces. “You don’t actually think she’s got the hots for her, do you? Because that would be ever so slightly wrong.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s an English thing but George seems gay, not that there’s anything wrong with that, and Henry seems to be, well . . . a man. Which is maybe why George wants to marry her. Him.”

  “We’re being awful,” says Emma with another giggle. “We must stop. Although, I did always think George was gay,” says Emma. “Which might explain his attraction to Henry.”

  “And me.”

  “Oh God! Yes! When you walked in, George looked like he had died and gone to heaven to find the hunky American of his dreams standing at the gate.”

  “I want to tell you that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, but yeah. That’s pretty much what he looked like. You told me a little bit about your family, I know, but apparently you’ve kept the best part a secret!”

  “I didn’t know!” Emma laughs. “I haven’t seen George properly since he was a little boy. When I heard he’d got engaged, I was a bit surprised. I guess for all these years I’d assumed wrong.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Guess so,” echoes Emma. “Henry seems nice, though. In a very jolly hockey sticks kind of way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “English public schoolgirl. Super excited and enthusiastic about everything.”

  “When you say schoolgirl, you actually mean . . .”

  “At least she’s nice. Look, we’d better get back. If my mother becomes too impossible, we’d better have a plan of action. It won’t do to dissolve in hysterics in front of everyone.”

  “We need a code word,” says Dominic. “How about birdcage?”

  “Oh, you’re funny. Fine. Birdcage it is.”

  “If I say birdcage, that means you have to get me out of there, fast. Got it?”

  “Got it,” says Emma. Then she ruefully shakes her head at Dominic. “I really thought we were going to have a quiet evening where my parents could get to know you. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It isn’t what I expected, either, but it’s probably more fun.”

  • • •

  “This cold pea soup is really good,” says Dominic, as they sit around the dining room table.

  “It’s not meant to be cold,” mutters Emma under her breath. “It’s my mother’s cooking.”

  “What?” says her mother, from the other end of the table.

  “Dominic said the soup is cool,” says George, winking at Dominic. “I think that’s American slang for delicious.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” says Georgina. “I was worried it wasn’t quite hot enough. I do love to cook, but I’m not always so good with timing.”

  “She’s right,” says her husband jovially from the other end of the table. “Delicious food, always cold.”

  “Or overcooked,” booms Georgina with a laugh. “I’m lucky you love my overcooked broccoli.”

  “Sounds delicious,” says Dominic quietly, going back to his soup.

  “So, Dominic.” George lays down his spoon. “You look like you’re in shockingly good shape. Is that from working out or is it something in the water over there?”

  “I don’t work out,” says Dominic with a smile. “Not anymore, anyway. I was a gym rat in my twenties, but now I mostly stay in shape with a lot of physical labor.”

  “Like what?”

  “Dominic’s a carpenter,” says Emma. “He made the most beautiful bookshelves for my house.”

  “That’s right,” says George. “Now I remember. Your mother told me he’s your landlord. That’s handy. A hunky landlord who makes things.” He shoots Emma an approving glance. “You certainly hit the jackpot.”

  “I don’t just make things,” Dominic says. “I work as a bartender, too.”

  “A what?” Georgina says, turning to Henry and saying under her breath, but loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I can’t understand anything he says. It must be the accent. What did he say?”

  “He said he works as a bartender,” says Henry loudly.

  “A bartender?” says Georgina, composing her features into the politest expression she can muster. “How . . . fun.”

  “Fun is not the word I’d use,” Dominic says with a laugh. “That’s where the muscles are from. I haul boxes of wine and liquor up and down from the cellar all day long.”

  “Nice,” coos George, as Henry bursts out laughing.

  “Stop teasing him,” she tells George.

  Emma and Dominic exchange confused glances.

  Birdcage? mouths Dominic as Emma shakes her head and laughs.

  “What about your family?” says Georgina. “What line of business are they in?”

  “My dad worked in the restaurant business,” says Dominic. “He was a cook.”

  “A chef!” Georgina perks up. There’s something she can work with. “How nice! Maybe he can give me some tips on timing.”

  “That’s not really—” Dominic starts to speak but Henry interrupts, much to Emma’s relief. Emma doesn’t care what kind of job Dominic’s father had. She doesn’t care if he was unemployed his entire life. But her mother would. And the less Georgina knows about Dominic’s family, the better. At least until she gets to know him, and fully accepts him into the family.

  So Henry’s interjection saves the day. “Emma!” she says brightly. “George says you love living in America! We were thinking about coming over to the States for our honeymoon. I’ve always wanted to see New England. What do you think? Would you help us work out where to go?”

  “Of course,” says Emma, “I’d be happy to. I’m dying to hear all about the two of you. Where did you meet?”

  “You tell it,” says George, looking at Henry. “You always tell it so much better than me.”

