I think I’m going to cry.
‘You’re better off without him,’ says Seb shortly, mistaking my glistening eyes for heartbreak.
I soften slightly at his kindness, watching his long fingers slide the camera back into its holder.
‘They’re ready to go after this number,’ he says, snapping the holder shut. Then he gives me a sideways glance. ‘And, for the record, you most definitely do not have a Great Big Bum.’
Laughter bursts out of me. ‘Well, thanks very much.’
‘Not a problem. Coming?’
‘Lead the way,’ I say, leaping to my feet, feeling better.
He grins and points. ‘Well, not that big, anyway.’
The chair is still attached to my rear end.
Chapter Ten
The following Saturday morning, I’m up early to catch a train for a weekend with my parents.
Mum and Dad sold the family home in Pottersdale and moved from the Lake District to a suburb of Manchester nearly ten years ago.
By that time, Rob was at university, Rosie was living in Spain and I was eighteen and working in the admin department of a company selling bespoke furniture. I had already moved out of the family home and was sharing a flat in Pottersdale with two friends.
I remember Mum and Dad having high hopes of a fresh start, although it didn’t seem to work out like that.
My parents live in a modern three-bed bungalow. It’s identical to the other properties in the street, except that they’ve extended upwards, making one long and surprisingly large room in the roof space, which Dad refers to as his ‘shed’.
I walk into their neat cul de sac soon after eleven.
Ellen and George Grundy, their next-door neighbours, are in their garden raking up fallen leaves and they greet me warmly.
‘It’s great to see you, love.’ Ellen, who’s in her late sixties, straightens up, putting a hand to the small of her back. ‘Home for a bit of a rest? Your dad says that company you work for really keeps your nose to the grindstone.’
‘Yes. No rest for the wicked! How are you two?’
‘Can’t complain,’ says George, with a wink. ‘Glad to hear things are going well with that boyfriend of yours. What’s his name?’
‘Nathan.’ I plaster on a smile. ‘Yes. Nathan’s – er – great!’
Mum and Dad don’t know about the redundancy or the break-up. I try to keep the bad stuff from them, mainly because Mum worries. But I guess I’ll have to tell Dad at least.
‘Your mum’s over the moon you’ve invited them all for Christmas,’ says Ellen. ‘It’s given her a real lift.’
My smile slips.
Marvellous.
And now I’m going to have to break the news to them that it isn’t going to happen.
‘Pop in for a chat before you go, love,’ says George.
I smile at them. ‘I’d like that.’
I’ve got a real soft spot for Ellen and George. They went out of their way to make Mum and Dad feel welcome when they first moved here. And their continued presence in my parents’ lives is a real comfort to me. I would worry about them a great deal more if the lovely, down-to-earth Grundys didn’t live next door.
Dad greets me at the door with one of his huge bear hugs and I find my eyes welling up because it’s so good to see him. He smells of the same familiar aftershave he’s used for years and I notice he has flecks of white paint in his hair.
‘What have you been up to?’ I laugh, pointing this out.
‘We’re decorating the spare bedroom, love. Your mum decided she wanted it done for Rob and Justine arriving. I’ve nearly finished the laminate flooring.’
Dad looks shattered. He’s always been fit for his age but – now in his mid-sixties – he’s not getting any younger and I just hope he isn’t overdoing things.
In the kitchen, Mum puts down the broccoli she’s chopping and greets me joyfully, her eyes bright with tears. When I hug her, she feels thinner, more fragile somehow, than when I last saw her back in July.
I decide there and then that, in future, I will make the journey to Manchester more often.
‘Your hair’s nice,’ I tell her admiringly.
She smiles and pats the back. ‘You think so? I wasn’t sure.’
It suits her. She’s always had enviably thick, shoulder-length dark hair. And now that it’s starting to go grey, Fran, the mobile hairdresser she’s used since she’s lived here, has obviously talked her into colouring it.
Mum rarely leaves the house unless Dad’s with her, so Fran is her best friend, apart from Ellen next door. Fran retired a few years ago, but knowing all about Mum’s agoraphobia, she still insists on coming to do Mum’s hair, which is a great relief to Dad and me. Spending a few hours laughing and chatting with Fran always gives Mum a lift.
