‘I was going to ask you to come shopping with me,’ she says as she tips the eggy mix into the pan. ‘But it looks like you need your rest, so I’ll have to either force your dad or go alone.’
‘I could go,’ I wince, folding under her gentle manipulation.
‘No, you couldn’t. You’re eating this and going back to bed. And put a jumper on– you’ll catch a cold.’
She presents me with a wooden tray. On it lies the omelette, a glass of water, a pack of painkillers and three plain cream crackers, all organised neatly in their own little sections. The smell of egg wafts around the kitchen and under my nose, irritating the very little contents left in my stomach. I don’t dare say anything– not after she’s gone and cooked it for me. She’dkill me before the hangover gets its chance and I can assure you it’d be a far more gruesome death.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘For what?’
I don’t know why I’m apologising either, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I should probably be in trouble. Being like this on a Saturday– or any day, for that matter– is so deeply unlike me. And to be like this in front of my parents of all people is practically unheard of, even in my younger days.
‘Getting drunk?’ I say.
‘Honey, you’re an adult,’ she says plainly. ‘And frankly, it’s quite nice to see you actually out hitting the town.’
‘I go out.’
She chortles. It’s loud, fast and sharp. Far kinder than the ones from the office, but somehow hurts just the same. She catches my sunken eyes.
‘Aw, baby, I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just nice to see you relax, that’s all.’ Her voice is gentle, but it’s still not enough.
‘Mum. . . Do you think I’m boring?’
It’s been on my mind since Monday and it won’t leave no matter how much I try to shake it. Who better to ask? She’s known me literally all my life and she certainly won’t shy away from being honest.
She stops her tidying, turning back to face me with a look of shock and disgust on her face.
‘Of course I don’t think you’re boring. Why would I think you’reboring?’ she says, offended at the mere idea.
‘It’s fine. I was just wondering,’ I mutter, sweeping it back under the rug.
I can’t get into it with her. Not while she’s prepared to go full mama bear. She shuffles over and wraps me in her arms, my head resting against her stomach as she gently rubs the back of my head soothingly.
‘Did someone call you boring?’ she asks.
I snuggle into her closer as she squeezes me tighter, with the silent promise that she won’t let go.
I think back to Gus and to Pippa, to Aiden and my seven notebooks, to all the looks and the laughs and the eye rolls between them. I run through conversations like scripts in the back of my head.Predictable,responsible,too many notebooks, but never boring.Icame up with boring and stuck with it– kept pushing the agenda until there was no other word I could describe myself with.
Do I think I’m boring?
I sink further into her embrace, shut my eyes and try to shake off the last of my headache. It’s no use. It stays with me, pounding violently against my skull all the way through to Monday morning. I try to keep it easy, plugging my headphones in the second I get to my desk and slowly making my way through Evie’s latest batch of weekend emails over a cup of tea. But Pippa won’t stand for it. Her voice cuts through my lo-fi playlist, bright and bitchy, twenty minutes into the workday.
‘Is there a reason your calendar’s blocked out today from ten a.m. till five p.m.?’
Of course there is, and she’d know that if she’d bothered reading the email I sent her last week when I blocked the day out.
‘Evie emailed– she needs me offsite today. I’ve swapped my Wednesday Summer Splash focus day for today to make up for it.’
‘Oh. Anywhere exciting?’
‘I don’t know. She’s kept it very hush hush.’
And I hope, for my head’s sake, that wherever I’m going is just as hushed.
‘Oh, yeah, how was Friday? What did you think of the Lounge?’ Gus asks.
