by Sue Watson
‘You shouldn’t have done, darling. We’re not busy – perhaps you could take some time off and pick Emma up from school, take her shopping?’
‘I don’t think her behaviour this morning deserves a reward, Mother.’
‘No, absolutely, but I mean, just spend some time talking to her.’
‘I do . . . I spoke to her last night. I told her she’s too young to have a boyfriend and she shouldn’t be messing about with lads from the estate anyway.’
‘Oh, Anna. You can’t stop her seeing a boy because he doesn’t fit into your idea of what her boyfriend should be,’ I said, remembering Peter’s mother’s attitude to me.
‘I feel like a crap mother but I’m exhausted; I’ve been juggling everyone’s emotions lately. There’s Emma’s boyfriend and I’m worried how Katie’s dealing with the divorce, she keeps it all bottled up and I feel her pain.’
I nod, I understand all too well.
‘I’m also trying to keep things on an even keel with James. I really like him and I want this relationship to work but I have to give him more and at the same time I need to be with the girls. I just need a break, some time for myself, you know?’
‘Yes, I do know.’ I smile at the irony: we’re all struggling with the same things in different ways at various times in our lives. And I’m beginning to think there’s no such thing as this ‘me time’ everyone talks about.
‘Tell you what,’ I say, ‘why don’t we close early, you go home, have a bath, relax and I’ll pick the girls up and take them both out for pizza?’
‘Katie’s at a sleepover . . . but if you collect Emma that would be nice. Thanks, Mum. I think sometimes I get on her nerves and she might tell you stuff she won’t tell me. I’m just worried she might end up having sex with this lad through peer pressure or, worse still, boyfriend pressure. You know how good her GCSE grades were, she needs to really buckle down for her A levels and I’m worried – things like this can wreck your life at this age.’
I nod. Yes, it can wreck your life. Love at sixteen can be the best thing that ever happens to you, it can be the most intense, vivid and beautiful relationship of your life. And it can also wring you dry, it can change the course of your life and shape the person you are – but that’s what being alive is all about.
‘Don’t be too hard on Emma,’ I say. ‘I think you’ll find these things have a way of working out.’
‘I just don’t want her throwing it all away thinking she’s in love when she isn’t. You know what lads are like . . . Well, you don’t, but trust me the internet has turned them all into bloody sex pests.’
I smile, knowing only too well what lads are like at that age, and I doubt they are any different today than they were when I was Emma’s age.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll collect Emma. I’ll bribe her with doughballs at Pizza Express . . . and she’ll sing like a canary.’
‘Thanks, Mum . . . Sorry if I’ve been a bit short today. I had a row with James last night.’
‘Oh, I thought you two seemed so – together.’
‘That’s what I thought, but I suggested he think about selling his flat in the next few months and move in . . . ’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? If it feels right, there’s no point in waiting, you might as well start to share a life together,’ I say, having toyed with similar thoughts myself recently.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. The girls will be away at university and living their own lives soon and I don’t want to be left on my own. But he says he’s not sure he’s ready. Honestly, Mum, I don’t know where I am. I can’t wait until I’m your age and I don’t have to worry about men.’
I smiled. If only she knew.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Now you come to mention it, Nan, I do have a problem, a serious one,’ Emma confesses over pizza and doughballs later that day. We’re sitting in Pizza Express, just the two of us, and I fear she’s about to reveal something cataclysmic.
‘Really, darling? You know you can tell me anything,’ I say, taking a deep breath and telling myself we can cope with this, whatever it is. Nana is here.
‘Yeah . . . I have a serious addiction . . . to doughballs.’ She pushes a whole one in her mouth and looks at me defiantly under crusty black eyeliner. I raise an eyebrow and start on my pizza. Emma reminds me of me when I was her age: artistic, sarcastic, skinny and blonde – she probably has my weakness for slightly dangerous boys too. She’ll get hurt, but when she does I’ll be there for her, and I’ll be able to tell her truthfully that it’s not the end of the world and everything will be wonderful with the next one.
‘You know you don’t have to sleep with someone just because you’re going out with them,’ I say, taking a bite of pizza and trying to sound nonchalant.
