by J Wells
“What do you expect? You dated that he/she Danielle for nearly a year.”
“Piss off, Tasha, she wasn’t a he/she.”
“Well, she did a good job of looking like a bloke, and when she told me to call her Dan, I presumed it was short for Daniel.”
“Hey, listen up, I’m no dike!” She slams her hand down on the dash. “I’m bi-sexual. In any case, people are allowed to change their mind. You got a problem with that?”
I drop down a gear, pulling up at traffic lights. Adrianna’s face looks anything but amused, so I purse my lips, trying to hold on to that snigger just a while longer. With her raging hormones, if I don’t I’m sure to get a slap. I keep my eyes on her. Her round face seems to almost swallow up her cheekbones, making her look older than her thirty-two years and quite ordinary, plus she doesn’t wear a trace of make-up. Her only redeeming feature is her eyes, which are the lightest blue and under different lighting almost manage to sparkle. She might not like being labelled a dike, but she dresses and looks like the stereotypical lesbian, so she should either change her style or accept people’s perception of her, even if it does happen to be misconstrued.
“Don’t be daft, we all accepted Danielle. Mum and Dad loved her; she was round the house most days, and after the eleven months you were with her she was like part of the furniture. Mum still sends her a card each birthday and Christmas.”
“You are fucking joking! Why’s she still sending that woman cards? Danielle was the one who cheated, and where was Mum’s support? Obviously not with me, her own daughter! So, Tash, go figure.”
“Can’t be arsed to listen.”
My concentration is back on the road, and I push her into first as the lights turn to green.
“If this is the mood you’re in, I’ll go home.”
It’s 2.30 p.m., and I manage the fifteen-minute drive to Mum and Dad’s in less than ten. My thoughts are unchanged; I’m going straight home. In any case, if I don’t turn up soon, fat Larry will wonder where I’ve got to. Three o’clock sharp he’s in the kitchen tapping his ceramic bowl with his paw.
I gaze at Mum and Dad’s end terrace. Dad’s busy Lizzies are trailing down the wall from hanging baskets, and my eyes move to the asymmetric lawn where the borders are edged to perfection. Every weekend when the weather allows he rummages through the small square cloakroom for his patched corduroy trousers and worn-leather shoes. Hours at a time we lose him to the garden, where he obsesses over his flower beds. I caught him talking to his roses once; he swore he wasn’t, but I know my dad and I know what I heard. God love him, he can recite the Latin name for every flower he’s ever planted. Amaryllis belladonna is one of his favourites; he calls them his little pink ladies.
In a slightly shaded area at the far end of the garden sits his pride and joy, a pretty fuchsia bush which he tends to daily, the dainty petals of each flower resembling the colourful dresses of petite ballerinas dancing when caught by the warm breeze. With its ever-changing seasons, Mum says the garden is the other woman in Dad’s life and I have to agree; I’m sure she’s his secret love affair.
I can’t draw my eyes from the house, no matter how much I want to, and I’m unable to drive off without popping my head around the door with a quick hello. I’m not sure if Mum’s at home, but Dad’s black Ford Focus is on the drive. I guess I’ve got time for a quick chat and a cuppa.
“Well, you coming in or not?”
By the time I decide what I’m going to do, Adrianna has slammed the door of my car, entered the house and pulled the bathroom blinds down.
I reach behind me, grab my handbag and pull out a long-toothed comb. Repositioning the rear-view mirror, I pull the comb down the length of my blonde waves; they jump up in spiral curls at my shoulder and then fall way past. I take off my sunglasses, trapping them back under the visor. I’m normally pale, but feel I look quite insipid this afternoon. I lean closer towards the mirror, narrowing my brown eyes; there seem to be more creases around them than usual. I stifle a yawn with my hand. I’m tired and can’t say I’m surprised after a couple of hours in Adrianna’s company. I watch my eyes widen; I’m the mug who’s agreed to be her birthing partner. I can only imagine the ear bashing I’m going to get when she’s actually in labour. At least she’s getting a baby, something nice at the end of it; I’ll probably end up with a partially dislocated hand and be in need of intensive therapy.
