by Amanda Egan
I hated asking my dad for money because he never said no or made me feel awkward. It was almost as if he did it to make up for my lousy mother. He showered me with love, time, gifts and cash as a kind of compensation and I didn’t want to take advantage of him. I was twenty-eight and should have been fending for myself, not running home for handouts all the time. But even if the best job ever came up, right at that second, I’d still need money to see me through.
‘Bum, bum and bum!’ I said out loud to myself, startling Bogey who looked at me with disdain. ‘How dare you wake me from my slumber if it’s not for love or food?’ And he jumped from my lap, landing awkwardly and sending the biscuit tin flying.
It was that act that sent me over the edge. My bottled-up emotions suddenly came flooding out as I surveyed the broken HobNobs and crumbs of Bourbon. Bogey tried to apologise, not realising the biscuits were the least of my worries. He snaked in and out of my legs as best as his portly frame would allow as I howled and bawled, sweeping up the remnants and chucking them in the bin.
Exhausted, I sunk to the floor and hugged my cat to me again, rubbing my tears in his fur. ‘Oh, Bogey, what are we going to do?’
Of course he didn’t answer. The only response I heard as I sniffed and sobbed was the voice of my mother, once more entering my head.
And again it was mocking me with its stock standard phrase of my childhood.
‘Pull yourself together, Persephone! Big girls don’t cry!’
Chapter Two
A visit to my parents always brought me out in a cold sweat. If I could arrange it for a day that my mum was playing tennis or at the hairdressers, it was fine. But knowing that she’d be there usually caused problems.
Which is why I found myself having an emergency rummage through my wardrobe and gradually burying poor Bogey under a selection of outfits deemed unsuitable for my mother’s critical eye.
I owned two dresses, bought for weddings and only worn reluctantly. It was a shame really because being so tall meant I had reasonably good legs, even if I did say so myself - I just hated to show them off and dresses made me feel uncomfortable and fussy.
Bogey was having great fun paddy-pawing furiously on a scarlet silk number which I remembered had accentuated all my curves in the worst possible way - he was welcome to it. As I saw a stream of excited drool leave his chops and land in a puddle on the fabric, I turned back to my cupboards in despair.
Whatever I chose to wear, I’d be criticized by my mother and complimented by my father.
‘Good grief, Persephone! Where on earth did you get that monstrosity of a sweater? You look like you should be presenting Blue Peter.’
To which my dad would counteract, ‘You look very pretty, Perce. Lovely colour on you.’
So as I pulled on my best jeans, T-shirt and denim jacket, I resigned myself to the fact that the visit would leave a nasty taste in my mouth and, one way or the other, I’d come away upset.
Unless of course Mummy had a new ‘friend’.
*****
I was probably about eleven when I realised that my mother was a notorious flirt. And I was about fifteen when I discovered that it didn’t just stop at harmless banter.
I’d often wonder why she’d go through bouts of singing around the house, smiling at herself in the mirror and generally being a nicer person. During these times she’d uncharacteristically walk past me at the kitchen table as I sat struggling with an English essay, stroke my hair and say, ‘Such a pretty colour’ or she’d cup my chin and look closely at my face sighing, ‘Blessed with Liz Taylor eyes, you were’.
As I matured, I realised that these were her ‘loved up’ times. Everyone was happier when my mother had a bit on the side. Oddly, even Daddy would be brighter - if mum was content, so was he and it meant that her vicious tongue would be packed away for a while, giving us both a much needed break.
Of course we always paid for it when the dalliance was over and the venom would erupt again. We’d wait with baited breath until the next beau came along, dodging her bitterness and snappy remarks.
It was on one such occasion when Dad and I were enjoying a bottle of wine in his potting shed, just to keep out of her way, when I first asked him why he put up with it. I was in my early twenties and the time seemed right to pose the question - nothing was taboo with Daddy.
He sipped his wine and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, which was banned from the house.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Perce. I suppose I always knew she’d be like it. I couldn’t believe my luck when she agreed to marry me but there was always that niggling doubt that I’d never truly have all of her. Bit of a free spirit, your mother, she won’t ever be tamed but I don’t think she’ll ever leave me either. More’s the pity, I think sometimes!’ He chuckled but I sensed a sadness being artfully concealed. He loved her and therefore he’d let her have whatever she wanted, even if it detracted from his own happiness.
‘What about you, Dad? Ever played away? You’re still a great looking man. I bet you’ve had offers?’
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Well yes, I’ve been on the receiving end of a few propositions. Working in accounting does tend to attract secretaries and PA’s - they seem to think we’re all loaded. But, no, I’ve never taken any of them up on their advances. I was tempted once. She was a pretty little thing called Patsy and it was at a time when your mum was being particularly vile. But I saw sense and realised I didn’t need any more complications in my life.’ He topped up his wine glass and replaced the bottle on the side. ‘She always comes back, you see Perce. And she knows I’ll be here waiting.’