‘No, really? I thought it was a strict rule that you have to have sex on a first date?’ She looks up from her vegetarian topping. ‘I know what’s going on here. Mum told you to talk to me, didn’t she?’
‘No. I just thought it would be nice to spend time with my eldest granddaughter and check out what’s goin’ down, girrl,’ I say in my ‘cool rapper’ voice to make her laugh.
She is horrified. ‘Never say that again, Nan,’ she monotones. ‘Nothing is “goin’ down”, as you put it.’
‘Well, tell me about this new boyfriend, is he gorgeous?’
She rolls her eyes, but I know she wants to talk about him. ‘Okay, so I’m seeing this guy, he’s cool, I’m cool, but Mum isn’t.’
‘Sounds like my love life at your age,’ I laugh.
‘I love him and he loves me.’ She stops eating, and has that faraway look in her eyes – I recognise it, it’s the one I used to have when I thought about Peter – perhaps I still do?
‘So, tell me about him.’
‘Okay, so his name’s Greg, he is totally gorgeous, and he’s in a band. They’re really sick . . . ’
‘What?’ I can barely keep up.
‘Oh, that means cool . . . and as soon as they get a record deal he’s going on a world tour. He says if we’re together he’ll take me with him and we’re going to live in Japan.’
‘That sounds wonderful, Emma, it’s lovely to have a dream.’
‘It’s not a dream, it’s going to happen.’
‘I hope it does, I really do but . . . you’re sixteen. Take my advice, don’t put all your eggs in one basket, some lads at this age can be a little – fickle.’
‘He’s not “some lad”, we’re in love. I’m sixteen – it doesn’t mean I can’t love someone. Why does everyone think that I’m too young to love?’
‘I don’t. I wouldn’t dream of saying that. I understand, I know how it feels to get that rush through your bones, that wonderful high when you know you’re going to see him. And the way he says your name . . . it’s like poetry, isn’t it? No one else says “Emma” like he does.’
She looks surprised, but she nods.
What can I say? I know her like I know myself, she’s me all over again. I want to high-five her and tell her to go for it, just love him now because tomorrow he might go but you’ll have your memories to keep you warm, and it won’t kill you but will ultimately make you stronger. I also want to tell her that it feels just the same when you’re sixty-four . . . except then you’re considered too old to be in love. I want her to fly, to know real love and not be scared to embrace risk, yet at the same time I don’t want her to have to suffer the pain I went through at her age and I want to protect her from this, just like Margaret wanted to protect me. And I’m reminded again of Margaret’s saying: ‘What goes around comes around.’
‘Look. I don’t want to go against your mum,’ I say to Emma, ‘but I believe you when you say you’re in love. And I understand exactly how you feel because I fell in love for the first time at your age and it’s never quite the same again. I never loved anyone so intensely, so deeply. Of course I adored your granddad – I always will, but that first time—’
‘What, you
mean your first love wasn’t Granddad?’
I shook my head.
‘But I thought in the olden days you married the first guy you went out with. You didn’t actually . . . sleep with this guy, did you?’
I nodded, thinking, Yes, Emma, I was as wild and abandoned and in love as you are now . . . and just like you I couldn’t wait to feel his body on mine. I longed for his kisses, to hear him murmuring my name and while you dream of Japan, we dreamed of Paris. But I just smile enigmatically while spearing rocket leaves with my fork.
‘Whoa, Nan, you goer,’ she giggles, taking a large drink of Diet Coke. It’s always rather special when one of my granddaughters approves – and I feel a shimmer of ridiculous pride.
‘I wasn’t exactly a goer, but hey, I had it going on, as they say.’ This causes another eye roll, but I keep talking. ‘But back then, in “the olden days”, as you put it, we didn’t have the freedom you have today with the pill; condoms were only available at the chemist or the gents’ toilets, which wasn’t much use to a seventeen-year-old girl. So we took chances, which I don’t recommend – it was silly.’
‘Well, I’m not silly. I went on the pill six months ago, I was literally the last of my girlfriends to do it.’
