I am one of those people who is almost always late. I try my hardest, I really do, but I’ll probably always be the kind of girl yanking up a stocking as she hops down the stairs, slapping on her lippy in the car as she reaches into the deepest depths of her brain for an excuse that will be more believable than the last.
I’m late to meet my mum today – hopefully, if I tell her I’ve been working, that will be a good enough explanation, but she’s always had a real bee in her bonnet about my lateness. If I am here for a ticking off, I can’t think of anything worse than being late.
Dashing in through the doors of Sally’s Tearoom, one of my mother’s favourite haunts, I scan the room for her angry face. But instead of seeing my mother sitting there, tapping her watch, I am greeted by three moody faces: my mum, my auntie and my gran – the three witches. Legend has it that if they summon you, and you stand before all three of them at the same time, you will be for ever cursed.
When I said I couldn’t think of anything worse than being late for my mum today I was wrong. Being late for my mum, my gran and my auntie is the worst thing.
‘Hello,’ I say breathlessly as I approach the table. ‘How goes it?’
‘You’re late,’ the three of them snap, in perfect harmony.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ I point out. ‘You know what trains are like. Actually, you don’t. I forget you’re all middle-class housewives who have your husbands drive you around.’
Oops, that one didn’t go down well. It’s true, though. They’re currently all full-time homemakers and very much of the opinion that a woman’s place is at home, taking care of her husband and kids. It makes me wonder if my sister will do the same when she has her baby.
‘We’ve ordered afternoon tea,’ my mum informs me. ‘And I just have a few things to go over with you.’
My mum pulls out a piece of paper from her handbag. Oh wow, when I guessed she’d have a list for me, I didn’t realise it was going to be a literal list.
We make small talk in the cute little café until the food arrives, my mum obviously figuring she should wait until I’ve got something sweet to help all the crap she’s about to give me go down. The food, which does look delicious, is served on a variety of different plates, in different shapes and sizes, with different patterns.
It takes the waitress several trips to lay out finger sandwiches, scones, cakes and pots of tea.
My mum, auntie and gran load up their dainty little tea plates with sandwiches. I’m still pretty full from brunch, though, and even if I weren’t, I didn’t exactly have a healthy breakfast this morning – or a healthy evening last night, what with all the free food and alcohol. Maintaining a healthy weight is all about moderation and compromise; it’s fine to have a blowout every now and then, like I did over the past 24 hours, but you have to make up for it another time.
‘Eat, Mia, eat,’ my gran insists.
I smile, pouring myself a cup of tea, but my gran keeps her eyes on me.
‘I’m so full from brunch,’ I tell her. ‘I ate so much.’
My gran purses her lips.
‘You’re looking very thin, Mia,’ she says.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, even though I know it wasn’t intended as a compliment.
‘Do you have a problem again?’ my auntie asks.
‘Did I have a problem before?’ I laugh.
As far as I know, the only problem I had before, that I still have, is this lot on my case.
‘Ladies, I am perfectly healthy. I don’t have a problem. If you want me to eat a cake for the sake of it, I will eat a damn cake,’ I laugh, half-amused, half-irritated.
I take a fruit tart from the centre of the table and stab a strawberry from the top.
‘Mmm,’ I moan theatrically. ‘Delicious.’
My mum glares at me as she stirs her tea. I must be showing her up again.
‘OK, Mia, first order of business: Christmas,’ my mum starts.
Oh God, I know we’re days away from December, but I think I’d blocked out all thoughts of Christmas. I loved my Christmas Days in LA, because I didn’t really realise it was Christmas. It was just like having a really chilled day off work. Now I’m back home, Christmas is a family affair again. With most of Leo’s family living in Italy, he and his mum have celebrated with us the last few years, so I don’t even have an escape there.
‘So, first of all, the family Christmas party—’
‘Oh God,’ I moan, sounding more like a teenager than a thirty-something. ‘I might be working this year.’
‘If you loved me, you’d make sure you could be there,’ she replies.
‘Well…’ I say, implying I could take or leave her, just like I could take or leave the party. My mum isn’t amused. ‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I’ll be there.’
Every year we have a big Christmas party for all our family and friends. It’s a nice idea, I suppose, but not really my sort of thing. I hate these forced-fun family events my lot throw because they think they’re supposed to.
‘Next,’ I say, as I continue to pick at my tart. It’s delicious, so it’s not exactly a hardship.
‘Christmas Day,’ my mum continues, as instructed. ‘We’re thinking a big, family Christmas dinner, with everyone there. I’ll keep you posted on the details as I assume you’ll be attending.’
‘Consider this miserable look on my face my RSVP,’ I joke.
‘Next,’ my mum carries on, ignoring my hilarious comment.
