‘Oh, OK,’ Mark replies, sounding a little disappointed. ‘Well, I might pop up and show Roxie my old room quickly.’
‘OK, Marcus,’ his mum replies.
As Mark leads me out of the room by the hand, everyone else stays relatively silent. Am I being oversensitive here, or is Mark just completely missing how cold and odd this reception is?
‘Your family seem… quiet,’ I say honestly as we walk up the stairs.
‘Yeah, a little perhaps, but I did just drop quite the surprise on them.’
‘Hmm, if only you’d had someone warn you about what a terrible idea that was, Marcus,’ I tease sarcastically.
‘OK, you were right,’ he laughs as we reach the landing. ‘But I don’t think it’s just that. They’re a little wary of outsiders.’
‘Your sister’s boyfriend is an outsider; it doesn’t sound like he’s been on the scene for long,’ I argue.
‘Ste is a lot of things, but he’s not an outsider. I don’t mean in the family, I mean in the village. We’re a very small community – there are, like, three families – everyone knows everyone. We don’t like people from Skipton, let alone fancy London folk.’
Mark says the last part of the sentence in a weird, old-timey accent, which I don’t really get. I also don’t have a clue where Skipton is, but unless it’s another planet, I don’t see why people should find it so weird when outsiders visit. I mean, the Dales is a tourist attraction, for crying out loud. They should be encouraging outsiders, not chasing them away with torches and pitchforks.
‘Give them time; they’ll come around,’ he says with a smile. Yep, that smile. I’m powerless to do anything but believe him.
‘OK,’ I reply, hopefully convincing him but barely convincing myself.
‘OK, let’s show you my bedroom,’ he says, as he reaches for the door.
‘Does everyone stay here at Christmas?’ I ask curiously.
‘Yeah, my parents take it really seriously. The village is small, but we’re all quite spread out. It’s quite a trek between houses, so at Christmas, everyone just stays here. That way no one needs to worry about drinking too much and having to drive or hike home,’ he laughs.
‘How many bedrooms are there?’ I ask nosily. ‘To sleep ten people…’
Mark pauses in his room to answer my question.
‘Four. My parents in their room, Mel and Ste in her old room, Alex and Millie in her old room, and I’m guessing the twins will be taking my old room, which is why we’re in dad’s study. It’s cool, though; I think you’ll like it. Dad fancies himself as a writer and he’s a big reader, so you’ll love it.’
‘Cool,’ I reply. ‘Let’s see your room then.’
Mark opens the door and wanders inside with me following closely behind him.
Mark’s room looks exactly as he left it, like some kind of shrine to the one and only son in the family. It’s exactly as I imagined it to be, weirdly enough. It’s decorated in dark blue and white, with Leeds UTD memorabilia scattered everywhere. You can tell he was sporty and cool growing up, and there are photos of his family and his obviously massive circle of friends everywhere you look – unlike me, with my tiny number of living relatives and small number of friends from school because everyone thought I was a theatre nerd with wacky parents. You can tell from all the photos that Mark adores all of his people, and that just makes me love him all the more.
‘So this is what a cool kid’s room looks like?’ I tease.
‘Yeah, take it all in, nerd,’ he teases, wrapping his arms around me as he pulls me down onto his bed. He’s joking, of course, but the sad fact is that there’s no way Mark would have looked twice at me when we were at school.
‘Erm, you’re calling me a nerd?’ I squeak in disbelief. ‘The shoe is on the other foot these days, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ he laughs, hugging me tightly. ‘I think we’re both a bit nerdy; that’s why we get on so well.’
I smile sweetly at him before jokily taking him down a peg or two.
‘No way, buddy. You’re the one who spends double-digits’ worth of hours on video games every week.’
‘Fine, fine,’ he admits. ‘Just let me tell you a story about when I was cool to try and redeem myself.’
‘Go for it,’ I reply, just happy to be in his arms and out of the awkwardness of the living room.
