‘OK; good. Well, I’m really happy for you.’ Alex yawned again.
‘You sound exhausted. Can’t you go home for a bit?’
‘It’s no better at home. At least here I have people to talk to. And no bed lice.’
‘I can’t wait till you get posted somewhere else.’
‘Me neither.’
‘OK. I’m going Christmas shopping. So exciting! I can’t remember the last time I saw daylight during the week!’
‘Don’t buy from anywhere that uses child labour. Love you!’
‘I won’t. Love you too!’
I hung up and was just rounding the corner of the tube station when my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. Uncle Mike.
‘Hi!’
‘Hello dear, how are you?’
‘Great, actually. Guess what!’
‘Ah . . . Emma, sweetheart? I have to tell you something.’ Uncle Mike’s voice was low.
My stomach dropped. Had something happened to my mother? Sinead? Archie?
‘What?’
‘It’s Grandma. She – she’s passed away.’
CHAPTER FIVE
At home, I packed a bag. Mum was flying back from Italy and the family were congregating at her place. It was Christmas in four days, so I was packing enough stuff to last. I couldn’t believe Grandma wouldn’t be with us, sipping her tea, watching her son and daughter bickering with a look of contentment on her lightly powdered face.
Our family Christmases were as routine as the rest of England’s, but I loved them nonetheless. Presents doled out before breakfast; under-slept, overexcited children squealing; Mum and Sinead swapping gifts as soon as the wrapping was off; a hot drink spilt on a designer homeware item, Uncle Mike with the baking soda; a broken toy five minutes after unwrapping; the inevitable discussion about how much alcohol before lunch was too much; endless eating and eventually afternoon naps for all the adults while the kids ransacked the house, wired with sugar and acquisition. Grandma Ivy would sit in the corner and titter into her Earl Grey while she knitted. I still wore the chunky pink sock-booties she’d made me three Christmases ago.
I stopped shoving an extra five pairs of knickers in my bag (is it only me who, when going away, packs knickers like they’ve only recently embarked on toilet training and will be requiring at least three changes of pants a day?) and rested on the edge of my bed, thinking about Grandma. Sure she’d been old and had become increasingly delicate; she got pneumonia and bronchitis and every chest-orientated illness going, but it never stopped her knocking up a fresh batch of scones then patting the space next to her on the sofa and asking about work, or Ned. Or if I’d read the latest Jodi Picoult.
Later that day, after a stuffy tube ride across London, I arrived at my mother’s home in Belsize Park. It was one of eight tiny houses down a cobbled lane. Uncle Mike’s Porsche was parked badly across the front door. Sloped rectangles of light shone across the wet cobblestones and the aroma of fires and roasting meat wafted through the air. Mum had bought the house, then a musty, run-down old place, after the divorce and gone about a complete transformation. Both of the new house and herself.
Dad and Mum had been childhood sweethearts who’d married when they were both just twenty-one. Dad had read English at university and wanted to be a poet, but when Mum fell pregnant with me at twenty-two he’d put aside his literary aspirations and got a ‘proper’ job at BT. Then, apparently, became a bitter miser. He regulated every penny, gave Mum a meagre grocery allowance and refused to pay for childcare so that Mum could attend fashion college – if he couldn’t follow his dream, neither could she. He organised her a job at BT and Mum said she’d felt her life force draining away. The divorce had been an unshackling event for her. She now got up early to grab the day by the nuts. She drank, ate, exercised, shopped, travelled, danced, loved and nurtured a previously unexhibited addiction to McQueen scarves, obscure photographic art and anything neon.
I let myself in and was hit by a wave of warm air and girlish squeals.
‘Emma! Emma! Watch this!’
Alice and Jess, Uncle Mike and Sinead’s eldest two, were standing at the top of the narrow staircase. Jess swung her leg over the banister, slid all the way to the bottom and landed in a heap of Roberto Cavalli cushions.
‘Very good!’ I said as Jess bounced up, pushed her wayward hair behind a sticky-out ear and gave me a hug round my thighs.
‘Now me!’ Alice hurtled down the banister towards us.
I pulled Jess out of the way and before I knew it I had two messy blond-haired girls wrapped round my waist and was dragging myself down the leopard-print-carpeted hall.
