bloody money. Put these in a vase, just as good, and you can use them again.” She thrust the plastic flowers at me, then she peered at Mum and shook her head. “Oh, Joanne. Bloody hell. Look at you. Look at your lines. I know I’m lined”—she poked at her suntanned, crinkly face—“but these are from fun. Look at you, working yourself into an early grave! That’s got to stop. If you can’t enjoy yourself, what’s the point of life? I’m taking you away.”
At first, I didn’t even know what Aunty Karen meant by “away.” Then I realized she meant away to Spain. Then I thought, Yes! Of course Mum should have a holiday. Then I thought, Mum will never have a holiday. No way. She won’t go.
But I’d reckoned without Aunty Karen. Somehow she’s got sway over Mum. She can talk her into things no one else can. Like, she told Mum she had to have gel nails, had to—and Mum listened meekly and let her apply them. How many times has Leila offered to do Mum’s nails without getting anywhere?
And now she’s talked Mum into coming back to Spain with her. Mum, who hasn’t been on a plane since before she was married. The doctors have okayed it. (I phoned up the consultant especially, to be extra sure.) Mum’s bought a new swimsuit and a hat and a one-way ticket. She doesn’t know how long she’s going for, but it’ll be at least six weeks. It was Aunty Karen who insisted on six weeks. She said short holidays are stressful. She said Mum would never properly relax otherwise. She said they might go to Paris too and she barely knew her own sister and it was about bloody time.
Which is great. It’s so great. Mum deserves some time to relax and see the world and get to know her sister properly again. When she told me she’d be gone for six weeks, if not more, I flung my arms around her and said, “Mum, that’s amazing! How exciting!”
“It’s a long time to be away,” she said with a nervous laugh. But I instantly shook my head and said, “You need it. And, anyway, it’ll fly by!”
Today we’re having a meeting to talk about how we’re going to manage the shop. Jake and Nicole have both promised to give more time to it. (It’s turned out that Nicole’s yoga course isn’t quite as “full-time” as she’s been making out.) We’ve upped Stacey’s hours and reworked the shifts so that everything is covered. Still, it’ll be weird with Mum away.
We’ve cleared the oak gateleg dining table that we only use at Christmas and we’re sitting round it with cups of coffee: Nicole, Jake, me, and Mum, whose appearance keeps making me draw breath. She’s now an unfamiliar biscuity color and has sparkly blue earrings dangling from her lobes. Aunty Karen talked her into the fake tan last night—and the earrings appeared this morning as a “little pressie.”
The chair at the end with the big wooden arms is empty. That’s still Dad’s chair, even after all these years. No one would ever sit in it, but no one ever moves it either. It’s like we still respect Dad and his position in the family, even though he’s gone.
“Here we are!” Aunty Karen plonks a bowl of pink marshmallows on the table, and we all blink at her. “You didn’t know you needed those, did you?” she exclaims triumphantly as she sits down and pops one into her mouth, and we all stare at them, a bit baffled.
This is what Aunty Karen says every time she brings something new into the house—which is every single day. From fake flowers to bowls of sweets everywhere to plug-in air fresheners, she’s constantly “improving” the place with things which aren’t really us. And each time, she cries, “You didn’t know you needed that, did you?” But she’s so bright and breezy and bossy, no one objects.
Jake eyes the marshmallows with disfavor, then pushes them away slightly and turns to Mum.
“Right,” he says. “So. Mum. You’re off to Spain.”
“Hola!” puts in Nicole brightly. “Por favor, signor.”
“Por favor-e,” corrects Jake.
“No, it’s not.” Nicole rolls her eyes. “It’s por favor.”
“It’s por favor,” Aunty Karen confirms. “But don’t bother with any of that nonsense,” she adds to Mum. “Miguel down the beach, he pretends he only speaks Spanish. Load of rubbish. Just speak English, nice and loud.”
“Really?” Mum looks taken aback. “But if he’s Spanish—”