Page 9 of Still Falling for You

‘If you say so,’ she says briskly. She’s on a mission. ‘Anyway. This reminds me, have you spoken to Aaron?’

I don’t understand how my work situation reminds her of Aaron, but I can’t find the will to question it. My mother’s thoughts work in mysterious ways.

‘I can’t sleep or eat from all the stress. I don’t think I’ve closed an eye or had a proper bite of food since you two broke up.’

My mind is immediately transported to two weekends ago when she dozed off in an armchair after polishing a slice of Victoria sponge the size of my head. I ended up watchingSalvage Huntersto the noise of her snoring.

‘Your father and I are devastated, aren’t we, George?’ she continues shamelessly.

My dad grumbles noncommittally in the background. At the sound of his voice, a frown works its way onto my face, furrowing my brows.

I check the time; it’s seven o’clock. He’s probably annoyed with Mother because she’s interruptingPointless. After a prolonged pause, he eventuallyyeahs. She must have given him one of her exasperated looks.

‘How did your pottery class go?’ I hurriedly enquire, steering the topic from me because I know my mother lives for four things in her life.

Number one is two-for-one bargains in Haskins Garden Centre. Number two, dissecting all the life choices I’ve made since I was a teenager. Number three, annoying my father with rhetorical questions when he’s watching the TV while simultaneously discussing number one or two. Number four, always the most rewarding because it can’t be combined with any of the above and on which I’m now relying, talking aboutherself and her hobbies.

She takes the bait. ‘Thank you for asking. The pottery class was so invigorating, makes your mind run away with it. Very mind-filling. The pottery teacher was very handsome too. Before I forget, I gave him your number.’

I wonder whether she’s referring to mindfulness until her words bring me back to reality and I choke on the crisp I’m chewing.

‘Your personality might clash less with an artistic type. Somebody who is a bit more fluid and understanding of your unusual taste in fashion and decor.’

I ignore her insult and zone in on her giving out my personal information to a complete stranger slash potential serial killer.

‘You did what?’ I squeak, sounding like Gadget Hackwrench fromRescue Rangers. I try not to panic and bite my lip before I swear on the phone. Despite my mother’s frequent proclivities with my personal life, I’ve never sworn in front of my parents. Maybe it’s time I started. I abandon the bag of crisps on the table.

‘He was very nice. Very good teeth. Mind you, not as nice as Aaron’s. You can always tell a lot about a man by their teeth.’ I purse my lips together. ‘Maybe you can invite Aaron over for dinner on Sunday,’ she carries on without a pause.

One has to admire my mother’s attention span of a mayfly. I’m so bereft of words by her constant one-eighty turns that I can’t quite decide what to comment on first and whether there’s any point at all. I decide to tackle one issue at a time.

‘I’m not inviting my ex-boyfriend to Sunday lunch.’ My patience is waning thin, and an edge is creeping into my voice.

‘I still don’t understand why you broke up with him. He was such a nice boy.’

I don’t deem it prudent to tell my mother that Aaron is many things but definitely notnice. If only things were as simple as they are in my mother’s world.

Something about the way she saysboymakes me think ofteenage Alex. I never invited Alex to meet my parents. After I saw Alex’s cramped studio he lived in with his mum, my stuck-up, upper-middle-class family with a big house and a perfectly mown lawn, a professor dad and a stay-at-home mum, sat uncomfortably with me. I understood that my lifestyle was a privilege.

Where Alex pretended not to notice that my parents were well off, Aaron always made me feel bad for my parents’ money and never understood why I didn’t ask them for any.

My dad’s grumbling in the background pulls me out of my thoughts. ‘Leave her alone, Cassie.’

‘I have to go, Mother. I’ll see you on Sunday, OK?’ I finish the conversation before my mother starts dissecting any more of my life failures.

‘OK, darling.’ She makes a disconcerting noise that sounds like she’s sending me a kiss over the phone or chewing on an extremely tough sweet. I hang up before she gets a chance to go on another tirade.

Becoming every teacher’s cliché, I end up drinking a big glass of red wine and scrolling through my and Aaron’s pictures from last year’s holiday to Italy. I have a sudden urge to print the pictures off so I can draw horns, a monobrow, a split tongue, a wart or a pig’s nose on his stupid face. Instead, I end up reading through the King George’s Academy’s website until I land on the photo of Alex that Lydia found earlier. I study him for a long moment, his impenetrable green eyes boring into me unapologetically. I close the website as a decision crystalises in my head.

Alex belongs in the past, and I intend to keep him there.

4

The next day is much less eventful. I get to school on time and even manage to look presentable. I had put on my lucky outfit, a maroon peplum dress fastened by black buttons sweeping in a line from the neck to the shoulder. It’s my power suit equivalent, my armour. I stroll into the school with my head high, coolly saying ‘good morning’ to Mary, the receptionist.

When John catches me in the corridor, he whistles.

‘I dig your ’50s secretary look.’ He offers me a cookie from a paper bag he’s holding, which I accept because I’m a sucker for refined sugar.

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