“I just wanted to buy you a nice Christmas present,” she says, spilling milk on the side as she pours it into the cups. I know she means well, but this is another ploy to enforce mother guilt on me.
“Why don’t I see what part-time jobs I’ve got on the agency books?” I ask her for the millionth time. “I’m sure I’ve got something that would suit you. It would, you know—get you out and about and meeting people, and give you a bit of extra cash.”
“Your father never held with working wives,” she tells me for the millionth time as she purses her lips. Dad was a bit old-fashioned, but I think he meant working wives with small children, rather than working wives in general.
“But I’m sure Dad would—” I grope for the right words. It’s hard, because she still misses him so much. So do I.
“It’s a full-time job just keeping this house going and looking after Granny Elsie,” she says, her voice quavering as she gesticulates at the clutter. And then she makes a quick recovery and says cheerily, “You know, the basement’s so lovely and light and spacious. Plenty of room for one—or even two—people. With a bit of work, it could be transformed into a completely separate apartment, with its own front door and everything.”
This is not a new idea. This is the same idea she comes up with oh, say, once a month. I suddenly yearn for Jonathan’s understanding smile and easygoing, uncomplicated company.
“Ooh, you didn’t tell me you’d got Marks and Sparks pies.” Granny Elsie, a small, rotund, perfumed vision in lilac polyester, wanders into the kitchen and grabs one from the pack.
Saved by the octogenarian with the pink rinse, I think, because Mum’s next line would be that the basement would be perfect for me. And for me and Jonathan after the wedding, which my mother assumes will be the next logical step.
I do try to understand her, I really do. She really loved my dad. He was her whole life. He took care of her, and they did everything together. And although I don’t want to spend my life alone, I don’t want to end up like my mother, either. I just couldn’t stand such a claustrophobic arrangement.
In that moment, I am certain about what I am going to do. I’m going to forget all about handsome, tempting doctors and concentrate on my unclaustrophobic relationship with dear Jonathan.
Jonathan certainly isn’t the claustrophobic type, that’s for sure. He wasn’t home when I called earlier. I left a message, but he hasn’t called me back. At least, not on my cell phone. Or my mother’s phone, and I know he has the number, because I told him in the message—just in case.
“Mother, are you wearing the old girdle?” my mother asks. Granny Elsie, it has to be said, has dangling body parts. But at least it’s distracted Mum from her basement crusade. “Your bits are hanging out everywhere. And down.”
“I can’t wear the new one you got me, Sandra. It squashes my intestines, and I need plenty of room down there so’s I can eat plenty at dinner,” Granny Elsie says, shoveling the rest of the mince pie into her mouth and taking another.
“That old thing’s a disgrace—it’s full of holes.” Mum is indignant. And she’s also right. Granny Elsie’s old girdle is not something you want to see dangling from the clothesline amidst the clusters of gnomes.
“All the more easy for, you know”—Granny Elsie crinkles her already crinkled face into a lascivious grin—“accessibility.”
I’m so glad she shared that with me. My grandmother’s sex life is just the picture I need in my head. Thinking of sex lives reminds me that I’d better go home and get ready for tonight.
I’m really going to talk things through with Jonathan. But I don’t think he needs to know about the kiss. After all, we’re not married yet, and it was only a kiss. But what a kiss…
“Mother!” my mother shakes her head. “Please.”
“I’m having dinner with my new gentleman friend.” Granny Elsie digs me in the ribs with her elbow. “He’s a bit crinkly, is Alf, but at my age beggars can’t be choosers. Speaking of sex,” she cackles, and her false teeth slip a bit. “Did your mother tell you about the Immaculate Conception and How We Should All Come Together As a Family to Celebrate the Wondrous News?”
“Why are you speaking in capital letters?” I ask Granny Elsie, because it sounds like she’s implying that Mum has joined a religious cult.
“Your cousin Elaine’s pregnant,” my mother sniffs, and I nearly faint on the spot. “She’s going to be one of them single parents.”
“You’re kidding me,” I say, sitting down on a kitchen chair. On top of the mound of clean, folded washing also inhabiting the chair, but I barely notice, such is my surprise.