‘You see that window over there?’ he asks. I nod my head. ‘Well, when I wanted to sneak out at night to hang out with my friends, that’s how I’d get out. We’d take it in turns at making trips to the nearest town to buy cheap vodka drinks – Kapops they were called; I don’t even know if you can still buy them. Anyway, I’d climb out of that window and land on the roof of the study, and then jump off there, trying to land in the bushes in the back garden.’
I can’t help but laugh.
‘And you see my wardrobe over there? Well, when my parents moved in here and had work done on the house, they had these wardrobes fitted into the walls. It might look like it’s only as big as the two doors, but it’s actually double the length. Whoever built it must have realised the left half would be inaccessible, so they just boarded half of it off. I realised this long before my parents did, so it was like a secret room where I could hide myself, or… things, when I was a teenager.’
‘Oh, you rebel! But I’ll bet you weren’t that bad. Your mum clearly adores you. I’d better be careful, or she won’t let you go back to London,’ I joke. ‘She’ll keep you here and I’ll be the first person she gets rid of.’
Mark laughs before leaning forward to give me a kiss on the lips.
‘We need to move,’ he warns me. ‘This is dangerous.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask innocently.
‘You know what I mean,’ he laughs. ‘I mean you are incapable of giving anyone a peck on the lips; you go nought to Frenching in about two seconds. Don’t think I didn’t feel that tongue.’
I shrug my shoulders.
‘OK, come on then, show me the study.’
We both hop to our feet and Mark leads me down the big staircase, in the opposite direction to the family room, to the back of the house where the study is. He’s right – this room does appeal to me. Very much, in fact.
The walls that face out into the back garden are entirely made of glass, which makes the beautiful view really easy to take in, but I notice that it has thick, black blinds for blocking out the sun or creating some privacy. The other three walls are covered with that wallpaper that looks like books on endless shelves, which I love. I do love to read and,thankfully, there are several shelves full of different and interesting-looking books. When Mark falls asleep tonight, I can’t wait to sit up late and have a flick through them all, see if I can find some inspiration for this article I’m supposed to write before the week is out. I still don’t have a clue what I’m going to write about, but it needs to be something good. When I first started writing my lifestyle column, I went to the actual library for inspiration, looking in the lifestyle section to see if anything stood out to me as especially interesting. What I found was a book of manners and etiquette for young ladies, written in the 1920s. It was so strange reading about the importance of not wearing an overcoat indoors, or asking how much things cost, or how you must always eat soup from the side of the spoon or you’ll never get a husband. Hopefully I’ll find something here that will inspire something.
There’s a large desk over by the door with a fairly dated-looking PC on top.
‘Is there Wi-Fi here?’ I ask.
‘It’s an old cottage in the Dales, not the Hilton,’ he laughs. ‘But we do have a wired internet connection, so, if you really need it, you can whip the cable out of my dad’s PC and plug it into your Mac.’
‘That would be great, thank you.’
The only other thing of any significance in the room is the pop-up double bed in the centre. It’s a good job it’s a double, because with the twins sleeping in Mark’s room and his family having no idea I was comin
g, there wouldn’t have been anywhere for me to sleep otherwise.
I sit down on the bed, only for it to creak under me.
‘This doesn’t sound too healthy,’ I giggle.
‘Oh, it’s fine. It’s been our trusty spare bed for a long time and it hasn’t let us down yet.’
‘I like how you say “yet”,’ I laugh.
‘Hey, you brought PJs, right?’ Mark asks.
‘Buddy, you’ve known me for a year now. Have you ever once seen me wear PJs?’
‘I’ll grab you an old T-shirt from my room that you can sleep in,’ he concludes. ‘Just because we’re down here, if you need to go to the loo or whatever, you don’t want to be dashing around the house naked.’
‘Sure,’ I reply. I don’t usually like to sleep in anything, but it’s just one night, so it’s not really a big deal.
‘OK, let’s go find out what’s for dinner,’ Mark says excitedly. ‘The stuff you make is awesome, but you can’t beat your mum’s cooking, can you?’
‘I imaging you mean mums generally, because a primary school kid could beat my mum’s cooking,’ I joke.
