skirts too short and a ton of eyeliner. I find her look mildly embarrassing. Not simply because she’s unfashionable and being a trend leader is important to me, but because of what her look signifies. It is a very public statement that she has not been able to move on since my father left her. She’s never said so, but I know that she’s preserving herself in this way. She hopes that one day father will come home and the last twenty-six years will be magically erased. A modern-day Miss Haver-sham.
My mother is a tall, strong-looking woman. The height comes from her thighs, which are slightly longer than average. She’s kept her figure. The only concession to her age is that her tummy is gently rounding, comfortably protruding but certainly not huge. Her back is broad and her shoulders wide. Her body tells of capability. Her face is thin and she has high cheekbones. Her nose is narrow and straight, giving the impression that life’s discomforts slip from her without disturbing her. But her chin is pointy and juts out to catch all pain and atrocity. She has watery blue eyes that punctuate the solidness of her face. And because her eyes are the window to all her delight and disgust she often hides them behind dark glasses, even in the winter. I’ve inherited this from my mother. Whilst I don’t actually wear dark glasses I do see the world as a slightly shady place.
‘Did you get my message on Tuesday?’ Mum asks. I don’t say yes and that it made my day. I say yes but I’ve been too busy to call back. She nods.
‘How was the wedding?’ She knows all about my social life and what I do with myself on a daily basis. It’s a tactic to avoid living a life of her own.
‘Fluffy,’ I reply.
‘Beautiful.’ Issie smiles.
‘What a shame about the rain, especially as today is so beautiful. Isn’t that always the way?’
‘They must have expected rain or at least thought there was a fair probability. It is August, it is England.’ I don’t know why I do this. Behave badly. But I always do. My mother always brings out the worst in me. The moment I am in her presence I am incapable of being polite, let alone charming. I become petulant, sulky, churlish and unreasonable. My mother authorizes this appallingly childish behaviour by silently indulging me. The harder she tries to please, the meaner I become. I always leave her house ashamed of myself.
‘Ignore her,’ says Issie.
‘Oh, I do,’ giggles my mum.
‘You know how she hates weddings.’
I pretend to have an overwhelming interest in the yellow patches of grass on the lawn. My mother cuts me a piece of chocolate fudge cake. It was my favourite as a child. I consider telling her I’m dieting but it’s a lie. I’d only be doing it to be pathetic.
‘Did Josh enjoy the wedding?’
‘Seemed to,’ I mutter. I know where this conversation is leading. It’s leading where every conversation my mother ever has about Josh leads. She mistakenly labours under the belief that Josh and I would make a ‘lovely couple’. She insists on deliberately misconstruing his innocent acts of friendship as overtures. Her inference would irritate me, but I comfort myself with the thought that my mother knows absolutely nothing about the male psyche.
‘Didn’t he want to come for tea too?’
‘He was otherwise engaged.’ I haven’t the heart to elaborate – she looks crushed as it is. Rallying herself, my mother turns to Issie.
‘Issie, are you courting at the moment?’ asks Mum as she passes Issie a slice of cake. Issie and I avoid catching each other’s eye because although we are thirty-three years old we still think the word ‘courting’ is hysterical. Hearing it said out loud is enough to send us into peals of helpless giggles.
‘No.’ Issie manages the single syllable by cramming a load of fudge cake into her mouth.
‘Oh. What a shame. Are you working too hard? You’re not neglecting your social life are you? Don’t forget there’s more to life than work.’ My mum and I agree on one thing. If Issie wants a man it should be possible.
‘It’s not work. It’s just that all the men I meet are bastards.’ Mum blushes at Issie’s expletive. I’m amused and watch the exchange with interest. My mum and I run through this routine every week. It amazes me that whilst her marriage made her so unhappy, she still thinks it’s the answer