Page 16 of Still Falling for You

‘She found the recipe inGoodHousekeepingmagazine. They’re supposed to be vol-au-vent spinoffs. I did tell her there was nothing wrong with the old-fashioned vol-au-vents, that nobody would eat purple food and that there was a reason why purple carrots didn’t go down well in history. That’s when she booted me out of the kitchen. I’ve been exposed to the elements since eleven. Don’t ask me about the hair because I have no clue.’

The grinding sound of a car parking on the gravel in front of the house travels to my ears. I strain to hear the bell and then the door opening and closing. My mother’s over-polished and suddenly very posh voice greets two guests. Judging by the deep quality, one of them is positively masculine. Colour me genius.

I clasp my hands in front of me in nervous anticipation. Let the show begin.

As soon as I stroll into the kitchen, I think I’m suffering double vision. Unbeknown to me, I’ve walked into aStepford Wivesrevisited set. I’m greeted by an older woman dressed in cigarette trousers and a puff-sleeve blouse. Her resemblance to my mother is uncanny; she could be my mother’s twin except her beehive hair is light brown and she’s not wearing floral wallpaper.

I’m surprised when Penelope is followed by a tall brown-haired man with ocean-blue eyes and a perfect five o’clock shadow that one could grate Grana Padano on. Involuntarily, my insides tighten at the perfection, but otherwise, I’m unaffected. I’ve always preferred Domhnall Gleeson to Liam Hemsworth.

‘Nickolas, this is my daughter, Holly-Anne.’ My mother doesn’t give up on her posh accent. Until this very moment, I didn’t realise I had a middle name nor that it was hyphenated like we’re in an episode ofDowntonAbbey.

‘Holly,’ I correct my mother and grab his strong hand. He smirks, obviously entertained.

‘Nick,’ he quips, and I smirk back. I think I like him. Not in an I-want-to-jump-your-bones kind of way, even though he’s easy to look at.

The dinner proceeds from there onwards in a similar fashion. My dad is quiet and detached but polite as he usually is with anyone who isn’t me, Mother or his limited number of university friends. Nick’s mother answers all my mother’s relentless questions about their house and garden like it’s the pinnacle of modern life while Nick’s glazed eyes follow the conversation from left to right like it’s a mediocre game of tennis. I stifle a few yawns when their conversation naturally turns to curtains and how difficult it is to arrange fittings with John Lewis these days. I should have been more grateful for the topic because a moment later the conversation switches to me. Correction, my mother forcefully steers the conversation towards me.

‘Nickolas, did you know that Holly-Anne is a teacher?’ she asks in between two bird-like bites. One would think she’s been eating air the entire time.

I slide an extra roast potato onto my plate from a green ramekin and shove it in my mouth to avoid speaking. Immediately, a foot kicks my shin, and I barely suppress a yelp. I don’t think Mother is impressed with my third helping of potatoes and general lack of conversational input. But the payday is far, and my fridge is stripped bare minus skanky-looking ketchup and a three-week-old Saint Agur rind.

To make matters worse, the potato gets stuck in my throat, and I end up guzzling a glass of water in one go. I know I’m behaving like a neanderthal but better to send a clear message now and avoid embarrassment later.

‘No, I didn’t. What do you teach?’ he asks politely.

‘Primary,’ I answer when I can speak but don’t elaborate.

‘I’m sure Nickolas would like to hear more about that. One can’t really get a feel from one-word answers,’ my mother adds icily, her eyes boring into me with the intensity of a nuclear reactor about to explode.

Up till now, every lunch where my mother’s tried to set me up with yet another single man between twenty-five and thirty-five, I’ve been polite and detached. But after the week I’ve had, I’ve had enough. I barely contain the vexation I feel.

‘I don’t want to bore you, Nickolas.’ I imitate my mother’s posh voice. My father gives me a warning tap of the foot under the table that I choose to ignore. ‘You spend around forty-odd hours per week at work. Who wants to talk about it in their spare time? Nobody wants to hear about a year four peeingin his chair because he couldn’t be bothered to go to the toilet or two year fives sending messages to each other during a literacy lesson with a stick person who looked suspiciously like me. Except for the fact it was fishing in its overlarge nose for bogies with a speech bubble saying, “At last,I’ve found ya.” Truth be told, I was impressed that they used an adverbial of time followed by a comma despite the unconventional spelling ofyou.’

Nickolas coughs into his drink but recovers quickly, however, Nick’s mother is turning distinctly appalled.

Before I have a chance to really give them a proper description of what being a teacher is like, my mother interjects resolutely. ‘That’s enough.’ I don’t know what has gotten into me. She carries on smoothly like I’ve never spoken. ‘Before that, Holly-Anne worked at Nigel Longfleet Academy and singlehandedly improved their school’s Ofsted rating fromrequires improvementtogood,’ she boasts.

‘Mother,’ I warn her. The rebuke comes out sterner than I meant to. ‘That’s not true. It was a shared effort.’

She ignores my protests. ‘Instead of being grateful, they told her they no longer needed her.’ She huffs on my behalf. I’ve never been this embarrassed.

I interrupt her before she goes on a tirade about Aaron because I wouldn’t put it past her. ‘What do you do for a living, Nickolas?’

‘I’m glad you asked, Holly-Ann,’ he responds with a similar cheer. No doubt he’s having a whale of a time. If not a pod of whales. ‘I’m a vet.’

He’s just scored triple points in my mother’s eyes. She’s probably planning our kids’ names and where they’re going to go to college.

‘Nice,’ I say dumbly because I have nothing to contribute to this conversation.

‘I rather like it myself.’ His grin is wide. I bet I will be ananecdote at his next pub meeting with friends, but I’m at such a low point in my life, I actually don’t care. However, he surprises me by adding, ‘But I won’t bore you about how a five-year-old Staffy once puked in my face, or an old Yorkshire Terrier pooped all over my new watch because who really wants to be having conversations about work on their day off.’

This time I can’t help it and burst out laughing. His mother hisses, ‘Nickolas’, but he only shrugs and grins at me.

After that, both mother hens revert to discussing home decor and the last pottery class.

I endure another half an hour of my mother’s chitchat, silently grinding my teeth; at this speed, I will need a mouth guard soon. My easy-going, always-ready-to-avoid-conflict dad seems more interested in his cabbage than the conversation. I grip the fork with perhaps a little too much pressure.

Later, I help my mother load the dishwasher in the kitchen. It gives me an excuse to talk to her while our guests are drinking coffee and enjoying a slice of my mother’s famous Victoria sponge that is actually bought from the local bakery. Only I know, and I’ve been threatened on numerous occasions that if I ever have the desire to divulge that secret in front of any guests, I might not be invited to Sunday lunches for the rest of my life.

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