‘Are you coming to the studio with me today?’ he asks. ‘We can talk on the way and between takes.’
‘I can’t today, unfortunately. I’ve got to go and see my mum.’
‘How old are you?’ he laughs, suddenly a little more like his charming, easy-going self.
‘If you met my mum, you’d change you mind.’
‘So take me with you,’ he says, straight-faced.
‘Some other time,’ I laugh, unsure if that was a joke or not.
Dylan grabs his napkin and wipes his mouth.
‘OK, well, come over to mine tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ I reply. ‘Thank you for last night – and for breakfast.’
‘Never heard a woman say that to me before,’ he laughs. ‘They don’t usually get breakfast.’
I laugh as I stand up.
‘See you tomorrow.’
I slip on my coat, grab my bag and head for the door. I’ve got an afternoon tea date with my mum, back in Canterbury, so I’d better get a move on. My mum and I don’t really have the kind of relationship where we socialise, which makes me think she has summoned me for a talking to about something or other. Usually when she calls upon me she has a list of things we need to address. But after that I get to go home and spend an evening with my wonderful fiancé, and I can’t wait.
Chapter Twenty-One
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.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m never really sure at which point in our relationship I moved in with Leo. I’d be tempted to say it happened gradually, but on the other hand, it sort of happened all at once.
I think my family were excited when I told them I was moving back to the UK, but I think they thought that, along with coming back, I’d be going back to how life was before I left home, just silently going with the flow, happily invisible. So they found me a flat – a small one above a chippy – and committed me to six months rent. In LA I rented a place in the Hollywood Hills – a bachelor pad, previously rented by a movie star. Inside, the flat was amazing, but the view outside was even better. It was so modern, so stylish and so hi-tech.
On the day I moved into my tiny flat, Leo came to help me get set up and the look on his face when he stepped inside is one I will never forget. This was a man who hadn’t seen where I lived previously, and even he thought the new place was awful. It turned out that one of my dad’s friends was looking to rent the place out while he was away, and by telling him I’d take it, my dad thought he was doing us both a favour. He had described the place to my dad as ‘Tardis-like’ – a euphemism I wasn’t quite nerdy enough to understand. My dad assured me that his friend said the place had ‘star quality’ – what he didn’t mention was that it was one-star quality. Its ‘star quality’ appeared to have exploded, leaving me living in a black hole.
I know I was used to the finer things in life, but it wasn’t vital that I lived somewhere where I could match the lighting to my mood… but just somewhere a little bit more modern, with a little bit more space, and maybe I would have had a chance at being happy there. My flat wasn’t like a Tardis, it was like a weird little time machine that gave me a glimpse of what life was like 30 years ago every time I stepped inside. The rooms were all furnished with garishly patterned seventies artefacts and had an unidentifiable (but most definitely unpleasant) smell that no amount of air freshener or burning scented candles could mask. The only time I’d get any relief (for lack of a better term) from the weird pong came each evening, when the smell of greasy chips would drift in through the tiny windows, making my furniture, my clothes and my hair smell like fried food. Every time I left the flat, when I would go back I could feel myself becoming more accepting of the smell. It’s not that it was getting any less strong, just that I was adapting to it, and it made me die a little inside whenever I realised this.
I could tell, on that first day I moved in, that Leo didn’t want to leave me there, but this was four years ago, when the idea of a committed relationship was a new one to me, and I think he knew better than to suggest I stay with him instead. So we started dating, just casually, seeing how things went, and when things were clearly going well I started staying over at his every now and then. We’d go out on a date or stay in his flat and watch a movie, I’d sleep over and then the next day I’d leave at the same time as Leo left for work. I remember waking up one morning to see him getting ready for work. It was cold and dark and I could hear the rain battering the ground outside – the last thing I wanted was to get up and go back to my own cold, tiny flat. I went to get up but Leo stopped me, tucking me back into his bed with a kiss on the forehead.
‘Don’t get up,’ he told me. ‘Stay for as long as you like.’
I never left.
Tonight I’m cuddled up on the sofa with Leo, watching a movie. It’s nice to spend time with him because, between our two jobs, it’s getting harder and harder to make time for each other. Things were certainly easier when we planned our lives around his job. Still, as soon as I’m done with Dylan, I’ll just be writing at home again and we can go back to how things were. It will be easy for our day-to-day life, but I’ve got to admit, I’ll miss having something that gets me out of the house. On a quiet day, when I’m just home alone working, Leo i
s often the only person I’ll see.
‘I’ve missed you,’ I tell him.
Leo gives me a squeeze.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ he replies. ‘Oh, I was thinking about the wedding today.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Amy at work is getting married in a few months and she was talking about how much trouble she’s having finding dahlias for a January wedding.’
‘Oh really?’ I reply.
‘Yeah. Dahlias are flowers,’ he tells me, realising I have no idea what a dahlia is. ‘They’re her favourite flower but they’re out of season at that time. Anyway, I realised I don’t know what your favourite flower is…’
‘Hmm,’ I reply.
‘Are you mad at me?’ he asks, unsure how to take my response.
‘No, of course not,’ I tell him. ‘I just didn’t realise I was supposed to have a favourite flower.’
‘You’re not supposed to,’ he laughs. ‘What did you have in mind for the wedding flowers?’
Flowers hadn’t really crossed my mind. They seem like kind of a waste of money – what, £500? £1,000? On something that will be dead in a day or two. I could happily give the flowers a miss – are you allowed to do that?
‘I’m not sure yet,’ I tell him. ‘But we’re meeting Deborah tomorrow, so we can see what she thinks is good for the time of year.’
‘That was nice of your mum, to hire you a wedding planner,’ he says.
Maybe it was nice of her, or maybe it was just her way of making sure I cracked on with the planning. Everyone seems to think I’m incapable of doing it.
‘Yeah,’ I say in agreement.
Leo laughs.
‘Mia, I’ve told you a million times, I can tell when you’re lying,’ he laughs. ‘Your voice goes much higher.’
‘No, it is nice of her,’ I agree. Whatever her motivation, she’s just trying to make sure the wedding goes well and I appreciate that.
‘Are you excited yet? Or is it too soon?’ he asks.
‘I’m excited to be your wife,’ I reply.
How Not to be a Bride Page 11
