Page 3 of Secrets of Starshine
“I’m old,” she says defiantly, “not dead! Maybe you two should try it…”
Sam grimaces, and mutters “no comment”. He has recently been dumped after six months with the first love of his life. Six months isn’t long in the bigger picture, but when you’ve only had eighteen years on earth, and spent half of one of them with someone else, it feels like it. In teenaged years, six months merits a lifetime achievement award.
Nothing ever quite cuts as deep as that first heartbreak, does it? As you go through life and survive turmoil again and again, you build up some resilience, you know that you won’t actually die of the pain – but the first time it happens, it feels like you just might. I am trying to help him through it, but of course I don’t understand, because I am his mum, and therefore have never experienced such things.
As for me, well…I did try online dating, but gave up when I realised I never had the time to actually date. Plus, I was severely put off when I was matched with my own postman, who I know for a fact is married with four kids. He’s been leaving parcels with the neighbours instead of knocking on our door ever since.
“Mum,” I say seriously. “Maybe you should just slow things down? Take a bit of time to think about it all. I mean, we haven’t even met him. I don’t even know his name…”
“Well,” she replies, sounding pleased with herself, “I thought you might say that – and never fear. He’s already here, staying in that nice Jury’s Inn in town, and we’re meeting him for dinner tomorrow! You can grill him to your heart’s content then, Cally. And his name, by the way, is Kenneth.”
Kenneth. It doesn’t sound like the name of an Albanian crime boss, but what do I know?
THREE
It is December, and Liverpool is putting on a show. The city centre is draped with Christmas lights, neon reindeers, bauble-draped trees and spectacular shop windows. We all call into John Lewis before we meet Kenneth, because it is part of our going-to-town ritual – to wander the perfume aisles and spritz ourselves with expensive products we’d have to save up to buy.
I am drenched in Libre by Yves Saint Laurent, Sam has gone for Tom Ford, and Mum her usual Chanel No 5. We are a powerhouse of fragrance as we make our way through the busy crowds to the posh Italian restaurant that my mother’s toy boy has booked for us. We wind through side streets, passing pubs that blast out karaoke and cafés full of women with shopping bags and the big Waterstones, where Sam and I usually stop for a coffee.
It is busy, and vibrant, and loud – the kind of scene that would normally terrify Mum. We usually only come to town very early in the morning, before the place comes alive and starts to party, before the stags and hens are out and it all gets too much for her. Now, though, she seems to be relishing it. She comes up with a running commentary on all the spectacular outfits the girls are wearing, and stops to take photos of the decorations, and launches a game called Knock-off or Natural where we have to figure out who has real hair and who has extensions. Obviously, I win this one, being a highly qualified professional.
There is a new liveliness to everything she does – she is engaging with the world around her, she is striding instead of shuffling, she is smiling at strangers instead of shying away from them in case they mug her. She is, basically, behaving in a way that I have never seen her behave before.
In its own way, this is magical – seeing her come to life again. Seeing her as a whole different person. But I still can’t help worrying, wondering if it is temporary, if it is a mirage. Something that will shatter like glass as soon as it’s put under pressure.
We arrive at the restaurant – one I’ve never been to before but have often admired from the outside – and are shown to our table by a waitress who looks like a supermodel. I hear my mum actually sigh out loud as Kenneth stands up to greet us.
He is a big man, one of those older chaps who looks like he used to play rugby, and is smartly turned out in a suit and tie. His hair is salt-and-pepper, neat and tidy, and his huge hands engulf ours as he shakes them. His accent is divine, soft and lilting, and he is the very picture of respectability. Okay, I think, I need to adjust my mindset – this is clearly not a catfishing situation.
“I’m so pleased to meet you both,” he announces as we all settle. “Linda’s done nothing but talk about you since we met. I see she was right, Cally – you look beautiful. And Sam! Congratulations on passing your milestone!”
