by Heidi Lowe
I returned to my sandwich. "Hey, I noticed there aren't any photos in the house. Like, not one family photo. What's that about?"
He shook his head, brow furrowed slightly out of agitation. "Oh, that's my mother's doing. She's insane, has this weird superstition that you lose a little piece of your soul every time someone takes a picture of you. It's been that way for as long as I can remember. You won't find a single photograph around here."
"Seriously?" I didn't know whether he was joking or not. He did deadpan so well; straight face, didn't even flinch. He'd got me many times like that.
"Seriously. I told you they were weird."
"So no pictures of you as a baby?" How disappointing, I thought. "I bet you were an adorable baby."
"Sure, there might be a couple locked away in the attic. And no, I wasn't a good-looking baby. My ears were too big for my head, which in turn was too big for my body. Hopefully our children get your looks as opposed to mine."
I almost choked on my sandwich.
His cackle moments later, as he broke his serious face, made me sigh with relief. That was Marcus: you could never tell whether he was joking. The last time he said something this outrageous – when he mentioned the castle he wanted us to get married in – I spat out my coffee!
"You should have seen your face," he said, chuckling. He had one of those rich guy laughs, reserved for men twice his age. A guffaw with plenty of haughtiness in it. How had I not seen the signs that he came from money? It was right there in his laugh.
"You shouldn't make jokes like that, Marcus. The wrong woman might take you seriously." Not me, though. I wanted to make that clear. We were far too new to even have a conversation like that, not to mention the fact that I wasn't sure I even wanted kids, or to be someone's wife.
"If that worries you, you're going to have a hard time with my parents..."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
As if they had been standing by, waiting for someone to mention them, his parents made their raucous entrance into the house. All I heard was loud, tuneless humming and roaring laughter, long before the culprits showed themselves.
Marcus sucked in a deep breath, looking agitated, all traces of his previous light mood gone. "They're here," he said, like the gestapo had arrived and we were about to be escorted away.
They came twirling into the kitchen, in each other's arms, dancing to the tune they were both humming. We went unnoticed by them for several moments.
Marcus's groan and face-palm finally got their attention, and radiantly they looked in our direction, matching smiles on their faces.
"We have company, my love," his father announced, not letting go of his wife.
"Hello," his mother said, her smile warm and genuine.
I waved. "Hi." It was impossible not to smile with them; theirs were contagious. At least, it seemed that way to me. A quick glance across the table at Marcus showed him glowering at his parents. Another groan escaped his lips.
His parents were nothing like I'd imagined them. They were both short – a phenomenon considering Marcus was almost six feet tall. His father had a full head of dark brown hair, though much of it had grayed. His mother's hair, by contrast, was blonde and curly, shoulder length, and she wore it pinned back with a fancy clip. Her gown looked silky and expensive, it shimmered when she moved. She was an attractive woman of no more than sixty. Graceful was the best way to describe her. She seemed comfortable in her skin. His father had a few years on her, maybe ten. But no one had bothered telling him that, because he moved like someone half his age. I saw a lot of Marcus in him, not so much in his wife.
Finally releasing his wife from the embrace, though catching her hand in his instead, his father approached me. "Who do we have here, then?"
"This is Jenna. You already know that. I only told you five times," Marcus grumbled.
"Jenna. Yes, yes, the American. Pleasure to meet you, dear." He kissed the back of my hand and I smiled nervously.
"Jenna, this is Norman and Fiona. Part time parents, full time asylum escapees..."
To this they chuckled, even though I was certain he wasn't joking. I shot him a warning look to behave himself.
"Our son thinks we're insane," Fiona said, having taken no offense at his comment. "Maybe we are." She chuckled, then took her husband in her arms, and they resumed their waltz to her humming. I recognized the tune then, from the only opera I knew anything about.
"Is that from Madam Butterfly?" I asked, unable to stop myself laughing as I watched them waltz around the room, grinning as they peered into each other's eyes. It was like I'd stepped into The Addams Family!
"Yes! Have you seen it?" Norman asked.
"Not yet. Been meaning to, though."
As if they'd been practicing for just this response, in unison, perfect synchronicity, they both gasped, turned to look at me, and said, "Outrageous!" Then they smiled at me. "You simply must join us on our next trip."
"She doesn't want to go," Marcus said bad-temperedly, before I could tell them that I would have loved to go with them.
"It will be fun," I said. My mouth was hurting from all the smiling I was doing. Genuine smiling. I hadn't expected them to be this entertaining, this friendly.
"That's the spirit," Norman said. "We're always happy to watch it again."
Marcus tutted. "Yeah, because twenty-five times isn't enough."
"Twenty-six, dear," his mother corrected.
"Wow, you guys must really like it," I said.
They sat down with us at the table, sat together, and even then couldn't take their hands off each other. Like teenagers in love for the first time.
"I took Fiona to see it for our second date, oh, thirty-five years ago. She became my wife eight weeks later."