‘Oh. I didn’t realise . . . does your mum know?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but I’m almost seventeen, she doesn’t have to know.’
‘Yes, she does . . . and what’s more she cares and wants to know.’
‘She wants to know so she can give me the bloody lecture.’
‘Oh, Emma, stop swearing . . . and that’s not fair.’
‘Well, she isn’t fair. I mean it’s not like sex is illegal or anything.’
‘That’s not the point . . . ’
‘Nan. Please don’t tell Mum, she will literally kill me.’
‘She will not “literally” kill you,’ I say, vaguely amused at the way young people have appropriated the word and the images it often conjures up. ‘Your mum wants only to protect you. Trust me, her mission isn’t to spoil your fun or ruin your life, she just loves you,’ I hear myself say, while thinking about my own mother who also tried to protect her challenging child from the big bad world. There was little mention of sex, but a vague metaphoric reference to ‘men’s needs’, and ‘men’s seeds’ being ‘sown’. I came away from that conversation none the wiser but with some concern regarding the time my father spent sowing seeds on his allotment.
Consequently I was confused between the free, fun-loving creative, experimental art student I wanted to be and the virginal, cardigan-wearing, Bible-loving daughter Margaret wanted me to be. Until Peter, I’d never imagined anything so shameful as having sex with someone before I was married, and I marvel at how much easier and more honest Emma’s life must be today.
We continue to eat our pizzas and finally I say, ‘Two things, Emma.’
She looks up.
‘Number one, you’re on the pill, but are you also using condoms?’
‘OMG, Nan, please.’
‘You may be protected from pregnancy with the pill, but what about sexually transmitted—’
‘Of course we use condoms, we learned about STIs and HIV when we were in Year Nine, for God’s sake.’
‘Okay . . . well, that’s . . . good.’
‘You said two things.’
‘Yes – the second one is, I won’t tell your mother you’re having sex as long as you promise me it’s what you want, and not just what he wants.’
‘Of course! God, I’m not some kind of loser who lets dudes walk all over me.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I say and think about offering one of those high fives, then think better of it, because knowing Emma she’d leave me hanging – as they say.
‘So what happened to him, Nan?’
‘My first love, you mean?’
‘Yes . . . What was his name?’
‘His name’s Peter.’ I put down my fork and look at her. ‘And he’s still alive and well and just as good-looking as he was when he was eighteen.’
She lifts her head from her food, open-mouthed with surprise. ‘Whoa, you’ve seen him?’
‘Yes, he’s coming over on Sunday and you’re going to meet him.’
She covers her open mouth with her hand, unable to take the shock – and the smile – from her face. This is a good, positive response, which gives me the confidence I need to continue with my plans and gently bring Peter into the fold.
‘We all have secrets, Emma, even those of us from the olden days.’ I smile, and ask for the dessert menu.
When we’ve both ordered chocolate cake and coffee I say, ‘If you’re meeting my boyfriend it seems only fair that I meet yours. Why don’t you suggest to your mum that you bring Greg along too – it would be fine with me.’
‘Oh, that would be great. I know if Mum would bother to get to know him she’d love him. He’s literally the best.’
‘I’m sure he is.’ I smile. ‘So let’s do this together. Tell Mum that Nan has invited Greg, but ONLY if she’s okay with that . . . and I will check.’
‘High five, girl,’ she says, reaching out her hand. I lift mine and we slap and I feel ‘cool’ and ‘sick’.
‘I can’t believe you’ve got a boyfriend – I am literally LMFAO.’ She’s shaking her head in wonder. I think I know what she is ‘literally’ doing, because Peter translated for me, although I don’t fully remember it, but whatever it is she’s trying to express I just hope her mother has the same positive vibe on Sunday when she meets Peter again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I have been planning this gathering for days now and decided against a barbecue because it brought up a whole raft of issues in my head. Mike always did the barbecues, and it would be too symbolic for all of us to have Peter standing behind the burgers in Mike’s comedy apron. So I’ve made what Mary Berry would call a ‘summer buffet’, and combining my TV chefs I’ve made the old family faithful, Delia’s goat’s cheese and thyme tart. I’ve also conjured up some fresh coleslaw and dressed a piece of bright coral salmon which looks so pretty with the pastel green cucumber slices. I twist pale pink Parma ham onto a small slate and dot with slippery olives while imagining how the afternoon will go. It’s going to be lovely, but I am nervous. I know everyone will be scrutinising Peter – I just hope they’re subtle and don’t make him feel like he’s being watched. I stand back and survey the dishes and platters laid out in the kitchen before covering them all in foil.
