25

‘Are you ready?’ I ask, walking into the lounge.

Not that I really am, but unfortunately if we don’t leave now we’re going to be late for lunch with my parents. And being late is not an option. My mum refuses in punishment to pull things out of the oven until we’re there, so if you’re not careful with your timekeeping you end up with bone-dry beef and charcoaled roast potatoes.

I forwent giving myself plenty of time to get ready in favour of sleeping off my hangover, which means I’m leaving myself wide open to criticism from my mother about my appearance. With frizzy, non-blow-dried hair, dark circles peeking through my concealer and unironed clothes, she’s got plenty to critique.

Will groans. It’s the same noise I made when I got up this morning.

‘I don’t think I’m really up for it today,’ he says.

‘What do you mean you’re not up for it?’

‘I don’t fancy going. Do you mind if I stay at home?’

Alarm bells are ringing in my ears. What sport does he want to watch? I know there’s no Grand Prix this week, and I’m not aware of any football on until later. What could it be? Rugby? American football? The start of the cricket tournament we’re going to watch in Barbados?

‘What sport’s on?’

‘What? Nothing. There’s none on. I just don’t want to go.’

I narrow my eyes at him. Ordinarily I’d think that he was telling the truth, but after his lie, I can’t tell any more.

‘Are you ill?’ I practically shriek.

‘No.’

‘Then you can’t stay at home.’

Will groans again, and still doesn’t move. ‘Couldn’t you tell them that I’m ill? They wouldn’t have to know.’

I bite my tongue as I was about to blurt something out, but I stop myself.

‘No, but I would.’

Will shrugs his shoulders and sighs. I know he doesn’t like going to Sunday lunch at my parents, but who does? All that fine china and formality – it’s exhausting.

‘Come on, Will. We’ve got to go. They’re my parents and I’m their only child.’

I can’t believe I’m using the same guilt card that my mum uses on me.

‘Well, then you go on your own. I’ll see them when we get back from holiday.’

‘I can’t go on my own.’

My mother will go into some sort of frenzied panic thinking that it signals the demise of our relationship if I turn up without Will.

‘Look, do you think I actually want to go?’

Will looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

‘Then let’s both stay here.’

For the first time in the conversation his face lights up.

‘We could curl up on the sofa and watch a movie. Or go back to bed and have croissants again like last weekend.’

There will be no croissants in our bed ever again. It was like sleeping on sawdust that night with all the crumbs.

But a movie on the sofa sounds tempting. I’ve got some popcorn in the cupboard and we could get the big fleecy blanket out to snuggle under. He obviously hasn’t got a sporting agenda after all.

I almost slip my coat off, before I realise that my mother would probably disown me.

‘Come on, we’ve got to go. We can do that when we get back. If we’re lucky it will be a quick lunch and we’ll be home by three.’

Will sighs. I think I’ve got him.

‘I just can’t face your mum today,’ he says with an almost worried expression on his face.

This is probably because he knows she’s going to be wedding hyper as this is the first time we’ve been round since Vanessa and Ian tied the knot and she’s going to want to hear every little detail.

‘Don’t worry, she won’t mention the wedding.’

‘What wedding?’ says Will, confused.

‘Vanessa and Ian’s. Isn’t that why you don’t want to come? Never mind. Let’s go.’

I clap my hands in what I hope is an authoritative manner, hoping he’ll get up. He’s a thirty-four-year-old male who weighs about thirteen stone, so there’s no way I’ll be able to physically force him.

Luckily for me, he gets up and drags his feet to the car. I watch him slip a coat over his long-sleeved Southampton T-shirt. Ordinarily I’d point out that perhaps he’d want to change first, as my mum practically issues a dress code with the invitation, but I think that really would send him over the edge.

*

I check my watch as we pull up on to my parents’ driveway. That was good going – only a couple of minutes late.

‘Cheer up,’ I say to Will. ‘It might not be as bad as usual.’

He gives me a look.

‘OK, it probably will be, but at least put a smile on your face.’

I climb out of the car and I’m halfway to the door before I realise that he isn’t following me. He’s still sitting there and for a second I think he’s going to abandon me here and drive away. Why’s he being so weird? He may groan about coming, but he never usually puts up this much of a fight.

I beckon him with my hand to get moving before my mum opens the door, which she does almost without fail.

‘Mum,’ I say theatrically, as I give her a more exaggerated hug than usual. By the time I pull out of it, I see that Will has joined us. Phew.

