by Sandie Jones
I couldn’t help but notice the turn of phrase: ‘she’d’ instead of ‘she’ll’. There’s a big difference between the two – one hypothetical, the other intentional. The sentence spoke volumes.
‘So, you’re not planning on introducing us anytime soon then?’ I asked, as lightly as I could.
‘We’ve only been together for a month.’ He sighed, sensing the weight of the question. ‘Let’s just take our time, see how it goes.’
‘So, I’m good enough to sleep with, but not to meet your mother?’
‘You’re good enough for both.’ He laughed. ‘Let’s just take it slowly. No pressure. No promises.’
I fought the tightness at the back of my throat, and turned away from him. No pressure. No promises? What was this? And why did it matter so much? I could count on two hands how many lovers I’d had. Every one of them had meant something, apart from a shockingly uncharacteristic one-night stand I’d had at a friend’s twenty-first birthday.
But despite having been in love and lust before, I couldn’t ever remember feeling this safe. And that’s how Adam made me feel. He made me feel all of the above. Every little box had a tick in it and, for the first time in my adult life, I felt whole, as if all the jigsaw pieces had been slotted into place.
‘Okay,’ I said, annoyed by my own neediness. I would have gladly shown him off to my mother’s half-aunt’s second cousin, twice removed. Clearly, he didn’t feel the same and, despite myself, it hurt.
3
A horn blared.
Pippa, who was hanging out the window, sneaking a cigarette, shouted, ‘Your boyfriend’s here, in his posh car.’
‘Ssh,’ I retorted. ‘He’ll hear you.’
‘He’s three floors down. And half the bloody street can hear him, so I wouldn’t worry about it.’
I squeezed through the same window and gave him a wave. He tooted back, and Bill, our next-door neighbour, looked up from washing his car. ‘It’s all right, Bill,’ Pippa shouted down. ‘It’s Emily’s fancy man.’
Bill shrugged and got back to the task in hand. He was the best type of neighbour you could have: keeping a lookout when he needed to, and turning a blind eye when he didn’t.
Pippa and I weren’t the typical demographic for the area; young married couples, with 2.5 children, were the norm. They claimed to love Lee, this diverse enclave between Lewisham and Blackheath, but we and they knew they were just biding their time until they were able to climb that very big step up to the latter. SE3 was where everyone wanted to be, with its quirky village feel and vast open spaces. They say that the plague victims of the seventeenth century were buried up on Blackheath, hence the name, but it doesn’t bother people enough to stop them holding impromptu barbecues on a summer’s evening. Many a time, Pippa and I have joined the masses pretending to live there, by lighting up a disposable foil tray that we’ve hastily bought at the petrol station. We always end up going up there too late to get the best spots by the pubs, and by the time we’ve trusted the British weather, it’s gone 4 p.m. and Sainsbury’s BBQ section has been stripped bare.
‘Ooh, you look nice,’ remarked Pippa.
I smoothed down the front of my body-con dress, even though there was nothing to smooth down. ‘You think?’
I’d spent the best part of an hour choosing what to wear, agonizing between the casualness of a pretty blouse and white jeans, and the more formal look of a structured dress. I didn’t want to look like I’d tried too hard, but not making enough effort was probably worse, so the navy dress won out. The crêpe cinched in at my waist, out again over my hips and fell just below the knee. There was just the tiniest amount of cleavage showing, and the fabric shaped my breasts perfectly. As my mother would say, ‘That dress hangs in all the right places.’
‘Nervous?’ asked Pippa.
‘I’m all right, actually,’ I lied. She didn’t need to know that a further hour had been spent on blow-drying my hair, putting it up, then down, then up again. It was longer than it had been in quite a while, falling just below my shoulders, and I’d had a few highlights pulled through my natural auburn colour to give it a lift. I’d settled on pinning it up, and had coaxed a couple of loose curls to fall either side of my face to soften the look. The French manicure I’d had done a couple of days before was holding up well, and I’d kept my make-up light and natural. Effortlessly chic was the image I was going for – I was, after all, only meeting my boyfriend’s mother – but, in reality, I’d done less preparation for a good friend’s wedding.
