It Started With A Tweet(111)
‘I hadn’t realised that they’d only been together for four years,’ she says in a tone as if they’d only met last month.
‘That set menu looks good,’ I say, pointing at the handwritten chalk board mounted on the walls. ‘I adore monkfish.’
My mother chooses to ignore me, and ploughs on like a steam roller.
‘Her mum was saying that Vanessa’s dress is from that little bridal boutique off Kimberly Lane.’
‘Um, yes, I think it is,’ I say, trying not fuel the conversation.
‘I see it when I’m on the way to Zumba. It looks magical. I always walk past it and hope that one day I’ll be going in there,’ she says longingly.
I sense Will getting fidgety next to me. If I’m uncomfortable with this topic of conversation, Mr Commitmentphobe is bound to be. You see, Will and I have been together for seven years and, despite us living together, he’s yet to produce a small, sparkly ring. Not that I really care that much. In my mind, our joint mortgage is probably more binding and difficult to break than a marriage certificate, but it’s a different story for my mum. It’s not that she objects to us living in sin or anything. As far as I can tell, she needs me to get married so that she has something to write about in her Christmas letter. Last year, she apparently emailed everyone to tell them she was doing a charity donation in lieu of cards, which I think was because she was too embarrassed to write for yet another year that I was neither engaged nor married.
Sure enough, Will’s now looking at his watch as if he wants to get home as quickly as possible and away from my interfering mother.
Luckily for both Will and me, the waitress comes over and takes our order. We’ve all decided to go for a set menu that includes main course and dessert, so at least we’ve shaved off twenty minutes by not having starters.
‘So have you had a nice birthday, Dad?’ I ask, well and truly shutting down the Vanessa conversation.
‘I have thanks, love. I got an excellent book called Match of My Life.’
‘Oh, great. From Mum?’
‘No, he bought it for himself. I bought him a jumper from M&S.’
Dad gives me a weak smile. Thirty-five years of marriage and every year he gets an M&S jumper for his birthday.
‘I’ve read that one,’ says Will. ‘It’s really good. Have you seen the Got Not Got Southampton book? I was reading it thinking you’d like it.’
‘Yes, I got that for Christmas. Great book. So many memories.’
I roll my eyes as Will and my dad get lost talking about different football books. The fact that they’re both Southampton fans is the only thing they have in common, and therefore the only thing they ever talk to each other about. I always thought it would be nice to have a boyfriend that got on well with my dad, but when they spend hours discussing the percentages of possession in the last game, I realise that I should have been careful what I wished for.
My father thinks Will’s the bee’s knees, unlike my mother, who disapproves of him, largely for not yet allowing her to become mother of the bride. Of course, my father’s impression is based solely on the fact that Will has a Southampton Football Club season ticket. He could be the world’s worst boyfriend, but as long as he went dutifully to every home game, then he’d still be OK. Luckily for me, he’s actually a pretty good boyfriend, but still .?.?.
I try and tune out their conversation about the league table, and that of my mother, who’s started telling me about her next-door-but-one neighbour whose daughter just had a baby. I’m sure you can imagine how she feels about grandchildren. Instead I use my time to daydream about the novel I’m writing.
*
We make it through to dessert without me tipping wine over my mum’s head, much to my amazement. She was actually quite restrained, having got distracted by telling me all about the scandal of the stolen fridge magnets at her work (it was as riveting as it sounds). My dad and Will are sitting in silence since exhausting their talk about football somewhere between the main course and dessert. All in all, we’re on the homeward straight, and bar a cup of coffee we’ll be off back home – and it’s only 7.30. Gotta love an early dinner.
As another waitress sets down our coffee I notice that Will’s hands are shaking as he drops two sugar-lumps into his cup before stirring vigorously. He clatters the spoon so noisily against the china cup that even my dad looks over at him to see if everything’s OK.
I know that dinner with my mother would put anyone on edge, but I’m sure he’s jumpier than usual.
‘Have you got your outfit sorted for the wedding next week, then?’ asks my mother.
What was I saying about being on the homeward straight?
I burn my tongue as I try to finish my coffee in a bid to get away more quickly.
‘Yes, all sorted. I’ll take lots of photos and show you next time I see you.’
Can’t wait for that meet-up. I must remember to leave Will at home.
‘Ah, perfect. It’ll be nice to have some copies of photos of you at a wedding, even if it isn’t your own.’
I can feel Will’s leg jiggling under the table and I’m just hoping that his coffee is decaf as he’s clearly already got way too much nervous energy to add caffeine into the mix.
‘Well, thanks for a lovely dinner,’ I say, placing my cup down and looking expectantly at my dad for him to summon the bill.