by Melody James
“What?” Treacle looks puzzled. “Booting a Chihuahua?”
“No, idiot! Role-play! It’ll give you chance to practise. No jokes this time. I’ll pretend to be Jeff’s mum.”
Treacle gives a nervous frown.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “I’ll be gentle.” I scramble to my feet and straighten my skirt. “Treacle, dear,” I hold out a hand, “How lovely to meet you. Jeff’s talked about nothing else these past few weeks.”
“Really?” Treacle gets to her feet and tentatively takes my hand.
I shake it heartily. “Absolutely! It’s been, ‘Treacle this, Treacle that,’ for weeks. Do you mind me calling you Treacle or would you rather I called you Tracy?”
“Um . . . er . . .” Treacle’s eyes cloud with confusion.
“Tell her Treacle’s fine,” I hiss, dropping out of character for a second.
“T-Treacle’s fine,” she stammers.
“Good. Lovely. You can call me Mary.”
Treacle blinks. “Is that her name?”
“It is now,” I answer briskly. “Come and sit down.” I pat the bed and wait till Treacle takes a seat. Then I head for the tray. “Would you like some milk, Treacle?” I lift a glass from the tray and offer it to her.
“I’m not really thirsty,” Treacle answers.
“Sandwich?”
Treacle shakes her head. “Not hungry.”
“Really? A growing girl like you?” I grab a sandwich for myself and plump down next to Treacle on the bed. “You’re not one of those funny eaters, are you?”
Treacle shakes her head.
“Vegetarian?” I ask. “We’ve a friend with a daughter who’s just turned vegetarian. Poor things. They have to cook bean burgers every night. It’s all she’ll eat.” I take another bite of sandwich. Cheese and mustard. My favourite. “Where do you live?”
“Mulberry Crescent.”
“Really?” I swallow. “Which end? Crook Street or Tottington Avenue?”
Treacle rubs the side of her nose. “Kind of in the middle.”
“Hmmm.” I frown as I cram in the last of the sandwich. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? They’re very good.”
“No thank you Mrs Simps—” Treacle corrects herself. “Mary. I ate before I came out.”
“Really?” I frown. Time to increase the pressure. “Didn’t Jeff tell you we’d be having dinner?”
Treacle looks flustered. “Well, yes.”
“It seems a little thoughtless to eat beforehand.”
“I-I-er-I.”
While Treacle fishes for a reply, I push on. I’m really living the part now. Being a middle-aged bossy-boots is fun. “Never mind. We can always donate what you don’t need to the soup kitchen. I hear they’re always in need.”
Treacle’s twitching like a flustered terrier beside me. “When I said I’d eaten, it was only a packet of crisps on the bus, I’m sure I’ll be hungry in a minute. I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all.”
“Nervous, dear?” I turn a spectacularly amazed look on her. “Of meeting us? Did Jeff tell you we’re monsters or something?”
“No, no! Jeff didn’t say anything.”
“Because if he did, I’d feel very disappointed in him.”
“Really –” Treacle balls her fists, “– he didn’t say anything.” I feel her fluster hardening into irritation, but I’m not turning down the heat. I want her to be prepared for anything.
“He didn’t mention us at all?” I flash her a wounded look, and then move on swiftly. “So you play football?”
“Yes, for the school.”
“Jeff plays for the county.”
“I’m going to try out for the county team,” Treacle says quickly.
“That’s nice, dear. But it’s a lot of time and energy to devote to something that’s not really going to take you anywhere.” As Treacle’s eyes spark with indignation, I carry on. “It’s not like a girl could ever go on to play football professionally.” I know Treacle’s got her whole footballing career mapped out, but Jeff’s mum won’t. “Surely you’d be better off spending the time on schoolwork. Then you’ll be able to get a nice little job as a secretary or something.”
“Secretary or something?” The spark in Treacle’s eyes ignites into fury. “This is the 21st century Mrs— Mary! Women become lawyers and surgeons and CEOs!”
“I’m pleased to hear you’re aiming high but, once you marry and settle down, you’ll want to put your family first, surely?”
Treacle leaps to her feet. “Oh! My! God!” She’s outraged. “You want someone to cook and clean for your son and provide you with grandchildren? It’s like one of those old books we read at school! There’s NO WAY I’m going to end up as a housewife.”
I gaze at her innocently. “It’s been a good enough career for me.”
“Really?” Treacle puts her hands on her hips. “Well it’s not good enough for me. You should be locked up somewhere in the nineteenth century where you belong! If you’re looking for a nice little stay-at-home wife for your precious son, you’d better look somewhere else, because it’s not going to be me, you stupid old bag!”
Her face is beetroot red, her eyes wild.
She looks so funny! “Whoa! Treacle!” I laugh.
Treacle claps her hands over her mouth in horror. “I just called Jeff’s mum a stupid old bag!”
“Maybe save that for your second meeting?” I suggest.
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Who’s your perfect love match according to the stars?
Signs of love stupid cupid
