Page 44 of Falling for You
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.
‘How’s work?’ Dad smiles at me as he puts a steaming mug down on the kitchen table. ‘How’s Pam?’
‘Is she still smoking at her desk?’ Mum grins.
Last year, Penny, Tanya and I had to move out of the flat for six weeks while our landlord finally got round to tackling the mould that was skirting around our walls like condensation on a shower screen. Penny moved in with Mike (and his three housemates, who all sit on different parts of the hygiene scale) and Tanya moved in with someone from work. I came home, not that I really had much choice. It’s not that I didn’t have any other friends that I could ask. It was more that if my mum had found out that I’d needed somewhere to stay for six weeks and not come home … Well, let’s just say that she would have been dressed in black for the rest of her life to mourn the loss of her daughter, who chose a friend’s sofa over her childhood bedroom and home-cooked meals.
Anyway, I didn’t fancy commuting to London every day, so Pam let me work from home while the work was going on. I organised all the viewings with houses and schools and spoke to any prospective clients before matching them with someone in the team who was based in London. On paper, it sounded great. A clean, warm house for a month. A fully stocked fridge and washing that’s lavished in fabric softener.
In reality, Mum and Dad saw it as their chance to see me ‘in the real world’ and made no effort to hide the fact that they were desperate to watch me work so they could look at each other adoringly and praise themselves for creating a functioning adult. Pam met them over Zoom, as they insisted on ‘popping in’ to the kitchen every time I was on a call to eavesdrop, and – if they had their way – get involved. I mean, thank God I don’t work in sales. They’d be standing behind me demanding the client take the deal before they ring up their parents and tell them what’s what.
Luckily, my parents seem to love Pam even more than I do. And the feeling turned out to be mutual. They are a similar age, so can chat for ages about ABBA and EastEnders. I got very little work done that month.
‘She’s all good,’ I smile. ‘She liked my costume for Halloween.’
‘So she should!’ Dad says loyally. ‘Actually, did you hear back from Atif?’
Mum’s brow knits. ‘No, I didn’t, I’ll send him a message.’
I try not to groan. Atif is the editor of our local newspaper, where Mum spent my entire childhood emailing the team pictures of me in my costumes, until one day she met Atif’s wife at the bakery and somehow managed to wangle his phone number out of her. I’m sure Atif rues the day that he woke up with a penchant for sourdough.
