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‘Aren’t you drinking yours?’ Olivia asks me.
‘I … uh, actually this is my old business. I founded it when I was at uni.’
‘Oh.’ Celeste looks impressed. ‘Well I never!’
‘Mate, that’s amazing. Mylk It’s a big deal, right? You must be rolling in it,’ Frankie says mid-slurp.
‘Ha, not quite. I left the company a while ago for, um, personal reasons but I’m still very proud of it.’
Joe takes my hand and squeezes it. I feel a small sense of relief that someone here knows there’s a whole lot more going on that I’m not saying.
Chapter 17
A call to my old PA at Mylk It confirmed my worst fears. They are trialling a pop-up in Bristol with a view to launching a permanent café here. The news has loomed like an ominous cloud over everything from the moment I hung up. What with my new commitments to the Barnaby’s Babes, general parenting of Lila, work and this new thunderstorm brewing, I’m feeling decidedly distracted by the time Sunday rolls around. We’re heading en masse to Mum and Dad’s local for Sunday lunch, which means that on top of everything, I’m now low-key freaking out that Mum and her razor-sharp perception will somehow figure out there’s something amiss between me and Joe. Poppy’s promised not to say anything about our relationship, so as far as my folks are concerned we’re all just going out for lunch with Lila and her pal Sidney. But still. Will she get a whiff of deception? Will she somehow uncover the strange dynamic of a fauxmance? To quote Eminem, my palms are sweaty.
Joe seems unusually on edge today, too, and I realise that with everything going on, we haven’t really spoken since the night out and the unwelcome appearance of Mylk It the following day. He doesn’t want to catch my eye and has barely said a word to me on the drive out here. Perhaps he’s nervous about meeting my parents?
We gather with the kids outside The Royal Oak and as we walk in, I spot my family propping up the bar. Dad’s wearing his classic Sunday outfit of checked shirt and chinos, Mum’s in a floral dress and Poppy’s wearing jeans and a purple velvet blazer with a white tee underneath, which she manages to make look unbelievably cool, the dick.
‘Mummy your hands are clammy,’ Lila points out, abandoning me in preference of the outdoor play area in the pub’s garden. But not before my eagle-eyed mother notices the comment.
‘Are you all right, darling?’ Mum asks, grabbing my hands and inspecting them.
‘Too much caffeine this morning,’ I say, attempting blasé. ‘Hello, Mum and Dad! Pops!’ Too keen, Sophie. Just plough on. ‘This is my fake – FRIEND – sorry, I mean friend. Ha ha! There’s nothing fake about Joe.’
I’m spiralling. Kill me now.
Poppy’s eyes bore into my soul.
Joe shoots me a look and I pat him on the back a bit too hard, which makes him splutter. ‘Joe, this is my mum Ingrid and my dad Charles. And you’ve met Poppy, obviously.’
‘Gosh, aren’t you handsome,’ chirrups Mum.
‘Good to meet you, son,’ Dad says with a firm handshake.
‘And you, Mr and Mrs Rogers. What a great place.’
While everyone else is admiring the pub I have a stern word with myself. There’s no point in getting het up, is there? I’m at the pub with my favourite people on the planet and there’s nothing I can do about Mark right now. I’ll figure out how to deal with all of that later and in the meantime, I should just enjoy today. This is meant to be a cosy Sunday lunch. No biggie! I haven’t been to the Oak since it had a makeover and it’s been ages since I saw Mum and Dad.
‘Bloody Mary?’ offers Joe. ‘Oh wait, you’re not drinking.’
‘I’d actually love one.’
The combination of vodka and pep-talk-to-self work their magic and I feel marginally less sweaty as I follow our group through to the table. I actually can’t believe this is the same place that Poppy and I used to sneak into when we were definitely not under age, officer. The brightly coloured bar is buzzing with customers. We’re led through to a large dining room, all exposed floorboards, reclaimed tables and chairs in green and blue. We’re seated close to French windows which lead out to the pub garden, former setting for many a drunken vomit, now fully landscaped with a wooden pirate ship for little guests to commandeer. Sidney is already shouting ‘ahoy there, me hearties’ from the crow’s nest.
Back at the table, Joe’s settled into a chat with my parents.
‘The thing is, Joe, I just love chicken in a basket. What’s so wrong with the classics, that’s what I say,’ Dad laments.
‘Not again, Charles,’ tuts Mum.
Joe nods. ‘You and my mum would get along well. She nearly disowned me when I ordered an alcohol-free Guinness when we went back to Ireland together last year.’
‘Zero per cent Guinness,’ Dad scoffs. ‘If you didn’t have that accent I wouldn’t be convinced that you were Irish.’
Joe laughs good-naturedly. ‘You can’t beat a pub classic. The roast beef sounds good?’
Dad scowls at the menu. ‘What’s a maple-glazed parsnip when it’s at home?’
