darling?’ Mum cuts straight to the chase.
I roll my eyes. Mum has made it clear over the years that she doesn’t approve of Barry and I living together in sin. She’s even keener than I am on the idea of us getting married, and only dying to announce a wedding to her Bridge Club biddies. This relationship is her last shot at grandchildren. That’s assuming Ian is firing blanks or too immature to have a kid.
Last Easter, she brought up the subject of my biological clock after a few too many sherries. She wanted to know when she would be buying a new hat. Dad tried to change the subject and was promptly shushed. I threatened to become a lesbian if she didn’t put a cork in it. She stalked out, and Barry nearly choked on his trifle. He comes from a more refined home. No wonder he ran away from me. It’s definitely my family’s fault.
‘Look, it’s nothing really. We just had a bit of a barney.’
Mum pours more tea.
‘He says I’m going on about getting married too much.’
‘…And are you?’
‘Well. A smidge,’ I confess. ‘Last week, he overheard me on the phone to Links of London ordering bridesmaids’ gifts. Hit the roof. It’s too bad, they were fab. And he thinks that booking the honeymoon was taking things too far. He copped the deposit on the credit card statement yesterday.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘He saw me flicking through Confetti magazine last week and said I shouldn’t have asked the girls to be bridesmaids yet. Jumping the gun, he said.’
‘And what did you say?’ Mum looks worried.
‘I said, sure you can pick whoever the hell you want as groomsman. Just make sure he looks good in a tuxedo and doesn’t ruin the pictures. No-one likes bulging buttons on a waistcoat.’
Mum is not laughing.
‘Anyway, Mum, he says that’s not the point. He says I’m too pushy. Now he’s fecked off to flipping China or somewhere on some conference or other. Says he needs time to think about our relationship.’ I use the sarcastic bending of fingertips to show how silly he is being.
‘It’s not looking good for us.’
I feel a tear prickling my eyes.
Mum takes me in her arms. I’m too hungover to fight the tears, and they trickle down to my chin. She says nothing, and I inhale the scent of her familiar perfume.
‘It’s so unfair,’ I cry.
‘Just try and give him a break, darling. You don’t want to push him away. He’ll do it when he’s ready.’
Dad appears at the table and Mum pours him some tea.
‘There you are now, Gerry,’ she slides a buttered scone in his direction.
We discuss everything from Coronation Street to the muppets running the country, but sidestep the topic of Barry and my shambles of a relationship.
‘Did you spend your birthday vouchers yet, Fairy?’
‘Not yet, Dad.’
‘Will you join us for dinner, darling? We’re having beef?’
I recall the sharp exit stage left of last night’s curry beef and shake my head.
‘And fairy cakes for dessert!’ Dad smiles. ‘And Ian will be here soon.’
I’m reaching for my handbag. Facing my little brother as he surfaces from his student hovel in Rathmines is best avoided.
‘Call that man of yours and sort it all out,’ Mum calls after me at the hall door.
As I turn to open the gate, a taxi pulls up.
‘Have you got ten euro, Dad?’ Ian greets us.
‘Can you not catch a fecking bus?’ Dad mumbles and reluctantly hands over the cash.
‘Alright, sis,’ Ian shuffles past me. He is dragging a large black bag which I assume to be his washing. He hands it to Mum. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Thanks. Mum still cleaning your skid mark jocks for you, then?’ I smile.
‘Eh, yeah,’ Ian replies weakly.
He shoots a glance at Mum. Clearly, he has been told not to wind me up today. I must really be in a bad way.
I’ve managed to make it to the downstairs toilet before the tea and scones come up in full force, and then I collapse on the couch. I’m torturing myself with the idea that Barry will phone any minute now and say it’s all off. The poor creature has had time to think and he’s had enough. You couldn’t be surprised. I’ve been a royal pain. He’ll say he’s fallen in love with some Vietnamese lady boy or what not. He’ll say he was pushed into the arms of some oriental jezebel, and that he wants his jewellery back. And who can blame the poor guy? I mean, yes, he loves me, but he thinks I’m some sort of mental patient.
‘We will have to sell the house,’ I confide in Jess. He is a good listener, but he will really have to do something about his breath – it’s like a tuna fish died or something. ‘And after all of my admirable interior design efforts, too! You’d best scope the neighbourhood for another couch to sleep on, old friend.’
The cat doesn’t come across as overly concerned. I don’t think he is quite grasping the seriousness of the situation.
‘People will have to come and view the property and snoop in the hot press and make insultingly low offers. They will look down their noses at my failed gardening attempts and then traipse muddy footprints over my pristine cream rug. The wretches!’
The geriatric cat is choking on a hairball. Perhaps he is worried on a more subconscious level, after all. Maybe he’s imagining that he’ll end up in the retired cats’ home being bullied by some bigger more masculine cats. My poor little Jessikins. Jess is a bit of a wimp I don’t think he could stand up for himself. He has trouble just standing, period. Besides, he doesn’t have many teeth.
When I open a family-sized bag of Kettle Chips, I let the nightmare possibilities wash over me.
‘And then I’ll be bankrupt!’
Jess doesn’t budge. I’m starting to think he’s not even listening. Normally, I let Barry worry about bills, the mortgage and other such tedious things. I give my token financial contribution every month, and spend whatever is left over. Barry balances the books. I don’t pay attention to credit card bills and glaze over when he talks about home insurance. I don’t watch the news and I don’t read newspapers. It’s all recession doom and gloom. I just switch to 80s FM when the headlines come on the radio. My annual subscription to OK!, Hello! and Cosmopolitan magazines hardly counts as keeping up with current affairs in the media. I’d much prefer a bit of celebrity hot gossip.
Besides,