‘Next?’ I ask. ‘We’re not pencilling in Easter already, are we?’
‘Next, your wedding,’ my mum continues.
‘That’s after Easter,’ I point out, suddenly uncomfortable and lacking in witty remarks.
‘Is it?’ my mum asks. ‘Because you haven’t made a single arrangement. Are you even trying?’
‘I am trying,’ I insist.
‘How do you think this is making Leo feel?’ my gran asks.
‘He knows I’m busy,’ I tell them, not that it’s any of their business.
‘So this is all because you don’t have the time?’ my mum asks.
‘Yes!’ I squeak. ‘I love Leo, and I said yes, didn’t I?’
‘OK,’ my mum says softly. ‘But you forget that we remember the old Mia, the one who told us she’d never get married. The one who insisted we spend your wedding fund on Belle’s wedding because you’d never need it.’
That definitely didn’t happen – me insisting, I mean. They definitely spent my half of the wedding fund on Belle’s wedding.
‘But if you really are just too busy, I have a solution for you. And a present,’ my mum says brightly.
‘Oh?’
Why don’t I like the sound of this?
‘Do you remember Mrs Turner?’ my mum asks. Oh God, it’s like Groundhog Day.
‘Yes,’ I say, getting the answer right this time. ‘Purple hair, lived near gran and grandad, her husband used to go around picking up literal shit from the floor.’
That’s about as much as I remember.
My mother winces at my language.
‘Well her daughter, Deborah…’ Oh God, yes, I remember now. Deborah the wedding planner. ‘…She’s a wedding planner, so I’ve hired her to help you sort this wedding business out.’
‘Honestly, I don’t need a wedding planner,’ I insist.
‘Well, I’ve already paid her and given her your number, so she’ll be in touch. Don’t throw kindness in my face, Mia.’
I’d much rather throw this jug of milk, the way I’m feeling right now.
I exhale and recompose myself.
‘You’re quiet today,’ I say to Auntie June. ‘Silent, in fact.’
My auntie pushes her plate away from her in some kind of strop. Why do I get the feeling I’ve upset her without realising it?
‘I can’t even look at you, Mia. Not after what you’ve done,’ she says.
I mean, I could have done any number of things to make her this angry. This could be because I said shit three minutes ago, or because I keep taking the Lord’s name in vain, or it could just be because I’m breathing.
‘Fine, I’ll bite. What have I done?’ I ask.
‘Last night we had a family dinner,’ she starts.
‘Oh, what did you make?’ my gran asks.
‘Chicken chasseur, in the slow cooker,’ she replies. ‘And an apple tart for dessert – Steve loves a tart.’
I open my mouth to make the obvious joke but my mum stops me.
‘Mia,’ she snaps.
‘We had a lovely dinner and after we all gathered in the family room to watch a film. I sat my sweet little Angel on my lap and stroked her hair as we watched. Hannah had taken her for an interesting haircut the day before. She’d got this big fringe that just looked out of place on a child, and Hannah couldn’t for the life of her remember where she’d taken her for it.’
Crap. I know where this is going.
‘So I brushed it from her eyes, so she could see, and underneath I found the remnants of her previous fringe – chopped off. And do you know where little Angel says she got this new haircut? Mia’s house.’
‘What?’ my mum says as my gran gasps dramatically. It’s so like June, to drop a story like this in front of everyone for maximum effect.
‘She found some scissors, she cut her hair, I helped fix it. No harm done,’ I reason.
‘Mia, you shouldn’t have scissors just lying around when you’re babysitting,’ my mum points out.
‘I’m sorry, I thought they were on a higher shelf, with my bong,’ I joke. ‘And it was kind of a last-minute thing, so Hannah could go… out.’
I don’t mention that she had a date, just in case she’s not telling her mum.
‘And I think she looks adorable with her fringe,’ I insist. She does, she looks cute as hell.
‘God help the children you have,’ my auntie says. ‘Assuming you can.’
Not quite sure what she’s getting at there – whether she’s suggesting I might not be able to bring myself to do it or assuming I won’t be able to get my organs to work after years of loose nights out. I’d roll my eyes if the ladies weren’t all staring at me.
‘Well, my hairdresser thought I was pregnant the other day, so she has faith in me,’ I laugh.
‘What?’ my mum asks.
‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘In joke.’
‘Don’t make any of your weird jokes to Deborah, please,’ my mum insists. ‘And no mention of her dad picking up dog mess.’
‘It was literally at the top of my list of things to discuss with her,’ I say sarcastically. ‘But OK. Am I OK to get going now?’
‘Certainly,’ my mum replies. ‘Are you spending the night with your fiancé tonight?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, and I can’t wait. Get me out of here.