Page 163 of Falling for You
Two hours later and I’m squashed into my corner seat on the train, using my bag as a pillow, watching as we chug deeper into the countryside and further away from the bright lights of the city.
Outside, the rain is lashing down, leaving little trails which wriggle down the window before flying back off again. The cloak of darkness, which appeared at 7 p.m. in September and has been gradually spreading itself earlier across the sky each day, is firmly in place, giving you that magical feeling of it being the middle of the night or the early hours of the morning. I know everyone moans about the nights being so dark in winter, but I love curling up on my sofa under a blanket and feeling like I’m hiding from the world. Of course, I love summer too. I love the pub gardens and the smell of sun cream and the feeling of frolicking across Hyde Park flinging a frisbee at your friends which you’re all not in the right state to catch after a bottle of rosé. But you can’t beat autumn. It makes me feel safe.
I know this isn’t the coolest thing to say, but I love hanging out with my parents. It doesn’t take much for me to throw my weekend plans out of the window and spend two days in my childhood home, with its big windows and squashy, plump sofas. The house always smells of delicious food – there’s simply no comparison with the food smells in our flat. Neither Mum nor Dad is Gordon Ramsay, but the smell of lasagne or roast chicken sails around my body and gives me a hug as soon as I walk through the door. Like the ribbons of steam floating from the oven are wrapping their arms around me and giving me a little squeeze.
After the train arrives at Moreton-in-Marsh, I lug my suitcase onto the platform and watch the machine swallow my ticket as I push my way through the barrier. Just like clockwork, I spot my dad immediately. He’s sat in the Volvo, tapping the steering wheel as Mumford & Sons blares out of the speakers. Every birthday party, trip to the pub, swimming class or school disco … It was always Dad in the Volvo ready at the end of the night, parked outside ready to pick me up.
He spots me and gets out of the car, even though I try and wave for him to stay in his seat. I’m thirty-two and he still feels the need to show me how to open the boot.
‘Hi Dad,’ I beam. He’s wearing his favourite green fleece and jeans. As he hugs me, I smell the trace of a freshly baked cake on his skin.
‘Hello, champ!’ he says, giving me a little shake. He takes my bag before I can protest and drops it into the boot. Cereal bar wrappers, a coffee cup and theSunday Timesgreet me as I climb into the front seat. You can usually guess where my dad has spent his day by following the Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer wrappers.
‘Right,’ he says, clicking the car into first gear. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Fine,’ I say, making myself comfy as we start to make our way home. ‘You?’
‘I saw your latest costume!’ Dad says, ignoring my question, like he always does when I ask how he is. ‘It was fantastic! Was the lady pleased?’
I smile. We had another commission come through earlier in the week for a polar bear outfit. The brief was ‘cool meetsgross’ and I went all out. I made an amazing catsuit, using white, pale blue and glittering silver fabric and an incredible bear headpiece, with a furry mouth that was stained brown and red from fake blood.
‘Loved it,’ I smile.
‘They always do!’ Dad reaches forward and shakes my leg. ‘Mum couldn’t believe it. She showed all the neighbours.’
I try not to roll my eyes. Mum and Dad wanted more children, but for one reason or another I was the only one who appeared, which means their ‘my child is the best’ radar is slightly broken. And by that, I mean it’s completely out of whack. Don’t get me wrong, they were never the type to shove me on stage and force me to audition forThe X Factor, and then scream at the producers if I didn’t get in. They let me do my own thing, but everything I did, in their eyes, was fantastic. Every mud pie I made was the yummiest, every drawing the prettiest, every song I sang the most tuneful. Now, as someone with the musical talent of a toilet brush holder, can you imagine their level of pride and intense ‘look how brilliant my daughter is’ when I do something I’m actually good at?
It’s lovely to have such supportive parents, but it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable when they boast about me to their friends and neighbours, and I can see the thought bubbles popping up above their heads.
It really isn’t that impressive. She’s a thirty-something adult who makes costumes in her spare time. It isn’t even her job.
Can you imagine how embarrassing it is when they do it in front of people like Tanya and Penny? Penny is ascientistand Tanya is responsible for half of the fashion stories you read in the papers and see online. I tried saying this to Mum once, but she got all emotional and told me that the world had enough doctors, but there was only one of me. I wanted to point out that if the world was on fire and we were escaping to Mars, Ithinkthey’d choose a doctor for their new society over a Halloween costume maker, but I stopped myself. She was already on the verge of tears by this point and I knew I was dangerously close to pushing her into a rant about the importance of the arts and how the government should be doing more to support them.
‘Here we are then …’ Dad says, as the car crunches over our drive. I feel a warmth spread through my chest. Our house is like something you’d see in a fairy tale. It’s a fat, squat cottage with vines snaking across the front, sprouting pink and white flowers in the spring and catching pockets of snow in the winter. It has a winding garden path, surrounded by plants (and, in October, Halloween decorations), and a red front door that Mum painted herself to bring the place ‘some colour’ when they first bought the house.
As I get out of the car, Mum flings the front door open and waves enthusiastically. I laugh. For goodness’ sake, why does she always act as if I’m the prodigal son returning from the war? I literally spoke to her three hours ago.
‘You made it!’ she cries, bundling me inside as soon as she gets her hands on me.
‘Of course I made it,’ I say, grinning. ‘I came from London, not the Wild West.’
‘My driving isn’t that bad,’ Dad says, giving me a wink.
‘Come on through!’ Mum says, and I follow Dad into the kitchen. Three big pans are bubbling away on the Aga, and Mum is swigging from a glass of red wine while she stirs one of them with a wooden spoon. As always, the smell of the kitchen lifts me slightly off my feet.
I sit down on a chair as Dad flicks the kettle on, holding a bottle of wine up to me questioningly.
‘Tea is fine, thanks,’ I smile.
‘Dinner will be ready soon,’ Mum says. ‘While we wait, why don’t you try on that dress I made?’
I unravel my scarf from my neck. It’s multicoloured; I made it from the scraps of wool I had left over last Christmas. I wasn’t sure if it looked a bit mad, but when Tanya saw it she asked if I’d got it from Chanel. She was a bit drunk at the time and had just come back from her work Christmas do, but I still took the compliment. Not that she ever repeated it when sober.
‘Let the poor girl sit down for a minute,’ Dad chides, and Mum rolls her eyes.
My parents met when they were seventeen. Seventeen! If I’d married when I was seventeen, I’d have ended up with anyone who held any resemblance to John Paul fromHollyoaks. They met in college and, apparently, instantly knew that they’d found theother half of their soul. And yes, that is what I’ve seen them write in their anniversary cards to each other.
I know that they were secretly hoping that I’d also find ‘the one’ when I was young and spend my twenties travelling the world and being in love, just like they did. They’dnever admit it – but I know they’re desperate for me to meet someone. God knows what they’ll do the day I finally bring someone home for them to meet. I’ll have to sedate them in some way, or try and time it to be in January when they’re ploughing through their annual ‘I am never drinking again’ month.
