A week after the fight, when only yellow bruises and unhealed ribs remain, we go to Jake’s mother’s house for lunch. She lives in a cottage with a charming English garden. English gardens are always best in spring but hers still looks good. There are hanging baskets of purple petunias by her front door. The door opens before we can knock and a surprisingly small woman, perhaps five feet three inches, with extraordinarily bright green eyes, smiles at us.

She kisses her son warmly on both his cheeks and formally extends her hand toward me. I am relieved by this show of formality. Her hands are small but strong—a gardener’s hands. Jake introduces us.

‘Nice to meet you, Lily,’ she says. Her voice is soft but her accent is more pronounced than her son’s.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mara,’ I reply.

She withdraws her hand rather quickly and clasps it along with the other close to her chest.

‘You better come in,’ she says, and leads us into her living room. It is exactly as I expected it to be. As clean as two new pins with net curtains, family photos galore, and dainty china figurines on the windowsill.

‘Take a seat,’ she invites, and hovering uncertainly at the door asks if we would like something to drink.

‘No, you sit down and I’ll fix us all a drink. What will you have, Mother?’

I take the sofa and she perches on the end of a velour-covered Queen Anne chair. ‘I’ll have a sherry,’ she says. I notice that her hands are tightly clenched in her lap.

‘Lily?’ Jake looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having then.’

Jake walks to the carved armoire and opens it. One shelf holds an impressive selection of alcohol.

‘So how did the two of you meet?’ Mara probes.

I return my gaze to her. She is smiling politely, but her eyes are sharp. ‘Shane introduced us,’ I reply.

She frowns. ‘Shane?’

‘Yes, I was working as a dancer at Eden.’

‘Dancer?’

Ah! Malice disguised as moral outrage. She just about stopped herself from crossing herself.

‘She was,’ Jake interrupts smoothly. ‘She doesn’t dance anymore.’

His mother turns to him. There is a puzzled, curious expression on her face. ‘Oh!’

‘Now she works for me.’

‘Really?’ she says softly, taking her glass of sherry from her son.

I have the urge to down the entire contents of my glass, but I don’t. Instead I hold the glass in my hand and endure fifteen minutes of interrogation disguised as polite chat.

Finally, his mother stands. ‘Please excuse me. I think lunch might be ready.’ She disappears into the kitchen and I feel the tenseness in my shoulders go.

‘I think she likes you,’ Jake whispers.

‘I think she doesn’t,’ I whisper back.

‘I think she’ll come around,’ he consoles, and kisses me on the nose.

For some weird reason, his words touch me. I look into his eyes and he looks back and we are both so lost in each other’s gaze that we don’t hear his mother come back into the room.

She clears her throat and both of us turn to look at her. Her face is white and she seems shocked by something.

Even Jake notices. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ he asks, standing up and going to her. He puts his arm around her narrow shoulders, making her appear smaller and quite fragile.

She shakes her head and smiles weakly. ‘Someone walking over my grave.’

I stand, too, but I am conscious that she doesn’t want me near her. The truth is that she can barely bring herself to look at me.

‘Come on, lunch is ready,’ she says briskly.

‘Would you like some help?’ I ask, knowing what the answer will be.

‘Absolutely not. Everything is done.’

So Jake and I take our seats at a dark wood dining table. The room faces her beautiful back garden full of flowers and fruit trees. His mother then disappears from the room and returns with a trolley.

‘Be careful, the plates are hot,’ she warns, setting our plates of a lamb chop, peas, carrots and potatoes in front of us. She places a basket of bread rolls and a gravy boat in the middle of the table and sits herself.

‘May it do you good,’ she says.

‘May we all be together at the same time next year,’ Jake says.

An expression of alarm crosses her face.

‘Bon appétit,’ I say.

Jake picks up his knife and fork.

His mother turns toward me. There is something in her eyes. For a second I think it is envy, the normal envy a mother feels for her son’s chosen mate, and then I realize it is not envy. It is fear. She finds me terrifying. I am still staring at her in shock when her eyes slide away. She busies herself with tearing at a piece of bread, which she then lays down on the plate.

I turn to look at Jake. He has missed it all. He is cutting into a piece of meat. He catches my eyes as he carries it to his lips.

‘What?’ he asks

‘Nothing.’

I look down at my plate. She wants to rub me out. Like a pencil mark that has been made in error. She cannot know who or what I really am, but some instinct is driving her. Telling her I am not to be trusted. Not to be taken into her family.

The meal is a disaster. Both his mother and I hardly eat. As soon as Jake puts his knife and fork down, his mother turns to him. ‘I need more ice. Will you get a bag from the freezer, Jake?’

‘Sure.’ Jake gets up and makes for the kitchen.

‘Can you get it from the big freezer in the shed?’ she says.

‘Would you also like me to walk back very slowly?’ he asks with a grin.

‘That would be nice,’ his mother replies, but there is no mischief in her voice. Only worry and trepidation.

As soon as the door closes she says, ‘I’ve always preferred sketches to paintings. Paintings are closed, finished things that hide layers of lies. Sketches are the bones of what will be. They are more honest. They haven’t learned to lie. What do you prefer?’

‘If we are truly talking about sketches and paintings, then I prefer paintings. I know the finished product is a series of accidents, but I appreciate that the grand design of life allows accidents to become beautiful.’

She frowns. ‘I want to have grandchildren. I want them to think of me as the old woman who wears shawls and silly hats and reads tea leaves. Are you the woman to give me that?’

I swallow. ‘Look, Jake and I have just met. It’s too early. It’s not on the cards.’

‘What do you want from my son, then?’

I shift uncomfortably. ‘Did you ask this of all women he brought home?’

‘He has never brought a woman home before.’

My mouth drops open.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘I don’t want anything from your son. We’re just in a relationship.’

‘Liar,’ she says very softly.

‘What did you just call me?’

‘You heard. You are a dangerously manipulative woman, Miss Hart. And I am here to tell you that I will never allow you to break this family, or my son for that matter.’