The Road Trip(51)

I blink, startled. ‘Whoa.’

‘He’s here all the time anyway, sweets,’ she says, straightening up and wiping her hands on the back of her jeans. They’re ‘mom jeans’, made of thick old denim and turned up at the bottoms. ‘Your dad and I talked about it last night.’

I say nothing. My heart flutters. Do I want that? Dylan living here? It feels . . . big.

‘Ads?’ Mum tilts her head. ‘No? You two are so inseparable, and you seem so settled together . . .’

I lean against the counter, scraping at the skin on the edge of my thumbnail. ‘Yeah. No, we are.’

She lowers her voice. ‘But you’re not feeling sure about him?’

‘No, I am, I am, it’s just . . . that time when he was away, I sort of started thinking . . . he didn’t actually like me much. Or he would have come home.’

‘He did come home, didn’t he?’

‘Yeah, but . . . not for ages. And I was starting work, and I kind of needed him here.’

‘Did you tell him you needed him?’

‘I wanted him to just . . . know,’ I say, wincing at myself.

Mum waves me out of the way so she can wipe the surface behind me. ‘You should talk to him about it and clear the air, sweetie.’

I chew my lip. Trouble is, I really raised the bar for myself in those weeks in Provence. Three weeks was just enough time to be sexy and interesting and a bit mysterious. Now Dylan’s here, on our second-hand sofa, and I’m back late from work in my worn black trousers and dowdy blouse . . . I do worry that this just isn’t very Dylan, all this. All my real-life stuff. He fell in love with Summer Addie. I’m definitely not the girl I was before the summer, but I’m not exactly Summer Addie now either, am I?

‘How do you do it?’ I ask impulsively, watching my mum tuck her hair behind her ear as she scrubs at the surfaces. ‘With Dad? I mean . . . you’ve been together for . . .’

‘Twenty-five years,’ Mum says, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. ‘And it’s all about compromise, I’d say.’

‘Like how you always let Dad watch the telly after dinner and you tidy up?’ I say, raising my eyebrows.

‘Exactly. He cooks!’

‘But you do all the thinking about what to make,’ I point out. ‘And the shop.’

She frowns. ‘We each do our fair share.’

There is no point talking to my mother about mental load. For her, Dad is the ultimate modern man because he irons his own shirts.

‘Will you at least let me wash up?’ I ask.

‘Of course!’ Mum says, passing me the rubber gloves. ‘You really are a changed woman these days. Gone is the layabout student, in comes the responsible young lady who notices the pile of dirty pans by the sink.’

I stick my tongue out at her. ‘Urgh, I don’t know,’ I say, turning on the hot tap. ‘I don’t know why I’m holding back. I’ll ask him about moving in for a bit.’

‘Only if you’re absolutely sure, sweets – you’ve got a whole life ahead of you, there’s no need to rush things. Oh, Addie, careful with that plate, it was your grandmother’s . . .’

I let her step in and wash up the plate I am not qualified for.

‘But I don’t think you need to worry about him not being as interested as you are,’ Mum continues. ‘He hardly leaves your side.’

‘Can I help?’ Dylan says from the doorway.

Mum gives me a significant look, as if Dylan coming in to help with the dishes is a sign he can’t bear to be parted from me.

‘I’m home!’ Deb yells through the house, slamming the front door. ‘Is the Addie shadow here? Oh, good, hi, Dylan. I need your help with a job application. Can you read it through for me and make it sound, you know . . .’ She chucks her bag down in the corner of the kitchen. ‘More clever?’

‘The Addie shadow?’ Dylan repeats, half laughing.

Deb waves that off, tsking as she finds no clean glasses in the cupboard. She heads for the dishwasher. ‘Damn, is that running?’

‘You’re welcome,’ Mum says mildly.

‘Addie’s shadow, like . . . I follow her around in a sinister fashion?’ Dylan asks.

‘No, just like you’re attached to her ankle,’ Deb says. ‘I’ll have to use a mug – Dad! Dad! Have you got my French bulldog mug through there?’

‘No,’ Dad roars from the living room.

‘You left it under your desk,’ Mum says. ‘I cleared it up this morning. It’s in the dishwasher.’

‘Under the desk?’ I ask.

‘Attached to her ankle?’ Dylan repeats, his brow furrowing.

‘When’s Cherry arriving?’ Deb asks.

‘Tomorrow,’ Dad calls, in a loaded sort of way. Dad’s sulking because when Cherry stays he has to clear out of his ‘study’, the box room at the front of the house that he’s filled with crap. Parts of train and aeroplane models, old issues of The Beano, laptops that died but for some reason must not be thrown away. Dad hates guests coming. It gives Mum the perfect excuse to tell him to clear out the junk.

‘Do you think I’m clinging to your ankles?’ Dylan asks me, with a very sweet frown.