I paused, looked up and saw my mother’s lips disappear altogether. ‘And she was just desperate to meet you,’ I continued, pulling a one-eighty and trying to get her back on side. ‘As soon as I told her I was coming home to see you, she insisted on coming with me. Wouldn’t hear of me coming without her. She totally loves you.’
‘She totally loves me, does she?’ She shook her head. ‘Totally?’
Smiling, I pulled my hair behind my head, slipped the ponytail holder off my wrist and tied it up high. ‘Totally.’
‘You cut your hair.’ Mum took her mug from my dad and placed it to her lips, steaming hot. Asbestos mouth, she always said. ‘And it’s blonder.’
‘I thought it was quite long at the minute,’ I frowned, flipping the length through my fingers. ‘But yeah, I got highlights. I wanted it to look nice for the presentation. And your party.’
‘I think we probably need to talk about this presentation, don’t we?’ she said. ‘We don’t know exactly what it is you’re doing, you know.’
At last. A topic on which I couldn’t fail to impress.
‘It’s a new magazine,’ I started. ‘Me and my partner Delia came up with the concept, and the publisher liked it so much they want us to launch it in New York and London at the same time.’
‘Hmm.’ Mum stared out of the window.
Not the reaction I’d been looking for.
‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you think, what with you getting married to a musician, that you really ought to stop playing around and think about a proper job?’
Oh. Wow.
‘One of you should have something steady, surely?’
I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t have anything.
‘So you don’t like my hair then?’ I asked. ‘Bit too much of a change?’
I knew I’d made a mistake as soon as I’d said it. Aside from one other term of endearment starting with a ‘c’, change was the filthiest word in the English language in my mother’s house.
‘It’s shorter than when I last saw you,’ she pointed out, reluctantly going with the subject. ‘And I’d have thought you’d have had enough changes of late without messing about with your hair.’
‘I think it looks nice,’ my dad said, placing my cup in front of me. My Creme Egg mug that had come with an Easter egg fifteen years earlier. ‘Very “ladies in the city”.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
I sipped my tea carefully and felt every muscle in my body relax. Louisa had sent tons of teabags to me in New York, so I couldn’t tell if it was the mug, if it was the water or if it was just sitting in my mum’s kitchen being talked down to by my parents, but this was the best cup of tea I’d had in two years.
‘Get that tea down you, we haven’t got all day,’ Mum bossed, necking her scalding-hot cuppa as though she was doing an impression of Jenny with a Martini five minutes before the end of happy hour. ‘Do you need to use the loo or can I go?’
‘Why haven’t we got all day?’ I was confused. What was going on? Why wasn’t I getting a beautiful, emotional family reunion? Why weren’t there cakes? I thought I could count on at least a KitKat. At least. ‘Why do I need to use the loo?’
‘It’s Saturday.’ She stood up and looked at me like I’d gone mad. ‘Just because you’re here, the world hasn’t stopped turning. Now, are you going to have a lie-down or are you coming with us?’
Every single atom of my being said have a lie-down. Everything I had learned in twenty-eight years of life said go upstairs and go to sleep. So obviously I picked up my handbag, waited for my mum to come out of the loo and followed her out of the front door.
‘So I said to Janet, I’m not disputing the fact that you’ve been here since half nine,’ my mum said, carefully weighing the difference between two courgettes, narrowing her eyes and placing the bigger one in a little plastic bag. ‘I’m just saying I finished at three and I’ve got things to do. Why should I hang around late because she wants to leave early?’
‘You shouldn’t, love,’ Dad confirmed, passing her a bag of King Edwards for approval. ‘Do we need onions?’
‘Get one big one,’ she replied. ‘I might do a spag bol tomorrow. For the American girl.’
It turned out my mother’s idea of an emotional family reunion was a quick turn around Waitrose. At midday on a Saturday.
‘I need to get some milk,’ I said, walking away from the trolley without proper approval. This was tantamount to going AWOL − my mother looked like she was ready to court martial me right up the arse.
‘I’ve got milk,’ she said, waving her list at me. ‘Why do you need more milk?’
Twisting my engagement ring round and round and round, I shrugged. ‘I’m going to see if they’ve got any lactose-free stuff. Alex is lactose intolerant.’
Both my mum and dad froze on the spot. My dad looked like he might cry.
‘It’s not catching,’ I said. ‘He just can’t digest milk easily.’
Mum pressed a palm to her chest and visibly paled, while my dad hung his head, presumably seeing visions of feeble lactose-intolerant grandchildren failing to return the football he had just kicked to them.
‘The woman who did my colonic says I’m a bit intolerant too,’ I added, waiting for a reaction. But there was none. There was only silence. Picking the list out of my mum’s hand, I scanned it and popped it back between her thumb and forefinger. ‘So we make a good pair. I’ll get the stuff for the pasta.’
‘Angela,’ she said in her kindest, most pleading voice. ‘You didn’t really have a colonic did you?’
Sometimes, I thought to myself, it’s kinder to lie.
‘Yes, I did, Mum,’ I replied. ‘In fact, I’ve had two.’
And sometimes, I just couldn’t be bothered.
If I wasn’t disorientated enough from the overwhelming jet lag that kept threatening to take my legs out from under me, roaming around Waitrose looking for tinned tomatoes and spaghetti just about pushed me over the edge. The only thing that kept me moving was the lure of the Mini Cheddars I’d promised myself. I moved through the aisles of the supermarket like they were full of treacle, my legs heavy and tired. Dodging trolleys and pushchairs and what seemed like dozens of sixteen-year-olds in green uniforms with cages full of Old El Paso fajita dinner kits, I was on autopilot. Maybe I wasn’t home after all. Maybe the plane had crashed and I was in purgatory. There couldn’t be any other explanation for the way I was feeling, the way nothing had changed in the slightest.
Well, nothing had changed but me. I looked like shit. I stopped by one of the freezer cabinets to be quietly appalled at the price of Ben & Jerry’s and caught sight of my reflection. Transatlantic travel did no one any favours. Even following Jenny’s advice hadn’t helped me; sometimes you can drink two litres of water, spend the entire flight getting up and down to go to the loo, smother yourself in Beauty Flash Balm and still deplane looking like you’ve flown in directly from a two-week vacation with the crypt keeper. My skin looked crap, my hair was greasy, and whatever long-lasting, no-smudge mascara I had been wearing was either missing or smudged. Because cosmetics companies were liars. Why couldn’t we all just agree that bruise-like swipes of grey and black etched into the fine lines around your eyes were sexy? Why did we make life hard for ourselves? Maybe I could put it in Gloss