Page 53 of The One That I Want

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he gives me a tight squeeze, then moves onto Tiggy. ‘Are youstillgrowing, Tiggy?’ he teases. This is a running joke between them from when she shot past his modest height of five-foot-six at age fifteen.

It reminds me, as it often does when we’re here, that Tiggy’s not just my best friend – she’s essentially my sister. Growing up,she spent as many nights under this roof as her own, with the two of us sleeping in my single bed, head to toe, until we outgrew that arrangement and my parents bought me bunkbeds.

‘Hi, Mr D,’ she says, returning the hug with a warm smile. She’s told me many times that she prefers my parents to hers. I do as well. Her dad is gruff and distant, and her mum is the most passive-aggressive person I’ve ever met – possiblyanyone’sever met.

‘So, what have you brought us then?’ Dad asks, peering into the wine carrier.

‘Same, same… rosé for Mum, red for us,’ I say, handing it over.

Dad takes out the bottle of red. ‘Ooh, I love Tempranillo. Good choice. Now, you girls go on through, and I’ll open the wine and bring it in.’

Tiggy and I wander through the front room to the dining room and take our regular seats at the table. From the smells wafting in from the kitchen, I can tell Mum’s making a traditional German feast: pork schnitzel, spaetzle (my favourite), and rotkraut.

Mum bustles in with the dahlias in a vase and sets it, pride of place, in the centre of the table. This will make conversation across the table near impossible, but I don’t say anything. Margriet Davies has a certain way of doing things and there’s no convincing her otherwise – and that’s speaking from a lifetime of experience.

When Mum heads back into the kitchen, Tiggy pops out of her chair, pretending she’s forging her way through brightly coloured jungle foliage.

‘And here we have the thirty-five-year-old in her natural habitat, having returned to the familial home for the monthly family luncheon, where she will be grilled by the matriarchabout every detail of her life,’ she half whispers, impersonating David Attenborough.

‘Hilarious. And here we have her completely bonkers best friend who has the maturity of a toddler,’ I retort.

She sits down just as Dad arrives with the wine.

‘Does Mum want any help, Dad?’ I ask. ‘I can take over from Ru.’

He gives me a we-both-know-that-isn’t-going-to-happen look, then says, ‘You and Tiggy are our guests, love.’ He pours the wine, then goes back into the kitchen.

‘So, are you going to tell me about Ewan?’ Tiggy asks at full voice.

I lean hard to the left so I can see her around the dahlias and shush her sternly. ‘Don’t mention him here. You know what Mum can get like.’

Her mouth quirks.

‘I mean it,Elizabeth.’

‘Mean what?’ says Mum, bearing a platter of schnitzel. I’m hoping food will distract Tiggy from opening cans of conversational worms – especially any mention of men.

I know Mum is proud of my professional accomplishments, but she’s also started dropping extremely unsubtle ‘hints’. She’s worried I’ve waited too long to start a family or that I might be ‘too picky’. And it’s not lost on me that the more frequent these hints have become, the more I’ve been obsessing about meeting someone and falling in love.

Ru and Dad arrive with the rest of the food – a reprieve! – and we pass around platters and fill our plates, then eat between talking over each other as we share updates about our lives. So, a typical family lunch in the Davies household.

That is until Mum says, ‘Now, Greta, you remember your father’s friend, Ian?’

I wrack my brain for an Ian –anyIan – and no one comes to mind.

‘Er…’

‘You know, thewidower– the one who lost his wife the year before last.’

As an aside, I don’t like it when people use the word ‘lost’ to mean someone’s loved one has died. Poor Ian didn’tlosehis wife – they weren’t shopping in IKEA. He didn’t misplace her amongst the dinglehoppers and snarfblatts. She passed away.

‘Oh, yes,Ian,’ I say, even though I have no idea who he is.

‘Margie,’ says Dad, laying his hand on hers. Is he really attempting to stop my mother from saying anything more – with hishand? Unsurprisingly, Mum does say more. SO. MUCH. MORE.

‘Ian was around last week, and he mentioned it was time,’ she says, giving me a penetrating look.

‘Time?’ I ask, suddenly feeling queasy.

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