I Owe You One(15)

“I’ll take over in here,” I say now, seizing my chance while Mum has paused. “You go and get ready.”

She looks up for the first time—and her face drops.

“Fixie, what happened to you? The weather’s not that bad?” She glances out of the window at the light summer rain, which began as I was walking home.

“No! I just had a little accident. It’s fine.”

“She looks awful, doesn’t she?” says Nicole, drifting in.

“Mum,” I try again. “Why don’t you go and get ready? Have a nice bath. Relax for a bit.”

“I’ll just make two more of these,” says Mum, rolling out more sugar paste.

“OK, well, I’ll nip up and sort out my hair,” I say. “I’ll be super-quick.”

“Then maybe you could make me a coffee, darling?” says Mum to Nicole. “If you’re not doing anything else?”

“Oh.” Nicole wrinkles her nose dubiously. “Coffee. You know I can’t do the machine.”

It was Jake who bought Mum her cappuccino machine as a present last Christmas. It’s quite technical, but you can get to know it if you try. Nicole, though, seems pathologically unable to. She peers at it and says, “What does it mean, Empty drip tray?” and you explain it and show her three times, but she still doesn’t get it. So in the end you do it yourself.

“I’ll do it,” I say hurriedly, and reach for a mug.

“Hi, Mum.” Jake breezes into the kitchen, wafting aftershave and beer. “Happy birthday.” He plants a kiss on her cheek and presents her with the Christian Dior bag.

“Darling!” Mum’s eyes have widened at the glossy bag. “You shouldn’t!”

When most people say, “You shouldn’t,” they really mean, “You should,” but not Mum. She gets twitchy when people spend money on her, especially us, her children. Of course she’s touched—but she’s anxious too, because she thinks it’s needless.

Mum thinks a lot of things in this world are needless. She rarely wears makeup. She never travels abroad. In fact, she hardly ever takes a holiday. She never reads the paper. I’m not sure she even votes. (She says she does, but I think she’s fibbing so we won’t lecture her.)

The only websites she ever visits are craft suppliers, cooking stores, and gadget sites. She watches EastEnders, she manages Farrs, she goes to her Zumba class; that’s it. Sometimes I’ve suggested that she take a trip abroad or visit a country-house spa. But she gives me this kind little smile and says, “That’s for other people, love.”

As for another man, forget it. She hasn’t looked at another man or been on a single date since Dad died. She says he’s still with her and she still talks to him and she doesn’t need anyone else. When Jake once tried to sign her up to some “silver years” dating site, she got quite angry, which is unlike her.

“Jake, you make the coffee for Mum,” says Nicole. “Where’s Leila?”

“I sent her off to buy some more beer,” replies Jake, whereupon I have a sudden image of poor Leila lugging ten crates of beer along the street in her skinny arms. And I wasn’t going to ask, but before I can stop them the words spill out:

“Is Ryan here?”

My voice is husky and I flush as everyone turns to look at me. I would never have mentioned Ryan—but I suddenly got worried he might appear in the kitchen. I’ve still got pipe water all over my hair and I’m wearing my work jeans and basically I’d have to hide in the fridge.

“Not yet.” Jake runs his eyes over me. “Jeez, is that your party look? Drowned weasel?” At once Nicole bursts into laughter.

“Oh God, Fixie, you do look like a drowned weasel.”

“A ceiling fell on me!” I say defensively. “It wasn’t my fault!”

“Darling, you go up and take a shower and you’ll look lovely,” says Mum in that soothing way she has. Soothing with an edge of steel, enough to warn off Jake and Nicole.

Mum’s like one of those dressage riders on TV. She changes her voice an iota and we all obey her instantly, like trained Olympic horses. Even Jake.

“Are you OK, Fixie?” asks Nicole, looking abashed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“Fixie, I didn’t mean it,” says Jake. “You go and get ready. Take your time. I’ll hold the fort here.”

He sounds so charming, I’m mollified. Jake can be really nice when he wants to.

“OK.” I pick up my bag of hair clips. “I’ll go and have a shower. Mum, why don’t you come up too now? We could pick out an outfit for you.”

“In a moment,” says Mum absently as she shapes another peony.

I’ll be in a better position to chivvy Mum into her party clothes when I’m ready myself, I decide. I sprint upstairs, rip off my damp jeans and T-shirt, and quickly take a shower in our tiny old-fashioned cubicle.

I haven’t always lived at home—I shared with Hannah for a while. She bought a flat in Hammersmith and said I had to live there too and she would subsidize the rent with her ridiculously large salary. But then she and Tim got more serious and I felt awkward, lurking around every evening.

Then my company went bust and everything had to change, anyway. Mum was the one who said, “Lots of girls your age are still at home, love,” and made me feel OK about moving back for a while. To be honest, I was just really grateful to have that option.