Her Perfect Family by Teresa Driscoll
PROLOGUE
Pink
The daughter looks at her outfit. And suddenly, at this eleventh hour, she realises the colour is all wrong.
A shaft of sunlight has broken through the crack in the curtains. On its hanger on the wardrobe door last night, the dress looked fine. This morning, in this new and unforgiving beam of light, the pink is all at once . . . too pink.
In the shop mirror a month back it had seemed softer somehow. Her mother loved it immediately – there were tears. Hugs. The daughter sighs at the memory but is wondering now if there was some trick; if the shop mirror was smoked and they had not realised just how bright the dress would look in daylight. In sunlight. In today’s light.
She sits up to see her reflection in the mirror across the room. She pinches her cheeks and tries to imagine how the addition of make-up might help. But no. There is no lipstick in the world that can fix this.
She gets out of bed and moves to her wardrobe, the bubble of panic in her stomach growing as she holds the dress on its hanger against her frame. She does not want to disappoint her mother; they had such a very lovely day choosing this dress. But it looks so wrong now that she fears today’s photograph will haunt her forever.
She imagines the picture, framed on the piano at home – the dress forever too pink.
And now her phone buzzes on the dressing table. A notification of yet another direct message. He is not who he says he is . . .
She feels the familiar shiver of unease. She badly needs to make this stop but simply has no time today. She throws the phone on to the bed and looks back at her reflection. It’s decided. Sorry Mummy.
She will not wear the pink. She will wear the lemon dress instead . . .
Navy
The mother looks at her outfit. And suddenly, at this eleventh hour, she worries about her daughter.
She stares at the dress and jacket hanging against the shiny white of the hotel’s wardrobe door and thinks of her beautiful girl, getting ready all alone at her flat.
She takes in the sensible navy of her ensemble. Somehow in the cold light of this bright and breezy Wednesday, it looks too conservative. Too ‘mother of the bride’? She turns away; doesn’t care.
Today is Gemma’s day. She imagines standing alongside her beautiful girl in that gorgeous pink dress and feels the punch of pride that has swollen her heart and yes, her head too, ever since the results came in.
A first. Did I remember to tell you? My daughter Gemma: she has . . . a first.
She did not go to university herself and has never even been to a graduation ceremony. She turns to her husband who still sleeps, envying his calm. He’s from a world where everyone goes to university and doesn’t understand her nerves.
She thinks of the cathedral and the choir and her special girl in that very special pink dress.
She imagines it will be the best day of her life.
This mother who cannot know in this moment that it is to be the very worst.
CHAPTER 1
THE MOTHER
When the trumpets start up, the volume is a shock. A child near the back of the cathedral starts to laugh and we turn our heads, stifling our own smiles.
It is indeed surreal, all this pomp and this pageantry. And yes – loud. It is very loud.
I turn back to the front, my ears adjusting, as the university hierarchy file in to take up their seats in the choir stalls. They’re all in different colours. Rich purple and yellow and red. Different headgear too. Some have velvet caps with gold tassels. Some have fur on their gowns. Others not.
I imagine those in the know understand all these sartorial signals of intellectual pecking order. Which colour for which university each professor attended. I have no idea. I’m simply wondering how uncomfortable all those hats must be.
I smooth the navy dress across my knee and watch as the trumpeters finish at last and we hear the audience’s collective clearing of throats and blowing of noses as the chancellor steps up to the microphone. I feel myself smile again and for a moment am enchanted and proud and exhilarated by the warmth of the welcome.
I listen. I beam. I listen some more. And then – much too quickly, I’m embarrassed to become rather bored. The chancellor, a tall woman with enormous red glasses, goes on much too long and soon I am thinking – yes, yes, we know all this. Do please get on with it. I steal a glance at the programme on my lap. Gemma is page four and I am wondering – how long per page?
There is more coughing and shuffling of chairs. A child crying. The scraping of wood on stone floor as a parent apparently decides to take the weeping child out. I turn to watch them near the back of the cathedral. The child, on his father’s hip, looks no more than eighteen months and I wonder if it is a second marriage. Or just a big age gap? And how on earth do divorced people manage occasions like this? We were only offered two tickets.
I turn back to the front. Maidstead is the smallest cathedral not just in the south-west but in the country – only just scraping its official status. I like that you can see front to back from my vantage point. For some reason we are in the VIP seats directly in front of the choir stall. No idea how we ended up here but it’s a happy mistake. A great view. There are narrow corridors with stone arches beyond the choir stalls and I can see glimpses of university staff with clipboards.
For a moment I think I recognise someone in the distance – Helen’s sister. Mandy. Or is it Molly. For the life of me I can’t remember but it suddenly occurs to me that maybe she organised our seats? Mandy (or Molly?) is the sister of one of my book-group friends, Helen. When Gemma expressed an interest in this uni, Helen very kindly passed on some tips. Her sister’s in the comms department. Gave us some general pointers on the most popular accommodation for freshers – that sort of thing. Nice woman. We’ve met her very briefly at a couple of uni events – on nodding terms, no more. Would she have done this for us? I doubt it . . .