I am confused by this, and glance at my son in query. He shrugs, and tells me he now has over 5,000 followers on TikTok. As he has blocked me on both that and Instagram, I had no idea. I mean, I don’t know what I did wrong – he’d posted some carefully curated Insta photos of his eighteenth birthday party and I’d responded with baby pics where his face was covered in jam. Surely every mother would do the same? No sense of humour, this generation.
Kenneth makes small talk, and Sam and my mum join in. I find that I am less chatty than usual, uncertain of myself, unable to come up with a single funny line. This is unusual for me, as most hairdressers are well-versed in keeping a conversation flowing – instead, I am nervous, and the menu isn’t helping. It’s one of those menus where everything comes with at least two ingredients you’ve never heard of, and an eye-watering price tag.
I am trying to figure out if I can get away with just a starter, and wondering what tartufi is and why it’s so expensive, when Kenneth says to the table: “This is my treat, by the way. I won’t have it any other way, it’s a celebration!”
Mum grins, and he puts his arm around her shoulder, and I consider objecting to him picking up the bill. Then I remember that it’s almost Christmas, that I am not exactly swimming in spare cash, and that he chose the restaurant, not me. If it’d been me, we’d have been lucky to spring for Pizza Express. Tartufi it is, I decide.
Kenneth admires Sam’s outfit – he is the Prince of Fashion, and is wearing a flouncy shirt that wouldn’t look out of place onBridgerton, and tartan trousers – and compliments my far-less-striking dress, and tells my mum she smells like heaven, and is generally charming and lovely and kind. Damn him.
He tells us he is a retired accountant for a large computer manufacturer, that he is a widower, and that he has three children in their forties and a collection of grandkids who live all over the world. I wonder if his own offspring are as unsettled by all of this as I am – if he’s had to have conversations with them about catfishing, and whether my mum is actually a Fabletics-wearing senior from Liverpool, or if she’s after his pension.
“They’re all thrilled for us,” he says, answering the question I hadn’t even asked out loud. “I know they’ve been worried about me, since my wife died five years ago. I didn’t want that, you know? Them being worried about me. When I told them I’d met someone special, they couldn’t have been happier. They can’t wait to meet her.”
As he says this, my mother seems to melt into his side, snuggling up against him and gazing up at his face with an expression I have never seen before. She is glowing, alive, shining with pleasure. It is joyful, and it is surprising, and it is all too much. I feel suddenly overwhelmed, too warm, too confined. Too far out of my comfort zone.
I make my excuses, say I need the ladies’, and instead make a break for it. I weave my way through the bustling room, battling the obstacle course of chairs and bags and legs, and stand outside on the street. A smoker nods at me in camaraderie, even though I do not smoke, and a loved-up couple stop nearby to share a kiss. I take some deep breaths, and give myself a good talking to.
This is a good thing, I tell myself. This is positive. This is, in its own way, sweet and wonderful. I should feel nothing but happy – and yet I am still not there. I am still not quite able to buy into it all, and I hate myself for it. When did I become so cynical? When did I stop trusting in love?
Maybe, I think, when my dad died. Maybe when Steve left me for, ironically, an older woman. Maybe when the cheating postman showed up on an app. Maybe all of those things – but either way, I realise that I am uncomfortable with the whole concept. My mother has found love, the thing we’re all led to believe makes the world go round, but to me it looks like insanity. The abandonment of reason – the very definition of recklessness. She is taking a huge risk, and I can’t quite force myself to react like Kenneth’s children. They are, presumably, all much better human beings than me.
I am staring at the smoker, and considering taking it up as a new hobby, when the door opens behind me. Kenneth emerges into the cold night air, shivering slightly as he walks outside. I hadn’t even noticed the temperature until now, and see my breath clouding out in front of me.
“Are you all right, Cally?” he asks, looking concerned. His voice is gentle, and I can only imagine what it would have been like to grow up with this big man as your dad. It would have felt…safe, I think.
“I’m okay, thanks,” I reply, snapping myself out of my reverie. “I’ll be in soon. Just needed to take a breath.”
