put a giant in a doll’s house. I watch him for a moment, looking out of the corner of my eye. He thinks I’m replying to work emails. I am replying to work emails. I just happen to be looking at a message from Alex and trying to work out why – when I have a handsome, eligible, kind, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera boyfriend sitting here in my mum’s house – I’m more excited by the prospect of walking around London in the October drizzle than I am about being here.
I decide that maybe I’m just being fickle. But – I turn the phone over in my hands, pondering – I do like our wanders. And Alex makes me laugh. And it’s important to have male friends when you’re in a relationship.
I’d like that.
There’s a pause when I see the dots on the screen, indicating he’s writing something, and then they disappear. I wait a moment, but nothing comes.
? I type, waiting for his response.
Just, maybe we should skip inviting anyone else this time?
My insides give a disobedient little fizz, as if I’ve had a tiny electric shock. I’m not doing anything wrong, I tell myself, and I can feel the corners of my lips tugging upwards in a secret little smile as I tap out a reply.
Definitely.
And then I put the phone down on the table and turn towards James. He puts down the paper and gazes at me with his huge, soft brown eyes.
‘You okay?’
I nod.
‘And you’re going to cope—’ he pauses, glancing in the direction of Mum’s bedroom, where she’s still sleeping ‘—when I go back tonight?’
‘Definitely.’
As if he’s summoned her, Mum appears from the bedroom, wrapped in a purple satin dressing gown. She rubs her face, and gives a huge, over-exaggerated yawn.
‘Morning, James,’ she says. She can’t see my face, and I give him A Look – nostrils flaring and eyes wide. Mum has always been very much male focused, and with James around I’ve been relegated to a sort of incidental character, a bit-part player without a speaking part.
‘Do we have anything for breakfast?’ She opens the kitchen cupboard and closes it again, making a little noise of disappointment. It’s as if she’s forgotten that we’re her guests, and she’s the one responsible for catering.
‘I noticed there was a deli on the corner when I moved the car last night. I thought I’d pop over and get us some pastries,’ says James, unfolding himself and standing up, towering over me as I sit on the low, uncomfortable sofa.
‘Oh, you are an angel,’ Mum says, beaming at him. ‘Isn’t he a doll, Jess?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, deadpan. James flashes me a look. He thinks I’m too hard on her. I haven’t told him that much about growing up with her around – or rather, growing up at Nanna and Grandpa’s house with Mum not around. It’s weird that I’ve shared so much of this with Alex, but I think there’s something about walking that makes it easier to talk about stuff. Anyway, I think he’s got a more realistic view of what life with my mother was like.
‘I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ James says, picking up the keys. ‘I’ll let myself back in.’
‘He’s very nice,’ Mum says, for the fiftieth time, watching as I put on the kettle and wipe up the kitchen surface from the night before. She’d clearly come in from a performance and made tea and a vodka and orange (or two) and the worktop is covered with a sticky layer of crumbs and juice that has dried into a rough layer.
‘He is,’ I agree, scrubbing at a particularly sticky bit.
‘You should take a leaf out of Sophie’s book,’ she continues.
‘Mum,’ I begin, warningly. I know where this is going, because I’ve been hearing it since I was eight years old. I adore Soph, but my mother has been using her as a poster girl for as long as I can remember. Childishly, I want to point out that Sophie’s in the midst of some sort of super early life crisis, because she and Rich still can’t agree on what they want their wedding to be, so they’ve reached stalemate. But I don’t say anything.
‘I’m just saying,’ she says, pouting slightly, her tone bruised. ‘You’re always looking for something to be offended by. Sophie’s got a good job, nice house, she’s trying for a baby – you’re not getting any younger, Jess.’
‘I’m not even thirty.’ I’m trying to keep