As we sat in easy silence in his shed, I vowed there and then never to compromise myself in a relationship. I’d rather be alone and miserable than have someone constantly take advantage of me.
The trouble with having such high hopes and standards was I seemed to spend an awful lot of my time being just that - sad and lonely.
*****
Mummy wasn’t in the throes of a grand passion.
That much was clear as I made my way up their garden path and I heard her screaming at my father, ‘Gordon, I’m telling you now, if I have to step over your blasted golf clubs one more time, I swear you won’t take pleasure in where I’ll stick them!’
No, she was most definitely without any male attention and my visit would be a hard one.
Daddy opened the door, kissing and hugging me and rolling his eye heavenwards as he lugged his golf bag out to the boot of the car. He knew of old that it really wasn’t worth ignoring my mother’s rants. Best to comply and keep your head down.
We went through to the garden where my mother was sunning herself (in the shade - ‘Wrinkles, darling!’) and I went over and kissed her.
‘Oh, Persephone, why can’t you wear a pretty dress on such a lovely day? You look all sweaty! And isn’t it about time you had your hair trimmed? It’s really looking rather lank.’
My hand shot to my hair. Just last week, I’d raided the bank account for a much needed cut and I’d actually thought it made my face look slimmer. Oh well, maybe I was wrong.
‘Well I was just about to say how pretty you look, Percy.’ My dad piped up in my defence. ‘That new boyfriend of yours seems to be putting a glow in your cheeks.’
I pulled up a sun chair and prepared for the fall-out. ‘Ah! Well … erm. Adam and I have split up actually. We are … no more, I’m afraid.’
My mother threw her head back and laughed. ‘Oh for goodness sake, another one bites the dust! Get me a G&T, Gordon, will you? And you’d better get something for your lummox of a daughter to drown her bloody sorrows in. I just don’t know how she does it.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask my mother why she never actually managed to hang on to any of her extra-curricular men for too long either. But, of course, I wasn’t brave enough. My true thoughts never made it to my lips where she was concerned.
Instead I did what I knew would please. ‘You’re looking very g
lam, Mum. New lipstick?’
Indulging her vanity worked every time and, although I could kick myself for playing her stupid games, I continued to do it to keep the peace.
She visibly perked up and patted at her hair, moving her hands down to smooth her chin. ‘Do you think so? I was wondering if it might be time for a little work.’ She whispered this last word. Heaven forbid that the neighbours should hear she was considering surgical intervention! ‘Margo at the gym has just had some Botox and it’s been the making of her,’ she whispered again. ‘Your father says I don’t need it but that’s purely because he doesn’t want to put his hand in his pocket. Tight old git!’
My dad appeared with the drinks on a tray, which he placed on the table. ‘Tight old git? Who’s that then? You wouldn’t be talking about me, would you my love?’ And he handed us both our gins.
‘You know perfectly well who I’m talking about, Gordon. I just don’t see why you have to make everything so difficult. Margo’s husband simply gave her a blank cheque and let her get on with it.’ She sipped her drink and turned her head away from us both, clearly descending into another of her huffs.
Dad looked at me and shook his head resignedly before turning back to my mother. ‘Sophia, if you insist on your mission to turn back the clock, despite looking great for sixty, go ahead. You have my blessing but I still think you’re mad. Satisfied?’
Mum jumped up like the spoiled child she was and threw her arms around Dad’s neck. ‘Oh Gordon, thank you darling! I knew you’d see sense eventually.’ She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and clapped her hands together. ‘Sooo exciting! Right, excuse me you two. I’m off to ring Margo and get her consultant’s number.’
My father let out a huge sigh of relief as she left the garden. ‘Crisis averted, eh Perce?’ He lit up his beloved pipe and puffed furiously to get it going. ‘I think she’s a fool though. She’s quite beautiful enough as it is. You can’t gild a lily, you know.’
He truly loved her, still. After everything she put him through, all the affairs and barbed comments - he still loved her and I didn’t know whether to admire or pity him.
I took his hand in mine and patted it. ‘I think you’re a bloody saint, do you know that?’ He laughed and patted me back. ‘Yeah well, a saint? A mug? Who knows? By the way, I’ve written this out for you.’ He handed me a folded cheque and winked. ‘Figured you might be a bit short this month and I don’t want you starving.’
I opened the cheque and studied it. Five hundred quid, just about enough to see me through, just so long as I found a job quickly. At least I didn’t have rent to worry about - the flat belonged to my parents and I considered myself truly fortunate.
I kissed him on the head and pressed my forehead against his, looking into his tired eyes. ‘Like I said, Dad. A saint!’
*****
I returned home to find three more job rejections waiting to greet me. Each letter thanked me for my time but they all boiled down to the same thing - nobody wanted to employ me.
I couldn’t have said I was surprised by the news. I’d got quite a feel for whether or not an interview went well and these three most certainly hadn’t.
Job #1 - the dress shop on the Kings Road.
They’d made it quite clear that if I was too large to model their creations, they had no space for me.
Job #2 - the mini cab office.