I go to fill the kettle but Mum tells me to sit down.
‘I don’t often get the chance to fuss over you.’ She smiles.
Dad and I sit at the kitchen table, drinking tea, while Mum continues chopping vegetables and I steer the conversation away from my non-existent job and non-existent boyfriend by asking about Rob and Justine.
‘I wish Rob would take some time off,’ says Mum. ‘He’s working himself into the ground, the poor love.’
‘It’s his own business,’ says Dad. ‘You always work much harder when you’re the one in charge.’
‘But he says the company’s doing well, so why does he have to do so much overtime?’ frets Mum, turning to face us, the knife still in her hand. ‘What do they spend all their money on? That’s what I’d like to know.’
Dad laughs. ‘They’ve got that huge house to run. I suppose that takes up a big chunk of their earnings. Although why they need five bedrooms when they’re not even planning on having kids is anybody’s guess.’
‘They’re not having kids?’ I ask in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Neither did we until your mum went and put her foot in it,’ says Dad with a sly grin at his wife.
Mum purses her lips. ‘It was a totally innocent question,’ she snaps, turning back to her chopping. ‘I simply asked her if we’d hear the patter of tiny feet any time soon. How did I know she’d hit the roof?’
I frown at Dad. ‘What did she say?’
He shrugs. ‘That not everyone gets married with the principal objective of having children.’
‘And that instead of waiting around for grandkids to fill up our lives, we should think about joining a bowling club,’ adds Mum incredulously.
I laugh. ‘Crikey. Even for Justine, that’s some straight talking.’
Mum turns and points her knife. ‘She’s getting worse. Don’t you think, Malcolm?’
Dad shrugs. ‘Ah, the girl didn’t have the best of starts in life. Maybe we should cut her some slack.’
Justine lost her parents a long time ago. Her dad, who was much older than her mum, died when his daughter was four. Then her mum succumbed to a long battle with breast cancer when Justine was fourteen. She went into care then – a period in her life that she never really talks about – and I often wonder if those years hardened her.
Mum leans towards me. ‘She’s definitely getting worse,’ she murmurs, completely ignoring Dad’s comments. ‘To be honest, I’m frightened to say anything to her these days in case it’s the wrong thing. I just pray it’s Rob who picks up the phone.’
Dad laughs. ‘Come on, Trish, she’s not that bad. She just believes in calling a spade a spade, that’s all.’
Mum sniffs. ‘If she wasn’t practically tee-total, we could ply her with drink to soften her edges. Which reminds me, is this broccoli organic? Because Justine won’t eat it if it’s not.’
‘Just serve it up. She’ll never know,’ says Dad.
‘Yes, she will,’ chime Mum and I together.
Justine refuses to eat meat or vegetables that aren’t organic. She also avoids caffeine and takes cod liver oil and other vitamin supplements by the dozen.
She and Rob h
ave been married for four years, and at thirty-five, Justine is almost a decade older than her husband. We joke that Rob is her toy boy, and I sometimes wonder if this health regime of hers is designed to help her stay looking young.
To be fair, she does look good on it.
She’s not especially pretty but she’s got big eyes, lovely glossy brown hair and she’s tall with a great figure.
‘You’ll have to go and get some more broccoli, Malcolm,’ says Mum, looking worried. ‘And make sure it’s organic this time.’
I glance at Dad. He’s in is work clothes and he’s got the flooring to finish.
‘I’ll nip to the shops when I’ve finished my tea,’ I offer.
She shakes her head. ‘Oh no, you won’t. You’re here to relax. Your dad will go.’
Dad grins and gets up, tipping the remainder of his tea down the sink and rinsing out the mug. He kisses Mum on the forehead and says, ‘Anything for you, my darling.’
Mum pulls a pack of salmon out of the fridge and frowns at it.
‘And this isn’t the right salmon,’ she calls after Dad. ‘I told you to get wild salmon, Malcolm.’
‘Okay, I’ll pick some up,’ he shouts good-naturedly.