Elaine is not one of my favorite people, and to be honest, if she weren’t family then I would strike her forever from my Christmas card list. Or re-gift her with something horrible and used that I don’t want, because that’s exactly what she does to me.
Except for last Christmas, of course, but that was by accident. She gave me the Body Shop gift basket I’d bought her the year previously, but it backfired on her, because I happen to love Body Shop stuff, and I enthused about it all evening at length, because it really pissed her off. And although I don’t make a habit of pissing people off, I make an exception for Elaine.
But pregnant? This will probably mean that I have to be nice to her. I can’t imagine how Auntie Pat’s taking this, though—think of her social standing at the Women’s Institute!
“What did Auntie Pat say?”
“Apparently, yer Auntie Pat and Uncle Bill are as pleased as punch—they’re even throwing this year’s Christmas Party in her honor,” Granny Elsie says, hitching up her panty hose. “It’s not just family this time around—they’re invitin’ everyone they know.”
I’m shocked that Aunt Patricia (or “Auntie Pat” as we call her, to annoy her) is taking this so well. She comes from a very grand old family with failing fortunes (although she lowered herself to marry Uncle Bill because, we suspect, of his self-made fortune). She’s always had very grandiose ideas about people’s situations in the grand scheme. Particularly her own.
“Yer cousin Elaine called and invited me personally,” Granny Elsie adds, slurping her tea to wash down the mince pie.
Elaine called Granny Elsie personally? I’m trying to imagine Granny Elsie in Auntie Pat and Uncle Bill’s house on Hampstead Heath. It is immaculate and full of expensive things that make you scared to touch anything. I’m also trying to imagine Elaine being nice, but it’s just not gelling.
Uncle Bill’s my dad’s brother, so Granny Elsie isn’t, strictly speaking, related to that side of the family. And Auntie Pat usually ignores her existence.
“I know yer Auntie Pat don’t like me. I know she thinks I lower the tone,” Granny Elsie adds.
“I don’t know where you got that idea,” Mum says rather dryly. “Of course, it could be the old corset. Mother, I do wish you’d wear the new one. And your new teeth.” But before she can launch into one of her diatribes, something odd happens. Mum’s whole face shifts gear into a huge smile.
“Oh, but I haven’t got a thing to wear to the party. I shall have to get something new,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “You’ll have to have something new, too, Mother.”
“I’m all fixed up.” Granny Elsie heads for the door. “I’m wearin’ me red-and-green stripy number with the black flowers, because it’s festive.”
I grin, because Granny Elsie in that dress is a sight to behold. Auntie Pat’s going to hate it.
“Plus,” Granny Elsie winks at me from the kitchen door, “it’ll really irritate your Auntie Pat. Now I’ve got to go and touch up me makeup. I’m due at Café Rouge in ten.”
“I bet you could do with a nice new dress, Rosie. Call it a little extra Christmas present especially from me. Let’s plan a girly shopping trip.”
“But—”
I am about to remind her about money, and how she’s overspending, but I stop when I see her overdue MasterCard statement on the floor under the table. The total is only twenty-five
pounds, but it does have to be paid.
“Mum, what’s this?” I ask rhetorically, waving it at her.
“Oh, that?” She snatches it from my hand. “It’s just—a little something extra I bought for you, dear,” she squints at it. “It was from one of those shopping channels, and I had to use a credit card because it’s just easier with a credit card on the phone, isn’t it?”
“Mum,” I say, just a bit wearily. “We need to have a chat about all these unpaid bills.”
“Don’t be such a killjoy, darling, I just want you to have a lovely time,” she tells me, sniffing indignantly. “You know—just like it used to be when Daddy…oh, darling, remember all those lovely times when we were all together.” She pulls a tissue from her pocket and dabs at her eyes.
“Mum,” I say gently, touching her arm.
“Now then, dear,” Mum says, straightening briskly. “Can you stay for dinner? How about I rustle you up something nice to eat?”
