‘You know you want one really,’ I want to say to them, but I have a baby bagel with goats’ cheese instead, before mum smothers it with cling film.
‘Why don't you come back home with me?’ Mum suggests as I open the fridge. I know she’s worried that I’ll soon be face down in the black forest gateaux that she brought but I didn’t put out. I don't even bother to answer her. ‘Or I could stay here for the night,’ she offers.
‘I want some time on my own.’
The elves carry on working, cleaning down the bench, putting chairs and stools back and pretending they're not listening.
I don't know why they bother pretending.
She’ll be standing up in a meeting tomorrow talking about me and about how I still haven't forgiven her.
Not that she needs it. Mum's forgiven herself you see.
She's made her amends and said that she is sorry and now she has to move on with her life and it's up to me, they’ll tell her, whether or not I accept her apology.
That's my journey apparently.
Well, I don’t forgive her.
There are a few elves smoking in the garden and I head out and pinch a fag.
‘You don’t smoke,’ Mum says, following me out and, to prove she’s such a good example, she lights one up herself. ‘You gave up years ago.’
‘Special occasion,’ I say. ‘I only smoke on days that I bury my husband!’
I stand there and it makes me feel a bit sick. As I take another sip of my brandy I watch her lips purse and she’d better not fucking say anything.
It’s my journey.
I hate the lot of them.
They know me you see.
Or rather, they know too much about me.
Those Nordic good looks didn’t come from my mum’s rich Swedish lover; instead they came courtesy of an 18-30’s holiday to the Costa Brava. She thinks he might be Danish and there were quite a few Swedes, possibly German… Simone was right, she was far too young to be my mother, so basically, she wasn't one. The council found her a flat when her parents kicked her out and she partied on from there.
I got myself to school.
I worked out to get milk, sausages, bread and ice- cream on the day her benefit came through, before it all went on booze.
I cleaned the flat.
I found out that clothes need washing more than once a fortnight when I got teased because I smelt and I changed my own sheets when I wet the bed. I was a fat kid and bullied mercilessly thanks to her meticulously thought out meal plans and my long love affair with ice cream.
She straightened herself out though.
But not till I was sixteen and left.
Not till there wasn't someone to do the washing and cleaning anymore and make sure that there was food in the house.
I got a job as a receptionist at an estate agent’s and I bought nice food and kept my tiny bedsit immaculate. I also worked out that I could have my ice cream-cake and eat it too, just so long as I threw it up, so I lost weight and the real-estate agent noticed.
That was the first marriage I broke up but I’m not thinking about that now.
I’m thinking of my mother and what she did to me.
I look at the elves and I can guess what they say about me. Well, they can judge me as materialistic; you know what? I couldn't give a fag what they think. My house is clean, my daughter doesn't smell, there is healthy food in my fridge and I am not giving any of it up.
Not a single piece.
I head back into the kitchen and I pour another brandy.
‘Lucy,’ Mum starts and thankfully, for her sake, her friends pull her aside and have a word. They tell her that she should let me be, that she can’t stop me, so don’t try, which is just as well because I really don't need a lecture from her about drinking on the day of my husband's funeral. My mind is savage and it’s racing and I don't care what Luke says – I’ll be a prostitute before I lose this house.
‘Thanks for everything today.’ I try to be polite; I just want her to leave.
‘Lucy, I don't want to leave you on your own.’
I can’t be polite anymore.
I’m through with pretending.
‘You never used to mind.’
I watch the colour flood her cheeks and all the elves gather around and then a couple of them try to