‘She gets points for creativity, though,’ Mark insists.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I reply. ‘It’s definitely creative, putting baked beans in spaghetti Bolognese.’
Back in the living room, things are still a little quiet so I decide to make the first move.
‘You guys have a lovely house,’ I tell Valerie and Oscar.
‘Thank you, we’re very proud of it,’ Oscar replies. He’s beaming with pride and I can tell he means it.
‘I love the rug,’ I say, directing my praise at Valerie, but it’s Mark’s dad who takes the credit for it.
‘Thank you, I picked it up on holiday in Iran. Val wasn’t sure, but I told her it was exactly what this room needed. We’re going for a sort of rural-meets-Middle Eastern look.’
‘He has all these big ideas,’ Val adds with an annoyed shake of her head. ‘The rest of us have to put up with his phases.’
‘Well, I really like it,’ I say with a smile. Oscar seems delighted with my compliment so at least I have one person warming to me – only seven to go.
‘You’re looking really brown,’ Mel observes, staring at Mark. ‘You been on holiday since I saw you last?’
‘We haven’t seen him in a while – he might have,’ Val chimes in, glancing over at me. Does she think it’s my fault?
‘It’s only been a couple of months,’ Mark laughs.
When I first got together with Mark, in the early days, when he would visit his family it was too soon to introduce me to them; but then everything happened so quickly, and the last couple of times he’s visited, I couldn’t go with him because I had work, and trying to get time off from Kath is about as difficult as trying to get a smile out of my future mother-in-law.
‘Maybe he’s been using fake tan,’ Millie laughs.
‘Oh, obviously,’ Mark replies sarcastically. ‘You got me.’
‘Remember when we used to dress him up in girls’ clothing and call him Mary?’ Mel reminisces.
‘Yes! That was almost as funny as the time we caught him using one of my lipsticks,’ she cackles.
‘OK, ha-ha, we get it, now shut up,’ Mark whinges. It’s strange, seeing him in this context, surrounded by his family, with his mum fussing over him and sisters winding him up. My smart, sexy fiancé suddenly seems like a kid again.
As I shuffle in my seat, I adjust my skirt as subtly as possible. Despite being my longest skirt, it still rides up a little when I sit down.
‘You can’t be comfortable in all that gear,’ Val says, her face scrunched up at my taste in fashion – or lack thereof.
‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you. I work for a website; they encourage us to be quite cool and fashion-forwards,’ I explain.
‘The boots are hot,’ Mel compliments me.
‘They’re a death trap, is what they are,’ Val chimes in. ‘I hate to see young ladies in shoes they can’t walk in.’
‘Me, too,’ I agree, although I think she was talking about me. We’ve been over this, though: if there’s only one thing I can do, it’s remain upright in heels.
‘Did you bring other clothes?’ Val asks.
‘Erm, no,’ I reply, awkwardly. I didn’t think this outfit would be a problem.
‘It’s just not exactly appropriate to the area,’ she explains. Well, sort of explains – I’m not really sure what she’s getting at.
‘Because of the weather? Oh, I’ll be fine,’ I assure her. ‘It’s so nice and warm in here, and Mark’s car is always toasty and warm with the heated seats. I’ll make it back home alive.’
Mark’s mum gives me a nod of acknowledgement.
‘Well, I’m going to make dinner. Melody, Mildred, if you wouldn’t mind helping me,’ she asks as she heads for the door.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I call after her.
‘No, but thank you. You’re the guest of honour; you just stay here and enjoy the football.’
As the three women shuffle off to the kitchen, leaving me here with the men and the kids, I couldn’t feel more uncomfortable. If I know women, and I think I do having been one for my entire life, I’ll bet they’re going to the kitchen to talk about me, and I can’t imagine it will be favourably. God, I wish Mark had warned them he was bringing me. Everyone is looking at me like I don’t belong here, and with the engagement announcement going down like a lead balloon, I don’t think I could feel any more awkward.
It’s just one night, that’s all I need to remember. Tomorrow morning I can get up, dressed, hit the road and make it home in time to spend Christmas in my own home. It will all be over soon, and anyway, it’s not like things could get any worse now, is it?
