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‘I can’t have the quality of my tea challenged without fighting back!’ I protest. ‘Did you used to run a chain of cafés, Joe Kitson? No, you did not. Though I only ever made the coffees … But that’s not the point! I will take your paracetamol and then you prepare yourself for the best brew of your life. Unless … actually, I should probably round Lila up and give you some space. But mark my words, this slur will not go unchecked.’
Joe regards me with a lop-sided grin. ‘There’s no need to rush off. The kids are really happy.’ He nudges the living room door open and I see Lila and Sid sitting cross-legged on the floor next to empty plates, a jigsaw in front of them.
‘Hi, Lila!’ I call enthusiastically.
‘Hi, Mum,’ she responds, not bothering to look up from the puzzle.
‘So she missed me desperately then,’ I quip, preparing to cup-of-tea the shit out of Joe. ‘Where are your mugs?’
He hands me three.
‘And I thought I was the drunk and disorderly one … There are only two of us.’
‘Mum! Perfect timing,’ Joe says, grinning as the kitchen door opens behind me. I spin round (ouch – my head!) to see a tall woman with striking grey hair walk in, a tray in her hand. ‘This is my friend Sophie. Sophie, my mum Denise.’
I make a squawking sound which I try and style into a hello. I can’t meet Joe’s mum while still tipsy and sporting an egg-shaped drunken bruise on my head! What will she think of me? Her son’s been looking after my child while I head out and get drunk on a school night …
I get on and pour milk into the mugs, add teabags and wait for the kettle to boil.
‘Sophie,’ she says in a broad Irish accent, a smile sweeping across her face. ‘Your Lila is divine. She’s eaten two of my cookies and was campaigning for a third but I thought her mam might not approve of too many treats at teatime.’
Denise brings a cosy energy into the kitchen and I immediately feel like I want to sit down at the table, let her cover me in blankets and sing me a bedtime song. This is an odd and vaguely inappropriate thought I suppose, but I can’t put my finger on if it’s the champagne or actually Denise that is doing it to me.
‘Would you like one?’ she asks, seeing me eye up the remaining cookies. ‘They’re a new vegan recipe I’m trying out. Apple crumble flavour. They’re gluten-free too, naturally. I suppose you’ve heard about my Joe’s issues?’
Joe looks quite miffed at this and starts muttering about it being ‘no big deal’.
‘I’d love one, yes please,’ I say, plonking myself back down.
One mouthful later and I remember how blooming good these were the last time around, when Joe handed me some after the bake sale.
‘Mrs Kitson, you can bake.’
‘Dear god, it’s Denise.’ She grins.
‘Perfect with a cup of tea,’ Joe says, handing out the brews I just made.
Denise takes a sip. ‘Jaysus, what’s that? Dishwater, Joe! Did I not teach you better?’
Joe is absolutely beaming while my toes curl in mortification. Is my tea really that bad?
‘I made that,’ I confess. ‘Joe was quite rude about my tea-making skills earlier so I thought I’d prove him wrong but …’
‘This proves that your tea does, in fact, taste like shite,’ Joe announces, triumphant.
His mum shoots him a look that could kill small animals.
‘Joseph! Don’t be so rude.’
‘You’re the one who called it dishwater,’ Joe points out, affronted. ‘Sophie puts the milk in first.’
For a micro-second a look of horror flashes across Denise’s face before she recovers herself. ‘Don’t argue with your mother! Sophie made the tea and the tea is delicious.’
‘But …’ Joe folds his arms across his chest and I feel a bubble of laughter building deep in my stomach.
‘Thank you, Denise.’ I grin. ‘I’m so pleased you’re enjoying it.’
‘Now you’re just ganging up on me,’ Joe huffs.
