me Lynn was imaginary, I probably would have forgotten all about her.
‘I’d love to meet your children,’ says Joss, breaking the silence. ‘Please bring them to visit.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘We sometimes get dolphins here,’ she adds, twinkling. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I ought to go.’ I get to my feet reluctantly. Devon’s a long way from London and I need to be back tonight.
‘Come again, soon. Bring the family. And good luck on Saturday,’ she adds.
‘Thanks.’ I smile. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t invite you …’
Seeing Joss on my own is one thing. Having her in the same room as Mummy would be a step too far. Mummy does know that I’ve been in touch with Joss, but it’s firmly in the category of things she won’t acknowledge.
Joss nods. ‘Of course. I’ll be thinking of you, though,’ she says, and draws me in for a tight hug, and I feel that, out of all of this, something good came. A new friendship. Or a new-old one.
A real one.
And then, in a blink, it’s Saturday and I’m getting ready. Make-up: done. Dress: on. Hair: sprayed. There’s nothing else I can do with it. Even flowers or a jewelled comb would look ridiculous.
My hair is even shorter than it was when I first hacked it off. I went to the hairdresser and after gaping in shock, my regular stylist Neil pointed out how jagged it was, and how he’d need to ‘really go in there’ to even it up. He calls it my ‘Twiggy’ look, which is sweet of him because I don’t look anything like Twiggy. On the other hand, it does suit my face. That’s the general view. Everyone who blanched when they first saw it is now saying, ‘You know, I actually prefer it this way.’ Apart from Mummy, of course.
I’ve tried to talk to Mummy a lot, over the last six months. Many times, I’ve sat on that sofa of hers and tried to bring up different subjects. I’ve tried to explain why I cut my hair off. And why I flipped out. And why I can’t be treated like a child any more: shut out while the grown-ups confer. I’ve tried to explain how wrong the whole ‘Lynn’ thing was. I’ve tried to explain how mixed up my feelings are about Daddy. I’ve tried over and over to have a proper, empathetic conversation, the kind I feel we should be having.
But everything bounces off. Nothing lands. She won’t meet my eyes or acknowledge the past or shift position an inch. For her, Daddy is still the golden, untouchable hero of our family, Joss is the villain, and I’m the turncoat. She’s locked in a kind of ossified reality, surrounded by her photos of Daddy and the wedding DVD, which she still plays when the girls visit. (I won’t watch it any more. I’m done with it. Maybe I’ll revisit it, in ten years’ time or so.)
So the last time I went round for brunch – just me – we didn’t even talk about any of it. We talked about where Mummy might go on holiday with Lorna, and she made Bellinis and I bought a set of stacking rings – so versatile – at the special one-off price of £39.99 (normal price for all five items: £120.95). And at the end, she said, ‘Darling this has been so lovely,’ and I think she really meant it. She likes the bubble. She’s happy there. She’s not interested in bursting it.
‘Mummy!’ Tessa comes running into my room, dressed in her chosen outfit – Chelsea top, tutu skirt and glittery trainers. There was just a nano-second when I considered laying down the law and forcing her into the adorable, dusty pink Wild & Gorgeous dress I’d seen online. But then I stopped myself. I’m not going to force my girls into dresses, or hairstyles, or thoughts that aren’t theirs. Let everyone be who they want to be. Let Tessa wear her Chelsea top and Anna her Gruffalo costume. They’ll make perfect bridesmaids. Or whatever they are.
‘Daddy says, “See you there,”’ she announces.
‘OK.’ I beam at her. ‘Thanks.’
We haven’t done the whole ‘spend the night apart’ thing – I mean, this is a renewal of vows, not a wedding – but we decided to arrive at the venue separately. Keep some magic, at least.
And Dan hasn’t seen my dress, either, so he doesn’t know that I’ve splashed out on the most elegant, strapless pale-grey Vera Wang concoction. At least, it wasn’t me who