| |
“ETHAN, WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?”
We got back from Santorini two weeks ago, and Ethan promised we’d go out for a special evening when we completed Helios Villa’s ad and brochure. He passed the taxi driver a top-secret address, and we’ve been heading south-west of my flat in Kilburn for the last half an hour.
“God, you’re so impatient. Just trust me.”
“I’ve told you before – several times – that I don’t trust you.”
It’s a warm evening in August, and I don’t even know if I’m dressed for wherever it is he’s taking me. I threw on a knee-length purple sundress with criss-cross straps at the back, thinking a pair of heeled sandals would make the dress look less casual if he was taking me somewhere posh. He’s wearing dark jeans and a white shirt – my favourite – but he’s clearly gone for a casual look, meaning I’ve tortured my feet in the heels for nothing.
Two minutes later and we’re heading down a familiar street.
“Ethan, is this? Are we . . .?” I look out of the window at the row of neat four-storey Victorian terraced houses and wonder what on earth he’s thinking. “You’re taking me to your mother’s?”
He smiles a huge smile. “I am.”
The taxi stops outside Kirsty Cleary’s house in Chesilton Road. Ethan pays and thanks the driver, then I get out of the taxi and stand frozen on the narrow pavement, gazing up at the red-painted front door.
“Why are we here?”
I like Ethan’s mum and have met her several times before, but each time she’s known me as Ethan’s best friend and work partner. I don’t relish spending an evening at home with the Clearys pretending I’m not in love with him. Ethan takes both of my hands in his and gives me a smile that lands a spark of light in his blue eyes. “I love you, Violet Archer, and it’s killing me that I have to keep you secret. A few days ago I realised that while I can’t come clean about how much I love you at work, I can tell the people who really matter to me.”
His words knock the air from my lungs. “Ethan . . . are you sure? I mean, meeting your mother is kind of a big deal.”
His face twists. “You’ve already met my mother.”
“That’s not the point.”
He laughs. “I know, but I want to tell her about you. And I want to tell my brother and sister. I even want to tell my stepdad – you’re one of the few people in the world who he actually likes. They’re all here tonight, and they already know I’m bringing my new girlfriend to dinner, so we better not keep them waiting.”
“You’ve told them about me already?” I’m not sure how I feel about this. It’s not like Ethan to do something majorly serious without running it by me a dozen times and procrastinating for a month or two.
“I told them I had a girlfriend, but they don’t know it’s you.”
My heart skips a beat and I feel an uncontrollable urge to run away.
He lets out a short laugh. “What’s wrong?”
“I . . . um . . . don’t know. I think I need longer to prepare for this.”
“Don’t be silly. My mum loves you, and she’s over the moon that I’m finally bringing a girl home.”
“You’ve never brought a girl home?”
“Nope,” he says proudly.
“Not even Zoe?” How is this possible?
“No, not even Zoe.” He raises his eyes to the sky and gets lost in thought. “Actually, I do remember bringing Mhairi MacKay home for tea once.”
“Who?”
“Mhairi MacKay. We were deeply in love and one hundred per cent sure we’d get married one day. We were also nine years old. We had fish fingers and baked beans for tea, followed by Neapolitan ice cream with a squirt of chocolate sauce.”
I giggle. “Sounds delicious.”
“It was. You can’t beat fish fingers.”
He squeezes my hand tight and opens the gate to his mum’s house. I follow him across the tiled yard and up three stone steps. He rings the doorbell and my pulse starts to race.
“You’ll be okay,” he says as we wait for the door to open.
I clear my throat and nod. My stomach feels like it’s inside a washing machine on a spin cycle. Shit and hell and bollocks, Violet, get a bloody grip for once.
Thirty seconds later, the door opens and I’m met by Kirsty Cleary’s confused, then shocked, then – I think – happy face.
“Oh, my goodness,” she says in her gorgeous Scottish accent. “Why didn’t I realise Ethan’s special someone would be you?” Her small heart-shaped face stretches into a huge smile as she steps to one side. “Come in, goodness me, come in. Dinner will be an hour.”
Ethan ushers me into the house ahead of him, and as soon as I walk into the hallway a small, white, yappy ball of furriness launches itself at me and starts jumping up at my knees. “Oh hi, Angus,” I say to the Cleary family’s Highland terrier.
“Oh hell.” Ethan’s hands shoot to his groin. “Mum! You said you’d lock Angus in the basement.”
I laugh as I remember the time Angus – arguably the world’s most excitable dog – jumped up at Ethan and bit clean through his trousers and underpants. He had to prise the dog’s jaws off his family jewels. Ever since that fateful day, Ethan has thoroughly hated Angus.
“Ach, get away with you. He’s just a baby.”
“He’s not a baby, he’s a fully grown adult dog and he’s also a bloody psychopath.”
Kirsty picks up Angus and takes him into a room. When she closes the door Angus whimpers. I feel heartily sorry for him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” says Ethan. “That dog hates me.”