‘Good luck,’ she called out as I reached the front door. ‘She’s going to love you.’
I wished that I shared her confidence.
I caught sight of Adam watching me as I walked down the path, with a bouquet in my hand, and emphasized my strut. ‘Whoa, you look gorgeous,’ he said, as I got in and reached over to give him a kiss. It went on a little longer than we’d expected and I lambasted him for ruining my lipstick.
‘Yeah, you might need to reapply that,’ he said, smiling as he wiped his lips. ‘You got a spare pair of tights as well?’ His hand travelled up between my legs. ‘Just in case I rip these.’
I looked up at Bill, who was buffing his car bonnet, and playfully swiped Adam’s hand away. ‘Will you stop it? The poor man’s already had one heart attack. I don’t want to give him another.’
‘It’s probably the most action he’s seen in years.’ He laughed.
I tutted and carefully laid the flowers on the back seat. ‘Trying to impress someone, are we?’ he asked, smiling.
‘Oh ha-bloody-ha,’ I said.
‘You feel okay about this?’ He reached over and took my hand in his.
‘A little bit sick,’ I replied, honestly. ‘I’ve only ever met one mum before.’
He laughed. ‘Well that couldn’t have gone too well, then, if you’re here with me.’
I gave him a playful dig. ‘It’s a big deal. If she doesn’t like me, I’m doomed. You probably won’t even give me a lift back.’
‘She’ll love you,’ he said, going to ruffle my hair.
I caught his hand in mid-air. ‘Don’t even think about it. Do you have any idea how long this up-do has taken?’
‘Bloody hell, you don’t even make this much effort when you’re going out with me. Maybe I should introduce you to my mum more often.’ He laughed.
‘I don’t need to impress you anymore,’ I said. ‘I’ve got you wrapped around my little finger, right where I want you. It’s your mum I need to get under my spell now. If I can get her on side, I can rule the world.’ I let out a sinister cackle.
‘I’ve told her you’re normal. You’d better start acting like it.’
‘You’ve told her I’m normal?’ I shrieked, in mock protest. ‘Well that doesn’t make me sound very exciting, does it? Couldn’t you have sexed it up a bit?’ I watched his face break into a grin. ‘What else have you said about me?’
He thought for a moment. ‘That you’re funny, clever, and can make a mean English breakfast.’
‘Adam!’ I moaned. ‘Is that it? Is that all I am to you? A purveyor of sausages?’
We both laughed. ‘Do you think she’ll like me? Honestly?’
‘Honestly, I think she’ll love you. There’s nothing not to love.’
If that was his way of saying he loved me, I’d take it. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. He hadn’t said it properly yet, but we’d not yet been together for two months, so I chose to see it in the things that he did, like showing up at my office at lunchtime, with a sandwich for me to have at my desk. Or when he turned up at the flat when I had a cold, and laid on the bed with me as I sneezed and sniffed all over him. Those things were surely worth more than three stupid little words? Anyone can say them and not mean them. Actions speak louder, was my philosophy, and I was sticking to it, until of course he said the immortal, ‘I love you’, and then actions wouldn’t mean diddlysquat.
We headed out to the A21 listening to Smooth Radio; it was his mum’s
favourite station, he said. It would help get me in the right frame of mind. I could have done with something to think of other than meeting his mum, rather than channelling her favourite tunes into my head.
‘So, what’s she like?’ I asked.
He considered it for a moment, and rubbed at the bristle on his chin. ‘She’s like any mother, I suppose. A homemaker, peacemaker, fiercely loyal and protective of her children. I hope I offer the same loyalty in return. I won’t hear a bad word said about her. She’s a good woman.’
If I wasn’t already feeling the pressure of needing her to like me, his comment compounded it even further. And God forbid, if I didn’t like her, I already knew I was on my own. I had to make this work for both our sakes.
I was thankful when Will Smith’s ‘Summertime’ came on the radio, and we both sang it, word for word, until the line, ‘the smell from a grill could spark off nostalgia’.
