Page 65 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museu
I hold a crocheted pansy out on my hand and she takes a step backwards like she might catch something from it.
‘Yes. Very nice. Personally, I don’t know how people find the time.’
‘People around here are happy to dedicate their time to things they love that bring them joy,’ I say, and Warren’s eyes flit between us and he looks like he’s trying to defuse a situation that hasn’t started yet.
‘They must have more hours in the day than we do then, mustn’t they?’ The look on her face probably isn’t meant to be a sneer, but it definitely resembles one as she looks between us again. ‘I came here to see what’s got my son so excited, I must say I didn’t expect it to be tatty old books and woollen flowers.’
I force myself not to react. Putting everything about the museum aside, I also think I’m dating her son, and I want her to like me. The last thing I should do is rile her up by getting defensive, and I try to focus on the good parts of that sentence, like Warren being excited enough about the museum to share that with his mum. That’s a good sign, right?
‘You.’ She clicks her fingers towards him and makes a gesture that suggests she’s telling a trained dog to come to heel, which he does immediately, and she takes his arm. ‘You can show me around while we have a catch-up. Delightful to meet you, Miss Carisbrooke.’
It’s a formal dismissal, plainly telling me I’m not invited while he gives her a tour of the museum, which is understandable, especially as they haven’t seen each other in quite a while.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I call after them, at a loss for how else to be helpful.
‘No, thank you,’ she replies.
Warren looks over his shoulder and tries to give me what is probably a reassuring smile, but his eyes look worried. He definitely wasn’t expecting her, and there’s a tone of condescension in her voice about what she’s seen so far.
He takes her into the next room, the one I’d thought about turning into a cinema-style room, and I grab the opportunity to slip past and go back downstairs to Mickey for a gossip.
‘Was that his mother?’ my best friend hisses from where she’s still minding the front desk. ‘She of “running the company and pulling all the strings” fame?’
I nod.
‘I did try to stop her but she was having none of it. She asked where Warren was and then just started walking up the stairs.’
‘It’s okay. I get the impression she’s the kind of person who can’t be stopped.’
Mickey grimaces. ‘Was that as painfully awkward as it looked like it was going to be?’
‘Yeah. I thought he was exaggerating when he’s talked about his mother, but now I’m not so sure. I know you can’t judge on first impressions, but she doesn’t seem like the type who’s going to be influenced by whimsical wishes and handmade beanstalks.’ I try to make a joke out of it to cover the nervous restlessness that’s taken over me, because I want to be part of their discussion. I want to know what her plans are, if Warren’s enthusiasm has swayed her in our favour, and at the same time, they deserve a chance to catch up alone, and I respect that… even when the sound of raised voices filters down from upstairs, and Mickey turns the music player off so we have a better chance of overhearing what’s being said.
I climb as many stairs as I dare to without being caught out by creaking floorboards, but they’re on the third floor in the kitchen, and their words are too muffled, but it reignites the all-too-familiar pit of dread in my stomach. They’re obviously disagreeing about something, and if she was on board with everything Warren and I have got planned for the museum, there would be nothing for them to disagree over, would there?
‘Maybe it’s about that acquisition in Southampton you said he was late for?’ Mickey suggests, being the ever-supportive best friend.
‘Maybe,’ I reply, but I have a feeling there’s a reason for his mother to make the effort of travelling all the way here from her London office, and it has nothing to do with Southampton.
It feels like an eternity before Warren and his mother reappear. He’s walking her down the stairs while she clings onto his arm with one hand and has a white-knuckle grip on the banister with the other. Mickey and I were both leaning on the front desk, talking about the film screening idea and which parts actors could act out in real life, and we both quickly stand to attention at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
‘Miss Carisbrooke, walk me back to my car.’ Mrs Berrington stops in the lobby and makes a hand gesture towards me that suggests she’s calling that well-trained dog over again.
‘I will,’ he says quickly.
‘No, Miss Carisbrooke will.’ Her voice is steely and she’s clearly not going to be dissuaded from this plan, and I force the nerves down as I go over. She hooks her arm through mine like she did with Warren earlier, and I realise that she’s surprisingly frail, and maybe her demand is because she needs the support of something to hold onto, but doesn’t want to show the weakness of using a stick or frame.
Warren dashes over to hold the door open for us, and wishes his mother a strangely formal goodbye, and his fingers touch my shoulder as we walk out. ‘Liss…’
He hesitates and then shakes his head like he doesn’t know what he wanted to say, and Mrs Berrington is having none of any dilly-dallying, and I have to quicken my pace before one of us falls over as she heads for the steps. I catch his eyes and try to send him an understanding smile. Whatever’s going on, and no matter how bothered I am, I don’t think he’s had an easy couple of hours either.
‘There should be a railing on one side of these steps, they’re a hazard!’ Mrs Berrington barks because I’m still looking at Warren in the doorway and not paying close enough attention as we step down them.
‘You’re right, I can look into that immediately.’ I turn my back on Warren and focus solely on her. ‘It really is nice to finally meet you, Mrs Berrington…’
I was hoping she might give me a first name to call her by, but of course, she does nothing so informal, and I continue trying to engage in conversation. ‘Are you going back to London tonight?’
‘Indeed. My driver is waiting in the car so I can get some work done on the journey. We businesswomen can’t waste a minute, can we?’ It’s a rhetorical question, and her hand isclingingonto my arm and she’s concentrating on the cobblestones of the street, and despite her abrupt manner, I feel a little bit sorry for her. She’s clearly trying to hide her age, and I remember Warren saying she should be thinking about retirement, but refuses to slow down.