"Only because you knocked her up, and Grandma and Grandad insisted you make an honest woman of their daughter."
Okay, now Marcus had crossed the line. I was sure of it. Their smiles would fade, and they'd turn into hydras, start screaming at him, possibly me as well. No one could remain this cheerful, this calm, while he threw out snide remarks.
"Well, partly," his father said, and to my surprise laughed along with his wife. "And partly because, well, I knew I'd found my soul mate. Scarlett was a lovely bonus."
Oh my God, could they be this real? It wasn't just that his words were bizarre; when he turned and looked at his wife, and their eyes met, I could see that he meant every word. They were, quite miraculously, still madly in love after thirty-five years of marriage. Still looked at each other and felt exactly the same way they had all those years ago. I didn't even think it was possible for two people to love as intensely as this. It knocked me for six.
"And he's been making all of my wishes come true ever since," Fiona added, and as though no one else existed in the whole world, as though a complete stranger wasn't sitting there with them, they kissed and kissed, and only stopped when Marcus rudely interrupted them with yet another groan, much louder this time.
"Sorry," they said together.
"Don't apologize for being in love," I said, almost dreamily. "What you two have is rare." I almost said I hoped to find something even half as good as that one day, but stopped myself. That would have opened a can of worms.
"So, tell us about yourself, Jenna. Where are you from? What do you like to do? Where did you meet Marcus?"
"Well, my name's Jenna Lincoln, I'm from a town called Birfield, Massachusetts. I'm a freelance web developer. And Marcus and I met at a club. We were the designated drivers of our respective groups, and being the only sober people around, struck up a conversation. The rest is history."
It wouldn't have made a difference if I'd simply not replied, because they weren't listening. When I looked at them, they were lip-locked again. I found the whole thing hilarious.
"I dated an American girl once. Not for long." This came from Norman, once he'd separated his mouth from his wife's. "An exchange student. Her parents ran a fishing business. Your parents don't
run a fishing business, do they?"
I laughed. "Nope, not even close. My father is a real estate agent, and my mother's a housewife, though she doesn't do much around the house, hires someone in to take care of that stuff."
It was their turn to laugh.
"Well, welcome to the family. You'll fit right in." Norman got up, helped his wife up. "You must be tired. We'll talk more in the morning. Then you can tell us all about your plans for Marcus, and how many grandchildren you're going to give us."
Eyes now filled with horror, I forced a smile long enough for them to leave the room. It vanished as soon as they were out of sight.
"Told you," was all Marcus said, with a know-it-all smirk.
I'd only been in the UK for a few hours, and already people were trying to control my womb!
THREE
Marcus was fast asleep beside me when I woke up the next morning. I felt around for my phone on the nightstand, checked the time. A few minutes past seven. I had fully expected to be sleeping well into the afternoon, as the jet lag wore off, but I felt refreshed and ready for the new day.
I freshened up, brushed my teeth, then crawled back into bed, and just lay there for a while, taking everything in. His parents, the house, Marcus's attitude towards his parents and the house. The whole thing felt like a surreal dream.
Yesterday was eventful, no doubt about that, but the thing that had me most transfixed was the intensity of his parents' love. They were so unapologetically head over heels, would-kill-for-you in love. The type of love that only existed in Shakespeare plays and sonnets from centuries past. A mythical kind. Something I never would have thought possible had I not seen it with my own eyes. If someone ever looked at me the way Norman looked at Fiona, I was certain I would melt. And if I ever lost myself in someone else's eyes the way Fiona had done in her husband's, I would never want to live a day without him.
Marcus had kicked the sheets off himself, and lay on his back, sleeping peacefully. I watched him. He looked so much younger in his slumber, which was slightly creepy, I'm not going to lie. I watched him for a while, waiting for something to stir inside me, something more than the surface affection I had for him. If I were ever going to feel that way, it would have been with someone like him, who was everything you would want in a life partner. Smart, funny, charismatic, affectionate, not afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve.
His eyes sprung open then, like he'd felt me watching him sleep.
"Good morning," he said, sleep in his throat. He stretched, went to kiss me, but I pushed him back. "Oh, right, sorry."
When he returned from brushing his teeth in the en suite bathroom, he claimed his kiss. It was always more passionate in the morning.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Half an hour maybe," I said.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah. I dreamed I missed my flight though, and you were so pissed at me that you told me to just stay in the States."
His laugh was groggy. "Ouch, dream-me sounds like an asshole." I loved how he pronounced ass, drawing out the a. For some reason, when he swore it didn't have the same sting.
"You were," I said, straddling him and wrapping my arms around him while we kissed.
"You know I could never be that angry at you to the point where I never want to see you again."
"Oh, I don't know. I could run off with your grandad or something. That would probably piss you off."
He chuckled. "What, tired of the eight-year age gap so you go in the other direction?"
"Something like that," I said. We kissed and laughed.
"I hope my parents didn't unsettle you too much last night. I did warn you about them."
"Are you kidding? Your parents are great. Very...kooky. In a good way, though. I've never met anyone like them before."