Locking my car, I walk up the narrow-bricked path. Dad’s already pulled the bins out for tomorrow’s early morning collection; the blue recycling bin is overflowing with empty cider cans and wine bottles. That’s Mum all over, constantly inviting her friends round. I swallow hard. Weekends are a joke; she’s always got someone dropping in, but it’s just another excuse to pop a cork. ‘Happy-go-lucky’ is a phrase most people who know her come up with; not surprising really, since you could never call her totally sober. She even has a tot of whiskey in her tea at breakfast, so she’s either merry or well on the way to getting pissed. Next to the blue bin is the green garden waste, its lid also angled up, full of dying grass and hedge cuttings. Mum jokes that Dad’s becoming almost a prisoner to his garden, but I guess in essence it’s becoming more of a safe haven from all the hangers-on that come round for their weekly gossip and freebies.
I bend down to pick up a parcel on the doorstep. I glance at the recipient; it’s addressed to Adrianna. I wonder if it’s the rattle or teething toys she’s ordered from Amazon. I smile and let myself in. The tips of my heels tap against the polished wooden floor in the hallway. I place the parcel on a small three-legged table to my left and look up.
To welcome me there are paintings on every wall, following one another down the staircase, each of Mum in a different pose and wearing a different dress. There are no abstract works of art or family portraits to be seen; I guess we just weren’t good looking enough to earn even a few inches of her wall space. I can’t help but look up at her with admiration, though. Her oval eyes seem to stare down, meeting mine. There is no arguing that she was beautiful back then. I count back in my head; it must be thirty years ago when these were painted. Her lustrous black hair was like an ongoing wave she could almost sit on. I gaze just below her perfectly straight fringe to her eyes; they are brown, no, darker than that, darker than any eyes I’ve ever seen, and to a stranger she could easily pass as having Egyptian genes.
When they were courting, Dad used to write to her every week declaring his love for her. Each letter he wrote was addressed to Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of beauty. Years later when Google was created, my sister looked up the name, and Adrianna being Adrianna she couldn’t keep it to herself. She waited until we had all sat down to dinner, and this particular Saturday evening Josh happened to be dining with us (big mistake). Mum set the beef down on the table for Dad to carve. Adrianna stood up, tapping the side of her glass with her fork, and Dad’s romantic gesture was swallowed up by fact. Hathor was a goddess, Dad had that part correct, and beautiful maybe, but her horns depicted her as some sort of cow goddess. Adrianna couldn’t help but emphasise the cow bit. Josh fell into hysterics, choking on his wine; I didn’t dare so much as bite my lip. Adrianna had loved it, and it showed on her face; as for Dad, he slipped quietly out of the room. Mum’s face had remained straight and she didn’t see the funny side at all; to this day she has never lived it down. Josh still won’t let things lie, he’s like a dog with a bone, and whatever the occasion he finds a little knick-knack shop, usually on a cobbled street in the middle of nowhere, and manages to bring back a small ornamental cow in some shape or form. Mum has quite a collection on the wall unit in the lounge; I can only think she displays them out of politeness, as even now she still doesn’t seem to get his humour. Ten years of Josh, I just get it, him.
The floorboards creak, and I see the shadow of Dad’s gangly figure milling around in the small arched hallway.
His freckled face passes me a large grin.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Shall I pop the k
ettle on?”
He nods, running his soiled fingers through his sparse coppery hair.
“Make that three!” Adrianna calls, flouncing into the kitchen after me.
A blue light comes on as I push the switch down on the kettle.
“When’s Mum due back? Can’t stay long, I haven’t fed Larry.”
“You joking? Bloody dog’s got enough reserves to last him for the year,” Adrianna grunts.
“Actually, I’m thinking of ringing the vets and booking him in; it doesn’t make sense how he keeps putting on weight.”
“Try not feeding him for a change,” she adds, grabbing a ginger nut from the polka-dot biscuit tin.
Then, lifting the tin, she holds it towards me. Not feeling that hungry, I take a broken half and between conversation take tiny bites. Adrianna stuffs the biscuits in her mouth whole.
