CHAPTER TEN
Winging It
COOEE,POPPET!OVER HERE!
I trawl the sea of expectant faces and drivers’ meet-and-greet boards. There, in the midst of them all, are Mum and Dad – Mum waving excitedly, Dad towering over her, subdued as always. They look older, more frail, and I swear Mum has shrunk.
They had often talked of retiring early to the sun, and when Dad suffered a heartattack due to the stresses and strains of running a road haulage business, they were spurred into action before it was too late.
Nowadays Dad spends most of his time on the golf course, while Mum fills her days with yoga, Spanish language, and cookery classes.
‘Oh, I have good news for you, darling,’ chirrups Mum, turning to me as we pootle along the coastal road towards Denia. ‘Accordingto Lydia, Giles has found himself a lady friend at last, so should be on his best behaviour at the Christmas party. She’s called Crystal – or is it Charity, Brian?’
Dad shrugs his shoulders. ‘Anyway, it’s one of those footballers’-wives type names. We’ve not met her yet. I can’t imagine what she’ll be like.’
‘I can’twait.’ I smile, relief washing over me. I’d already decided that wereGiles to pinch my bottom or make his usual quips about mile-high club membership this year, he would soon discover the sweet, self-conscious Emily he once knew has changed, and is not to be messed with.
‘He’s harmless. Don’t be so melodramatic,’ Nigel used to say.
Hah. You wouldn’t find Tom Hardy allowing another man to disrespect his woman – nor Francesco Rossi, I’m sure.
‘And whilewe’re on the subject of relationships,’ continues Mum cagily, ‘any word from Nigel?’
‘No, Mum.’ I let out a heavy sigh, eyes boring into the back of Dad’s seat.
‘Such a shame. I really liked Nigel. We both did, didn’t we, Brian?’
I meet Dad’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. He shakes his head wearily, runs his hand through his non-existent hair, and winks at me.
‘I don’t know what’swrong with men these days,’ she ploughs on. ‘But, darling, you know, you’ve got to make the best of yourself. When you were flying you never went out without make-up and you wore such pretty, feminine things. Now you’re always in jeans and your hair makes you look like a man. I used to love it when you swept it up in a chignon: very Grace Kelly. Now, well now, you look like – Joan of Arc’s mother.’
‘I’ve changed, Mum. Designer labels, high heels, and manicures aren’t me any more. I don’t need those things to make me feel good.’
‘I know, poppet, but without a proper job, you need to set about finding a man to look after you. Your father and I won’t be around for ever, and you’re not getting any younger,’ she says in an anguished tone.
‘I don’t need a man to look after me,’ I saythrough gritted teeth, staring out of the window. What is it about being single at Christmas? Everything seems heightened. Here am I sitting in the back of my mum and dad’s car behaving like a sulky teenager, reminded that most people my age are defrosting the family-sized turkey, baking mince pies, icing the fruit cake, and welcoming the kids back from uni.
And as a further reminder, tuckedin my rucksack is my seasonal round-robin letter from my smug American school friend, proudly telling me that she and her husband have just celebrated their twenty-first wedding anniversary with a romantic trip to Cape Cod and are still very much in love, that Brad and Candy got top grades in their exams, Brad has already been offered a job at Citibank, whilst Candy’s taking a year off to do voluntarywork in Honduras. Stapled to it is a photo of the family around the Christmas tree, wearing identical smiles and festive jumpers.
I’m happy for them, truly I am. But that is no longer the life I want. I like being single, so why do I feel the need to justify my choice of lifestyle?
Oh dear, things are not getting off to a very good start.
* * *
The Christmas Party:
‘I’ve putyou in charge of canapés, poppet,’ says Mum, hastily removing her apron, then thrusting two oval, silver platters at me as she trots over to the door. ‘And, Brian, I’m relying on you to keep people’s drinks topped up, and oh, put some party music on – no brass bands or country and western though – some Julio Iglesias would be perfect.’
Before long the champagne corks are popping, crackersare being snapped, and guests are grooving in paper hats to Elvis’s version of ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’.
Back in cabin crew mode, I glide in between the guests.
‘Vol au vent, Lydia?’ I say, tapping Mum’s posh yoga teacher on the shoulder.
‘Emily! So lovely you made it home this year. Your mother told me about Nigel. Men, eh? Always on the lookout for a younger model. But we middle-agedgirls must never give up hope, must we?’ She winks, her overly tanned face stretching into a sympathetic smile. ‘Aah, you must be Chantelle,’ she says, making a beeline for the bleached blonde sporting a cropped top and skirt the size of a Kleenex tissue.
We middle-aged girls?Excuse me! Lydia has to be sixty-five if she’s a day.