Kirsty Cleary stands in front of us with her hands planted firmly on her hips. “I didn’t raise this boy to be frightened of a puppy,” she says to me, her large blue eyes twinkling with humour. With her slight frame, sharp angular features and fair hair that falls around her face in soft curls, she doesn’t look much like her three children, but she is closest to Ethan. They have the same eyes, wide smile and lively sense of humour. “Honestly, Ethan, you’re the only one in this family who doesn’t love Angus.”
“That’s because I’m the only one he savaged.”
At that moment Ethan’s brother, who I know well, appears in the doorway of the drawing room. He leans on the door frame and sinks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Rory is a musician who also manages a bar in Hackney. He’s very good-looking, with thick, dark curly hair that falls to his shoulders, and a neat, hipster beard. He usually wears snug, trendy t-shirts, but tonight he’s wearing a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Rory shoots me the trademark Fraser smile, which I return eagerly, then he steps forward and gives me a hug.
“Finally,” he says when he releases me. “I thought my big bro would never get his act together.” He offers Ethan his hand, and the two brothers share a handshake that swiftly turns into another hug. Rory, in contrast to Ethan, is a man of few words, so this is an interesting exchange between them.
We go into the drawing room, where Howard Cleary, Ethan’s estate-agent stepdad, is sitting in an armchair reading tonight’s copy of the Evening Standard. Howard is a large-built, grey-haired man with no neck and a round face. His cheeks look like two shiny apples. “So, I guess I should welcome you to the family, Violet.”
“Steady on, Howard,” says Ethan. “We’ve only been dating for six weeks.”
“I’ve known you since you were eleven years old.” He strokes his short-bearded chin as he talks. “You wouldn’t be bringing a girl into my home if you weren’t positive she was the one.”
I feel my cheeks heat up, and Ethan’s face reddens. I would never have imagined that Howard Cleary, an old-school traditionalist, would be the one who’d make us blush tonight. I sit down on a tan leather sofa and Ethan sits next to me.
“Violet Archer, let me be the first to say that I always thought you were a highly intelligent woman, but now I think you’re possibly quite mad!” Ethan’s fifteen-year-old half-sister bounds into the room with a serious expression on her face, but a cheeky glint in her eyes. She has thick dark hair like Rory, and a round face like her father, but she’s confident and ballsy like Ethan and their mum.
“Oh, why’s that, Esme?” I ask, knowing that she’s teasing.
“Because my big brother is a big baby who is late for everything, forgets about promising to arrange my work experience and is shit-scared of dogs.”
“Watch your language, kiddo,” barks Howard from behind the Evening Standard.
“Sorry, Dad,” says Esme.
“I didn’t forget about your work experience. I just don’t have much work that would be an experience for you at the moment. Not until Tribe launches.”
Esme puts her hands on her hips and twists her mouth into a pout. “Fine. I’ll go to Dad’s office.”
“No you won’t,” says Howard. “Go to your mother’s.”
“No, uh-uh, I can’t. She’ll make me bake cupcakes or sell cupcakes and dress up in a pink apron.” Esme pulls a face, and I have to agree that the gutsy teenager, with green highlights in her hair and Doc Martens on her feet, would look a bit odd wearing a pink apron. “Rory, can I work at the bar?”
Rory humours her with a smile.
“No, you can’t!” Howard’s weary voice booms from behind his newspaper.
“Why not?” whines Esme.
“Because you’re fifteen years old,” says Kirsty, coming into the room. She’s carrying a tray with a floral teapot, jug of milk and bowl of sugar cubes. She places the tray on the coffee table and retrieves six matching teacups from a wooden dresser.
“Grandma’s best china?” exclaims Ethan. “You’re pushing the boat out, aren’t you, Mum?”
“I sure am,” she says, pouring out the tea. “It’s not every day your son brings a girl home for dinner.” She passes me the first cup. I’m not a tea drinker, but I don’t want to disappoint her, so I take a sip.
“Rory has brought dozens of girls home,” says Ethan.
I glance at Rory, who is still smiling. He gives me a friendly wink.
“Well it’s the first time you have, Ethan.” She pours the last cup of tea for herself then sits down next to me. I turn to face her. “I first met you at Ethan’s twenty-sixth birthday party, do you remember?” I nod. Kirsty’s cupcake company was starting a new line in birthday cakes, so she threw a party for him, inviting all of his friends. It was a lovely day. “I didn’t tell you then, but I already knew you were very special to Ethan. In fact, every time he called me or visited for Sunday lunch, all he ever talked about was you. I knew you were perfect for him right from the start.”
I expect Ethan to protest at his mum embarrassing him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches for my hand, threads his fingers through mine and squeezes tightly. I look into his eyes, and my body is flooded by happy love endorphins.
As I sit in his mum’s drawing room, listening to the lively chatter, the warmth from Ethan’s touch spreads through my entire body. For the first time since Laurel died, I feel I’m somewhere I belong.
THE END