3 January
Laurie
‘I’m so nervous,’ I mutter, straightening the collar of my woollen winter coat as we walk hand in hand along the pavement. I’m wearing a brooch. I know, who does that? Nobody sane under thirty. I’m just desperate to make a good impression. ‘Is this too much?’ I touch the little jewelled daisy and look up at Oscar, who just laughs.
‘You’re being ridiculous. It’s my mother, Laurie, not the queen.’
I can’t help it. Everything seemed far simpler in Thailand; we got to know each other while stripped back to whatever basics we could fit in a backpack. Here amongst the trappings of our usual lives, our differences seem more stark. I’m back to being socially awkward, doubly so today, and Oscar is far more man-about-town than I imagined.
‘Here we are,’ he says, leading me towards a patent-black front door in an elegant sweep of townhouses. ‘Stop fidgeting, you look fine.’
I swallow hard as we wait for the door to be answered, hoping that Oscar’s mother likes the bunch of winter white roses I bought on the way over. God, what if she’s allergic? No, Oscar would have said. I tap my foot, nervy, and then the door opens at last.
Lucille Ogilvy-Black may not be actual royalty, but there is a definite regal air to her straight back and white, perfectly blow-dried hair. She’s dressed all in black, a sharp contrast to the lustrous circlet of pearls round her neck.
‘Mum, this is Laurel,’ he says as he steps out of her hug, his hand on the small of my back to encourage me forward. Afterwards, I realize that I should have read more into the fact that he called me Laurel rather than Laurie.
I put my best foot forward and smile, and she accepts the flowers with a gracious incline of her head. She doesn’t look at all like Oscar, and she certainly exudes none of his natural warmth. I follow them into the immaculate hallway, awkward as we hang our coats. I compliment Lucille on her beautiful home, and then start to worry because that’s my small talk quota used up.
She serves us tea in her formal sitting room, and I can’t help but feel as if I’m being interviewed for a job I don’t stand a chance of getting; as if I’m the Saturday girl going for a managerial role.
‘What does your father do, Laurel?’
‘He retired recently,’ I say, not wishing to go into his health woes. ‘He owned a cleaning company; my brother, Daryl, runs it now.’ I can’t be sure, but I think Lucille just flinched. ‘Mum works there too, she keeps the books.’
The expression on Oscar’s mother’s face is crystal clear; she thinks we’re a bunch of Brummie cleaners. I reach for my pendant, following the outline of the purple stone with my fingertip for reassurance. My mum and dad started their company more than twenty-five years ago and employ more than fifty people now, but I don’t feel like justifying my family. The more Lucille Ogilvy-Black looks down her nose at me, the less inclined I become to impress her.
She excuses herself from the room momentarily; I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone to hide the good silver in case I slip it in my handbag. The lid of the grand piano in the bay window is covered with photographs, and I can’t help but notice (probably because it’s been pulled to the front) the large photograph of Oscar and a blonde; they’re dressed in ski gear, suntanned and laughing into the camera. I see it for what it is: a gauntlet being silently thrown down by Oscar’s mother.
We talked about his family when we were in Thailand, one of our many late-night shack conversations. As a consequence, I probably know a lot more than Lucille would like to think I do.
I know Oscar’s father was a bounder; work-shy and handy with his fists towards his wealthy wife every now and then behind closed doors. My heart broke a little when Oscar told me how much he’s tried to protect his mum and how close they’ve been in the years since his parents separated; he was around a lot more than his older brother and as a result he and his mum are incredibly tight-knit. I was, and am, impressed with him for being his mother’s rock, and I naively expected her to be warm and, well, motherly. I thought she’d be glad to see Oscar with someone who makes him happy, but if anything she seems hostile to my intrusion. Perhaps she’ll warm to me.