Page 15 of Still Falling for You

Soon all my thoughts of Aaron and Alex are obliterated with the rhythm of ’90s music pumping through the studio. During our absolutely awful rendition of No Doubt’sDon’t Speak,we stop dancing and start jumping from the coffee table to the sofa and the armchair. Lydia and I end up shouting out all the words to the song while Catherine does her heavy metal head toss.

Around eleven they both head out, Catherine going home and Lydia to visit afriend. When the oppressive silence hits once again, I un-pause Anne Elliot. Together, we mourn our what-ifs.

7

My parents’ house is a classic example of an upper-middle-class semi with a decent-sized garden. The neighbourhood is known for its great school catchment, a low crime rate and a garden centre that sells above-average custard slices and always boasts two-for-one bargains. Basically, nothing ever happens here unless you count Mrs Baxter’s cat going missing every second week and the Doyle kids occasionally drawing a cock and balls with their finger on the dusty window of Mr Cox’s van.

I’ve always been aware of how lucky I was to grow up in an area where you didn’t have to dial 999 when walking around after dark. But it only occurred to me how very fortunate I was when I met Alex. His mum rented a studio flat in the EastTown where streets were unkept and half of the shops were littered with uncollected bins. I always remember feeling being watched.

I could only remember a handful of times Alex invited me over to his. Most of the time, we were tucked in the recesses of a local greasy spoon, sipping the same coffee for hours, sharing a plate of chips and stealing kisses in between the aforementioned.

Thinking about those times still makes me raw. Perhaps it’s because I never expected to see him again. Yet, a part of me so small it’s almost non-existent always hoped to see him again and demand why things ended the way they did. In that faraway future, I always pictured myself much braver, more mature and sophisticated.

Now standing in front of the white-washed house, it reminds me of everything I hated about myself when I went out with Alex. This place used to be a haven until it wasn’t. My chest feels tight, but my legs don’t slow down, and my hand doesn’t hesitate when it presses the bell.

The door opens, and the sight of my dolled-up mother breaks the vicious cycle of looping thoughts. She’s had her blonde hair freshly permed, her stiff updo making her resemble a poodle competing at Crufts. She’s wearing a floral garment that I can only describe asa frilly-apron-dress-thing. I’m all into vintage clothing, but my mother takes it to the next level. Today she’s playing the fifties hostess. She opens the door holding a tray full of canapés that look like something that has been regurgitated by an animal and garnished with rocket and watercress to hide the sickly purple colour. There’s much to be said about my mother and her obsession with micro herbs, but nobody wants to be that bored.

When she sees it’s only me, her round-with-age body sags in disappointment, and the pleasant smile that embellished her face vanishes. Any minute, I’m waiting for a female voice from behind my mother’s back to shout out, ‘Doilies, Pam?’ and mymother to respond in a clipped tone, ‘Third drawer from the top, Una. Under the mini gherkins.’

Instead of greeting me with warmth and affection accustomed to other mothers, she gazes disapprovingly from my green patent shoes, past the orange corduroy skirt and fixes on the satin shirt. Her nose crinkles. ‘Couldn’t you have put on something more…’

I don’t let her finish. ‘Hello to you too, Mother.’ I inject some cheer into my compliment. ‘You look fantastic.’ She gives me a mock, self-deprecating wave, swatting her hand like it’s nothing, but it somehow ends up in her hair, plumping it absentmindedly like she’s shaping a ball of candy floss. I will be doomed the day that compliments don’t redirect my mother’s attention.

I follow her into the kitchen, trailing in the wake of her sugary perfume. She deposits the tray of appetisers on the faux marble breakfast island with a dramatic huff and immediately checks her rose gold watch. She mumbles the wordlateand shakes her head.

I can guess that whoever is late isn’t scoring well so far. I can even go as far as to guess that someone is not Carol the next-door neighbour or the old university friend of my dad’s, Martin, who often frequents our Sunday lunches. No, my mother keeps a score for only one type of visitor, which means that she is matchmaking. Again. My suspicions are confirmed when I make to pick one of the strange-looking appetisers just to see her reaction and she slaps my hand with the words, ‘They’re not for you!’ making me feel like an errant five-year-old raiding the sweets cupboard.

Her face crinkles up, her foundation creating orange lines on her forehead and under her eyes, reminding me of the leftover rind bits you get at the bottom of a marmalade jar.

‘Mother,’ I start and decide there’s no point beating about the bush. ‘Who have you invited over?’

She ruffles her hair all innocently, but her words are rushed. ‘Nobody. Just a friend from my pottery class.’

‘Does this friend happen to be male?’ I ask in disbelief.

‘Don’t be sexist. Can’t I have friends who are men?’ Her voice is suffused with defensiveness. ‘Just for your information, it’s a female friend.’ She starts twisting her engagement ring. I sigh. That’s her guilty tell. When I count the number of plates set out on the table and encounter an extra one, my mouth opens.

Before anything comes out, she interrupts, finished with this conversation. ‘Go say hello to your father and tell him the dinner is almost done. I bet he’s fallen asleep in that ridiculous sun lounger of his. I should have gotten rid of that old, tatty thing years ago.’ For a moment, my eyebrows draw together in confusion. I’m unsure whether she’s referring to my dad or the sun lounger.

The garden is a spacious lime-green rectangle wrapped around by perfectly manicured hedges from all sides. The space is penned up by two metal, arty-farty bird baths whose phallic shapes have always reminded me of the male anatomy and a double-apex wooden shed whose floor plan is probably bigger than my entire studio flat.

Together with the timber casement window and a mini porch, the shed looks like a micro pool house minus the pool because we’re in England and the chances of swimming in a pool are somewhere between never and don’t-hold-your-breath-forget-it-once-in-a lunar-eclipse never. But my dad always says that no respectable gardener would go without a decent shed. Apparently, neighbours judge other neighbours based on the size of their shed. Euphemism? Perhaps.

I pause. My throat tightens at the sight of a mop of greying hair peeking from above the infamous sun lounger.

At my approaching steps, my dad stirs and the lounger creaks. First, the sharp nose adorned with old-fashioned rimmed glasses and then the rest of my father’s profile appears. The glasses and his solemn stoic look mark my dad as the scholar he is. His lined face pulls into a smile.

‘The prodigal daughter returns to the nest.’ He stands upwith a heavy groan. Before I have a chance to say a word or decide what to do, he envelops me in a second-long hug like he’s worried I’ll pull away if he makes it any longer.

‘Hi, Dad,’ I say stiffly. ‘Mother says the dinner is almost ready.’ At this, he rests his hand on my shoulder, steering us towards the house.

‘Let’s not make her wait because otherwise she’ll turn into aroastzillaand god knows what she’ll do.’

Despite myself, amusement lifts the corners of my lips because talking about my mother’s shortcomings behind her back used to be our thing. My half-grin turns grim.

To fill the awkward silence that follows, I hastily ask, ‘What’s all the hoo-ha about?’

‘You mean the vomit-looking appetisers and the…?’ He motions with his hand around his head in the vague shape of my mother’s soufflé hair. But I hear the affection in his voice that has always been a mystery to me. I love my mother, but sometimes she can be hard to like.

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