‘Stevo’ had ushered me in to the miniscule area where the calls were taken. After a quick once over, his eyes fell on the Page Three calendar on the wall and without an ounce of political correctness said, ‘We’ve been quite lucky with the dolly birds we’ve managed to have working here. They go down well with the punters leaving the pubs so we do like to take on the lookers.’ I should have reported him but, quite frankly, I couldn’t be bothered.
Job #3 - nanny to a Yummy in Chelsea.
The mummy had loved me, I was clearly no threat and wouldn’t tempt hubbie to have wandering hands. The children screamed the entire time I was there. I tend to be a bit full-on when it comes to kids and I think my manic horseplay freaked them out a bit. I’m sure I heard one of them say, ‘Mummy, I didn’t like that man very much’ as I made my way down the posh stone steps of their house.
Well I didn’t want their stinking jobs. I was too good for them and I just needed to hold out for the right opportunity. In the meantime, I’d keep plugging away at my novel and hope for a huge publishing deal.
Bogey fed, I settled with my laptop and prayed to the Writing Gods that the words would flow. I cracked my knuckles and hovered my fingers over the keyboard. I was so close to finishing the book I’d been chipping away at for almost ten years. It would be great if I could just nail it and email it to Mia for a read.
‘Marco was everything she had dreamed of - tall, dark and handsome - and just a little bit broody. His eyes smouldered when he looked at her and her heart never failed to miss a beat. He stroked her silken cheek and smoothed her raven hair behind her ear. His full lips were approaching hers at an alarming pace and …’
Damn, the phone was ringing just as I was getting to a juicy part and I bet I wouldn’t be able to get back into my groove again later.
I knew the second I answered it that is was Mia. As a mum of two kids under five, her phone calls were always interspersed with screams, cries, silence and ‘don’t do thats’. It was a bit like talking to Joyce Grenfell.
I waited patiently, knowing that she’d come onto the line just as soon as she’d dealt with whichever domestic catastrophe had reared its ugly head. Eventually I heard a small voice. ‘Auntie Percy? Mummy says bugger, de pasta is boiled over and she be here soon. I got a new hat today and Jo Jo did a poo in it. How’s Bogey?’
Conversations with five year old Isla always went like this and often left me wondering how certain things managed to happen in Mia’s house. I mean, a poo in a hat? What was the story there?
I knew to answer quickly and succinctly. Isla had the concentration of a gnat. ‘Bogey is very well thank you and he sends his love. How did the poo get in the hat, Isla?’
I heard a little chuckle at the end of the line. ‘Don’t be silly, Auntie Percy. Cats can’t send love and I told you Jo Jo put the poo there. Byee!’
None the wiser, I waited for Mia to pick up the phone. I could hear her approaching, kitten heels clicking on her perfect wooden floors and calling out, ‘Coming Perce! Jo Jo, put your trousers back on or you won’t watch ‘In the Night Garden’ before bed. Isla, help him will you? We’ll get you another hat tomorrow so you don’t have to wear the stinky one.’ Breathless, she spoke into the receiver, ‘Hi, you! Sorry about that, I’d forgotten about my pasta. You OK?’
I filled her in briefly on the pitiful state of my love life and bank balance and then told her I’d almost finished my novel.
‘Oh sorry about Adam, I quite liked him. What a dick! But great about your book! Email it over - I could do with a bit of romance in my life. James has been working so hard lately, I barely see him. But … we are taking one his clients out for a meal tomorrow night and … he’s single too. Fancy coming along? You never know, he could be the one!’
Mia was a hopeless romantic and wanted everyone to be as happy as she was. Married to her childhood sweetheart, she had no concept that love could be a rocky road. She’d planned her wedding outfit and hat for every man I’d ever dated and she wouldn’t rest until she saw me barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen with the man of my dreams.
The idea of a blind date filled me with dread and I told her as much.
‘Don’t think of it as a date then. Just dinner with your oldest friends and a potential new one. DO NOT DO THAT! Oooh sorry, Perce, not you. Jo Jo was trying to stick a marble in his ear. Every orifice is being tested right now and I really don’t fancy A&E again. We were there for four hours last week with a Lego brick up his nostril. So tomorrow? See you at eight at ‘The Bay Leaf’. ISLA! Put him down, NOW!’
And she was gone. I was left with a dead phone and
a sinking feeling. Whichever way I looked at it, it was a blind date. A set-up. He’d be introduced to Mia and think, ‘Wow! Hope the friend’s as cute as her’ and then he’d meet me and think, ‘Great. A whole night of this to get through.’
I knew all too well the giveaway look and the signs. I’d cringed my way through enough evenings knowing that I was the runner-up prize. Or on a really bad night - the booby prize.
I just didn’t think I had the energy for it any more. Maybe I was meant to die a spinster? You couldn’t mess with fate.
Returning to my laptop, I decided I really would type those final lines. My characters were waiting and they were at least something I had complete control over.
It was just about the only happy ending I could be sure of.