He blinked big for effect. "Great? You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"
"I'm serious. The way you described them, I was expecting...something else. And they're still so in love. What's their secret?"
"Oh, sure, their love for each other was never in question. It's their love for anyone else that's the problem. It's like there's nobody else in the world but them. They see no one, they hear no one... Now imagine what that would be like for children growing up around them."
I could see how distressed he was, so I kissed him. Some scars took longer to heal than others. I could see what he meant, though. When love was that all-consuming, it left no room or time for anyone or anything else.
"They never should have had children. They know it, we know it, but they won't ever admit it."
"But then they wouldn't have created you. And where would I be now, huh? Stuck in Birfield dating some loser who uses too much gel in his hair."
That seemed to cheer him up.
"Brace yourself for the grandchildren talk," he said after a while. "They're at that age where they're starting to panic about not having a legacy to pass on."
"Why would they rely on you to have them first? What about your sister? She's older, more established."
This made him chuckle. "Scarlett won't have children of her own. Raising me put her off them."
"Were you a problem child? I can't imagine that."
I massaged the back of his head, playing with his baby hairs.
"Not exactly. But think about it, she couldn't be a teenager because she was playing the role of parent. I mean, she'll never say that her childhood was taken from her, but that's the reality."
"She really sounds like an angel," I said. "I can't wait to meet her. When did you say she would be back?"
He shrugged. "A couple of days. No one ever knows her schedule. She's like that, always has been."
It never took long before we were back on the subject of his doting, impossibly perfect, selfless sister Scarlett. And he always got that little smile on his face when she was mentioned.
"So, what are we doing today? Will you take me to London, show me the sights?" There was so much to do, so many pictures to take. Even though I had two whole months in which to sight-see, excitement had consumed me.
"Sure. But first you'll have to survive breakfast with my parents. If you haven't downed a bottle of bleach by the time it's over, we can go anywhere you want."
You know when you have the benefit of clarity of thought, and you convince yourself that the memory you had of a particular event couldn't possibly be as outlandish as you remembered it? That was how I felt that morning, once Marcus and I had dressed for the day and headed down to the kitchen for breakfast with his folks. I'd convinced myself that the memory I had of them was more exaggerated, more cartoonish than they actually were. All thanks to my jet lag addled brain.
"There's our Yank daughter-in-law to be," Norman greeted with two winks when we appeared in the kitchen. Full of life and energy, apron wrapped around his torso, he pulled out a chair for me, bowed then twirled back to the stove, where his wife was hard at work. He nuzzled his nose in her neck, and before I knew it they were kissing each other's faces off!
"Can't you control yourselves for five minutes?" Marcus scolded. "We have company."
"Jenna's family now," his mother said.
"Family or not, no one wants to see that," he grumbled. "I'm so sorry about this. It's way too early for that sort of thing."
"It's fine," I told him. I could see, though, that their public displays of affection would get real old, real quick, like a joke that had been dragged out. It wasn't so much that it was off-putting to see parents – anyone's parents – taking part in a game of tonsil tennis, it was more that I felt embarrassed for myself and Marcus. In comparison, we looked like two people in a loveless relationship. I knew we would never be like them, and that embarrassed me.
When his father set the plate in front of me, I honestly thought it was to be shared between all four of us. That was how much food was loaded onto it. A full English. Bacon, eggs, baked beans, black pudding, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast, copious amounts of each thing. If I ate all o
f this, and there was no possible way I could have, I would have never had to eat again for the rest of my stay in England!
"You're not a vegetarian, are you? Because if you are, boo hiss! Ax murderer, fine, but we don't allow vegetarians in our home," his father joked, probably upon seeing my horrified expression at the sight of my overflowing plate.
"You have nothing to worry about. I'm neither of those things. It all looks and smells so good, but I'm not sure I could eat even half of this."
His mother squeezed my shoulder in support as she set Marcus's plate in front of him. "You don't have to eat everything. We just don't want you going back to the States and telling everyone that those crazy English people didn't feed you well."
Once we were all seated and eating, they fired off questions at me, all the questions they hadn't gotten around to asking me yesterday evening.
"So web development, what does that entail?"
"Do you have any brothers and sisters? Any children from a previous relationship? Any ex-husbands with axes to grind?"
"Where did you go to college? Or is it university? I don't know how the education system works over there."
"I build websites, to put it simply. No siblings, children or ex-husbands that I know of. I studied at the University of Massachusetts."
And on and on. Although they stopped every now and then to kiss each other, as if to remind each other that they were still the only thing that mattered in the world, they listened intently as I talked about myself. I prayed they wouldn't bring up prospective grandchildren again, but eventually – inevitably – they worked their way to it.
"So, six months, huh? Norman and I were married by that point in our relationship."
I gulped, knowing the direction this conversation was going in.
Marcus sighed. "She knows. You told her yesterday."
"Have you guys talked about that? Looked at venues? Decided where you'll raise the children, here or the States?"
