say what’s right for you. I suppose I was surprised you didn’t mention any problems before, that’s all.’
‘I didn’t want to talk behind Rhys’s back. I wasn’t sure how I felt, truth be told. I was being carried along by the wedding planning and then he was being a shit about it and it came tumbling out and there it was.’
‘It wasn’t worth giving him a shape-up-or-ship-out? You never put your foot down enough, in my opinion, and it might’ve led to … laziness.’
‘I did try suggesting a counsellor or whatever. He wasn’t interested.’
‘I doubt he wanted to lose you. He’s stubborn …’
‘You can’t ask someone not to be who they are. That’s where we were.’
‘Couldn’t you … if you’d …’
‘Caro, please. I can’t do this now. I will do soon, over wine, for hours. We can thrash the whole thing out until you’re sick of hearing about it. But not now.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Let’s talk about something else.’
Hmm. Not sure when this ‘soon’ will arrive. I possibly want to wait until 2064 when she can put a data stick in her ear and download the information straight into her frontal cortex.
Then on reckless impulse I add: ‘Oh, I saw Ben.’
‘Ben? Ben from uni? Where? I thought you weren’t going to look him up? How was he?’
I’m grateful that Caroline can only fix her eyes on me momentarily before she has to return them to the road.
‘Uh, the library. I decided I wanted to learn Italian as part of the New Me, and there he was. We had a coffee. Seems well. Married.’
Caroline snorts. ‘Hah! Well he was bound to be. Anyone as attractive and house-trainable as that gets snapped up mid-twenties, latest.’
‘Anyone decent’s married by now?’
Caroline realises what she’s said and grimaces. ‘No! I mean, men like him are. There are more good women than men, so supply and demand dictates his sort are long gone off the market.’
‘Doesn’t bode well for my prospects in finding someone then.’
Caroline is crunching the gears, and looks like an Egyptian terracotta head I once saw in the British Museum. ‘I didn’t mean … oh, you know …’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I agree with you. Ben was always going to be married, and maybe choices post-thirty aren’t great. The divorces are going to start soon, I’ll pick someone up on their second lap.’
Caroline gives me a laugh that’s more grateful than amused. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Mindy and Ivor are still single, and they’re normal and nice. Well, fairly normal.’
‘Exactly!’
I’m not feeling half as casual as I’m trying to sound, for both our sakes. Starting again. From the beginning. With someone who doesn’t know the million important and incidental things about me, who isn’t fluent in the long-term couple language that I’ve taken for granted for so long with Rhys. How will anyone ever know as much about me again, and vice versa? Will I find anyone who wants to learn it? I imagine a York Notes revision style aid on Rachel Woodford. Or a Wikipedia page, lots of claims from Rhys followed by [citation needed].
And is this a brutal truth, everyone good has gone? As if soul mates are one big early-bird-gets-the-worm January sale. Buy the wrong thing, have to return it, and you’re left with the stuff no one else wanted. This is the kind of thinking I’d scoff at from my mum, yet I was always scoffing from the security of a relationship. I feel a lot less sure of my ‘Don’t be so Stepford’ stance now I’ve got to test the truth of the hypothesis.
A few circuits of the apartment building to find a parking space demonstrates why it’s as well Rhys has kept our car.
‘I’ll stay here so I don’t get a clamping,’ Caroline says. ‘If I see a warden I’ll go round the block, so don’t panic I’ve legged it with your towels.’
I discover how unfit I am as I run from car to flat door, and Caroline manages not to get ticketed the whole time.
When I take the last of it, she says: ‘So I’d stay but I’d have thought you want to show your mum round, now she’s here?’
‘Uh? My mum’s not here.’
‘She’s there.’
Caroline gestures over my shoulder. My mum is counting out coins from her big snap-clasp purse into the upturned hat of a man with a dog on a string, her black Windsmoor shawl coat billowing like Professor Snape’s cape. She’s always immaculately turned out and a ringer for Anne Bancroft, circa The Graduate. I think she wonders how she gave birth to someone inches shorter, and many degrees swearier and scabbier in her habits, though she might want to look to my dad for at least part of the answer.
‘Oh, bloody hell …’
Caroline smiles and climbs back into the car, waving farewell to my mum.
‘Hello darling! Was that Caroline? Delightful girl. Still has the metabolism of a greyhound, I see. Some have all the luck, eh?’
‘Hi Mum. Uhm. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m off to Samantha’s make-up rehearsal thingy at John Lewis, with Barbara. You can come if you like?’
‘Come to the wedding make-over of a family friend I haven’t seen for fifteen years, while thinking about how I’m not getting married and making it completely awkward for them?’
‘Oh, nonsense. They’d love to see you.’
‘I’d have been useless enough company when I was getting married. And I seem to remember Sam’s a “squee!” type girl.’
‘“Squee” girl?’
‘Squee wee! Fun-a-roonie dot com! Let’s go get scrummy cupcakes and have proper giggles.’
My mum leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Come on, no one likes a bitter lemon. Show me your new digs.’
We take the stairs instead of the lift, me walking with the heavy tread of someone on their way to the electric chair, not the kind of lifestyle flat that has a pink fridge. I pull the key out of my pocket and let us in. It smells strange in here, as in, not like home. I stare balefully at the mini-mountain of my crap that’s blotting the manicured landscape.
‘Goodness me, very gaudy, isn’t it. Like the 1960s have been sick.’
‘Thanks Mum! I like it actually.’
‘Hmm, well as long as you do, that’s the main thing. I can see that it’s different.’
Different is usually