‘It’s not “grill”.’ He let out a laugh. ‘It’s “girl”!’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’ I retorted. ‘Girl? The smell from a girl sparks off nostalgia? They’re at a barbecue, they’re not going to have sausages sizzling on the rack and comment on a passing girl’s aroma, are they?’
He looked over at me as if I was mad. ‘What kind of grill smell would spark off nostalgia?’
‘I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. Everyone knows it’s grill.’
‘We’ll google it when we get to Mum’s.’
I liked the way he said ‘Mum’s’, rather than ‘my mum’s’. It made me feel more included. ‘This Smooth Radio is a revelation,’ I said. ‘I didn’t have your mother down as a fan of Big Willie Style. Who knew?’
His face changed and a chill filled the car. ‘That’s my mother you’re talking about,’ he said, an edge to his voice. ‘I don’t think that’s very appropriate, do you?’
I laughed, assuming he was playing me along. Though as I watched his features change from soft to pinched, I should have sensed that it wasn’t a joke.
‘Ooh, don’t go getting on your high horse.’ I chuckled, waiting for his face to crack, but it remained taut.
‘You’re being disrespectful.’
I suppressed a giggle. ‘Christ, I was just—’
‘You were just what?’ he snapped. He indicated over to the slow lane and my chest tightened as I played out the next few minutes in my head. I could see him turning around at the next exit. Me being left on the pavement outside the flat, whilst he sped off. How had we gone from joking around, to him rearing up like this? How had it all gone so horribly wrong in such a short space of time?
His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel with both hands. I reached across and gently placed my hand on top of his. ‘I’m sorry,’ I offered, though I didn’t really know what I was apologizing for.
‘Do you want to do this or not?’ he said, his voice softening. ‘’Cause we can just cancel if you’re not ready . . .’
He made it sound like I was the subject of some kind of test. Perhaps I was.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said softly. I didn’t want my voice to sound so conciliatory, but I was so shocked I couldn’t help it.
He flicked the radio over to Kiss FM and we drove the rest of the journey in silence.
4
‘I always vowed I wouldn’t be the kind of mum that would do this, but just let me show you this one.’
Adam groaned as his mother flicked through the large, maroon leather-bound photo album resting on her knee.
‘Oh, stop moaning,’ she chastised. ‘You were the cutest baby.’
She patted the floral fabric of the seat beside her on the sofa, and I sat down.
‘Look here.’ She pointed. ‘That’s Adam and James in our garden, back in Reading. There’s thirteen months between them, but you can’t tell them apart, can you? They were such good babies. All the neighbours would say what bonny faces they had, and you’d never hear them cry. They were perfect.’
I looked up at Adam, who had tutted and wandered over, hands in his pockets, to the bookcase in the corner of the room. His head tilted to one side as he read the spines of the twenty or so albums gracing the shelves, each carefully documented by year.
‘It’s lovely to have so many photos,’ I commented. ‘Ones that you can really look at.’
‘Oh, you’re so right, dear. Nobody even prints them anymore, do they? They just take them on their phone things and probably never look at them again. Such a shame. This is the way photos should be displayed.’ She stroked the plastic film that separated her from the photo of a beaming four-year-old Adam, proudly holding a fish, albeit a tiddler, aloft. A man grinned into the camera lens from behind.
‘Is that Adam’s father?’ I asked, tentatively.
Adam had apologized for snapping at me earlier, but I still felt on edge. I’d never seen that side of him before. I wondered if I’d been ‘inappropriate’ by asking about his father, but he didn’t turn around to face me. He stayed stock-still, shoulders set.
There was a momentary pause before his mother answered. ‘Yes,’ she choked. ‘That’s my Jim. He was such a good man, a real pillar of the community. “Here come Pammie and Jim”, everyone would say, wherever we went. We were the perfect couple.’
Her chest began to heave and she quickly pulled out a hanky from her cardigan sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, as she blew her nose. ‘It still gets to me now, all these years later. So silly of me, but I can’t help it.’