Mum sighs. ‘Lola, go and tell your dad I need the spare room finished so I can get the bedding on in there, will you?’
‘Well, let me go to the shops and Dad can—’
‘No, he’ll be fine. Just tell him.’ She smiles but I can see she’s panicking. ‘Please?’
Dad’s in his room. He shouts at me to come in and, when I pop my head round the bathroom door, he’s splashing his face under the running tap.
‘I thought we were going out tonight, Dad, to that Italian place?’
He grabs a towel. ‘Your mum was starting to fret about it. I can always see the warning signs. So we decided just to have a meal at home instead.’
‘So do you ever go out, just the two of you?’
‘Very rarely. In fact, I can’t remember the last time.’ He towels his face vigorously, his voice muffled. ‘But it’s no big deal. You pay through the nose anyway in posh restaurants for teeny portions. Give me fish and chips at home any day.’
‘What about Colin and Robbie? Do you see anything of them any more?’
Colin and Robbie are Dad’s old biker pals from his Lake District days.
‘Not really. We met up for a motorcycle convention a few years ago, but I had to come back early.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘Ellen phoned to say your mum had run to them in a panic because she thought someone was trying to get into the house.’
‘Oh, God. How awful for her. Was there really someone breaking in?’
He smiles sadly. ‘I doubt it. She just gets so anxious on her own. And I know she’s not keen on Col and Robbie coming here.’ He shrugs philosophically. ‘So it works out better for everyone if we just keep life simple.’
Seeing my worried expression, he laughs. ‘Hey, cheer up! At least I’ve got my shed.’ He indicates the room upstairs. ‘I’ll show you what I’m working on later. It’s got to be finished by Christmas.’
‘Oh? Is it a gift, then?’
He looks away, his expression suddenly guarded. ‘You could say that.’
‘Ooh, very mysterious,’ I joke, but he doesn’t respond.
I watch him thoughtfully as he pulls on an Aran sweater.
It’s not much of a life. Dad should be enjoying his retirement, going out and about with Mum, meeting up with friends …
‘Anyway, I’d better go.’ He grins and gives my shoulders a squeeze. ‘Or your mum will be having my guts for garters because the spare room isn’t finished.’
As it turns out, Rob and Justine are a little late arriving, by which time the spare room is looking perfect.
Justine walks in ahead of Rob on a cloud of Chanel No 5, dressed head to foot in designer gear and carrying a bottle of champagne in each hand. She gives us all ‘mwah mwah’ air kisses and says how super it is to see us all. Then she pats Dad rather condescendingly on the cheek and gives him the champagne.
Rob’s eyes light up briefly when he spies me over Mum’s shoulder and he throws one arm around me and the other round Mum. ‘Looking good, ladies.’
‘You too,’ I fib.
Actually, I’m shocked at how gaunt he looks. His eyes have a puffy look. He must be working too hard, as Mum said.
Justine doesn’t look in tip-top condition either, which is surprising for her.
Her conker brown hair is pulled back into her trademark ponytail, perfectly groomed, but she’s lost weight and I notice she’s got a few spots around her chin. (She prides herself on her porcelain complexion, so those zits will definitely be keeping her awake at night.)
‘Are we celebrating something?’ Dad grins, holding up a bottle.
‘Do we need an excuse?’ asks Justine. ‘I, for one, can drink champagne anywhere, any time. What about you, Lola?’
‘Er, yes.’ I stare at her, puzzled. ‘That’s my motto, too.’
Normally, when she’s here, she brings her own organic apple juice to drink when we’re on the wine.
Justine takes the bottle and gives it to me.
‘Fantastic. Why not do the honours? Glasses, Trish?’
Mum obligingly scuttles off to dust down the rarely used champagne flutes, while I pull the cork and everyone cheers. Knowing Justine, this champagne will be very good indeed.
‘I’m not sure why we needed two bottles,’ comments Rob with a frown.
Justine gives a bitter laugh. ‘This from the man who spent a small fortune on a gas-guzzling Ferrari.’
Rob shrugs. ‘Fair play,’ he says congenially.