I manage to drag myself away because my mother has grand ideas for Jonathan and me and approves of the fact that I am having dinner with him. At least I think I am. He still hasn’t returned my call…
But I only escaped after promising my mother to come for lunch the next day as a thank-you for my insistence on paying the telephone and MasterCard bill (despite the fact that I nearly always go for lunch on Sundays), writing checks for both bills and mailing them on my way back to the Northern line.
As the tube roars through the bowels of London, I worry about Mum. I mean, she’s always lived in her own little world, even before Dad died, but I think she’s getting worse.
Also, I’m still completely stunned about Elaine. I can’t believe that holier-than-thou, cannot-put-a-step-wrong-in-everyone’s-eyes, Goody Two-shoes Elaine is pregnant. I climb off the Northern line tube and head through the deep passageways toward the Central line.
And what’s more, she won’t say who the father is. Probably because she can’t remember, I think evilly.
Elaine is tiny, petite, has small, narrow feet (of course) and looks like a China doll in a beautiful, fragile, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth kind of way. Unfortunately, she has the heart of Chucky and always wants what other people (i.e., me) have.
When I was ten, I really, really wanted a pony for Christmas. I yearned for one with all my Barbie-and-My-Little-Pony-adoring soul. Yes, I know now that ponies are expensive and require (a) a stable, because they cannot live in the basement apartment of a Hampstead house, which was what I planned, and (b) plenty of space to run around in—not a small garden like ours. Although I promised to take Candy (yes, I’d already chosen a name for my perfect pony) for extensive walks on Hampstead Heath every day. As I said, I was ten, and the world was a wonderful, hopeful place.
Elaine knew all about my pony longing, because she threatened to bite the head off my Princess Aurora Barbie if I didn’t show her my letter to Santa.
Needless to say, she got her very own pony that same Christmas. And I tried to be happy for her, I truly did. And I was more than happy with the toy horse I got for Princess Barbie to ride. I was even happy to clean out Candy’s stall (yes, Elaine even stole the name) for months, because Elaine let me have a weekly ride on her. It was almost like having my very own Candy…
Until I turned up one day to clean out Candy’s stall and she’d gone. Elaine took great delight in telling me that Candy had been sold because Candy loved me more than Elaine, and no one was allowed to love me more than Elaine.
I should have kept my mouth shut and let the bitch bite off Princess Aurora’s head.
Yes, I know it’s childish to hold a grudge for eighteen years, I think, as I exit the station at Holland Park and head toward home, but Candy wasn’t the last love Elaine stole from me.
I’ll never forget the humiliating scene at my twenty-first birthday party. The scene where I go to my parents’ bedroom to find Auntie Lizzie’s coat and instead I find dear Elaine showing Harry, my then boyfriend, her blow-job skills…
At least Jonathan would never do anything like that.
And as I push open my front door, the telephone is ringing, so I dash for it and pick up, because it’s probably Jonathan.
Thank God for safe, dependable Jonathan.
“Hello?”
“Darling,” Elaine purrs down the telephone, and I’m confused, because she never calls me.
“Elaine,” I say, a bit breathlessly on account of being breathless from dashing for the phone. “Lovely to hear from you,” I lie. “Lovely news about the, um, baby.”
“I’m just so excited,” she squeaks in her little-girl voice. “Just imagine, I’m the first of us four cousins to bring a new life into this world.”
“Isn’t it amazing,” I say, conjuring up a very unflattering image of Elaine, all fat and bloated and whalelike at nine months pregnant. And then, because I can’t help it, “I hope the, um, lucky dad is excited, too.”
“Oh, but darling, things are a little tricky for him right now and I’m sworn to secrecy.”
I’m intrigued. Obviously a married man, then.
“Married, is he?” I say before I can stop myself, because although I would never knowingly sleep with a married man, Elaine is not so scrupulous.
“Naughty Rosie,” Elaine purrs down the phone at me. “Let’s just say that we have his public image to think about, but trust me, as soon as the time is right, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Is it just my imagination, or does that sound like a threat?
“You simply must come to the party at Mummy and Daddy’s next Thursday,” she stresses. Which is odd, because I always go to the family Christmas party. Under sufferance, but I do have an arsenal of family I actually like who will also be in attendance. And Jonathan, of course.
