Chapter Thirty
The following morning, Mum wakes me with a cup of tea and a slice of toast, thick with butter. I groan, covering my eyes with my arm. We drank a lot of wine last night. A lot.
‘I need to go into work,’ Mum says, perched on the edge of my bed. ‘Come with me? Matt’s going to see Kevin.’
Kevin was his best mate at school and is now deputy head of the same school. I had a crush on him all through school, but haven’t stalked him on Facebook for ages now.
‘How are you so perky?’ I ask Mum. ‘My head is killing me.’
‘Drank a pint of water before bed,’ she says. ‘And I’ve just had about four espressos. We need to go before I start stripping the walls or dismantling the furniture.’
‘Ugh.’ I drag myself to sitting and force my eyes open.
Not only is she perky, she looks amazing. Her long dark hair is thick and shiny and her eyes are bright. I don’t think she’s wearing eye make-up behind her glasses, but her eyebrows are done and her lips shine with bright red gloss. Sickening.
‘I’ll give you fifteen to come round, then you have to get in the shower. I’ll have another brew waiting for you downstairs. Do you want an espresso? Tom—’ She stops, closes her eyes and shakes her head. ‘Tom made me buy one of those coffee machines. With the pods. It’s actually very good.’
I reach over and squeeze her hand. She’s still wearing all her rings: engagement, wedding, eternity.
‘I’ll be down in a bit, OK?’
She leans over and kisses me on the forehead, then wipes any trace of lipstick away with her thumb. She smells the same as she has for as long as I can remember: Estée Lauder Youth Dew. When I first moved to London, I used to sometimes go into department stores and spray a bit on my wrist. It doesn’t suit me at all, but I loved feeling like she was there with me.
Once she’s gone, I swing my legs out of bed and stretch my neck from side to side, listening to it crack and pop. I stand up, tentatively, and then sit down again. I think I’d better drink my tea first. I drink it while I scroll through my phone. There are a few WhatsApp messages from Freya and Henry, checking in with me, saying they hope everything’s OK, and one from Celine saying
Worried I might puke up a lung. When you come home can you smother me with a pillow?
Once I’ve finished my tea, I stagger from the bed to the bathroom and the shower does actually make me feel a lot better. At least hangover-wise. There are so many reminders of Tom everywhere that it’s impossible to not think about him for long. His shaving cream is still on the window ledge; his and Mum’s wedding photo is framed on the landing. I stare at it for a while – they both look so happy. We were so happy. Was he stealing and lying even back then?
Mum’s shop is inside a Victorian arcade off the main street. It’s beautiful: black and white tile floor, polished wood fittings and benches and a glass roof. It’s quiet at this time of the day, but classical music is playing, and it feels like an oasis of calm.
Mum unlocks the shop and I follow her in. When I lived here, this shop was a high end jeweller’s and I never went inside, only glanced through the window, and it’s completely different now. Each side of the shop is lined with clothing. Too much to take in straight away – all I’m aware of is velvet and lace and sequins and so much colour. There are carousels of more clothes down the centre of the shop and chandeliers overhead, that Mum switches on from just inside the door. They’re not too bright; they infuse the shop with a warm glow.
‘Tea?’ Mum says, half-turning to me.
I’m still looking around, my mouth hanging open.
‘This is so beautiful,’ I say.
She beams at me over her shoulder. ‘Isn’t it? I love it. Lucy’s off today, which is a shame. I wanted her to meet you. I’ve told her all about you.’
Lucy is the owner. She and Mum used to work together years ago and have always kept in touch.
‘She bought this place after her divorce.’
I follow Mum towards the back of the shop.
‘I guess I need to talk to her now. She can give me even more advice than she has already.’
‘So you’re definitely doing… that?’ I ask, stopping with my hands on the polished wooden desk.
Mum turns and her face has fallen.
‘I’m sorry, darling. That was glib.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s OK.’ I know that she always makes light of the things that hurt her the most. She always has.
‘I’ll make us tea and then we can talk,’ she says, walking further into the back of the shop. ‘Have a look around.’