Chapter Eight
Just as I imagined, the Wright family dining room is quaint, cute and very country. With the exposed oak beams that are commonplace throughout the house, the cute plaid curtains that hang around the Georgian windows and a second beautiful stone fireplace with another warm, roaring fire on the go, the room is picture-perfect – like every inch of this house.
As someone who is often too cold, the heat from the fireplaces is very welcome. With exposed stone walls and floors, my only criticism of this place would be the fact that it is so cold in here when you aren’t in a room with a fire. The radiators do help a little, but in the corridors where they have merged the houses into one big one, they haven’t installed a radiator, and those parts of the house seem very chilly indeed.
The family all start pouring into the room, seating themselves at the table ready for dinner to be served. The smell of cooking has filled the house and caused the windows to steam up – not that it matters; now that it is dark outside, you can’t see a thing. Not so much as a wall at the end of the garden, a street light or a glimmer of civilisation.
It’s a large, round, wooden table, sort of like the kind I’d imagine a séance taking place at. Someone dig out an Ouija board and let’s all join hands and see if we can bring some life to this party.
With everyone seated at the table, with the exception of Mark’s mum, who is dashing back and forth between this room and the kitchen, carrying through serving dishes, and the twins, who are sitting together at a small, kids’ table, Mark notices something.
‘Mum’s set nine places,’ he observes, puzzled.
‘So what?’ Mel asks.
Millie is busying herself pouring lemonade for everyone, in full-blown, mumsy mode, taking care of the adults as she would the kids. Ste is playing some game on his phone, occasionally calling out ‘yes!’ like a teenage boy, and the rest of the menfolk are debriefing the football match they’ve just finished watching, like real manly men do – no one else seems concerned by the extra place set at the table.
‘So, there are only eight of us, Einstein,’ he replies mockingly, in that harsh tone everyone seems to speak to their siblings in. I sometimes wish I’d had a brother or sister when I was growing u
p, but then I realise that being an only child meant I got one hundred per cent of the attention and one hundred per cent of the present money at Christmas, and I appreciated all of that – typical, selfish only child thing to say, though, right?
My writer’s mind races, wondering about why on earth there is another place set. I hope it’s not some kind of weird gesture where they set a place for a relative that has passed away – or maybe my educated guess has been ushered in a very dark direction by my musings about this table.
‘That’s because we’ve got another guest,’ Val informs him, placing a casserole dish on the table. ‘An old friend who’s in town to visit their parents, but whose parents missed their flight back… You know I like to help out in a crisis.’
I can’t help but notice that Val is very, very careful not to use any words that might give away the gender of the mystery guest in question and this worries me greatly.
‘Who?’ Mark asks. I can tell by the look on his face that he really doesn’t have a clue who it could be.
‘Me, silly,’ a voice squeaks from the doorway. Mark and I immediately jolt our heads to the left to see who it is.
‘Bea,’ Mark blurts, his voice wavering a little.
Hovering in the doorway is a tall, skinny brunette. Probably about my age, but that is about all we have in common. She’s enviably tall – about 5’ 9” in the flat Timberlands she’s wearing (so basically the same height as I am in these 4” heels) – slim, yet toned (like an Amazonian), and her long, straight-brown hair makes me instantly regret chopping mine so short. She’s wearing a long, floral skirt and a peach blouse with a bow tied perfectly around her perfectly formed neck. Maybe it’s a northern thing, but Bea is yet another female wearing minimal make-up. I, on the other hand, am essentially a walking kohl eyeliner covered in glitter at this stage.
As Mark looks over to his mum for an explanation, I see a side of him I haven’t seen before: he looks scared. Mark is my superhero, unafraid, the ultimate mugging deterrent and a master squasher of moths (although I know he’d much prefer to set them free out of the window if I’d let him, but I won’t – don’t look at me like that, they’ll just fly back in). Right now, he looks like a scared little boy, not my big, hulking hero of a man.
It's Not You, It's Them Page 7