  “It’s terribly unromantic.” Henry giggles. “It was in Tesco Metro. I had a group of friends coming for dinner, but I’d burnt the stew—complete accident, I didn’t realize the burner was misaligned—so I was desperately trying to cobble together something passable at the last minute.”

  “One of her dinner guests was a chef,” says George. “So she had to impress.”

  “Did your hands meet over the potatoes?” asks Emma.

  “Almost!” Henry says. “I had paused by the cauliflower, trying to decide whether I ought to buy it, when George started talking to me.”

  “She was actually wearing a sweatshirt saying Oxford University.”

  “I didn’t go to Oxford, though,” says Henry. “Far too stupid!” And she starts laughing. “I did a cordon bleu instead.”

  “Which means she is a far better cook than I will ever be, but we started talking about Oxford . . .” says George.

  “And all my best friends went there, and George knew all of them, including two of the people coming for dinner.”

  “So I gave her my recipe for tandoori cauliflower, not knowing she was already an amazing cook . . .”

  “And I invited him for dinner.”

  “And the rest,” says George, reaching for Henry’s hand, “is history.”

  “He never left.” Henry rolls her eyes as George looks at her adoringly.

  Emma shoots a look at Dominic as they give each other the tiniest of shrugs. Clearly they both got it very
wrong.

  “And now the two of you are about to embark on the journey of a lifetime, starting tomorrow night!” says Georgina, from the end of the table. “I’m utterly thrilled to be the one hosting your engagement party. The two of you are going to be gloriously happy forever.”

  “Thank you,” says George. Then he shoots a fond look at Emma and Dominic. “Maybe there will be another announcement soon . . .”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Emma’s mother says clearly, her hearing suddenly fine.

  “I’ll clear.” Emma, bright red, jumps up, gathering plates and whisking them into the kitchen. She loads the plates into the dishwasher, aware her heart is pounding, embarrassed for Dominic, who surely must have heard her mother’s remark, embarrassed for herself. Dominic probably didn’t understand. He may have assumed her mother was simply implying that it’s too early in their relationship to be considering marriage. But Emma knows better. She knows her mother too well. It was a clear statement that Emma should not be marrying someone like that. That Dominic is beneath her.

  A wave of dismay washes over her. This is why she left to take a job in New York. She didn’t want to deal with her mother’s bullshit anymore, her passive-aggressive digs, her ridiculous snobbery.

  I shouldn’t have come back, she thinks. It’s so much easier when I see them on my turf, when they fly to New York for a week and I can take them to dinner, to a show, perhaps a lunch or tea and send them off sightseeing. But this? Being in my childhood home, having to deal with my mother’s snobbery and not being able to escape, is awful.

  Emma places her hands on the kitchen counter and steps back, looking at the floor, taking a few deep breaths. The sound of footsteps behind her startles her, and she looks up to see Dominic coming through the kitchen doorway, juggling a stack of plates.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, concern in his eyes.

  “I’m fine.” She forces a smile. “It’s just always a challenge, being home.”

  “Was it what your mom said? Not knowing about an announcement?”

  Emma shrugs. “Kind of. It just seemed so unnecessary. I know we haven’t been together long, but she didn’t need to point it out.”

  Dominic smiles. “That wasn’t what she was pointing out and you know it.”

  Emma swallows hard. “What do you mean?”

  “Someone like you? Someone who grew up with this?” He gestures around the kitchen. “Someone like you does not end up with someone like me. Even I see that.”

  Emma stares at him as Dominic sighs.

  “Look, I knew as soon as I met you that we are from very different worlds. I feel like I’ve stepped into the queen’s palace here. Your parents can definitely see I don’t belong. I’m okay with that, but yeah, the thought of you and me getting formally engaged and having a party here like the one your parents are throwing tomorrow is crazy. If my parents came, they would be so intimidated, they would get drunk and end up throwing up on one of the antique rugs.”

  Emma’s face falls. “Are you saying you and I are pointless? That it can’t go anywhere? That maybe we shouldn’t be together?”

  “What? No!” He steps toward her and places his hands on her arms. “God, no. I know that what you and I have is rare, and really special. I also know that we come from very different backgrounds, and not everybody’s going to understand that. I get that your mom doesn’t understand it. I get that most of the people who are going to show up tomorrow for the party aren’t going to understand it, either. They’re going to wonder what you’re doing with a guy like me. But that’s okay. I know what we’re doing together, and you know what we’re doing together. That’s all that matters. You know that, right?”

  Emma’s eyes are filled with tears as she nods. “I do know that. I needed to hear it from you. Thank you.” She sniffles again. “I’m sorry about my mother,” she adds. “I was hoping she would behave better.”

  “Honey, I’m a bartender at the Fat Hen, remember? This is nothing. She says anything else, though, and I’ll take her down. Boom!”

  Emma starts to laugh as she allows herself to be pulled in for a hug, the anger, embarrassment, and angst all gone.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Emma smiles as her mother bustles in. “Nothing. We’re just clearing up. We’ll go and get the rest of the plates.”