I’m almost ready, and I want it all to be perfect. I want Peter to think I’m a brilliant hostess, the perfect mother and the ‘coolest’ nana. I want him to love my food, love my family and feel at home here – and I want them to love him back and think he’s perfect for me and though he’ll never replace Mike they’ll accept him nonetheless. And having hosted many dinner parties and summer buffets over the years, I know the food and wine will help all this come to fruition – and I just hope the chilled Sauvignon and Delia’s tart come through for me.
I keep thinking about how the girls will respond to Peter, to the news that he’s perhaps more than just a friend now. I know Anna walked in on us feeding each other ice cream, but she thinks being in your sixties means being infirm, so probably assumes I was feeding him because he couldn’t feed himself. I smile to myself at this and make a mental note to tell him – it’ll make him laugh. Since Mike went, I’ve missed the chance to laugh with someone my own age about how the younger world sees us. They think we’re different, but we’re all the same and one day they’ll find out what we already know – that it doesn’t matter how old you are because inside you’re always twenty-five.
I am now ready, everything is prepared and I’m just waiting, which is lethal because it gives me the opportunity to overthink everything and find ridiculous things to worry about. And top of my list (after ‘what happens if everyone hates him?’) is will my food be too safe and boring for Peter, who talks passionately about Indian street food, Vietnamese sandwiche
s and French gastronomy? As my mother would often say, ‘You can tell a lot from a person’s table.’ I often hear this in my head when I visit someone for a meal and I worry my own table may expose me in some way. Today I may be spilling my secrets over the salmon and not even realise this, and I smile just thinking of her serving stale Battenberg to Peter and enquiring about his mother and father – who she never met.
I’m cross with myself even now for the way I felt so ashamed when Peter came to meet my parents. I’d never really seen my family through anyone else’s eyes and I was mortified at my mother’s dodgy grammar and Dad’s inability to hold a conversation about anything other than football. Mum was so impressionable and when I told her Peter’s dad was a doctor she almost touched her forelock. She’d polished the front room, brought out the best china and tried so hard it still makes me want to cry because it didn’t matter about the china and the polish, there were no books, no art on the walls, nothing interesting or intellectual discussed – and the cake was stale. I look around now at the bookcases and the art on the walls and realise it’s okay, I landed on safe ground in the end and it was because of my mother, not in spite of her, that I survived.
I try to relax. The food will be fine, and my salmon won’t give me away, but what about the different dynamics? If nothing else they will be interesting today: Anna can be a bit bossy, Isobel’s a pleaser, which can make Richard appear domineering. Then there’s the whole James situation and the current stalemate about him refusing to take the relationship further and move in with Anna.
And, oh God, what about Peter and me as a couple in all this? The girls met him at the wedding, when I first laid eyes on him, but they have yet to meet him in the capacity of my boyfriend. Once they realise we’re together they will watch us like hawks, particularly Anna who will be ready to mark him out of ten for everything. I think about Anna’s face if he puts his arm around me or dares to kiss me on the cheek and my heart sinks. I have had this vision of everyone sitting around the table outdoors and this has propelled me on, like sunshine and food will make it all okay. Then the sunny, olive oil commercial running in my mind turns into a dark reality show about a dysfunctional family. My thoughts of Peter joining us may be quite different to Anna’s or Isobel’s, who may view this whole scenario as Peter sitting on Dad’s furniture, eating from the plates he chose, and enjoying time with Dad’s family. I am overthinking again, and it’s beginning to feel less like a summer buffet and more like a social experiment. I need to stop, be more philosophical, more laid-back like Peter – if they don’t like him, they don’t like him, there’s nothing more I can do.