‘Where’s Ned?’ Jess asked.
‘He’s not coming.’
‘Why not?’ Jess, the tomboy and younger of the two, had always liked Ned. He’d taught her how to make blow darts with wet toilet paper that Sinead’s housekeeper had spent hours cleaning off the ceiling.
‘Shh, Jess.’ Alice glared at her sister and spoke in an exaggerated stage whisper. ‘Remember what Daddy said?’
‘What did your dad say?’ I stopped and looked at the girls.
Jess wrinkled her nose.
‘Remember?!’ Alice attempted a stern look far beyond her years.
‘Oh, yeah!’ Jess suddenly remembered and grinned at me. ‘Mummy said that you’d got rid of that potato-brained . . . potato-brained . . .?’ She frowned enquiringly at Alice.
‘Bastard,’ Alice offered from my left hip.
‘Yes, that potato-brained bastard and that you also . . .?’ She looked at her sister for further assistance.
‘Got fired,’ Alice said.
‘Yes. You are fire red,’ Jess confirmed.
‘Daddy told Mummy off for talking about your personal eclairs, and also for swearing, then Daddy sat in the music room with the Supernanny book,’ Alice said, tucking her chin towards her chest and trying to emulate a knowing look.
‘I didn’t get fired,’ I said in a small voice.
I was suitably dismayed that my eight- and six-year-old cousins knew about my troubling ‘personal eclairs’.
‘Alice! Jess!’ Sinead came into the hall. ‘Ahh, Emma.’ She pulled me into a bony hug, all elbows and shoulder blades. ‘Girls, off your cousin. Your father’s made biscuits.’
Alice and Jess scooted to the kitchen shrieking and pushing each other into walls.
In the living room, flames cavorted in the marble fireplace. Fairy lights hung down the side of the mantel. The nostalgic aroma of winter spice candles hung in the air. The latest Pixar movie played on the flatscreen in the corner, mesmerising Millie and Archie, who rested in an armchair with a copy of my mother’s Madonna Sex book on his lap. Uncle Mike sat in a black chesterfield swirling whisky in a crystal tumbler and Mum was leaning against an oversized gold Moroccan pouf in front of the fire. She too was swirling her whisky, looking pensive. And a little drunk.
‘Hi Mum.’
She turned away from the hypnotic flames.
‘Darling!’ She stood with a swiftness and grace that belied her years, shoved her whisky at Uncle Mike, who’d nearly nodded off, and flew across the room, pulling me into a tight embrace. She was wearing her ‘go to’ outfit of tight black jeans, a white shirt open to the top of her cleavage with gold chains and pendants dangling in between her tanned breasts.
‘I’ve missed you so much, my baby.’
‘I’ve missed you too,’ I said, tears leaking. ‘I’m so sad about Grandma.’
‘I know, I know.’
After a quiet minute being clutched to my mother’s golden bosom she released me from her grasp.
‘Your boobs look bigger,’ she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes and scanning my attire instinctively. ‘Are you wearing that push-up bra I sent you? Didn’t I tell you a little discomfort was worth it? You’re a bit bigger round the hips too, my darling. Have you been . . .’ Mum became aware of everyone looking at her. ‘Why – why are you all staring at me?’
I
looked at Uncle Mike, Uncle Mike looked at Sinead and Sinead looked at me. I gazed at my feet. Just as Sinead opened her mouth to blurt out what I was not ready to, Uncle Mike jumped up and saved me.
‘I think we are all just a bit emotional.’ He led me to the purple velvet sofa. ‘Emma dear, take a seat. I’ll get dinner started. Sinead, a little help?’
I gathered Millie onto my lap and Mum and I caught up by the fireplace while Uncle Mike and Sinead cooked dinner and gave me some space in order to tell Mum my news. But no time seemed appropriate to say ‘yes, I agree – Grandma had been getting ill more often, I too was worried about her living alone at her age; oh hey, I’m pregnant, jobless and single’.
After dinner Mum and I watched the circus involved getting Alice, Jess, Archie and Millie bathed and into bed with their various favourite toys, blankies and bedtime stories, then we collapsed in the living room, the lights down low and the fire cranked high. I sat in my favourite position in the corner of the sofa stroking Grandma’s cat, a mottled tabby called Tabby.
