beautiful.’
‘Thank you, Grandma.’ The words catch in my throat as I think about sitting with Gemma looking out at the view from Pebble Cottage.
‘Oh, don’t get all soppy on me, Danny,’ she chides as the kettle boils and Mum steps in to pour water into the tea pot. Grandma looks up at her. ‘Has your mother told you about her new venture?’ she asks me.
Mum bites the inside of her mouth. ‘Not yet.’
‘She’s writing another book,’ Grandma announces.
I look at Mum. ‘Seriously?’
Mum straightens her back. ‘There’s a lot of demand for it these days. Feminism’s back in fashion, thanks to that woman Caitlin Moran.’
‘Your books weren’t about feminism,’ I argue. ‘Just what a tosser every man is, whoever walked the earth. It’s a wonder I never ended up on a psychiatric ward from the emotional strain.’
‘You do exaggerate sometimes, Daniel.’
‘What’s your new book about, Belinda?’ Gemma asks, appearing – worryingly – to be interested.
Mum clasps her hands together. ‘It’s called Beyond Bastards . It’s kind of a twenty-first-century take on my previous work. Revisited in the light of the last twenty-five years.’
‘Are we all still tossers?’
‘I never said all men were incapable of long-term commitment,’ she reproaches. ‘Perhaps you’d realise that if you actually read it.’
Gemma looks at me in the same way she did during the conversation about the number of times the average single man washes his bedsheets per year. ‘You’ve never read it?’
‘I’ve told you this,’ I lie.
‘You have not!’
‘I was only four when it came out,’ I defend myself. ‘And anyway, why would any man read a book that advocates the theory that all men are – to use the title phrase – bastards .’
‘I never said all men—’
‘Because your mum wrote it,’ Gemma replies, killing dead the discussion. Mum glances at me with an expression so smug she’s nearly cross-eyed.
Today is feeling very long already.
Mum has a get-together with her Pilates mates to go to, leaving us free to spend the day chugging up and down the M53 with belongings stuffed in our cars. Each time we arrive at Buddington, we work in a tag team: I carry stuff from the car to the house and garage while Gemma does the run upstairs to our room.
When we’ve finally made the last trip, locked up the old flat, delivered the key to the landlord and driven to Mum’s, it’s past dinnertime and all we’re capable of is demolishing a takeaway pizza, washing it down with an uninspiring bottle of 7-11 red and preparing to collapse into bed.
I’d failed to check which room Mum was putting us in, having assumed – and hoped – it would be the small spare room, which she decorated last summer and, more importantly, is on the opposite side of the house from her bedroom.
But, apparently overcome by a wave of nostalgia, she decided we’d sleep in my old room, which to be fair is the second largest in the house. I throw the pizza box in the recycling bin, before Gemma and I head to the stairs.
I can see the front door opening as I have my foot on the first step – but we’re just not quick enough. I hold my breath as Mum and her five friends – all of whom classify themselves as Aunty Someone – stumble in. A cacophony of coo-ing ensues as I’m cuddled and kissed and Gemma is paraded before the crowd like a Roman virgin.
We finally extricate ourselves from their grip and announce that we’re heading to bed, prompting a flurry of knowing looks and seaside-postcard innuendo.
‘They were nice,’ Gemma says, apparently seriously. ‘It’s great that your mum has such an active social life.’
It strikes me that she’s probably right as I push open the bedroom door . . . and am lost for words. Gemma glances at me, gauging my reaction with an impish smile. ‘I think your mum wanted to make you feel at home again.’
I have not lived in this house for thirteen full years. A week after
‘Thank you, Grandma.’ The words catch in my throat as I think about sitting with Gemma looking out at the view from Pebble Cottage.
‘Oh, don’t get all soppy on me, Danny,’ she chides as the kettle boils and Mum steps in to pour water into the tea pot. Grandma looks up at her. ‘Has your mother told you about her new venture?’ she asks me.
Mum bites the inside of her mouth. ‘Not yet.’
‘She’s writing another book,’ Grandma announces.
I look at Mum. ‘Seriously?’
Mum straightens her back. ‘There’s a lot of demand for it these days. Feminism’s back in fashion, thanks to that woman Caitlin Moran.’
‘Your books weren’t about feminism,’ I argue. ‘Just what a tosser every man is, whoever walked the earth. It’s a wonder I never ended up on a psychiatric ward from the emotional strain.’
‘You do exaggerate sometimes, Daniel.’
‘What’s your new book about, Belinda?’ Gemma asks, appearing – worryingly – to be interested.
Mum clasps her hands together. ‘It’s called Beyond Bastards . It’s kind of a twenty-first-century take on my previous work. Revisited in the light of the last twenty-five years.’
‘Are we all still tossers?’
‘I never said all men were incapable of long-term commitment,’ she reproaches. ‘Perhaps you’d realise that if you actually read it.’
Gemma looks at me in the same way she did during the conversation about the number of times the average single man washes his bedsheets per year. ‘You’ve never read it?’
‘I’ve told you this,’ I lie.
‘You have not!’
‘I was only four when it came out,’ I defend myself. ‘And anyway, why would any man read a book that advocates the theory that all men are – to use the title phrase – bastards .’
‘I never said all men—’
‘Because your mum wrote it,’ Gemma replies, killing dead the discussion. Mum glances at me with an expression so smug she’s nearly cross-eyed.
Today is feeling very long already.
Mum has a get-together with her Pilates mates to go to, leaving us free to spend the day chugging up and down the M53 with belongings stuffed in our cars. Each time we arrive at Buddington, we work in a tag team: I carry stuff from the car to the house and garage while Gemma does the run upstairs to our room.
When we’ve finally made the last trip, locked up the old flat, delivered the key to the landlord and driven to Mum’s, it’s past dinnertime and all we’re capable of is demolishing a takeaway pizza, washing it down with an uninspiring bottle of 7-11 red and preparing to collapse into bed.
I’d failed to check which room Mum was putting us in, having assumed – and hoped – it would be the small spare room, which she decorated last summer and, more importantly, is on the opposite side of the house from her bedroom.
But, apparently overcome by a wave of nostalgia, she decided we’d sleep in my old room, which to be fair is the second largest in the house. I throw the pizza box in the recycling bin, before Gemma and I head to the stairs.
I can see the front door opening as I have my foot on the first step – but we’re just not quick enough. I hold my breath as Mum and her five friends – all of whom classify themselves as Aunty Someone – stumble in. A cacophony of coo-ing ensues as I’m cuddled and kissed and Gemma is paraded before the crowd like a Roman virgin.
We finally extricate ourselves from their grip and announce that we’re heading to bed, prompting a flurry of knowing looks and seaside-postcard innuendo.
‘They were nice,’ Gemma says, apparently seriously. ‘It’s great that your mum has such an active social life.’
It strikes me that she’s probably right as I push open the bedroom door . . . and am lost for words. Gemma glances at me, gauging my reaction with an impish smile. ‘I think your mum wanted to make you feel at home again.’
I have not lived in this house for thirteen full years. A week after
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