The buzzer rings and I go to the door, expecting Sam, only to hear my mother’s voice ringing through the intercom.
“What are you doing here?” I ask when she walks through the door.
“I was just passing on my way home from Hampstead. I saw a scarf there that I thought you’d love.” She passes me a bag, and I pull out a beautiful shimmery blue scarf that I do, instantly, love.
“Mum! You didn’t have to do that! It’s gorgeous!”
“Of course I didn’t have to do it. I wanted to do it. Where’s that delicious girl of mine?”
She isn’t talking about me, she’s talking about Annie, and I call for Annie, who whirls down the corridor and into her grandmother’s arms.
One of the gifts of my newfound sobriety has been my relationship with my mother. It was always good, but when I was drinking, when I was married, it was marred by the disappointment and judgment I saw in her eyes.
For a very long time I would try to avoid her. No one could have hated me more than I hated myself, and I really didn’t need to see that reflected back at me. I knew I was a terrible wife, a terrible mother; the more I felt judged by someone, the less inclined I was to see them.
Now, not only do I delight in my own relationship with my mother, I delight in Annie’s relationship with her. I never realized how much my mother loves children, how warm she can be. For most of my childhood she was in a deep depression, but now, as a grandmother, and despite having lived in the UK for years and years, her American warmth comes out.
I know that sounds odd, but I have always felt that the English love children as long as they are polite, quiet, and well behaved. Americans seem to love children however they behave. There have been plenty of times I’ve been in restaurants and seen American children run screaming around the room, and all the English people are filled with horrified indignation, while the Americans just smile indulgently as if to say, oh, aren’t they cute?
However Annie behaves, my mother adores her, and accepts her. If Annie is in a bad mood, my mother still loves her, is still loving and affectionate, waiting for it to pass. I, on the other hand, am a disaster. If Annie is in a bad mood, I struggle not to take it personally, not to strike back, not to berate her for not being happy.
“Something smells good,” my mother says, poking her head into the kitchen, where she sees the table set for three. “Oh! You have dinner plans. I didn’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t be silly.” I pull her into the kitchen. “Sam’s coming for dinner, and there’s more than enough for all of us. Why don’t you stay?”
“Really? You’re sure you have enough?”
“Absolutely. Stay.”
* * *
Sam adores my mother. Everyone adores my mother. Sure enough, when he walks in, as handsome as ever in his slick shorts and polo shirt, his face lights up as he spies her.
“Audrey!” He envelops her in a hug, pulling back to give her the traditional double kiss. I have become accustomed to hugging, me, who never liked anyone to touch her. It’s a program thing, hugs being doled out at the end of meetings like candy. It took me a while to get used to, the all-embracing hugs. I have come to not only accept it, but actually welcome it.
“Sam! So lovely to see you! It has been much too long.”
We take the pitcher of iced tea outside to the terrace, as Annie tempts the neighbor’s cat to come and roll around on the gravel with us.
“You look gorgeously tan,” says my mum to Sam. “Have you been somewhere dreamily exotic?”
“The spray-tanning place off South Molton Street,” says Sam with a smile. “Not quite dreamily exotic, but I can’t seem to get my act together with a summer holiday this year. I wanted to go to Lamu, but I’m worried it’s not very safe anymore. Also, summer’s not really the time to go to Africa anyway, even if I decided to risk it.”
“There’s always the South of France,” says my mother.
“There is, always, the South of France.” Sam rolls his eyes, which I find hilarious because only Sam could find the South of France boring, which he does; he says everyone he has ever met is always in the South of France and it’s the most stressful place he ever visits.
“What about you?” Sam turns to me. “What are you doing this summer?”
When Jason and I were married, we did great holidays. Winters saw us in the Caribbean, and summers renting lovely old stone houses in Provence or Tuscany. Now my budget is something I’m constantly aware of, and even though we are always fine, we are just on the edge of fine, and I never think I have enough money for extravagant things like holidays.
“I’m hoping to find a travel piece,” I say, for I am friendly with the travel editor of the Daily Gazette, and every now and then he will send a piece my way, often a fabulous and free hotel, and sometimes even free flights too. Last Christmas, Annie and I left on Boxing Day for Antigua, an all-inclusive, all-paid-for holiday. I had to write a thousand words on how fantastic the place was (which it was), and we had a brilliant time, with yacht trips and spa treatments provided to seduce us into writing a decent piece. As if we needed seducing. “The travel editor often knows of a villa somewhere knocking around.”
“What a great idea,” Sam says. “I should ask our travel editor if they have anything going. Why don’t we go away together?” I nod enthusiastically as he turns to my mother. “Audrey, you should come too!”
“I’m already going to Greece,” says my mother. “A friend’s boat. If there was room I’d invite you.”
“We’ll miss you,” he pouts, “but I love the sound of you, me, and Annie going somewhere together. Let’s both speak to the travel people we know and see what we can come up with.”
“Deal,” I say, and pour them all some more tea.