“My dear.”
We all jump.
“Mum!”
As usual, she looks superb, immaculate, wearing a floral A-line dress that stops an inch or so below her knee. It’s easy to see it’s a designer piece from its fabric and cut. Her hair may not be quite as thick or long as it was thirty years ago, but it still has a beautiful black sheen, although it’s a beauty aided by a bottle these days.
Her eyes dart towards me.
“Your figure, Natasha, think of your figure. August 16th, twelve weeks … three months.”
She points her perfectly manicured finger towards Dad’s gardening calendar.
“I don’t want…” She makes a loud noise in her throat. “Josh doesn’t want a fat bride walking down the aisle now, does he?”
Sheepishly I place the remainder of the ginger nut on the worktop.
“And think of your fitting tomorrow.”
She lifts her chin in the air, reaches past me and grabs the herbal tea bags, I’m sure to make a point.
Adrianna grabs my discarded biscuit and takes a bite.
“Well, I’ve had five,” she gloats, spitting out both crumbs and her words.
“You’re pregnant, so you don’t matter.”
“Thanks a lot, Mum, so you saying I don’t matter?”
I hear the tin slam down against the wooden breakfast bar.
“Adrianna,” she scolds, “stop being so melodramatic. Ginger’s one of the finest things you can have in your condition; baby comes first.”
Adrianna’s face is set in a sulky, childlike frown.
Mum’s eyes hop from me to Dad, as if she’s waiting for us to ease the uncomfortable silence.
“It’s nice…” she stutters. “It’s nice,” she repeats, “you can keep anything down after the sickness you’ve had to put with for the last few months. And anyway, you should know me by now, just talk as my belly guides me.”
“Yeah, doesn’t matter, whatever, Mum.”
Mum turns to the side, rubbing her hand in a circular motion over Adrianna’s belly.
“What I meant to say,” she adds with a pat, “is that it doesn’t matter what you eat.”
Adrianna turns towards the kettle, and lifting it from its stand she pours boiling water into the three ceramic mugs.
“Make that four,” Mum says, sliding her healthy option towards Adrianna.
Moving from mug to mug, she presses the tea bags with the back of a spoon.
Even after what you could call some sort of apology, Adrianna still nitpicks while Mum continues to backtrack. Distracted by a text on my phone, I zone out of their conversation. Sipping my tea, I read.
Fed Larry, got some news, where are you? xx
Mum and dad’s, what news? xx
Not in a text, I’ll tell you later. Xx
“Josh is home, best dash…”
“No, your dad’s cooking tonight.”
I shoot a quick glance his way, and his coppery eyebrows shift.
“I am, am I?”
Mum looks towards me. “Invite him over, we’ll make a night of it. Chris, you’re cooking steak, so you best get down the butchers,” she tells Dad rather than asks.
“No, Josh was on about getting a takeaway. I’ll finish my tea and head home.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Mum butts in.
I follow the direction of Dad’s eyes, which bypass me and come to rest on a Crock plate where three chunky pieces of salmon lie defrosting. He had told Adrianna only moments before Mum waltzed in how much he was looking forward to his dinner this evening. Especially being a Wednesday, the only night Mum is let loose in the kitchen, which meant he could sit and put his feet up and watch a film or maybe an hour of sport.
His mouth drops open.
Mum clicks her fingers. “Oh, Chris, be a love… Before you go, how about you grab a bottle of our very best red? No, on second thoughts, make that two.”
He rolls his eyes as he places his empty mug in the dishwasher. Passing me, he flips the bin lid up and I watch the contents of the Crock plate slide inside.
A starter, a main and two bottles of wine later…
The crochet tablecloth lifts, creasing slightly as Josh’s hand slips onto my knee and squeezes once, then again. An unspoken gesture between us, and from the glint in his eye I know what he has in mind. My blushes answer his question.
“The flowers…”
We’ve been sitting here for over an hour and still my mother drones on, from limos to photography. I don’t know what else to do, so close my eyes tight. The flowers, the fucking flowers! I bury my face in my hands.
