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‘But I need you to know, Eleanor. I need you to understand.’
‘I understand,’ I say softly, fighting to appreciate just how content she is. She might be my mother, but she’s still a woman. A beautiful one, who was never really made to feel that way.
‘Thank you,’ Mum says, spiking even more guilt. ‘Paul’s really a very lovely man. Big, strong, sociable.’
It doesn’t escape my notice that my father was none of those things. Paul is the polar opposite to him. ‘It’s nice to see you smile.’ I force the words through my inner turmoil – more turmoil, different situation – striving to sound as sincere as possible.
She blushes. In my twenty-eight years of life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother blush. It takes a decade off her sixty-three years. I also notice now that her hair is different. More shaped and with lots of swishing layers, and it might be morning, but she has make-up on. She’s like a new woman. Reborn. ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘What are you doing home? You never said.’
I clam up automatically. ‘I was homesick.’ I grimace and mentally kick myself for not thinking of a more feasible reason. I’ve spoken to her often and never once given any indication of missing home. Add the minor fact that I couldn’t wait to get out of Helston, she’s quickly all over me with a questioning look. She’s also picked up on my stiffness. Her constricting hold of my hand tells me so.
‘Homesick?’ she repeats, watching me closely.
‘I missed you.’ I try again.
‘You missed me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You turn up out of the blue at the crack of dawn, and you expect me to believe that it’s because you missed me?’
I snatch my hand away from my mother’s, feeling like she’s delving into my mind through our touch. ‘Yes, exactly that.’ I slide my chair back and get up, heading for the sink to wash my mug. The drama since I walked through the front door of Mum’s cottage has been the perfect distraction. Now that I’ve had a sharp reminder of how I came to be here, I can feel the hurt churning in my gut again. ‘And I need to sort Dad’s shop.’
‘Okay,’ Mum says easily, making me pause with the mug under the tap until it overflows and the hot water scalds my skin.
‘Shit!’
‘Come here.’ Mum sighs, pushing me out of the way and turning off the tap. She retrieves the mug and sets it on the drainer. ‘Let me see.’ Claiming my hand carefully, she has a good inspection. ‘You’re fine.’ She gives me high eyebrows. ‘At least, your hand is fine. I’m not so sure about this.’ She taps my forehead before wandering out of the kitchen. ‘You can tell me why you’re really home when you’re ready,’ she calls.
My chin drops to my chest, and I only just manage to stop myself from telling her that I’ll never be ready.
I take myself upstairs to my old room and fall on the bed, dialling Lucy. I doubt my vagueness will be as willingly accepted by my friend, which is why I don’t plan on mentioning anything to do with Becker. I can’t face it.
‘Morning,’ she chirps, all happy. If I could see her, I know she’d have a skip to her step. It feels like eons since I last saw her, when in actual fact it was only last night that I left her with Mark. It’s been the longest night ever.
‘How was last night?’ I ask, getting comfy on my pillow, gazing around at the familiar surroundings of my old bedroom. Everything is exactly as I left it.
‘Perfect,’ she pants, and I smile. I’m happy for her. ‘He’s perfect, I’m perfect, we’re perfect.’ More panting comes down the line and I wait for her to gather air and spit out an explanation for her heavy breathing. ‘The stupid lifts are out of order at Covent Garden station. I’ve just passed step seventy-five.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Yeah,’ she huffs. ‘Shoes are coming off now. Still on for lunch? Or shall we do dinner?’
‘Ah.’ I snap my mouth shut and rummage through my cluttered mind for an excuse. ‘You see . . . um . . . I’m out of town.’
‘What do you mean, you’re out of town?’
‘I’m at my mum’s.’
‘What? In Helston?’
‘Yeah, family emergency.’ I cheer to myself for my quick thinking. Also because, technically speaking, it isn’t a lie.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Mum’s got herself a new boyfriend.’
There’s a slight pause. ‘Huh?’
‘My mum, she—’
‘Yes, yes. I heard you, Eleanor. How is that an emergency?’ Now I’m stumped, because, technically speaking, it isn’t really an emergency at all. A shock, maybe, but it doesn’t warrant me fleeing London late at night. ‘And what about your job?’ she asks.
‘What job?’ My voice is like a robot now, automatic and emotionless. It’s the only way to be.
