It's Not You, It's Them

by Portia MacIntosh

  I think for a second. Appealing to Kath’s better nature might be a long shot, but it’s worth a try, right?

  ‘Mark has been pretty cool when it comes to what I write about, but I think writing about his family will be a step too far, Kath,’ I tell her frankly.

  ‘It’s too good an opportunity to waste, Roxie. Readers will love this. You’re a smart girl; find a way and turn it in next week – no excuses, OK?’

  ‘But Kath…’

  ‘I said no excuses,’ she snaps. ‘Have a wonderful few days.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘See you soon.’

  I hang up and lie back on my bed, completely unable to relax now. There’s just no way I can write about something like this. Endless silly things, yes. But I can’t review his family and then tell people how to ‘cope’ with such an ordeal. That’s so disrespectful.

  When I started working at Viralist, I knew how lucky I was to land a job there, and when I finally bagged my own virtual column, I really couldn’t believe my luck. But my success has come at a cost, like Kath thinking my private life is public property. Sometimes it feels a little like I’ve sold my soul to the devil, but I couldn’t imagine being happy in any other job. In situations like this, I usually find that I can compromise my way out of having to reveal too much about my real life. My only real option is to write a completely different article – but an even better one; that way, when Kath reads it and thinks it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, she won’t even care about the fact I went off topic and completely ignored her orders.

  I know I’m only going to be away for a day/night, but I’ll be travelling back on Christmas Eve, and with this being mine and Mark’s first proper Christmas together, I promised him I wouldn’t work. I’m going to have to take my laptop with me and write either in the car, or through the night, when I’ll most likely not be able to sleep for worrying about this.

  ‘I’m back,’ Mark calls to me from the living room.

  ‘Hey,’ I call back to him.

  ‘Here we are, one new overnight bag, and in the lady’s favourite colour, too: black.’

  ‘Like my heart,’ I tease.

  ‘So, we’re good to go? Nothing else to stress about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I lie.

  ‘OK, then,’ Mark says excitedly with a clap of his hands. ‘Let’s hit the road.’

  Chapter Five

  I’ve been thinking about the answer to a pretty straightforward question recently: would I describe myself as a materialistic person? I’d like to say that the answer is no, but I’m not so sure. My parents didn’t raise me with a taste for the finer things in life; they’re a very easygoing couple. Joseph and Juliet met at stage school when they were in their teens, and if I had to describe their relationship in one word, if would be ‘easy’. Realising they had everything in common, they started dating and fell hard and fast for each other. They had a small, simple wedding. They had one (probably perfect and impossible to better – although I am biased) child and that was enough for them. They have both always worked in theatre, whether they were acting, teaching, directing or composing, which gave me the most culturally diverse upbringing I could’ve hoped for. I have met people from all different backgrounds, in front of the backdrop of an industry that embraces diversity, and for that I am thankful. They brought me up to be accepting, tolerant, and to embrace what I loved, even if what I loved was dressing as a cat for the eight months that followed my watching Cats for the first time when I was a child. But being materialistic is one thing they didn’t encourage, so I guess any bad habits I’ve picked up along those lines, I only have myself to blame for.

  Before I met Mark, I lived in a pretty small flat above a shop that sells e-cigarettes, which I shared with my friend Gilgamesh who I met through my parents’ theatre company. I have always suspected Gil chose himself a stage name before we met, because when I quizzed him about having such an unusual name he went on to insist his parents named him that, and I feel like, from that moment on, he made a conscious effort to hide all forms of identification from me. Still, it is possible; my parents did name me Roxie, after all.

  Back when I was a struggling writer – still just an office junior at Viralist – and Gil was a struggling actor, our vape-stinking flat was all we could afford, but we were happy there. Still, I’m sure my parents were wondering about what my life intentions were, given that I was living like a student with a forty-something gay guy, so when I moved in with Mark they were delighted. It’s not that I can’t look after myself, but I think they worried about me less, knowing I had Mark taking care of me, rather than a wild-child Peter Pan who would convince me to go out drinking with him several nights a week.