‘Has anyone rung Alex?’ I asked, giving Tabby a scratch under her chin.
Mum looked questioningly at Uncle Mike. He shook his head and turned to Sinead.
‘Don’t look at me, I never know what country that girl is in!’ she said, flicking through the pages of the Madonna book, turning it upside down on occasion.
Mum stood. ‘I’ll call her.’
She left the room, dialling.
‘Well?’ Sinead demanded.
‘Well what?’ I picked at the skin around my fingernails.
‘When are you going to tell her?’ Sinead held the book close, examining something.
I turned to Uncle Mike for reassurance.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you do need to get on with it.’
I slumped further into the sofa. ‘Guess so.’
‘Her phone’s off.’ Mum came back into the room and took her seat on the sofa next to me. ‘I’ll try again soon.’ She turned to me, curling her legs under her. ‘So, my darling, where’s Ned?’ she said, forcing a smile.
I accepted Mum’s dislike of Ned. It came from the right place. According to Mum, Ned was a dreamer who would end up travelling the same path my father had. The unachieved, frustrated, bitter, spiteful one. (In that order.) It was her fear for my future that had had her purse-lipped and icy-natured around my generally affable boyfriend for the past five years.
‘We broke up.’
‘Oh, that’s . . .’ Mum broke into an involuntary smile then forced the corners of her lips down, ‘. . . awful, darling, just . . .’ Her body betrayed her and she grinned again. ‘Really, really . . . terrible.’ She frowned, and tried to set her mouth into some semblance of concern. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Nothing happened,’ I said. ‘I just realised I needed somebody more . . .’
‘Motivated,’ Mum said, elation itching on her skin.
‘Ned is motivated. He just lacks—’
‘Skills? Intellect?’
I scowled. ‘Follow-through. I’m still upset, you know.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mum’s eyes flitted guiltily to Uncle Mike.
Sinead observed the scene, the Madonna book discarded at her feet. I looked at Uncle Mike who nodded in encouragement, the light from the fairy lights dancing across his frameless oval specs.
‘Well, now you can focus on your career,’ Mum said. ‘Go after the big jobs overseas. I met a producer in Malta—’
‘I quit.’
‘What?!’ Mum looked confused. ‘Why?’
‘Well, if I didn’t quit then another formal warning would be on its way and I’d be fired.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She leant back in the sofa. ‘What happened?’
‘I said some stuff . . . and gave the finger to someone.’
‘I see.’ Mum dragged a hand over her brow.
‘There’s more.’
‘What?’ Mum eyed me through red fingernails.
Sinead stared. Uncle Mike fidgeted.
‘I’m sort of . . . kinda pregnant?’
Mum sat up, eyes wide.
‘Thirteen weeks.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ She fell back into the sofa again.
‘And I’ve decided to keep it.’
‘What?’ She shot up again. ‘Who’s the father? Please tell me it’s not – it isn’t?’
‘It’s Ned.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ She slumped back and threw her arm over her face. ‘I need a whisky. And a towel. A hot towel. No. A cold towel. Oh, Jesus.’
Uncle Mike slipped out of the room. Sinead passed Mum her whisky glass and sat at our feet, spellbound.
‘Couldn’t it be some gym instructor’s? One with fewer freckles?’ Mum’s voice was pleading.
I rolled my eyes, remembering my conversation with Alex. God, how I wished she were here with her younger-sister authority, telling Mum to behave.
‘Or maybe . . .?’
‘It’s undoubtedly Ned’s.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
Uncle Mike came rushing in with a towel, which Mum snatched and threw over her face.
‘Mum, you keep saying “Oh, Jesus”.’
‘I know, darling, but he’s not listening to me,’ she muttered from under the towel. ‘He never does.’ She lifted her towel and her whisky glass disappeared under it.
The only sounds in the room were the cubes of ice tinkling in her glass. Sinead gave me the double thumbs up.
‘OK?’ I mouthed to Uncle Mike.
He nodded and mouthed, ‘Well done.’
‘Sinead? Mike? You’re awfully quiet. What do you think of this?’ Mum’s voice was muffled under the towel.
Sinead and Uncle Mike froze.
