‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. After all, I’m going to relax and recuperate, not much else, so hopefully all I’ll need are pyjamas and fleecy leggings.’
As I had slightly intended, my mother almost choked on her champagne.
‘Leggings?’ she hissed. ‘Fallon, I didn’t bring you up to wearleggings. Please tell me you havesomethingpresentable with you, or we’ll have to go shopping as soon as we arrive. It is Christmas, after all – you’ll need some sparkle.’
And, as she had fully intended, I instantly capitulated.
‘No, of course I do, there’s no need for that.’
‘And what about the James Bond cocktail party Douglas has arranged to welcome us? Have you got something for that? Please don’t tell me there is just a can of gold spray paint in that suitcase?’
I snorted with laughter.
‘Nowthere’san idea! Why didn’t I think of that? No, I’m having something delivered tomorrow – you’ll like it.’
‘It’s not aboutme, darling. I’ve told you how into Bond Douglas is, he’ll be very disappointed if you don’t make an effort.’
‘Whydoeshe love it so much? I’m a bit surprised, I thought it would be a bit…I don’t know, clichéd, I suppose?’
‘It is – unexpected,’ admitted Mum, ‘but it’s just something he’s loved ever since he first picked up one of the books. Apparently, he’s got quite a collection of memorabilia at the house in Yorkshire. I’ve seen his Aston Martin, of course, but not much else. Anyway, if he wasn’t such a fan, we never would have met, so it was obviously meant to be.’
That was true: my mother and Douglas had met at a Bond convention. He had attended as a superfan and she was there because she had had a very small part – blink and you’d miss it – inOctopussyand, coupled with her fame as a soap actressnow, was hugely in demand for these occasions. She would be in her element at this themed welcome party; I was dreading it and could only bear going because I liked Douglas and he was, after all, hosting me for Christmas.
‘What are you going to wear?’ I asked, nervous of any mention of a white bikini. She smirked.
‘Wait and see. Just please make sure your outfit is suitable – andfun, darling. It wouldn’t kill you.’
‘So, not Oddjob, then?’
She glowered at me but didn’t reply and we fell into silence again. I gazed out of the window as the scenery flashed past. I am so used to frustrating and disappointing my mother by not being anything like her that I tend to weaponize it now, mainly to push home the message that there is no point in her even trying. She would so love a glamorous, charismatic daughter to show off and share her clothes with, but, while I am perfectly acceptable-looking and even enjoy a good pair of heels when the wind’s behind me, I am somewhat lower-key than she is, and she has never forgiven me for it. My mother is called Jacqueline Honeywood, although of course that isn’t her given name. That was Jackie Woodcock and is one of the few of her many secrets that I know. She changed it when she got her first acting job, and it has served her well in her stellar career as a soap actor, looking good as it does splashed across magazine covers and newspaper gossip columns. If you ever want to upset my mother, the quickest way is to abbreviate her name; she has worked hard to distance herself from what she describes as her ‘common roots’. I told her once that she shouldn’t use the word ‘common’, but she was typically unrepentant. ‘That’s what we were, darling, and I’m glad we’re not anymore. I’d rather be a snob, if anything – some people do care which way you hang the loo paper, darling, even if you don’t.’ And I really don’t. She named me after her favourite character in the 1980s’ American soap operaDynasty, and I can only feel that I got off lightly because I didn’t end up being called Krystle or Sammy Jo. Fallon Honeywood is memorable, which is useful when you run an events company, but not so silly that people don’t take you seriously.
I was roused from my thoughts by Runcible waking suddenly from her sleep with a quiet yip. I stroked her head fondly, ignoring my mother’s delicately wrinkled nose.
‘I don’t know why you insist on keeping that…creature. If you must have a dog, I don’t see why it couldn’t at least be something pretty.’
‘Well, I think Runcible is beautiful, and she’s beautiful on the inside as well.’
It is true that my beloved dog hasn’t been blessed with conventional good looks. She is small with long, thin grey fur that tufts up at random over her body, neglects to grow at all on her chest but forms a lavish beard on her chin. She has skinny legs, huge sticking up ears, a small but plumy tail and a protruding bottom jaw, due to an injury as a puppy, before I got her. When I saw her at the rescue centre, the only remaining member of a litter unwanted by the mother dog’s owner, I knew we were meant for each other. Mum wishes I had the same reaction to men, or babies, that I do Runcible, but my heart has never melted quite enough over those I’ve met so far. I named her Runcible after the spoon inThe Owl and the Pussycatbecause no one knows exactly what it means, and it’s impossible to know my little dog’s heritage; a bit of Chinese Crested, for sure, some Yorkshire Terrier maybe, perhaps a bit of Chihuahua? Anyway, it doesn’t matter – I love her, even if other people tend to shrink away and whisper about gremlins.
‘I don’t know what Douglas is going to make of her, let alone his son and grandson. The nobility are used to proper dogs, particularly in Yorkshire. They’ll probably think she’s some sort of lure.’
I hugged Runcible to me, and she snuggled into my neck.
‘Don’t be horrible. Douglas seemed nice the one time I met him, and I’m sure his family will be too. Anyway, if they’re as noble as you say they are, they should be too polite to comment.’
‘It’s not just whatIsay, darling, they’re bona fide titled, and so will I be soon.’
I tried to stop my eyebrow flickering heavenwards. My mother never misses an opportunity to drop in the fact that if Douglas proposes, as is fully expected, she will be Lady Knight, and her happiness in life complete. Apart from her only daughter’s dowdy spinsterdom, of course. Feeling too tired to needle her about it, I decided to change the subject.
‘Have you met his son or grandson? What are they like?’
‘No, I haven’t. They rarely come down to London, and although Douglas is often up there helping with the boy – Theo, his name is – this is the first time I’ve had a long enough break in filming to be able to go with him. His son, Alexander, has had a hard time of it, and Douglas is nothing short of a saint the way he steps in.’
‘If you do get married, won’t he expect you to go to Yorkshire with him?’
‘Not at all. Douglas, for all his pedigree’ – she shot another scowl at poor Runcible – ‘is a very modern man. He knows that I have to work and understands thatMayfair Mewscan’t keep giving its star long periods of time off. My fans wouldn’t allow it.’
This much was true. Mum had worked on the soap about upmarket Londoners for over twenty years and was much-loved by millions of people. She had steered the role of Ophelia Cromwell from little more than a walk-on part to being the central character: the classic soap matriarch who presided over her extended family and ran the neighbourhood, yet still had time for a dramatic love life. I was glad when she found someone who had never heard of her or seen the programme, yet fullysupported and respected her work. She was a formidable woman who had achieved a great amount and, complicated though our relationship was, I did admire her. I poured us both some more champagne, hoping it might perk me up.