  Moving in with Mark was a change, and one that I quickly adapted to. I’ve always been a pop culture junkie, whether I was lusting after the celebrity lifestyles I saw in Starstruck magazine, or just trying to keep up with whatever the Kardashians were telling me to smear all over my face to stay ‘on fleek’. Moving in with Mark, who is in charge of public relations for a huge children’s charity, meant moving into the lifestyle I had dreamed of. I’d finally been promoted to staff writer the year before I met Mark, but I’d kept living where I was – mostly because life with Gil was just such a great source of material for my lifestyle column. This meant lots of extra income for all the silly stuff I was certain I needed to be happy. Moving into a big, flashy apartment with my devastatingly sexy boyfriend made my life complete; so, yes, I guess you could say I’m materialistic. I know that the most important things in life cannot be bought, but I acknowledge just how happy ‘things’ make me.

  I would say that Mark is less materialistic than I am, but he’s always had more material. From his comfy furnishings to his cinema screen to the BMW with the matte black finish that we’re currently travelling to my parents’ house in, Mark has it all. And yet, I don’t think he’d care if he lost it. He doesn’t love his car like many men do; he just thinks it’s cool. When I jokily asked if I could learn to drive in it, he said yes, whereas most men would’ve uttered a two-word reply and the second word would have definitely been ‘off’.

  I do like to be stylish, but I don’t necessarily have to spend a lot of money to do that. I could when I lived in my cheap flat with Gil, but now that I’m living with Mark, my contribution to the bills costs me way more, which means less to spend on lip kits and manicures, but I’m OK with that. I am so happy and so in love with Mark, and as much as he tells me I don’t need to contribute as much to our bills, I do. I couldn’t not; it wouldn’t sit right with me. Lucky for me, I bought most of my expensive clothing, shoes and accessories when I had a lot of spare cash, and this stuff lasts a lifetime. Unlucky for me, the overnight bag that Mark panic-bought for me is significantly smaller than its predecessor, so I’ve had to pack less than I intended to take with me – plus my laptop. I know I’m only going to be away a couple of days, but I figured I’d be able to make notes if an idea came to me, or I can work in the car… I just need to make sure I have something to turn in. Something so good, my editor won’t miss an exposé piece on the Wright family.

  ‘God, I’m bored,’ I whine, like a petulant child. ‘I hate long car journeys.’

  Mark laughs.

  ‘We’re five minutes from home, Roxie,’ he reminds me. ‘And fifteen minutes from your parents’ house. Still nervous?’

  ‘Still nervous,’ I reply.

  It just feels so strange to be meeting the parents after getting engaged, like we’re doing things in the wrong order.

  ‘They’ll love you,’ Mark tells me for the millionth time. ‘It’s a long journey; you can’t spend it worrying.’

  ‘I know, I know. At least we’re making a stop to see my parents, then we can get a nice, warm coffee in us. It’s freezing!’

  ‘Oh, no, I know how this goes,’ Mark laughs. ‘You’ll drink too much, and we’ll have to stop so you can use the loo every ten miles…’

  ‘Oi,’ I laugh. ‘I’m a grown-
ass woman. I’ll be thirty next year. I’m fully in control of my bladder, thank you.’

  I shudder a little, at the thought of turning thirty. ‘Next year’ makes it sound like it’s a long way away, but it’s December now, and my birthday is in February. Mark doesn’t think it’s a big deal – he’s thirty-two, and assures me that nothing changes when you hit the big 3-0. He’s promised me that my face won’t instantly wrinkle, that I won’t become boring overnight, and that I won’t suddenly be turned away from night clubs for looking too old. While I fear that, as I grow older, things are only going to go downhill for me looks-wise, Mark only gets better with age. Mark is the very definition of tall, dark and handsome, and even though a few grey hairs are starting to creep in on the sides of his head – my God – it looks so sexy. My newly cut blonde lob might have a few greys in there, maybe, but I wouldn’t know because I have my hair routinely highlighted. If I did have grey hair showing, though, it would not look good. On Mark it looks hot and this is beyond unfair. Like he’s not already out of my league; as we grow older, the fact we’re in different leagues is only going to seem more obvious. Can’t wait for the day he’s walking around all George Clooney and I’m looking like Mrs Doubtfire.