While Mum makes tea, I weave between the carousels, just touching fabrics and trying to take everything in. There’s a flowered yellow tea dress that I immediately picture myself wearing with my brown suede boots and denim jacket. I spot a rail of bags and nip straight over to look at a beaded shell clutch. I open it and run my fingers over the satin lining. Everything in here is beautiful. In fact, the whole shop is so beautiful it doesn’t even seem real. It’s like something from a film. It feels like a place where magical things will happen. Like someone could step into the changing room and come out a completely different person.
‘I know it’s hard to take in,’ Mum says, once she’s made the tea and we’re sitting on a curvy velvet sofa at the back of the shop. ‘But this level of… betrayal…’ She shakes her head. ‘I could never trust him again.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I mean, I understand that.’
‘I love him.’ Her eyes fill and she shakes her head. ‘I probably always will. But there’s no way I could ever get over this. And he knows. He understands. I think.’
I realise I’m fiddling with a loose thread on the arm of the sofa and make myself stop – I don’t want to unravel the whole thing.
‘Did he say why he did it? Like… was he in trouble? To begin with?’ This is the one thing I’ve been consoling myself with, that maybe he was forced into it somehow, that he didn’t choose it.
Mum sighs. ‘I think originally he did actually take some to pay an unexpected bill. His divorce from Janine. I think. But that’s absolutely no reason to keep doing it. I think he kept doing it because it was easy. And he didn’t get caught. He said he always intended to pay it back and it just got away from him, but frankly that’s absolute bollocks.’ She drinks some tea. ‘He did it because he could.’
A customer comes in and Mum goes off to help them, while I finish my tea and think about Tom. He was always, for me, the perfect example of what a man could and should be. He was warm and funny and generous. He supported and cared for Mum and me and Matt, pretty much from the moment we met him. And while I don’t believe his love for her or for us was a lie, it blows my mind that he could be so great in so many ways, but at the same time let us all down so badly in so many others. Particularly Mum. I worry that if it was me I would accept his apology. I would forgive him. Like I forgave Anthony so many times when he didn’t treat me well at all. Like I accepted that Dan’s ‘test’ was a reasonable thing for him to do. Mum is stronger than me. She always has been, she’s had to be. But that’s no reason for me to accept being treated badly.
‘Tell me about Dan,’ Mum says, once she’s finished with the customer and is sitting next to me again.
I shake my head. ‘I was just thinking about him.’
‘Oh,’ she says, dipping her head to look at my face. ‘That’s not a happy face.’
And I start to cry.
I tell her everything. I tell her about the dream, that it’s the reason I moved to London, the reason I live where I live. I tell her about meeting him in the park. I tell her about how the dreams have changed since I met him. I tell her about Anthony and how he treated me like shit. I tell her about the party and Dan’s test. And I tell her that all this time I’ve wanted what she and Tom had and now I don’t know what to do. By the time I’m finished, we’re both a snotty mess and it’s lucky that part-way through the conversation she turned the sign on the door to ‘closed’.
‘My love,’ she says, once she’s made us another cup of tea and we’ve dried our tears and blown our noses. ‘I don’t know where you got the idea that you are not entirely perfect as you are. I hope it wasn’t from me.’
I shake my head. ‘No. You’ve always been—’
She holds her hand up to stop me. ‘I think, I hope, our house was always full of love.’
‘It was,’ I say. ‘It still is.’
‘And we always loved you no matter what. Tom too. Don’t forget that. As angry as I am with him, as much as our marriage is over, he’ll always be in my life and he should always be in yours too.’
I nod. I have been thinking about that. I’m not ready to see him yet, but I will be one day. I hope.
‘I understand why the dream was important to you,’ she says, reaching for my hand. ‘That feeling of warmth, of security, of being wholly loved…’ She shakes her head. ‘I get it. But it sounds like you’ve used the dream to kind of insulate you against a real relationship. Because real relationships are hard and messy and often disappointing. And sometimes they end. And that has to be OK. Because if you’re avoiding all of that, you don’t have a real relationship.’
I’m crying again. I squeeze her fingers so she knows I get it.
