Page 54 of The One That I Want

‘To find a new wife.’

Yep, she went exactly where I dreaded she would go.

‘Oh, good for Ian,’ I say lightly, hoping we can move ontoanything else. Right now, I’d rather discuss the fact that I needed a bra from the age of ten while Tiggy –andmost of the girls in my class – didn’t develop breasts until their teens.

‘And, very good for you too, Greta.’

‘Margie.’ But Dad’s efforts to steer Mum away from this topic are futile.

Now patently ignoring Dad –andthat I’m squirming in my seat – she launches into a lengthy monologue, detailing all the reasons Ian and I would be a ‘good pairing’, the first of which is that our age difference is not much more than hers and Dad’s. This is a lie. Their age difference is twelve years and, as a solo immigrant to the UK, Mum was very mature for her age whenthey met. Ian is fifty-six. As in, more than twenty years older than me.

Mum concludes with, ‘And he drives a brand-new Range Rover – well,nearlynew. It’s last year’s model, but still…’ She raises her eyebrows at me as if I should be impressed.

Tiggy can’t contain herself any longer and bursts out laughing.

Mum scowls at her and says, ‘Elizabeth, being a widower is no laughing matter,’ silencing her immediately.

She turns back to me and I can tell she’s about to continue the onslaught – I need to saysomethingbefore she invites Ian to join us for dessert.

‘Mum,’ I say firmly, ‘I can’t start seeing Ian.’

‘And why not? I’vetoldyou, Greta: don’t be so picky. Not at your age.’

‘I’m not being picky, Mum. It’s just… I’m already seeing someone.’

To her credit, Tiggy doesnotask who. Though, when I glance her way and our eyes meet through the dahlias, hers are wide with astonishment.

‘You are?’ asks Mum, her eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Since when?’

‘It’s fairly new, but he’s wonderful, Mum.’

‘Is he into gaming?’ asks Ru. ‘Will he play Minecraft with me?’

‘When do we get to meet him?’ asks Dad.

‘What’s he called?’ asks Mum.

The questions overlap, overwhelming me, and there are too many bloody dahlias for me to telegraph ‘Help’ to Tiggy.

Somehow, she divines that I need it and says, ‘He’s called Harrison.’

As far as fake boyfriends go, I could do worse.

‘Harrison. A good, solid name,’ says Dad.

‘But is he a gamer?’ asks Ru.

Mum says nothing. She’s too taken aback.

‘It’s very new, Mum, but he’s lovely,’ I say, going purely on what I’ve surmised from the information Poppy gave me.

‘And he’s a teacher,’ says Tiggy.

‘Yes, right,’ I say. ‘He teaches music in inner London. And he does voice-overs – you know, for advertisements and the like. And he?—’

I’m dangerously close to rambling off the entirety of Harrison’s biography when Mum interjects with, ‘When do we get to meet him?’

Panicked, my eyes meet Tiggy’s.

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