  ‘Here we are,’ Mark announces, pulling up outside my mum and dad’s house. ‘So, how are you going to play this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘How are you going to announce it to them? Have you got some big thing planned?’

  ‘I already told them,’ I reply. ‘I called them the same day while you were in the shower. I told you that they said congratulations when… oh, my God, you were ignoring me because you were playing Call of Duty, weren’t you?’

  ‘Woman, have you ever tried doing two things at once?’ he jokes. ‘It’s hard work.’

  I roll my eyes. How can he be so annoying and so cute at the same time?

  As Mark makes a move to get out of the car, I put a hand on his arm to stop him.

  ‘Wait. You’ve told your family, right?’

  ‘Erm, no,’ he replies with a cheeky laugh. ‘I thought we’d surprise them.’

  ‘But they’ve never even met me,’ I squeak. ‘You can’t just turn up with me and be like: OK, we’re here, meet my girlfriend for the first time – by the way, we’re engaged.’

  ‘Why not?’ he laughs.

  ‘Oh, God.’ My stomach churns as I somehow find a way to feel even more nervous. ‘At least they know they’re finally going to meet me.’

  As I go to get out of the car, it’s Mark’s turn to stop me.

  ‘Except…’ he starts.

  ‘Mark Wright, please tell me that you told your parents that you’re taking me to meet them. Please tell me you’re not just going to turn up with me and be like: ta-da, this is my bird…’

  ‘I thought it might be a nice surprise,’ he laughs awkwardly, except I can tell he’s maybe starting to think that he’s done the wrong thing.

  ‘Oh, my God, call them right now and warn them that you’re bringing me with you. I can’t just turn up to stay at their house uninvited.’

  ‘I invited you,’ he tells me, suddenly straight-faced. ‘We’re a team. You go where I go, I go where you go.’

  I pull a face.

  ‘Your smart, easy way with words isn’t going to get you out of this one,’ I tell him as we walk up the driveway. ‘Call them, now.’

  ‘No way, I want to surprise them,’ he insists, opening the front door for me.

  ‘You’re an idiot sometimes, do you know that?’ I ask rhetorically, around the same time my parents both yell ‘surprise’ and fire party poppers in our direction.

  I watch as their faces fall, their beaming grins slipping away into nothing. The room falls silent, but only for a second.

  ‘Hello,’ I say warmly. My parents follow suit and greet me with a hug.

  ‘Everything OK?’ my mum asks.

  ‘Oh, we’re fine,’ I reply honestly. ‘I’m just teasing Mark over a questionable decision.’

  I give my hubby-to-be a playful nudge. He’s impossible to be mad at.

  ‘We’ll ask no more,’ my dad says before pulling Mark in for a handshake/hug. ‘Come here, you. Congratulations. And thank you, we didn’t think anyone would be taking this one off our hands.’

  ‘Hey,’ I laugh. ‘What do you mean “off your hands”? I moved out when I was eighteen.’

  I’ve always wanted to be independent, even when I was a little kid. My mum, liking to think she’s a bit of a psychologist, puts this down to my being an only child. I don’t know what the reason is; all I know is that I feel more comfortable doing things for myself. That’s why I can’t let Mark pay for everything. That’s why I spent years living in that tiny hellhole with Gil, so that I could take care of myself while I was working my way up the career ladder. It’s good, though, because I can be proud of everything I’ve worked for, and know that I’ve done it all on my own.

  ‘Yeah, we just never thought you’d be the marrying kind,’ my dad explains. There’s a smile on his face, but it sounds like there’s a little truth in there. ‘You know, being so career-minded, your wild nights out… We’re just so pleased you’ve got Mark and that he takes care of you.’

  I feel my brow furrow at the thought of needing someone taking care of me, but I suppose he’s right that Mark does do his best to take care of me, and I wouldn’t change the way he is for anything. To have someone give so much of a shit about you feels amazing.