‘Hello, William,’ she says and then she hugs him like her long-lost child.

‘Steady on, Mum. That’s my boyfriend you’ve got your paws all over,’ I mutter to myself. It seems it isn’t only Will that’s acting out of character today. Maybe there’s a full moon.

She finally lets him go and we’re led through to the formal sitting room. She only uses this room for guests. I’ve told her about a billion times that I’m not really a guest, and the cosy lounge at the back of the house would be much more comfortable, but she insists. I find it ironic that when I was younger I used to beg to be able to come in here and play, only to discover when I moved out and I finally earned the right to come in this room, that it smells a bit musty and the sofas are rock hard.

‘There you are,’ says Mum. ‘I’ll go and finish up.’

‘OK, thanks.’

Something very strange is going on. She was too busy fawning over Will to look me up and down, meaning she hasn’t commented on my appearance. I’m so glad that I didn’t get up any earlier.

‘All right, love,’ says my dad, putting down his paper and standing up.

‘Fine thanks, Dad,’ I say, giving him a quick cuddle.

Will seems to be almost hiding behind me, forcing my dad to lean behind me to shake his hand.

My dad retreats back to his armchair and instead of picking up his paper like he usually would, he sits staring at us.

‘Everything OK?’ I ask, leaning my head to the side slightly, as if I’m missing something.

‘Oh yes, fine, fine,’ he says, nodding.

I turn to look at Will, to see if he’s noticing any of this odd behaviour, pull a face at him, but he’s sat with his head down fiddling with a loose thread on his T-shirt.

‘So,’ says my dad.

‘So,’ I say, wondering what on earth we should talk about.

In the end, when I can’t stand the expectant look on my dad’s face any more, I say ‘How about the Saints, then?’

I have no idea what that really means, but I’ve heard him say that to Will often enough.

‘Oh yes, they’re doing nicely, aren’t they, Will?’

Will jerks his head up at the mention of his name.

‘Huh, what?’ he says, a slight look of panic on his face.

‘Um, we were just saying how well Southampton are doing this season.’

He seems to relax.

‘Yeah, not a bad place to be.’

‘Were you there on Wednesday? Did you see that goal; they think it’ll be a contender for Goal of the Season.’

‘Actually, I missed it. Something came up with, um, work,’ he coughs.

I feel my cheeks flush at the thought of what we were actually up to on Wednesday. Definitely something I wouldn’t want my dad to know about.

‘I saw the goal on Match of the Day, though. It was amazing,’ says Will.

Now usually if he’d missed such a goal it would have been the end of the world, but I think that night more than made up for it.

‘Wasn’t it?’

Now that Will’s relaxed he seems quite happy talking to my dad.

I decide to leave them to it, and I go in search of my mum to see if she needs any help. I know that she’ll say no, she always does, but if I don’t ask her then she’ll only moan when we sit down to eat that no one offered.

‘Hiya, do you need me to do anything?’ I say, strolling into the kitchen and sitting down at the table.

There’s something nostalgically comforting about sitting here. Ever since they had the kitchen redone when I was eight, I’ve sat in the same chair, leaning up against the back wall. I only have to close my eyes and I’m transported right back there, sitting watching my mum in wonder as she effortlessly whipped up a huge meal for the (then) three of us.

‘It’s all under control, thank you.’

She opens the oven and I’m almost floored by the delicious aromas that escape. As much as I dread coming here, the food always makes up for the awkwardness of it all. She pokes around with a knife at her perfectly roasted potatoes and then eventually pulls the tray out.

‘Is everything all right with Dad?’ I ask.

She practically drops the roasting tray on to a trivet and it clatters down noisily. She’s not doing anything to reassure me.

‘He’s fine. Why ever do you say that?’

‘He seems a little odd today and he was weird on the phone the other day. I just thought he might be ill or something.’

It would be so typical of my parents not to tell me if he was.

‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your father, I promise,’ she says, a smile appearing on her face. ‘Now, can you pop these potatoes into a bowl for me?’

If I wasn’t worried before, I’m really worried now. Mum actually wants me to help her. This can only mean one thing – she’s trying to distract me.

I stand up slowly, recovering the bowl out of the cupboard, and I start to worry about what could be wrong with my dad. I carefully scoop the potatoes in one by one, so as not to damage them in any way. What if he’s actually got some horrible, life-threatening illness?

‘I think we’re ready to go,’ says my mum as she pulls off a tea towel that’s covering the resting beef joint. ‘Can you take those through to the dining room?’