‘Dan sounds great. Although I’m not keen on the “test” business. But he’s not the one for you. You know that. And maybe there is no “one” for you. Maybe you’re the one for you.’ She lifts my chin with her index finger. ‘You know that, right?’
I’m working on it.
‘Look at this,’ Mum says later, after she’s reopened the shop, and we’ve had quite a few customers. I’ve watched Mum with them and she’s amazing. She seems to know what they want and exactly what will work for them within just a few seconds. I’ve been in awe, watching her.
Right now she’s holding out an absolutely glorious dress. It’s just a simple shift shape, but it’s beaded and sequinned all over. It’s silver and the top has a scalloped pattern, while the bottom half has grey stripes crossing over and edged with what look like pearls.
‘Gorgeous,’ I say, reaching out to run my fingers over the fabric.
‘Try it on,’ she says.
I shake my head. ‘I’d never wear it.’
‘You don’t know,’ she says. ‘Just try it on. I think it’ll look beautiful on you.’
The changing room is behind a thick velvet curtain and is as glamorous as the rest of the shop, with a huge mirror with a wide gold frame, fairy lights, another chandelier and a velvet covered curvy chair. I pull off my leggings and hoodie and fold them on the chair, then I take the dress off the hanger.
It’s surprisingly heavy and feels cool to the touch. I drop it over my head and it shimmers itself down my body. And then I stare at myself in the mirror. It looks amazing. I think. It’s a perfect fit and looks like it’s made for me. It makes my skin look better, my eyes brighter, my hair thicker. It’s a magic dress. I want to take a photo on my phone and send it to everyone I know. I turn around to look at the back and then I do take a photo and I send it to Freya.
‘Have you got it on?’ Mum says from the other side of the curtain. Let’s see.’
I pull back the curtain.
‘Oh!’ Mum says, clasping her hands under her chin and beaming at me. ‘Right. Well.’ She clears her throat and I can see her eyes are shining with tears. My eyes immediately fill too. ‘So you’re definitely having that,’ she says.
I’ve been in bed for what feels like hours, but I’m still not asleep. I’ve tried reading, watching my favourite bit of You’ve Got Mail (‘I hoped it was you’) on my phone, even a few of my favourite daydreams (fantasies, I think I should call them now. Fantasies), but I still feel wide awake. One of the things that bugs me in a lot of the romance novels I read is that the main character has no agency. Things just happen to her and she lets them. She doesn’t do anything to change them. Her father throws her out of the house and she doesn’t argue, she leaves, and then she meets someone, often a woman her own age, but with a much stronger personality, and lives with them until she meets the man. The one. And he saves her. And I love that. I do. But sometimes I wish these women would just save themselves. Or save the man even. Men must need saving sometimes, I’m sure they must.
But I’ve been doing the same thing. Yes, I chose to leave home, but I picked a place to live based on a dream. A dream! Mum’s right. That’s ridiculous. I guess I could argue that I am responsible for the dream because I dreamt it. It was my dream. It came from my subconscious. But. But I wouldn’t be going out with Dan if it wasn’t for the dream. We don’t have anything in common. I don’t even really fancy him. I don’t feel anything when he kisses me. I really don’t. So what am I doing? Am I just going to keep going out with him because I dreamt about it? Or am I going to actually think about what I want and go after that?
I need to end things with Dan. I know I do. I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never had a break-up, since Anthony just disappeared, but I’m sure Freya will tell me. And she’ll be delighted.
I roll over, punching my pillow. I don’t know what I want. But I know it’s not Dan. But if I don’t have the dream, if I don’t have that hope that everything will be OK, that there is someone for me and I just have to find them, then I don’t know where to start. Does that mean I should stop trying to find someone who makes me feel the way the dream makes me feel? Or does it mean he’s still out there, he’s just not Dan? If Dan isn’t the man of my dreams, does that mean the dream wasn’t real? If Tom can screw Mum over does that mean there’s no such thing as a dream relationship? No such thing as The One?
But I can’t let myself believe that. I’ve wanted it for so long. Ten years. I planned my life around it. If I don’t have that, what do I have?