Page 3 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

I study the perfectly sourced mid-century furniture as I walk around a large desk, its gleaming surface only interrupted by an in-tray containing a stack of perfectly aligned papers. The far wall houses custom built-ins. The large flatscreen is enclosed by ordered rows of books, organised by size and colour.

I sweep my gaze over the modern kitchen where there is precisely nothing on the work surfaces, not even a charger cable.

Disturbed by the lack of personal stuff, I reach out and brush a fingertip over the glossy leaves of a Ficus. Like everything else in this place, it feels artificial.

I snatch my hand back.

It is artificial.

Maybe I’m being pranked.

Maybe all the mess I was promised is in one of the two bedrooms and if I investigate, I’ll be graced with the equivalent of a rock star’s hotel suite? Propelling myself into action I retrace my steps back across the living area and head for the nearest door.

‘…And so I need to know there’s at least the possibility of you bringing someone to the wedding. Not that you’ll ever meet anyone cleaning but?—’

The door in front of me disappears momentarily as I roll my eyes so hard, they feel like I’m doing advanced eye yoga (which, considering I read an article about goat yoga the other day, is surely a thing somewhere).

I manage to hold back the audible sigh but … ugh! Why is she never going to believe I can have a good life cleaning? A more balanced life? A happier life?

But this is the stuff of pipe dreams because believe me, if you’d spent your whole life being told: Go to school. Stay in school. Get a career. We sacrifice for you. Don’t end up like us – cleaning for other people who stayed in school and got themselves a career…

The fact my folks own their own cleaning business that they’ve franchised out and employ sixty staff, own their own home, put all their kids through college, but will never believe their work is as valid as others … well, I’m not on a crusade or anything but underneath it all, it breaks my heart. As well as frustrating the ever-loving hell out of me – wait, finally her words filter through and I say into the phone, ‘Wedding? What Wedding?’

‘Your cousin Tina’s wedding.’

‘Tina’s getting married?’ I stop myself pushing the door to the master suite open. I’m doing it for this George guy because discovering I’ve just become the only person in my entire family not married or engaged to be married has my neuroses and insecurities laughing at me like a pack of hyenas and trust me, nobody needs that kind of negative energy in their bedroom.

‘You didn’t get the save the date card?’ my mother asks.

I want to say they probably don’t deliver invites that look that posh to my neighbourhood but instead I say lightly, ‘Nope. So, when’s the wedding?’

‘June third.’

‘Wow, that’s fast.’ I wait for her to dish the dirt on the reason Tina’s getting married so fast but there’s nothing. ‘Wait – are we talking about June third next year?’

‘Of course next year,’ she says. ‘You know how long it takes to plan a good wedding.’

‘Oh my God – I could be married by then.’

I do not need the ensuing silence to know I should not have said that.

Flippancy.

Sarcasm.

Surrealism.

None of these are the way to go in conversation with my mother.

‘And how will you be married by then when you’re not even dating?’

Before Loneliness can gallop in and wallop me over the head, I mentally slam shut the trapdoor into my heart, lean against it a little and look around for something to shove up against it. Maybe my left lung?

‘Ashleigh?’

I do some more eye yoga and push open the door to George Northcote’s master suite, figuring when one door shuts, another one opens.

‘I’m dating,’ I respond in defence. ‘As a matter of fact, I have a date tonight.’ This is closely followed by the shoutiest of shouty voices in my head yelling: Have you learnt nothing?

---