‘Nobody. Some guy who didn’t appear on my show.’
‘Sex on legs,’ says Jaki matter-of-factly.
‘Sorry dear?’ My mum’s pretending she doesn’t understand.
‘Very Jude Law, but kind of more dangerous, muckier,’ adds Jaki. My mother still looks bemused. ‘Very Rhett Butler,’ clarifies Jaki.
‘Oh, I see.’
My mother and I collapse gratefully into the chairs in the Selfridges restaurant. We are carrying heavy bags and light purses and therefore truly euphoric. It’s quite an achievement. We’ve managed to buy Mum an outfit for the wedding, which we both like.
‘Have you spoken to your hairdresser?’
‘Yes. I’ve made two bookings. One so she can practise putting my hair up and then one for the wedding day. But I’m playing with the idea of getting my hair cut.’
‘Oh, not your lovely hair.’ Mum looks as though I’ve just suggested sacrificing vestal virgins to pagan gods.
‘I’m too old for such long hair. What do you think of a sharp bob or a Zoe Ball crop?’
Evidently not much because my mother simply ticks the box entitled ‘hairdresser’ and moves the conversation on.
‘Have you informed your bank and building society of your name change and ordered new business cards?’
‘I don’t think I’ll change my name.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well, it’s one less job,’ I defend, concentrating on sipping my Earl Grey. My mother speaks a million words with her silences. Finally she moves down the list.
‘You have to choose the flowers.’
I instantly know this isn’t going to be as simple as picking out something fragrant and pretty.
‘I was thinking hydrangeas and—’
‘You can’t have hydrangeas.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re unlucky. They represent boastfulness and exposure.’
‘Well, which are the lucky ones?’
‘Roses are always good. They stand for love, innocence and thankfulness, depending on the colour. Or something delicate like heliotropes, which represent devotion and faithfulness, with a bit of lemon blossom. They stand for fidelity in love.’
‘It’s bollocks. What did you have?’
‘Lemon blossom.’
‘There’s my point.’
My mum looks away. And I know I’ve hurt her. I can’t quite say sorry.
‘Oh, OK, heliotrope and lemon blossom it is.’
She smiles, relieved, and I’m embarrassed at how easy it is to please her.
‘Have you thought about your honeymoon?’
‘I’m leaving it to Josh. Which probably isn’t all that wise, but it is traditional. Will you have a discreet word with him, Mum? So that he doesn’t book anything too active. Don’t let him book a trekking holiday to the North Pole or a canoeing safari. Beach and bars will suit me fine.’ My mother makes a note.
‘Has he chosen his ushers and best man?’
I stare at her with incredulity.
‘It’s not me who’s asking, it’s what the book says. Here, look: “Check your fiance has chosen his ushers.” ‘She points to the page.
‘God, they assume we all marry simpletons, don’t they? The implication is that he couldn’t wipe his own nose unassisted.’ My mother and I treat the surrounding tables to looks of disdain and disbelief.
‘So has he chosen his ushers?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I reply and we both giggle helplessly. I like this relaxed Mum. When the giggles subside, I say, ‘I am grateful, Mum. Thank you. I know it’s a lot of work.’
Mum glows and simpers. She carefully cuts her scone into halves and then quarters. There has been a mass of work and I don’t know how I’d have coped without her. I hadn’t expected to care about the fairy-tale day but as it approaches I really do want it to be perfect. I want a perfect bride with perfect hair, dress and make-up. Perfect Mum with all her friends attending and a hat that suits her. Perfect guests who are happy with the food and seating plan. And a perfect husband, which Josh is.
‘We’ve had a lovely day, haven’t we?’ asks Mum.
‘Yes,’ I agree.
She doesn’t pause. ‘Issie mentioned a Darren to me. Pass the jam, dear.’ She’s desperately trying to be disingenuous but she’s had no practice. I, on the other hand, am a veteran. I reach into my bag and pull out, from acres of tissue paper, the shoes I’ve just bought for the wedding. They are covered in tiny beads, zillions of them. They are certainly the prettiest pair of shoes I’ve ever seen.
‘What do you think, Mum?’
‘They are beautiful. Wasn’t Darren the one from the north? Didn’t you go on holiday with him?’
Issie really is rent-a-mouth.
‘It wasn’t a holiday. It was work.’
Mum falls back on the etiquette we have used for a thousand years. She refills my teacup and cuts me a slice of cake. She does this with the precision of a geisha girl. I try to be patient until the little ceremony comes to an end. It is only now that I realize she always uses this ritual to buy time. She has something important to say and she is carefully considering how best to phrase it.
‘Josh is a lovely boy.’
I smile, this is fine. We both know this.
‘He’s been like a son to me in some ways, over the years, and certainly like a brother to you. I’m sure he loves you very much.’
‘Er, Mum, this is hardly headline news. We are engaged to be married next month. Isn’t this the usual state of affairs?’
Mum reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of mine. ‘Do you love Josh?’
‘Mum!’ I’m shocked. When my father informed my mother about his affair, she could not believe it. Quite literally. I watched, from the doorway of the kitchen, as she ran to him and hung her arms around his neck. She smiled sweetly, hopefully, up at him and asked if he could possibly love the other woman as much, no more, than his wife and daughter. She had expected him to see sense and tell her, ‘No, of course not.’ That way we could all sweep the whole silly business under the carpet. Unfortunately, my father was unaware of the script. He’d replied that, yes, regrettably, that was the case. My mother reeled from the shock. It was at that moment that she began to construct the elaborate safety net that would protect her from any such horrors and indignities again. The most notable components of the net are that she doesn’t readily show affection (I can count on one hand the number of times she’s deliberately touched me). She never talks about love. And she never asks questions to which she doesn’t know the answers. It bothers me that in a single afternoon, sitting in the Selfridges restaurant, my mother has broken all three of her own rules.
I figure it’s a bit late in the day for my mum to take up the role of adviser. Just because I’ve let her choose the flowers and menu doesn’t mean I want her opinion on every part of my life. She’s my mother and therefore understands nothing and knows less. She’s always let me pretty much make my own mistakes and learn my own lessons. Why start interfering now? Anyway, I am suddenly
