One Small Mistake(4)
I get myself another drink. Mum appears at my side. ‘Darling, I didn’t know you’d arrived.’
I fix a bright smile before turning to face her. ‘I’ve barely been here two minutes. You look great,’ I say, taking in the navy Marks & Spencer playsuit she bought in the sale last summer. She’s lost weight, only a few pounds, but she was already slim to begin with.
She beams at me. ‘I’ve been going to hot yoga with Ada.’
‘You used the vouchers I got for your birthday?’
She brightens. ‘Oh, it was you who gave them to me! You know, I honestly couldn’t remember.’
‘You should’ve told me you were going, I’d have come too,’ I say, trying to keep the hurt from my voice.
She sips her drink. ‘It gets harder to keep the weight off the older you get. I used to have a figure like yours, once upon a time. I’m telling you, Elodie, men age like fine wine; women rot like meat. Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s go see your father.’
They fill me in on the latest. When we’ve exhausted the gossip, we lapse into comfortable silence. I’m on my second glass of Merlot since I arrived and it’s making my head spin. If Ada knows I’m here, she hasn’t come over to say hello, which must be some sort of violation of whatever Stepford wife etiquette she subscribes to. I catch a glimpse of her pale blue dress as she glides across the lawn, smiling demurely at her other guests, and I can’t help but wonder, for the millionth time, how we’re so different, how things between us became so frosty.
Mum looks adoringly around the garden. ‘It is beautiful, isn’t it, Martin? Ada’s done a wonderful job of it. We should think about repainting our fences.’
Dad nods, and I try not to roll my eyes because Ada did not paint the fences herself. She’s just as likely to be caught with a roller in one hand and a pot of ‘Sapphire Salute’ in the other as she is in Crocs and woolly socks. Dad turns to me. ‘Did you get that outside security light fixed at your place?’
I shake my head. ‘I emailed the landlord, but he takes a week to get back to me about anything.’
‘Useless,’ mutters Dad. ‘I told you I’ll come over and do it.’
‘Thanks, but, like I said, if you mess with it and something goes wrong, I’m liable. I could lose my deposit.’
‘Bloody ridiculous, standing outside in the dark.’
I imagine the man with the serial-killer glasses following me home at night, then creeping up the steps behind, watching me fumble for my key beneath the broken security light, his moist breath on the back of my neck.
‘You okay, love?’ asks Mum. ‘You’re awfully twitchy.’
I nod. I haven’t told my parents about the man I think is following me. I don’t want to worry them, especially not at Ada’s party.
‘You wouldn’t have these issues if you owned instead of rented,’ says Mum with the air of a schoolteacher addressing a wayward child. ‘It’s a waste of money.’
Briefly, I close my eyes, already weary. We have this conversation at least once a month. She and Dad bought their first house in 1984 for ￡34,000 and they don’t seem to grasp the fact that, thanks to an inflated house market and wages failing to keep up, deposits are extortionate. Anyone I know who’s my age and owns a house only managed it because a family member copped it and they got a healthy inheritance to ease their mourning. Or, like Ada, married rich.
Sensing my reluctance to cover old ground, she changes the subject. ‘So, are you seeing anyone?’
Out of the frying pan and into the inferno. I’m going to need another drink to get through this conversation.
Dad excuses himself to join Ethan, and a small band of men gather around the BBQ. Ethan chucks a piece of meat onto it. Flames shoot up from the grill, hissing and spitting, and the men look on with childish delight.
‘Not right now …’ I trail off. Mum’s brow creases in dismay. I haven’t dated anyone since Noah. My parents adored him; he was easy-going and funny and always bought flowers for Mum and cider for Dad when we visited from London. They loved him almost as much as they love Jack. I feel guilty for not putting myself back out there; it means a lot to my parents to see me happy and settled but, even though it’s been nearly a year since Noah, it’s still too soon. ‘I mean, I’m focusing on my book,’ I offer by way of distraction. ‘I spent all morning at the library, coming up with new ideas for my agent.’
Mum’s frown deepens and I’m hurt. I didn’t realise how desperately I wanted her to smile warmly and ask questions the way she does when Ada announces another unnecessary renovation. I remember how proud my parents were the day I graduated. Mum wore her best heels, the satin ones with the little bow detail reserved only for extra-special occasions; Dad teared up as I stood in front of that mottled blue backdrop, holding the plastic scroll used as a prop for photographs. I was the first in the family to go to university, but that achievement has paled against the glittering glory of Ada’s grand wedding on the Amalfi Coast and her grand house and her grand car and her grand husband. Ever since I decided to try for publication, there’s been a wall between us.
‘It’s going really well,’ I lie, even though Mum didn’t ask. This lie adds another layer of bricks to the wall. ‘Lara’s had loads of interest. Loads. She’s expecting big things.’