‘Did you get the invite to the hen do? It’s all scheduled in from spa to afternoon tea. I’ve put it in your calendar so you know where you need to be and I’ve ordered you a tracksuit too, in a small. Is that right?’
Mum nods. Tracksuits aren’t really her thing, but she’ll understand when it arrives. ‘Whilst we’re talking calendars, block out the tenth of January for me?’
‘For?’ I ask.
‘That TV production company, we’ve been chatting and it looks like I’m going to be a TV persona. That sex debate thing is set for the tenth.’
My face lights up to hear it. ‘I’m glad you said yes to that. You’ll be really good, you know?’
‘You’ll come, right? Help me practise? Make me sound clever.’
‘I’ll make a spreadsheet.’
She finishes preparing my bagel and brings it over, taking a bite before pushing the plate in front of me. She’s always been nosey, so she sifts through my notes, admiring my mood boards. ‘Are you going to be one of those wedding co-ordinators who wears a headset and barks at people on the day?’ she asks, poring over my Post-it notes.
‘If that’s what it takes,’ I say, though I suspect it may go that way. We may be able to style my hair around an AirPod, though, so it’s less conspicuous.
‘Am I really wearing black at this wedding?’ she asks.
‘You are. I’m in red, like a big tomato. It’s an eclectic vibe of black and white and red and feathers. It’s very cinematic.’
‘I’ll look like a 1940s war widow with my hat.’
‘We’ll class it up with fur and bows, Mum. Pity me, my job will be looking after Dave. I’ll literally be accessorising with leads and poo bags.’
Mum picks up a photo of Sonny and Ruby that they want on the orders of service. It’s posed and I think a wind machine may be involved.
‘Can you believe little Sonny is getting married?’ I say.
‘Yeah, of course. He was always getting married in school, remember? He’d come home and tell us he’d wed some girl in the playground. By the time he left primary, he’d promised himself to least five different girls like some eleven-year-old polygamist.’
I laugh. I was a witness at one of those weddings. They made the rings out of daisies and he kissed her on the lips for all of three seconds. I remember a dinner lady came over and told us marriage was for fools. We later found out her husband had left her, stolen their car and moved to Hull.
‘You never did that,’ Mum adds. ‘You never did that little girl thing of wearing a net curtain on your head and pretending to marry someone. I never knew what you thought about marriage.’
‘That was because the majority of boys in my class either had nits, ringworm or their base level of humour was fart jokes. The idea of marrying any of them was abhorrent to me.’
She titters, glad that I at least had some standards as a child.
‘Can I ask you something, though? You can tell me if it’s none of my business, but the whole thing with Mike… It hasn’t put you off marriage or anything, has it? It’s just you’ve lived here with us for a while now. We love having you here, don’t get us wrong, but we worry that he’s scarred you in some way.’
I stare at my computer, not quite smiling but not quite sad either. He did leave some form of scar, but I can’t quite describe it. It’s not a burn or a graze. It was like he cut my chest open and punched me square in the heart and I’ve spent the last two years wincing, sewing myself up again, healing. One of the reasons I can sit here and plan this wedding so well is that I still had a lot of the spreadsheets on my computer from when I was going to marry Mike. Our favours were going to be personalised sweets and, at the ceremony, Sonny was going to read out an Ogden Nash poem. I had a dress. I wasn’t so sad as to do a Havisham and keep the dress too, but it had laced cap sleeves and buttons all the way down the back. I sold it to someone called Lorraine on eBay, who complained about the shipping costs.
I realise I haven’t spoken for a while and I’m not sure if Mum is actually tearing up. ‘Mum, he was a knobhead. I feel I dodged a bullet there. I loved him, I did, but notice how I use the past tense.’
Knobhead for leaving me the way that he did but also for the reasons he left, ones I don’t want to disclose at this precise moment.
‘I’m a bit fussier, more guarded with who I let into my life, but one day, I may get married.’
She claps her hands excitedly.
Hold up there, madre. Because that feels a long way off, miles away. Not even on the map at the moment. I’m just sexting. No labels. He thinks I’m in catering.
‘Should we maybe get you on some dating websites? I hear that’s how people do things these days? If you ever want the house to yourself, then Dad and I can go out and make ourselves scarce. You could have someone over for dinner. You make a lovely carbonara.’
I put an arm around her. ‘Maybe?’
‘Just as long as I know you’re happy, JoJo. You know that?’