‘We’re shocked!’ Sinead started. ‘Shocked to our very—’
‘We already knew, Diana,’ Uncle Mike said.
The towel flew to the ground.
‘You what?!’
‘Sorry Mum, I—’
‘Sinead?’
‘She needed advice.’ Sinead shrugged.
‘Advice?’ Mum turned to me. ‘Who better to give you advice than your own mother?’
‘You were overseas . . .’ I tried to make my eyes wide and wet and pitiful like a vulnerable little rodent in a Disney movie, but Mum’s face remained hard.
‘Diana, dear—’ Uncle Mike began.
‘Oh, don’t you “Diana dear” me!’
‘Mum—’
‘No! Don’t bother, darling.’ She stood, clutching her whisky to her breast. ‘I know when I’m not needed.’
Sinead, Uncle Mike and I watched as she picked up the phone, pressed speed dial, threw a woeful look my way and headed into the hall. ‘Hello, darling,’ we heard her sniff. ‘Not good. My mother’s passed away, my firstborn is unemployed, knocked up and single and my Terence Conran console hasn’t arrived yet . . . Not sure, delayed shipment, I think . . .’ Her voice faded as she headed for the kitchen.
It was most likely Charlie Mum had phoned, her long-term partner. He’d been in our lives since I was eight and Alex was five and although they had never married, he was as much a part of our family as anyone. Apart from the fact that he still kept his own place in Fulham and would quite often spend a few nights a week there, he was like any regular stepdad. He was an eco-architect and had been pioneering eco-building since the 1970s. The only bone of contention between Mum and Charlie happened when Charlie would point out that fourteen zebras were on the verge of malnutrition, an iceberg had melted and a tiny Pacific island had disappeared into the ocean so Mum could have her designer carpet.
‘Well . . .’ I started.
‘Hmmm . . .’ Sinead mused, picking up the Madonna book again, the drama now over.
‘It went well.’ Uncle Mike grimaced.
I looked at my watch.
‘I’m tired.’ I stood, feeling the weight of the past few weeks in my body. ‘Can you tell Mum . . .’ I faltered. ‘Just . . . can you tell her?’
Uncle Mike got up
, put an arm over my shoulder and guided me to the door. ‘Off you go. She’ll be fine.’ He smiled. ‘And if not, we’ll get her good and drunk.’
About an hour later Mum wobbled into my bedroom ‘whisky-fied’, as she called it. Most people would say sloshed.
‘Darling? Are you awake?’ she whispered.
‘Mum, my light is on, I am sitting up and I am reading. I think I might just be awake.’
‘Oh.’ She giggled softly and wobbled towards the bed. ‘May I?’
I shuffled over and she plonked herself down.
‘I spoke to Alex,’ Mum said.
‘I know. She texted me.’
‘I told her not to fly back for the funeral.’ She looked fragile. ‘Was that the right thing?’
I’d been too consumed with my problems to properly comprehend that Mum had just lost her own mother. It was a tragedy at any age.
‘Yes, Mum. Don’t worry.’
She didn’t look convinced.
‘It would take Alex about four days to get back. Probably involving a ride on a cow-drawn cart and a very near miss of an arranged marriage.’
A small smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.
‘She really is in the middle of nowhere. And Uncle Mike said the funeral was going to happen soon. It was the right thing to do. Definitely.’
‘OK,’ she sniffed.
We sat mushed up against each other on my single bed in silence, each mulling over our thoughts.
‘Darling?’ Mum put her whisky glass down on my bedside table.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m sorry about the way I acted. I was . . . I was just shocked.’ She looked at me with genuine regret.
‘It’s OK.’ I fingered the corners of the magazine.
‘Are you sure you want to keep it?’ Mum said, her voice soft. ‘Are you sure that’s a good . . .?’
‘I’m keeping it,’ I said, putting both hands on the magazine, covering Gwyneth’s freakishly white smile.
I’d run over this speech so many times in my head and had it down perfectly, but now that I was here, sitting in my childhood bed with Reuben, the toy rabbit I’d slept with until I was thirteen staring at me with his big plastic eyes, I felt incredibly young and my speech came out in fragmented, teenage-like bursts.
How Not to Fall in Love, Actually Page 5