Page 17 of Take a Moment

As we approach the hotel reception, our wedding coordinator, Jasmine, appears from the direction of the bar and spots us.

‘Alex. Dominic.Lovelyto see you both,’ she gushes, in her very wedding coordinator-esque way, her tonged blond hair bouncing energetically around her shoulders. ‘Alex, you are lookingsomuch better than I expected. I waseverso upset for you when your mother told me, but don’t you worry about a thing. My team will make sure all your needs are accommodated.’

‘Err, thanks.’ I shift uncomfortably on the spot, wishing she wouldn’t be quite so theatrical and public about it. I’m also willing her to take us somewhere else, as my listless body nags at me for a seat. ‘Where are we tonight?’

‘We’ll be in Whitecraigs, our AA Rosette restaurant, for the tasting.’ She seems to suddenly think of something. ‘Oh now, I meant to call you… I contacted JLP Karaoke to ask about AV requirements and they said you’d cancelled them. I wasn’t aware.’

‘What?’ I assume a puzzled expression. ‘I didn’t cancel them.’

‘That was me.’ My mother pitches in. ‘You won’t have the energy for karaoke, Alex, and it’s a little…cheap.’ She says this as if it’s a dirty word.

My hackles immediately rise. ‘It’s not “cheap”. It’s called fun, Mother. You should try it some time.’

My mother’s look borders on acidic. She’s happy to hand out the shit, but if anyone dares challenge her, they’ve caused a scene and embarrassed her.

‘Maybe the karaoke is too much now, Lex,’ says Dom. ‘I mean, we don’t even know if you’ll be up to enjoying it.’

I lock eyes with him. ‘The karaoke stays. End of.’

Dom assumes a resigned expression and takes a step back to disengage from the conversation. My mother simply shakes her head in disapproval.

‘Let’s get you seated then.’ Jasmine’s eyes dart back and forth curiously between us, aware that something’s not quite right.

We trail behind her into the restaurant, where she takes our drinks order as we take off our coats and settle ourselves. Although I could murder a gin and tonic – to numb my senses enough to ignore my mother’s inevitable judgemental comments – I refrain and opt for a tomato juice.

‘How are you feeling, Alex?’ my mother asks the moment Jasmine is out of earshot, our earlier confrontation already buried deep. ‘You’re looking a little peaky.’

‘I’m fine.’ I offer her the same bright smile I gave John outside, trying put her off.

‘Is that true?’ She looks straight past me to Dom. ‘I never know when I’m getting the truth out of this one.’

I attempt to bring her focus back to me. ‘Mother, that’s not—’

‘I’m asking Dominic, dear.’

I flinch in response to her flippantness. Though I don’t know why. This is exactly how she’s always been with me, so untrusting of my ability to know what’s best for me. Normally I can hold my own with her though.

‘Alex is doing great,’ Dom replies. ‘She’s been taking it easy and has stopped constantly checking her work emails – though I practically had to pry the laptop from her.’

‘Good.’ My mother looks at him pointedly over her wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘She’s incapable of taking advice from those who know better. It’s like talking to a steam engine.’

As I listen to this exchange, I feel completely patronised. Dom’s talking about me like I’m a toddler who made it through her first day at nursery, while my mother, who always behaves with a grandiose air, is putting on an enhanced performance. They continue their competing assessments of my progress and general existence. I’m particularly irritated by my mother’s ill-informed diatribe about MS and how it will affect me – information she’s clearly just googled and is now pretending to be an expert on. Eventually, I decide I’ve heard enough.

‘Eh…hello? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m right here, and perfectly capable of speaking for myself. You don’t need to discuss me like some case study.’

I glance at John, who has actually (and thankfully) been a calming influence on my mother – until now, it seems. He leans forward and pats my mum’s knee.

‘Isabel. How about we change the subject?’ he gently encourages her. ‘Alex is living with this every day. I’m sure she’d appreciate a night off.’

My mother looks at him, then laughs, almost sheepishly. ‘Of course. Let’s have a relaxing drink – then we can talk about Alex’s treatment plan over dinner.’

I’m about to protest that her proposal doesn’t just fail to meet the definition of a night off, it’s completely inappropriate and intrusive, when Jasmine reappears at our table with our drinks.

‘Herewe are.’ She plonks them down in front of us theatrically and beams at us like an overenthusiastic streetlight. ‘Your starters won’t be long. Oh, and Alex, youmusttell me if any of your dietary requirements have changed following your diagnosis.’

I’m left telling her disappearing backside that a diagnosis of MS most definitely doesn’t mean a change to the menu for our big day. As well as wondering how the hell I’m going to get through this evening on soft drinks.

‘Howis the food?’ Jasmine has skirted across the oval-shaped restaurant to our table like a heat-seeking missile. ‘Idohope it is meeting your expectations – and more.’

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