I reached my hand across to hers and gave it a squeeze. ‘Not at all. It must be terribly difficult for you. I can’t even begin to imagine. Your husband was so young, too, wasn’t he?’
‘Come on Mum, you’re okay,’ said Adam softly, as he came over and knelt down in front of her. She immediately dropped my hand and held his face between hers, her fingers stroking his two-week beard. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and he gently wiped them away. ‘It’s okay, Mum. It’s okay.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, pulling herself up straight, as if the gesture would give her more strength. ‘I don’t know why I still get like this.’
‘I’m sure it’s perfectly normal,’ I offered, as I removed my hand from where she’d dropped it on her knee.
I tucked a loose curl behind my ear and, as I looked at Pammie, a wave of guilt washed over me. I’d spent the best part of three days planning this whole event in my head: what I was going to wear, how I wanted to be perceived, how I should act and what I should say. How selfish of me. This woman, no matter how well she looked after herself, could never hide the years of hurt and grief that quite literally made her shoulders stoop with the weight. The feathered hairstyle, cut close around her face and neck, with its en vogue streaks of grey, so evenly distributed that it could only have been done in a salon, could never disguise her pain. Nor could her porcelain-smooth skin that fell into deep creases around her sad, hollow, eyes as she looked at me, biting down on her bottom lip. The shock and grief of losing her beloved husband all those years before, so soon after becoming parents, was still etched on her face. Here was a couple who were embarking on a new and exciting chapter in their lives, but then she’d been widowed and left on her own to cope with two children. The importance of how I looked, and what I should wear, now seemed pathetically trivial. So too did Adam’s sharp words earlier. There was a much bigger picture going on here, and if I wanted to be a part of it, I’d be wise to remind myself what was important and what wasn’t.
‘And I suppose we’ve got this lovely girl here to thank for this new addition?’ she smiled half-heartedly, whilst still ruffling Adam’s beard.
I held my hands up in mock remorse. ‘Guilty as charged,’ I offered. ‘I love it. I think it really suits him.’
‘Oh, it does, it does,’ she crowed. ‘Makes you even more handsome.’ She pulled him to her and nestled against his shoulder. ‘My handsome boy. You’ll always be my handsome boy.’
Adam awkwardly extricated himself from her,
and looked at me, his face flushed. ‘Shall we get some lunch? Is there anything we can help you with?’
Pammie’s sniffs were beginning to subside. She pulled at the arms of her cardigan and smoothed down her tartan skirt.
‘Not at all,’ she said, wagging a finger. ‘It’s ready, I prepared it all this morning. Perhaps, Adam, you could help me fetch it in from the kitchen?’
I went to get up from the sofa. ‘No, no,’ she insisted. ‘You stay here.’
She carefully laid the photo album on the cushion next to me, and followed Adam into the side room. ‘We won’t be a moment.’
I didn’t want to carry on looking through the pictures without Pammie or Adam being there – it somehow felt intrusive – but I allowed my eye to fall on the open page that was laid bare in front of me. Top right was a photo of Adam with his arms wrapped tightly around a woman, his lips softly brushing her cheek. My heart lurched as I picked it up for a closer look. The couple exuded happiness as the camera captured the candid shot. It wasn’t posed or set up, it was a spontaneous moment caught on film, the pair oblivious to the prying lens. I fought the tightness in my chest, and staved off the vice-like grip that was threatening to snake its way up my throat.
I knew he’d had girlfriends before me – of course he had – but that didn’t stop the insecurities from creeping in. He looked so relaxed and at one with himself; I thought he was happy when he was with me, but this was a different expression, one I hadn’t seen before. His hair was longer, and his face fuller, but most of all he seemed carefree, smiling at life. The girl was equally at ease, soft brown curls fell around her face, and her eyes laughed as Adam’s strong arms engulfed her.
I found myself asking if that’s what we would look like if a photo was taken of us. Would our faces show the same abandonment? Would our feelings for each other be clear for all to see?
I chastised myself for allowing doubt and petty jealousy to sneak in. If they’d been that happy they wouldn’t have split up, would they? They’d still be together now, and our paths would never have crossed.