‘OK.’ I’ve suddenly got the fear as I lift the bowl and take it into the dining room. My mother insists on using the dinner service that she got as a wedding present, which they stopped making in the mid-eighties, which means if there’s an accident there’s practically a steward’s inquiry.

When Will first came over he chipped one of the gravy boats. He’s never really been forgiven and, to this day, I have to pour his gravy on for him.

I set the potatoes down on one of the floral place mats in the centre of the table and I shiver. The dining room is always so cold as, like the formal lounge, it’s only really used for Sunday lunches. The stupid thing is with just the four of us we could comfortably sit around the kitchen table. But I’m a guest now, which means dining room with the fine china and the solid silver cutlery. The only saving grace is that with all the food (and seconds) that I eat, I’m at least having an arm workout with the weight of the cutlery – bingo wings be gone.

I’m so slow at helping, that my mum’s already bought the rest of the things in and I’m ushered to sit down while she retrieves the warmed plates from the oven.

‘You OK?’ I say to Will, as he comes in and sits down next to me.

‘Yes, fine,’ he says, looking a little more relaxed than when he first got here.

‘Has my dad said anything strange to you?’ I ask while it’s just us the two of us in the room.

‘No, why should he?’

I’m about to tell him what’s going on, when my parents walk back in.

‘This looks delicious,’ says Will.

My mum beams with pride.

‘Thank you. Now tuck in everyone.’

We jostle politely for dishes that someone else has as we make trades and try and find new spaces on the table for all the food. I do a quick sweep over the table to make sure I haven’t missed anything. I once ate a whole roast dinner before realising I’d forgotten the roast parsnips – talk about disaster. Satisfied that I’m fully stocked, I pour mine and Will’s gravy on and we’re good to go.

‘I saw Vanessa last night,’ I say, as I start to tuck in. ‘She said to say thanks for the wedding present and that you’d get a card in a few weeks.’

I figure that I might as well get this out of the way early. It’s a bit like ripping a plaster off – get in quick and then it will be all over.

‘Excellent,’ says my mum.

I wait for her to make a dig about buying wedding presents for other people and not me, but it doesn’t come. I know she asked me about the big day when I spoke to her on the phone a few days later, but still, it’s not like her not to pounce on the opportunity to protest at the fact that I’m not engaged.

First she didn’t comment on my outfit, and now this. There can only be one reason, Dad’s ill and she’s too distracted to be her usual delightful (i.e. critical) self.

‘How’s work, Dad?’

If they’re not going to tell me then I’ll have to go fishing.

‘Oh, the usual, you know. Counting down the days to retirement.’

My dad’s a civil engineer, which, despite him having done the same job since I was little, I’m still not entirely sure what that means. Whatever it is, he’s just putting in his time now until he gets his pension in a couple of years.

‘So you haven’t been off work lately?’ I say.

‘No, we’ve got some holiday booked for next year. We’re going to Greece again. In May,’ he says slowly. ‘But other than that . . .’

‘Of course Zante won’t be as exciting as going to Barbados, you lucky things. So romantic,’ says my mum.

Will drops his knife and it crashes on to the plate. I hold my breath in case he’s broken the plate, and I almost can’t look. But my mother doesn’t shriek so I figure it’s safe.

‘I can’t wait,’ I say dreaming of all the sand, sea and . . . you know. I can’t think about that in front of my parents. ‘It’s going to be amazing.’

‘Have you planned out what you’re doing?’ asks my mother.

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘Of course we’re going to the cricket on a few of the days, but other than that we’re going to have a rest.’

‘Sounds heavenly,’ says my dad.

There is definitely something wrong with him. He never usually speaks at lunch, let alone uses words like heavenly. Not even I’d use a flowery word like that and I did a degree in English literature.

‘We’ll tell you all about it when we get back. Perhaps we can meet for lunch the weekend after?’

I really should spend more time with my parents – especially if there’s something wrong with Dad.

‘That’s a great idea,’ says Will.

‘It is?’ I say, wondering if he’s being sarcastic, but he looks genuinely pleased about it. I’m pretty surprised considering how I practically had to drag him along today.

‘Yes, it is,’ he says, nodding and giving a finality to the subject.

Sunday lunch at my mum’s is never normal, but today is one of the weirdest I’ve ever experienced. It’s like everyone’s had a personality transplant except me.

There’s only one thing for it. I scoop some extra potatoes on to my plate. I’m going to have to put myself into a food coma to get through it.