“Well, hello there,” she said in herposh voice,which always sounded like a combination of a bad impression of Dame Judy Dench merged with a rather good one of Dame Edna Everage.
“Mrs Murphy,” Barclay said in his deep voice, unleashing the full wattage of his white smile on my unsuspecting mother and holding out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Barclay.”
Mum looked a little dazed for a moment. I started to wonder how many of thosespecial browniesshe and Bunty had scoffed down earlier. It had been enough for Bunty to be talked into wearing a matching gypsy skirt. Mum had picked up a two-for-one deal at Camden market, probably due to the fact that they were both see-through and completely indecent. Mum had paired this with bare feet (‘I need tofeelthe grass, love’), a gauzy top involving way too much fabric and a suede-fringed waistcoat. She looked exactly like the crazy, ageing hippy she was, and I realised this was perfect. Mum was a prime example of why Barclay and I would not suit each other.
“Well, hello Barclay Lucas,” Mum breathed after she’d broken out of her daze. “Please, call me Sheena.”
“Sheena, wonderful to meet you,” Barclay said in his deep voice, and instead of shaking his outstretched hand Mum took it in both of hers and grasped it like she was hanging onto him whilst she dangled off a cliff face. After a super weird minute of hand holding, during which my mother studied Barclay from top to toe with her tongue practically hanging out and with Barclay’s lips twitching, she let go and took a large step back. “Don’t mind me,” she told us. “Gorightback to what you’re doing. I’ll go and spank those naughty flautists – they’d probably enjoy that, mind – you two go on with yourselves in here.”
She closed the door behind her, then we heard her retreating footsteps and she shouted: “Bunty! Rita! Where are you? You’llneverguess who I just caught my Ki Ki with. A Tory! Would youbelieveit?”
I turned to Barclay and looked up at his now-smiling face. “Example number one in the long list of why we would not suit each other.”
At that he burst out laughing and pulled me into his chest again to kiss the top of my head. “I like your mum.”
“Does your mother wear fringe?” I asked his now shaking chest.
“Uh, not that I’ve noticed, but what does my mum wearing fringe have to do with why we’re not suited?”
“My mother is asex therapist, Barclay. Did you know that? And not in the conventional psychosexual counselling that you can see on the NHS way, noooo . . . in the dodgy group massage sessions, essential oils and crystal healing type way.Exclusivelyto the over sixties. Do you know what her website’s called?Sex: Emotion in Motion.She’sout there creating all the diseases thatItreat in my clinics. She’s probably single-handedly responsible for the upsurge in chlamydia prevalence in the elderly population of South London.”
Barclay’s mouth fell open just enough for me to see that I’d managed to shock him. He blinked at me, tried to speak a couple of times then shook his head as if to clear it.
“Right, so . . . there you go,” I told him, and for some ridiculous reason my voice was wobbly with holding back tears. “You see my point.”
“Look, I can’t stay away from you. It’s that simple. So, we’ll make it work. Together.” His tone was firm and his arms tightened around me to make his point.
As easy as it would be to melt into him and accept what he was saying, the hurt of his rejection in my kitchen last week was just too fresh. And now . . . now it would be even worse. If I got my hopes up only for him to come to his senses, I knew after last night it would destroy me. And I didn’t need that stress at the moment. Between organising Bunt Fest and another event I had coming up to support Freedom through Education, plus the trouble I was having with Wankpuffin at work, I was feeling a little on the edge. If I added in falling head of heels for my dream crush and waiting for him toliterallycrush me, I might explode. So I wiggled my way free of his arms and slid around him to grab the door handle. He opened his mouth to speak and I put my finger on his lips.
“Just take a moment,” I told him, forcing my voice to be steady. “Think it through. I can’t change who I am and that might not be what you need.” Before he could say anymore, I’d flitted out of the door and down the corridor. Bunt Fest was in full swing now and there was a naughty flautist’s hairy arse to sort out and a folk band to corral onto the stage along with a world-famous singer.
*****
Barclay
“They’re difficult for us to understand,” a soft voice behind me said.
I turned to see Camilla Martakis. She looked nearly as out of place at this bloody festival as me, but at least she wasn’t wearing a suit. It wasn’t that she was the only pregnant woman here (there were plenty of those) but most of them were floating around barefoot in summer dresses. Millie’s white maternity shirt was buttoned almost to her throat and her cream trousers had an actual crease ironed into the front. The only sign that she’d been involved with the festival at all was the small, intricate flower painted on one of her cheekbones. In contrast to the majority of the festival-goers, her make-up was immaculate but subtle and her dark hair was secured in a low ponytail.
She was staring over across the garden, and when I followed her line of vision I could see Camilla’s husband, Pavlos Martakis, with his head and hands trapped in a wooden stocks, and wearing a loud, ridiculous Hawaiian shirt,. Kids were paying a delighted Kira money to throw sponges soaked in neon green slime at his handsome face. I heard Camilla chuckle and turned back to her.
“They’re like leaves in the wind,” she said, still staring at her husband with a slight smile on her face. “Beautiful but . . . unpredictable.”
I got the impression that Camilla didn’t find talking to relative strangers that easy, so I was intrigued by her approach.
“You know, when I first got to know Pav and Kira,” she went on, and I had to shift closer to make out her quiet words, “I assumed they were together. They seemed so close, so playful, so, so similar – uninhibited, free. I thought they were made for each other. But that’s not how it works. Not for them. They don’t need another leaf, or more wind – they need the earth. Something . . . someonecalmer, grounded. Someone they can flit around and always come back to. And we need them too.”
“I . . . Camilla, I –”
“Don’t call me Camilla,” she cut me off which was a shock. The Camilla Morrison I’d met in the past would never have cut someone off mid-sentence. I’d barely heard two words from her before. “I’m Millie. Only my parents ever call me Camilla – well, not now – but then. You know my father. I think you can understand why I don’t have contact with them anymore. So it’s just Millie now.”
“Okay, Millie, I appreciate the feedback. I do. But I don’t think you know me well enough to–”
“I watch, I listen, l take things in. I know the kind of man you are. Duty, stability, responsibility – these are the important things for you. You’re passionate about what you’re doing, but the public face of it doesn’t always sit right because . . . well, you’re shy. Like me.”
“I am not–”
“I can spot a fellow introvert you know. There’s nothing wrong with it. Just like there’s nothing wrong with your values. But remember, you’ve got to letthemfly. They’re not always sure where they’re heading, they’re impulsive and unpredictable, but you can’t stifle them. Just sit back and enjoy the ride and be their ground when they need an anchor.”