  She takes Dominic’s hand and leads him back to the dining room. She may have forgiven her mother for the time being, but the last thing she needs is to give her the opportunity to say anything else.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I could get used to this,” says Dominic, settling back on the bench, nursing his pint of Guinness as a ploughman’s lunch is set in front of him. “Beer, bread, and cheese. Does life get any better?”

  “Cheers.” Emma lifts her vodka and tonic in a toast to Dominic and her father, relieved that the three of them have managed to get away.

  The caterers showed up late that morning, with teams of men to finish off the tent. A truck had trundled down the driveway even earlier, just after seven, dropping off vases filled with sweet peas and peonies, banging, clattering, shouting. The noise they’d made seemed entirely unreasonable, Emma felt, so early in the morning.

  And Georgina bustled in and out of the house directing everyone, pretending to be stressed, although Emma knew she was loving every second.

  Emma had grabbed some toast, made tea for herself and Dominic, and sneaked quietly back upstairs to bed, thinking it was the only peaceful place in the house. It quickly became apparent that there was no peaceful place in the house; the noise and banging could be heard everywhere. In the end Dominic and Emma got dressed and went for a walk.

  It was noon by the time they approached the pub. Neither of them could face going back to the house, so they headed inside the eighteenth-century building. There, tucked into a corner with a stack of newspapers and a pint, was Emma’s father.

  “Dad? What are you doing here?”

  He had put his paper down and groaned. “It’s the noise. I can’t bear it. Your mother’s gone into overdrive and I had to get out. I’ve got enough here to read to keep me busy for hours.”

  “May we join you?”

  His face lit up. “Of course.”

  The three of them toast each other and sip their drinks as Emma’s father closes his eyes in pleasure. “I love your mother,” he says, his eyes still closed, “but she does drive me up the wall.”

  “My father’s an introvert,” Emma says unnecessarily to Dominic, reaching over for a piece of his cheese. “And my mother, as you have doubtless realized, is an extrovert. It makes for an interesting partnership, don’t you think, Dad?”

  “Interesting is the polite way of putting it.” He smiles.

  “And I”—Emma gestures to herself—“just in case you haven’t already guessed, take after my dad.” For years, Emma realizes, as she speaks, she had thought she ought to be different. More like her mother, more outgoing, more ambitious, but suddenly she knows she is perfectly content to be like her dad; to be herself.

  “It’s funny,” Dominic says. “You seem really outgoing. You’re not shy at all.”

  “That’s not really what introversion is about,” says Emma. “Although everyone seems to think otherwise. Being an introvert really means you recharge your batteries by being alone. You can be sociable, and outgoing and enjoy people, but only for limited amounts of time. Large groups and lots of stimulation exhaust an introvert. Literally, for every hour spent at a party, an introvert will need two hours on their own.”

  “I’m the opposite, clearly,” Dominic says.

  “Indeed you are,” says Emma, smiling. “Definitely an extrovert. You’re okay on your own, but when you’re feeling drained or tired, you make yourself feel better by inviting a ton of people over, or going to work at the Fat Hen.”

  “It’s true.” Dominic
nods as he sips his pint. “Does that mean an extrovert and an introvert shouldn’t be together?”

  Emma’s father laughs. “You might think that from looking at Emma’s mother and me, but no. I think it’s rather good for you to marry the opposite. It brings balance to your life. If my wife didn’t force me out from time to time, I’d never leave the house.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I would actually be quite happy never leaving the house. But I also know that in order to live a full life, I have to have other experiences. It’s good for me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Except when she says she’s throwing an engagement party and it turns out to be the equivalent of a wedding.” He shakes his head in dismay.

  “Speaking of, where are George and Henry today?” Emma asks.

  “George has found some spa in Yeovil and has booked a massage.” Simon says this without expression, leaving it to Emma to raise her eyebrows. “And Henry is accompanying him to get her hair and makeup done.”

  “Henry wears makeup?” asks Dominic.

  “Not that I’ve seen,” admits Emma’s father. “But there it is. I’m also slightly unclear as to what exactly could be done with her hair. It’s terribly short.”

  “Have you planned your escape route for tonight?” Emma teases her father.

  “I was thinking about booking a room at the Summer House. Just in case the party’s too noisy. Although we do have the box room at the front of the house,” he adds. “I’m sure the bed in there is shockingly uncomfortable, but if I have to escape to a quiet spot, I think that’s probably going to be the quietest I can find.”

  “What on earth is a box room?” says Dominic with a frown.

  “It’s a junk room,” explains Emma. “It’s the tiniest bedroom where you put everything that doesn’t fit anywhere else.” She turns to her father. “Can we join you?”

  “That will be cozy.” Her father laughs as they lean toward each other.

  Dominic watches the two of them and sees, suddenly, how much they look alike, how similar they are.