Page 59 of Still Falling for You

‘Close the door behind you, darling, will you?’ she says by way of hello. Business as usual. I do as I’m told and shuffle along the way in my corduroy dungaree dress and heavy boots. I’m reviving the ’90s goth style today. I’m counting down the seconds until my mother comments on my look.

However, she surprises me by abruptly pivoting on her heel and squeezing the life out of me. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ she whispers softly before she pulls away.

Then, as to be expected, she scans my outfit, pausing at my slightly outgrown bob. I desperately need to book a hairdresser, but it’s currently last on my list of problems.

‘I wish you hadn’t cut your hair.’ She strokes one of my locks with her manicured hand. ‘You look like a fifteen-year-old boy wearing a wig.’ I frown. All is right in the world. ‘I meant to say that you were very pretty with your long hair,’ she adds hurriedly. I guess she’s trying the only way she knows how.

She confirms my suspicions. ‘I know we agreed I would stop interfering with your life and – what did you call it –judging your life choices, but couldn’t you at least take those monstrosities off your feet? We aren’t some vagabonds or anarchists.’

‘They’re vintage Martens. They cost almost two hundred pounds,’ I say, offended.

‘I don’t care who Vintage Martens is. They are ugly, and you should leave them by the doormat like normal people.’ She crosses her arms, numerous silver bracelets gleaming around her wrist with the movement.

I look pointedly at her feet which are strapped in silver sandals like she’s going onStrictly Come Dancingafter lunch.

‘These are my indoor sandals. I thought I’d dress for the occasion,’ she responds impatiently. Only my mother.

We walk to the kitchen, and through the conservatory window panel, I spy my dad’s greying hair peeking over the top of his favourite lounger chair. The view is so familiar, my hands start sweating, and I rub them against my dress.

A sombre expression passes across my mother’s usually insouciant features. ‘Go speak to your father.’ She squeezes my elbow in reassurance, making my throat tight with emotion. ‘I’llwait until you come back inside. Do what feels right.’ I nod, ready to say more on the topic, but she’s back to her old self in no time. ‘Make sure you use the outside shoes and take them off on the mat. I’ve just hoovered.’

The air outside is chilly but fresh and refocuses my mind a little. At my approaching steps, my father pokes his head out. His expression shatters when he sees it’s me. Wordlessly, he motions for me to sit next to him on the other lounger. Mother must have rummaged in the loft to find it because I haven’t seen it in years. It reminds me of the times when we used to sit here together, my dad with his newspapers and me with a paperback. I should hug him, but now he’s in front of me I can’t decide whether I’m more relieved or angry. A headache starts pressing insistently against my temples.

We sit in silence, staring at the overgrown laurel hedge that pens the back of the garden. Wrapped in, what-was-no-doubt-my-mother’s-idea, a blanket like a mummy, he looks weary. His cheeks are a little sunken, but he’s wearing his customary unfashionable glasses. He’s more himself again. Without volition, tears start running down my cheeks, and I swipe at them angrily.

‘I should arrange for the hedge to be cut. It’s getting out of hand. It will swallow us whole one day,’ he finally says. ‘I’m so sorry, Holly,’ he laments with misery when he catches my tears. ‘I’ve failed you.’ He reaches into the space between the chairs, and I extend my hand with uncertainty and let him take it. Immediately, he leans over and kisses it. Then he pats it with his other hand and doesn’t let go, making me feel like he’s holding a special treasure that might escape if he only left a tiny gap between his hands. ‘I’ve made a mess of everything, haven’t I?’

I’m finding it hard to speak at first. ‘I’ve been so angry at you.’ He’s about to carry on, but I jump in before he says his piece because I need him to understand. ‘But when you had aheart attack, all I could think about was how I’ve never given you a chance to make it up to me.’ Alex’s words echo in my head. I realise too late that I’ve never given Alex a chance to explain or to make things right either. Neither have I ever explained myself.

‘You were right to be angry. I did something unspeakable, and I hurt your mother.’ He gazes sorrowfully towards the kitchen. ‘I wasn’t happy, and instead of speaking to your mother about it, I broke her trust. She forgave me, and I admire her for it immensely. I never realised how my decisions and my mistakes would affect you. I should have been your role model. Instead, my bad choices influenced some big decisions in your life. That should have never happened. I will never forgive myself for that.’ He starts crying quietly, his big shoulders shaking.

‘Dad,’ I croak. I’ve never seen my dad cry, and it rattles me. He’s always so stoic.

He takes a fabric handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and blows his nose loudly with his free hand. ‘I will try to prove to you and your mother for the rest of my life that my mistake isn’t who I am.’ I nod. ‘As for Aaron,’ he starts, sounding a little steadier.

I squeeze his hand reassuringly. ‘I don’t want to talk about Aaron. He’s history.’ This time it’s his turn to nod.

We sit there in silence until the tip of my nose feels numb with cold. I’ve never realised how uncomfortable the loungers were. I guess we often see memories before a rift through rose-tinted glasses.

‘Shall we go inside and get some tea and biscuits?’ I offer, rising to my feet.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ Together we head inside.

In the time Dad and I were talking, my mother has created a feast. On various plates placed on any available surfaces are sandwiches, crackers, hummus, carrot and cucumber sticks. A pot of tea, a milk jug and three cups with saucers rest in themiddle of the table, ready for us. I notice there are no sausage rolls or biscuits and the sandwiches are made of brown bread with cream cheese filling instead of butter. I think I also spot some micro herbs in them. I gulp heavily, my appetite gone.

‘Come on, you two. Sit down and eat,’ she commands like the general she is. She plates two sandwiches for my dad and some hummus with a few carrot sticks. He eyes it suspiciously but starts eating straight away.

I sit on the opposite sofa from my dad while my mother is fussing over both of us, her favourite activity, only narrowly followed by gossiping. At first, I pick at the sandwich my mother plated for me, but when I take a proper bite, Ihmm. It’s my favourite sandwich, BLT. She winks at me. At least one person is still allowed to eat bacon in this house.

After every last morsel of food is ingested and we’re sitting and watchingMurder, She Wrote, my mother casually asks, ‘When are you heading back?’

‘I’d like to stay overnight. If you don’t mind.’ I don’t know why I feel so nervous.

‘That would be lovely, darling.’ My mother beams at me.

25

On Sunday, I agree to meet with Lydia and Catherine at Lydia’s. I remember that Lydia had some previous plans, but when I ask her about them on WhatsApp, she becomes evasive. I guess everyone has the right to have some secrets.

---