“I can hardly wait,” I say carefully as I wait for the real reason for her call.
“It seems like so long since we last had a chance to chat,” she says, hiking up the charm. “And you must bring your wonderful boyfriend with you,” she adds, and my suspicious nature immediately jumps to the conclusion that she means to try to steal him from me. Why else would she bother?
“I’ll certainly try,” I say, as Elaine, Harry and the Blow-Job Episode spring immediately back to mind. I wonder if there’s a way I can uninvite Jonathan, because he’s already got it booked in his diary. Maybe I can pretend the party’s been called off due to—
What am I doing? The one and only time she met Jonathan at Uncle Bill’s sixtieth birthday party back in August, Elaine barely looked at him, because she was dating some rich, handsome investment banker. And besides, Jonathan is a complete sweetie and would never do that to me. It’s one of the reasons I’m so fond of him.
But I wouldn’t trust Elaine with the Pope…even if she is pregnant.
“And you must tell Granny Elsie it wouldn’t be the same without her,” Elaine trills, which is plain weird. Elaine can’t stand Granny Elsie.
“Er, yes, she’s very excited about it,” I say, because she is. More about the lavish spread Auntie Pat always puts on, I think.
“And your lovely friends Carmen and Jess—and Charlie, of course.” This is getting weirder by the second, because I know for a fact that Elaine can’t stand my friends, either. “I’m just so happy,” Elaine squeaks again. “I want to put my arms around the whole world and hug it.”
I wonder, as I try to wind down the conversation and get rid of her, if pregnancy has wreaked this miraculous personality change on Elaine?
It is the season of goodwill, after all.
“For indoor or outdoor use only,” the packaging on the Christmas lights wisely instructs me, as I open the box and unravel the long string. As opposed to say, what, exactly? Underwater or in space?
My gorgeous Douglas fir’s been in the back garden all week, just waiting for me to bring it indoors and decorate it, so I thought I might as well get it out of the way. It’s just not the same at Christmas without the smell of pine, is it?
As I place the final bauble on a branch, I take a step back and admire my handiwork. This year, I’ve decided that red and silver will be my tree theme, because they go so well with green, and are very Christmassy, too. I need all the Christmas cheer I can muster.
And now I’m going to watch a movie—something with blood and guts in it—something that doesn’t include cute doctors or beautiful heroines who always get their man.
Jonathan broke up with me earlier.
After hanging up on Elaine, I checked my home phone messages, because time was getting on and I thought it was odd that I hadn’t heard from Jonathan, so imagine my relief when I heard his dulcet tones speaking to me via voice mail. This is what he actually said.
“Er, hi, Rosie. It’s me. Jonathan. Er, it seems Sidney’s toe wasn’t broken after all, hahaha, just a bit, you know, bruised. Just thought you’d like to know.”
That’s sweet, I think momentarily, barely noticing that his sentence does not include a word of French. And then he drops his bomb.
“Er, I know this is a bit sudden, and I don’t know the best way to tell you this, but it’s been on my mind for a while. Rosie, you know I wouldn’t willingly do anything to hurt you, especially at this time of year and all. But I think we should take a bit of a break from each other,” he says, and I’m floored. I mean, I know I was thinking we needed to take a break, but I’ve worked through it.
Oh, I just bet he’s met someone else.
“Er, it’s not that I’ve met someone else. Just thought you might want to know that. I’m extremely fond of you, but I think we need to cool things down. Just for a while. Just for a few weeks. Well, take care. Speak to you soon. If you feel you need to, er, talk about it, well, er, I’m here.”
That’s it? That’s my breakup?
Due to the suddenly boneless quality of my legs, I slump onto the sofa and look up at my Christmas tree, all twinkly and glittery, and I feel so alone. Everyone deserves to have someone to share Christmas with, don’t they?
I just can’t take it in. I bet Jonathan will call tomorrow, and it will all be a mistake, and am definitely not going to think about it right now.
Confessions of a Serial Dater Page 6
