The Mother-in-Law(41)
What I don’t like is being told what to do by my mother-in-law in my own home.
“Thank you for that advice, Diana,” I say finally. “That is . . . incredibly helpful. I can’t wait to try your suggestions.”
We lock eyes. We both know I’m being sarcastic. But calling me on it would be futile because I’ll deny it. It is an unexpected and unintentional win for me and I bathe in it for a second or two. Harriet, who is still screaming in Diana’s arms, reaches for me and I take her. The crying stops instantly. Another win.
Checkmate.
It occurs to me that only a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law can have an all-out war without anyone so much as raising their voice. The funny thing is, if any of the menfolk were here, they wouldn’t have a clue that anything other than a pleasant conversation was going on. If Ollie were here, he’d probably comment on “what a nice afternoon that was with Mum.” In that way, menfolk are really quite simple, bless them.
Archie comes and sits on my lap next to Harriet and for a surprising second, both my children are content. I find, to my surprise, that I’m quite enjoying myself.
“All I’m saying is that I don’t know if you’re using your time effectively,” Diana says finally.
And what business is that of yours? I want to ask, but that, we both know, would be breaking the rules. I must not assault, but defense is allowed. I think of my high school netball days. I’m goal defense. If I’m good enough at my job, the other team won’t score. And so I come up with something else.
“You’re right,” I say with a smile. “You don’t.”
And even though it will never feature on the scoreboard, I’m pretty sure I just shot a goal.
23: LUCY
THE PAST . . .
“Are you going to trade me in for a younger model one day?” I whisper to Ollie.
We’re standing on the back deck by the BBQ. Ollie is barbequing and I am shuffling around, trying to look busy. It’s Saturday afternoon and Eamon has brought his new girlfriend, Bella, to lunch. She is twenty-two and I have never felt older in my life.
“Can’t afford to,” he says. “Anyway, I married a young one to begin with.”
“You’ve always been a forward planner.”
“I play the long game,” he says with a wink. “By the way, Bella’s in the kitchen. You’d better get in there. She might start playing with matches.” He gestures to the steps of the deck where Harriet and Archie sit, eating sausages in bread. “I’ll keep an eye on the other kids.”
Reluctantly I head to the kitchen to talk to Bella. It’s not out of loyalty to Eamon’s ex-wife—I wasn’t especially fond of Julia either. It’s purely the fact that I’m a married mother of two . . . and she’s twenty-two.
When I get to the kitchen, Bella is standing in front of the salads, staring down at them.
“Where’s Eamon?” I ask.
“He’s just gone to the bottle shop for champagne. I told him I didn’t want any, but he insisted.” She rolls her eyes.
“Oh, well, can I get you a drink in the meantime? Or something to eat? I have cheese and crackers—”
“Water’s fine,” she says, gesturing to the glass beside her.
“Can I at least get you some ice?”
“No, room temperature is better.”
Better for what? I wonder, but I don’t ask lest she decides to tell me. I have a vague recollection of being lectured about the perils of cold drinks (something to do with damp heat collecting in the body) when visiting a Chinese doctor about a persistent neck injury a few years back, and while the acupuncture worked a treat on my neck, as someone who was partial to an ice-cold beverage, the unsolicited advice about consuming room-temperature beverages had been an unwelcome addition to my service.
“So how did you and Eamon meet each other?” I ask instead.
“He goes to my gym,” Bella tells me. “He was in my body pump class.”
“You’re a fitness instructor?”
She nods, and I feel relieved. Ollie told me she was one of those fitness people on Instagram, the ones who post photos of smoothies and protein powder in amongst pictures of their abs in exotic locations. It’s comforting to know she has an actual job as well.
“Well, at least I used to be anyway,” she says. “I mostly fill in now, now that my business has taken off.”
“Oh?” I say, looking in the drawer for salad servers. “And what is your business?”
“I’m a fitness influencer.”
My hands flatten on the cutlery tray.
“I have a hundred and twenty-two thousand followers on Instagram at the moment, so yeah, things are taking off. But I mean . . . I need to keep growing it.”
“And . . . how do you . . . grow it?”
I find some servers and start tossing the potato salad. I’d gone heavy on the mayonnaise, which I now suspect was a mistake. The green salad, too, is chock full of avocado and feta and oil.
“You know . . . analyzing the best-performing posts . . . looking at the hashtags you’re using like #fitspo and #fitnessporn, keeping up to date with who is influencing in your field.”
“Gotcha.”
“Then it’s pretty much about partnering with brands. I’ve been contacted by a really interesting up-and-coming organic juice brand and we’re going to be doing some really cool stuff with them and yeah, it’s good.”