“…I’ve been on the phone to the florist and all the flowers are sorted, button holes, corsages, and your bouquet, Natasha, it’s going to look out of this world.”
I let out a long, drawn-out breath and push my chair back on two legs; knocking the wall behind me, it falls back on four.
“What company did you say you hired the limos from?”
I prod my finger into the side of Josh’s leg and out of the side of my mouth whisper for him to ‘shut up’. One thing my mother doesn’t need is encouragement.
He flicks my hand away.
“Oh and, Coral, just an afterthought, I’m sure I never heard you mention the order of service.”
“Joshua, I may be wrong, but you seem more excited than the bride herself. Twelve weeks, you’ll just have to be patient.” Mum rubs her hands together.
“Mrs Smith…”
Oh crap, he only drops the formal Mr or Mrs in when he’s up to something.
“You’re wrong, Tash is so very excited. I can assure you it’s just down to pre-wedding nerves. But I’m sure your organisation skills are putting her mind at rest, so please don’t stop with the flowers. I want to know everything there is to know about our special day.”
My eyes narrow; I could literally strangle him. The side of his face can’t hide the knowing smirk he wears.
“Don’t go forgetting your dress fitting in the morning, nine o’clock sharp,” she says, raising her brows.
I’m not likely to forget considering how often she reminds me.
I glance from face to face around the table. Adrianna sits quietly and still picks at her main; thinking about it, she hasn’t uttered a word all evening. I look to Dad, whose eyes appear glazed, drawn away from us and Mum’s conversation, having wandered their way out of the French window and into his garden.
“Josh, wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot.”
He’s lying, I can see it from his expression and the way he taps his finger on his chin. He knows all this wedding talk gets under my skin and he’s enjoying winding me up far too much to change the subject.
I look to Mum, her face a compendium of smiles. He ticks all the right boxes and says all the right words. Twelve weeks, as everyone keeps reminding me, and he’s already playing the doting son-in-law. At this moment I’d love to hate him, but I just can’t, it would be impossible. It’s his quick-witted humour that draws me to him. He has a knack of taking the piss with a dead-straight face, and most people don’t g
et his humour; looks like Mum’s one of those people, since he reels her in so easily and she takes the bait every time.
Josh’s focus returns to Mum. “Do you mind, Coral?”
“Of course not.”
“I think this calls for a toast.”
Grabbing the neck of a wine bottle, Josh half fills our glasses, with the exception of Adrianna, who sips juice through a straw.
“Adrianna,” Dad interrupts, “do you intend on eating your steak or just playing with it all evening?”
She glances up, leaving her fork standing proud in her charred meat. She pushes the straw from between her lips.
“No, sorry, Dad, can’t stomach it.”
Disturbing the tablecloth, he reaches over.
“Give it here, there’s a love.”
He slaps the 8oz rump onto his own plate. I snigger under my breath. Even with company he doesn’t seem to care about manners or table etiquette. Dad chews loudly as Josh stands, raising his glass.
“To our future.” He smiles down at me.
I raise my shoulders. “Well, out with it then!”
Red wine swills round the sides of his glass; circling his hands, Josh seems intent on watching it do so. He clears his throat, and I expect him to speak at any moment, but his mouth stays closed and a long, drawn-out silence follows. My only thought is that he’s trying to build suspense in the room, though looking round the table he doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job. Mum’s swaying despite sitting down, and I see she’s already half-cut. Adrianna’s face looks like a slapped arse, and as for Dad, he’s finished the steak and all that remains is a line of fat which he picks at with greasy fingers.
Again, Josh clears his throat.
“I got up at seven thirty, the same time I get up every day. I rushed downstairs for a cup of tea and a slice of toast. Grabbed a treat out of the jar for Larry.”
I shake my head. “He’s supposed to be on a diet.”
“Anyway,” he continues, “I got in the car and started her up; there wasn’t one learner driver in my way, but two. Eventually getting round them, I got stuck behind a pedal bike that some old geezer was riding, and there was no way I could get round him. One minute he was up the kerb, the next in the middle of the road. He was that bad he must have been pissed…”