We all sit down to a ploughman’s lunch in the dining room and Mum reels off the names of all the cheeses Dad bought at the deli this morning. We laugh at some of the names, Stinking Bishop being a particular favourite, and Rob starts telling us about a recent dinner party they attended, where the hosts’ young children came downstairs and ran riot around the dining table.
‘I don’t know if they’d been eating blue Smarties or what, but they were completely out of control,’ he says. ‘They climbed on people’s laps and had a play fight with the contents of the cheese board and their parents just sat and let them do it. It was unbelievable. Said they didn’t believe in suppressing their children’s “urge for creative expression”.’
‘Ugh, it was awful. Little brats,’ says Justine, tipping the rest of the champagne into her glass and downing it. ‘Oops, finished. Anyone for more?’ She burps discreetly and goes to the fridge.
I glance at Dad and he gives me a comically wary look.
Mum puts her hand over her glass but the rest of us happily accept a top-up. I’m feeling nicely mellow. It really is very good quality champagne.
‘This is the life,’ sighs Justine happily. ‘Thank God we don’t have kids, eh, Rob?’
Rob murmurs something and I can’t tell if he’s agreeing or not.
‘We can go on exotic holidays and have weekends away whenever we like,’ she says. ‘And we don’t have to limit ourselves to hotels with water slides and kids’ clubs.’
She reaches for the butter and knocks over the bottle.
Dad, catching it just before it falls, comments cheerily, ‘There’s a lot to be said for adults-only hotels.’
Justine smiles. ‘We’re going on a Caribbean cruise next year, aren’t we, Rob? And we can’t bloody wait!’
Rob glances uneasily at his wife and moves the bottle out of her reach.
But she snatches it back, huffily. ‘You don’t know how to enjoy yourself, Robert. Lighten up, for God’s sake.’
I sneak a glance at my brother, who’s sitting next to me. He’s looking at Justine, stony-faced.
Mum stands up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she says, and retreats to the kitchen.
‘I’ll go and help,’ I say quickly and follow Mum out.
‘I told you she was getting worse,’ hisses Mu
m. ‘What’s going on?’
I shake my head. ‘Haven’t a clue. What’s with the drink?’
‘She didn’t even ask which of the cheeses were organic. After all the trouble your dad went to!’
When we take a tray of coffee in, Dad announces that Rob’s going to help him prune the apple trees. My heart sinks. That leaves me, Mum and Justine to while away an afternoon somehow.
Justine refuses coffee – despite the fact that Mum’s made decaff, just for her – and continues on the champagne. And when Dad and Rob disappear off into the garden, she turns to Mum and me, slaps the table and says, ‘Right, ladies, we will be going for some pampering!’
We stare at her and she lolls back in her chair and spreads out her arms. ‘It’ll be great. That luxury hotel up the road is sure to have a lovely spa. These places always do. What do you think? A massage each? And a facial?’
Mum looks horrified. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. You and Lola can go, though …’
‘No, no, no, we’re not leaving you behind. We’re all going!’ says Justine, getting up. ‘Come on, it’s about time you got out a bit and had some fun.’
Mum shakes her head.
But Justine is brooking no argument. ‘Look, Trish. I know this agia – agiaphobia wotsit is a bad thing, but I’ve been looking into it online and what you’ve got to do is face up to your fear.’
‘Justine?’ I say warningly.
‘What? There’s no point her hiding in the house for the rest of her life, is there? She’s got to get out. Face the fear!’
I glare at her. ‘Drop it, Justine.’
It’s obvious Mum doesn’t want to go. She’s turned as white as the tablecloth.
Suddenly, Mum stands up. ‘It’s all right. I’ll go.’
I stare at her. ‘But, Mum, you can’t. I mean, you don’t really want to—’
She shrugs. ‘I’ll get my coat.’
My dear sister-in-law prods me triumphantly. ‘There. See. I told you she wanted to go.’
‘For God’s sake, Justine, put a sock in it! Apart from anything else, you can’t drive. You’re totally over the limit.’
‘Oh.’ She looks affronted. ‘Well, I’ll call a taxi, then.’ She get up and wanders into the hall with her phone.
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 9