Page 8 of The Worst Guy Ever
“Not as ruthless as me.” I storm into the hallway, shouting back at him. “This will be the easiest money I’ll ever make in my life.”
Chapter 2
Rob
Kneelingbeforeher,Iwrap my hand around the base of her foot and rotate her ankle in small circles to the left. I repeat the movement in the opposite direction, then flex the joint up and down, paying close attention to how her body reacts to the pressure.
“How does that feel?” I ask.
“Much better.”
“What about the knee? Show me what you’ve been doing.”
“Oh, you’re making such a fuss now.” She sits herself up, pushing her foot against my chest and shoving me backwards against the coffee table. A stack of magazines and puzzle books slide to the floor.OK, clearly no trouble with knee extension.I scramble to my feet and put things back in order.
“Mum, I’m not making a fuss. You know you have to keep up with these exercises if you want to get your strength back.”
Three months ago I noticed she was limping a little, and eventually got it out of her that she’d fallen in the garden. Scans revealed no serious damage, but I’ve had her on a physio plan ever since.
“When are you going to give me some grandchildren?” she says.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Even a girlfriend would be nice. Surely you’ve met someone by now?”
I’ve metplentyof women in my time, but I’d never let it go far enough that I’d bring someone home to meet my mother.
“It’s a shame. You’re such a good-looking lad, I can’t bear the thought of you being alone your whole life.”
The curse of being my mother’s only child is that I get this nonsense week in, week out. My answer never changes, and she needs to take the hint.
“I’m not alone. I’ve got you. I’ve got Sheila. I’m great.”
“You know what I mean.”
“And you know howIfeel. I’m not interested in a relationship.”
“Can you two shut up?” my Auntie Sheila scolds from her favourite armchair. “It’s starting.”
She turns up the volume, pulls a lap-tray from the side pocket of her chair, and that’s my cue to head to the kitchen.Tea Boy, they used to call me, and still do when they want to remind me who’s in charge.
I fill the kettle with fresh water and flick the switch. In the cupboard I find teabags and sugar, along with about fifty other mugs that Mum keeps but never uses. I find their favourite mugs upturned on the drying rack. They’re pretty much in use or just washed and drying every waking minute of the day. There’s no need for her to have so many others, but Mum can never get rid of anything.
The entire house is like this; drawers filled with ancient utensils, bookcases ready to topple under the weight of a million paperbacks she’s never going to read again. She has a wardrobe full of clothes but wears the same three outfits on repeat, and everywhere you look there’s some trinket or other gathering dust.
It’s always been the three of us. Mum, Sheila, and me.
As the story goes, Mum was over the moon when she got pregnant, and excited to tell my dad she was expecting his child. He apparently felt quite the opposite, went to the pub and never came back.
She never speaks about him, but Sheila once told me she’d expected him to propose, that they’d get a big house somewhere, and I’d be the first of many happy children. He was her first boyfriend, the love of her life.
Instead, her outraged parents ignored her heartbreak and told Mum to find somewhere else to live. In solidarity, Sheila went with her. They moved to a small village, turned our little house into a home, and I never had a reason to think it wasn’t enough. Sheila got a job in the pub that Luke’s grandparents owned and looked after me while Mum found cleaning work during the day.
Growing up, Sunday was always bath night and Mum would get me to bed, read two stories, and sing three songs. Soon after she turned out the light, I’d hear this rousing music floating up the stairs, and it was the greatest mystery of my life. That and a chorus of‘oohs’and‘ahhs’and laughter from the women who raised me. What were they watching? I tried to listen from beneath the covers, but knew better than to leave my bed to find out.
As I got older, I pushed her to let me stay up late so I could be part of all the fun they were having. Sheila made a deal with me. I could stay up as long as I made the tea, and soon, that was my favourite part of the week. Sunday night, fresh and clean, snuggling on the sofa with my mum, weak tea and biscuits on a lap-tray, and Antiques Roadshow on the TV.
I know we’ve made a good life, but now, stirring sugar into their tea, it’s pretty hard not to see Mum’s situation as my fault. If it wasn’t for me, maybe my dad wouldn’t have left. Or maybe he still would have, but she’d have met someone better, someone who could have given her everything she dreamed of.
