Page 82 of A Lot to Unpack
She catches herself.
‘Sorry! Hello, of course. Give me a cuddle,’ she says. ‘It’s just, well, where is he? I’ve got the guest room all ready, I’ve made lasagne…’
Oh, God, I can’t do it. I can’t tell them. Not now. Not yet. It’s only been twenty-four hours since I was bragging about bringing him. How the hell am I supposed to tell them that I’ve fucked it up already?
‘He’s stuck in Leeds,’ I lie quickly. ‘He’s got meetings, loads of them, he’s working on something new. He’s still hoping to get here in time for the wedding though.’
Now, why would I go and say a thing like that? Giving them hope. Maybe I’m trying to give myself hope, which is a special kind of stupid.
‘Oh,’ Mum says, clearly disappointed.
‘Did you tell people he was coming?’ I check, casually as I can.
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Auntie Eleanor, Hannah – and I know your gran is excited to vet him.’
I smile, even though it feels like a punch to the stomach.
‘Great,’ I reply.
‘Well, the lasagne’s almost ready,’ she says, still peering at me like I might produce Jordan from inside my suitcase, like this is some sort of fake-out. ‘And the guest room is all ready for you.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say sincerely. ‘I’ll nip up, dump my things, freshen up quickly.’
‘Don’t be too long,’ she says with a smile. ‘We’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed having someone to sort the Sky box,’ Dad calls after me jokily. ‘Your mum’s recorded 108 episodes ofEmmerdale. We’re running out of space.’
‘I told you, I’m going to catch up at some point,’ I overhear her reminding him as I head upstairs.
I head into the guest room, which used to be my bedroom, and while it’s changed a lot as far as the décor goes, you can still see the ghosts of my childhood, if you know where to look.
The hot-pink walls are long gone, replaced with something neutral and grown-up, but you can still tell I was here. Like, that little dent in the plaster, over there, from where one of my friends threw my Aqua CD like a frisbee, hitting the wall, making a ding.
It could be fixed though – filled, sanded, painted over properly, like it never even happened. But they didn’t. They left it there. Even with a fresh coat of paint, the damage shows, like an old war wound, a brave face painted over it.
Is that me now? Damaged. Brushed over, but trying to look okay. Putting a brave face on, but being undeniably damaged. I’m being dramatic, I know, but I’m having a pity party, so if you could leave me to it…
Time for dinner, I guess. I don’t want my mum or dad realising that anything is up, and I’m worried they’ll see straight through me. At least I have a good excuse. I’m tired, I’m jetlagged, I’ll be fine tomorrow – well, that’s what I’ll tell them.
Downstairs, Mum is serving up giant portions of lasagne with a side of focaccia. I don’t know if I’m starving or feeling sick or what. I’m all over the place. It does smell good though.
‘Perfect timing,’ she tells me. ‘Take a seat.’
I do as I’m told. I should try to eat something.
‘Come on then,’ Dad says, handing me a glass of red wine. ‘Tell us about New York, make us jealous.’
I force a smile.
‘I’ve had such a great time,’ I tell them. ‘It’s a fascinating city, so alive, so full of energy. The office was so much bigger than the one in London, with views of the skyline, surrounded by other tall buildings, I can’t even describe it. It’s almost like there are layers and layers of the city, from the floor to the sky. Life doesn’t simply exist on the ground.’
Dad laughs.
‘I’m surprised you came back,’ Mum teases.
‘And miss the wedding of the year?’ Dad jokes.
‘I’ve met some really interesting people – some cool locals,’ I continue. ‘I had the best meatballs from this little Italian place called Giorgio’s, where Giorgio himself served us.’