  ‘I’d say we should crack open a bottle, but with Mark driving… I’ll put kettle on?’ my dad suggests, clapping his hands as he jumps to his feet.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Mark replies. Being a typical Yorkshire lad, Mark loves a good cup of tea, whereas I’m more of a coffee person.

  As soon as the men are out of the room, my mum sits on the sofa next to me and grabs my hand.

  ‘That is one beautiful ring,’ she gushes.

  As I examine my hand, I can’t help but agree. My boy not only has great taste, but he knows me so well. So well, that he knows I’ve been on a rose-gold kick for as long as I can remember, and when I happened to mention that I liked the look of champagne sapphires – my boy was listening carefully.

  At the time, he laughed. He said that some girls demanded platinum rings with a big rock of a diamond in there, but I told him I didn’t care about that. Well, I don’t. If I’m going to wear a ring every day, it should be something that I actually want to wear every day, because I think it looks cool, not because it’s expensive. It would seem that, as a compromise, Mark opted for a rose-gold ring with a big, champagne sapphire, surrounded by diamonds. I might not have wanted a ridiculously expensive ring (mostly because I’m so clumsy and forgetful), but Mark insisted I deserved it. I’m wearing it right now, because I imagine it would look pretty bad if I didn’t, but as soon as we’re back home I’ll probably just lock it away in the safe and wear something cheap as a placeholder. Something I can accidentally leave in a bathroom or fling straight off my finger as I gesture wildly while I’m telling a story at work.

  ‘So, time to meet the in-laws,’ my mum says, pulling a face.

  ‘What does that face mean?’ I laugh.

  ‘I just remember meeting your dad’s family for the first time,’ she recalls. ‘Your Grandma Pratt did not like me at all. Straight away, from the moment she met me, that was it – instant dislike.’

  ‘I never knew that,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, while she was alive, it didn’t seem fair to badmouth your gran to you, and we did eventually find a way to tolerate each other…’

  ‘Mum, this is not helping at all.’

  My mum thinks for a moment, like she’s wracking her brains for some words of comfort for me.

  ‘Your Uncle Ben’s wedding was only a few weeks before you were born. Now, you were a big baby, so by this stage I was huge and I was heavy. I spent ages looking for the right outfit, and some shoes that I could actually walk in because I’d been living in
trainers, and there was no way I could wear trainers to a wedding, not without your gran having a pop at me. So I got this long, green dress, and it was nice, but I was just so big, I didn’t exactly look like a Victoria’s Secret model in it, and I got these black shoes that had a bit of a heel on them – best I could do if I wanted to be able to walk.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ I reply. ‘Who would criticise the outfit of a pregnant woman?’

  ‘Your gran,’ my mum says with a laugh. ‘She told me that I looked like a hill, and that my shoes looked like orthopaedic aids for correcting what she called “wonky feet”.’

  ‘That’s harsh,’ I admit, suddenly not finding things so funny.

  ‘It was OK, though,’ my mum continues. ‘Because later that night your gran took a tumble in the ridiculously high heels she was wearing and ended up with a shiner of a black eye. So whenever she was horrible to me, to cheer myself up, I would watch the video of her gliding face-first across the dance floor. Suddenly, things wouldn’t seem too bad.’

  I gasp.

  ‘Mum, I can’t believe you’re saying that.’

  ‘What? She was an old bag. She suggested I put you on a diet when you were two years old. God rest her soul,’ my mum hastily adds.

  ‘Whose soul are we resting?’ my dad asks, carrying a tray of mugs into the room, Mark not far behind him with a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Your mother’s,’ my mum replies, taking a cup of coffee from him.

  ‘Aw, if only she knew how missed she was,’ my dad says wistfully with a smile.

  ‘If only,’ my mum replies with a smile of her own.

  I’d always kind of figured that my mum and my gran didn’t really get along that well, but I never realised she made comments like that to my mum. Is the urban legend of the evil mother-in-law not a legend at all? But that can’t be true. Sure, that’s the way things are in movies, and maybe my gran did make a few remarks to my mum, but maybe her outfit was rubbish, and I was a chubby toddler – I still am, in some ways.