I’m sitting at a table in a restaurant full of people. It’s nothing trendy, just a perfectly run of the mill pizzeria in a perfectly ordinary part of town. I’m sure Ian will hate the place, and that thought alone gives me a little thrill of gratification. Just a little one, though – I don't want to blow my PC credentials altogether.
Since he's late, I decide to call my mum while I’m waiting.
She answers at the first ring.
“Hi mum,” I say.
“Jenny, darling, we were just talking about you,” she informs me solemnly.
Great.
“Oh yes?” I try to understand.
“Your father and I were just saying that we really hope we'll get a chance to see Charles this Saturday. Did he like the soup?” she asks in a caring voice.
“Of course,” I lie. “About Saturday though – I can’t come this weekend.”
“Why not?” she asks with irritation.
“I'll be in Scotland for work,” I reveal. At least there's one good thing about this trip: it'll save me from my parents.
“Are you serious, Jenny? Working at the weekend? You’re not a kid any more, you know. You warned us that it would be like this for a few years, but this has been going on for ages!”
Thanks a lot for reminding me how old I am, mum, I think resignedly.
“And it almost never happens nowadays. This is an exception,” I point out, my patience starting to fray. Michael's allowed to travel the world without showing his face for months, but I can’t miss even one weekly meeting.
“It’s always an exception,” she says harshly.
I bite my tongue. I don't want to tell her where to go.
“Maybe Charles could come anyway,” she says.
“He’s busy too—” I answer nervously. All this lying is becoming a problem.
Of course Ian chooses the perfect moment to finally turn up. He walks over to me and, once near the table, leans over as though to give me a kiss on the cheek.
What the hell is he doing? I just manage to duck away in time only to find him looking at me with a mocking expression.
“Good evening – sorry I'm late,” he mouths, as he takes a seat in front of me.
“Who’s that with you?” my mother asks immediately. She must be the woman with the most sensitive, selective hearing on the planet.
“It’s just the waiter,” I say, without any conviction.
“Are you out for dinner?” she asks, as though she were Hampshire's answer to Jessica Fletcher. “Who with?”
“With Vera and Laura,” I lie.
“Can I have a word with them?” she asks, as if it was absolutely normal to ask such a thing.
“Why?” I ask nervously.
“What do you mean why? I want to say hello. What a stupid question… you’re acting very peculiarly today.”
I give Ian a look, ordering him to be quiet. He could blow this for me.
“So, will you put them on?”
“I can’t, they're in the toilet,” I lie again, closing my eyes in despair.
“Both of them?” she screeches, incredulity in her voice.
“Yes, both of them! What is this, the third degree? I’ll send them your love. Good night, mum!” and I hang up. Why did I even bother calling her?
Ian's trying not to laugh, but he can’t hold back a smirk.
“Laugh away, please. I just love providing cheap entertainment,” I say, as I angrily snap a breadstick in two and ram half of it into my mouth. To hell with the diet – there's no chance of me losing a single pound at the moment, so I might as well just eat whatever takes my fancy.
“I've only got one question: why lie?” he asks, as he makes himself comfortable in his chair.
“Because I can’t stand it when she starts going on about how I work too much,” I say vaguely.
“You should have said you were with me – mothers adore me,” he says smugly, giving one of his famous smiles as he does.
I give him a serious look. “Mine wouldn’t.”
“Trust me, they all do. I've got thirty-one years of experience,” he insists snottily.
“Believe me, my mother would not like you,” I reply in the same tone.
The idea of a challenge makes those blue eyes of his sparkle. “You want to bet?” he proposes.
Oh yes, of course – as if there weren’t enough disasters in my life already.
“Not interested, thanks”. Does he really think I’m going to let myself be the next sacrifice on the altar of his arrogance?
“I don't give up easily,” he says confidently, as though I didn't know.
“Trust me, I'm saying it for your own good,” I warn him, feeling philanthropic.
And that's where I make my mistake, since this is clearly turning into a challenge for him. I can tell by the stubborn expression that's forming on his face. I've learned to recognise it at my expense.
“Come on, let's bet on it,” he says, leaning dangerously close.
God, you are my witness in this: I did everything I could to avoid something like this happening.
You know what, Ian St John? I just might take you up on it. I find the idea so funny that I can’t stop a grin spreading across my face.
“Ok, then,” I say, giving in. “One of the coming weekends you can casually show up at my parents’ farm, on a Saturday, after lunch.”
“I could even show up during lunch. Old ladies love the old school manners.”
That's right, come on down, let my family cut you down to size.
The idea is so satisfying that I seize a second breadstick. To celebrate, I tell myself.
“Ok, if it means that much to you.” I try to keep a straight face and not let on about the nightmare he's just landed himself in. And it was all his idea.
“Perfect.”
And as he says it, he proffers his hand to seal our agreement. I grab hold of it and enjoy the sensation of warmth and strength. I feel slightly guilty, but I immediately push that aside: this man deserves everything my lovably anti-monarchic family can offer him.