‘And whatareyour favourite herbal supplements, Mum?’
She waved her hand dismissively.
‘I’m sure I’ll find out once I get there. You may sneer, but it’s all the rage these days.’
‘And does champagne count? Maybe the grapes are one of your five a day?’
‘Good champagne is splendidly pure and anyway, five a day is terribly passé, darling, it’s all about thirty different plant foods for your gut bacteria now. Sounds unpleasant to me, but Acanthe is preparing some posts about it.’
Acanthe – who was named Jane at birth – is my mother’s much-exploited PA who adores her and is more Jacqueline Honeywood than she is herself.
‘I’m not sure that the purity of the champagne makes up for the ethanol content,’ put in Alexander mildly, reminding me that until his accident he was an eminent heart surgeon, so better placed to talk about ‘wellness’ than any influencer, even if he was starting up a gin business. Mum sailed on regardless.
‘Oh well, we can’t worry too much about that. I’m thinking of becoming sober curious next year, but I don’t want to do it all at the same time.’
I hid a smile. This is the woman who, back in the 1970s, had thought nothing of necking a few tapeworms washed down with Campari. Personally, I wouldn’t be taking wellness advice from her, but, as ever, I admired her determination.
‘Okay then,’ I said. ‘Let’s leave around quarter to twelve, shall we, and we can get some lunch in York as well.’
A shame I’d be driving, I reflected as I finished my coffee. A swig or two of ethanol would have made a shopping expedition with my mother considerably more bearable.
We arrived in York just after twelve. Coco went off immediately as she had friends to catch up with as well as shopping to do, which left my mother and me alone for the second time in three days. I was wearing the clothes I had pulled on for dog walking that morning, and was still too cold. Mum was looking every inch the winter princess in a hat lined with real fur – ‘it’s perfectly fine if it’s vintage, darling, stop looking so disapproving’ – and a tailored red coat with a little cape.
‘It’s a bit early, but shall we start with lunch?’ I suggested, wanting to get my strength up for the afternoon ahead. ‘We could go to Bettys; the wait might not be too bad yet.’
‘Wait?’ said Mum. ‘I don’t have to wait, Fallon. Come on, where is this place?’
As we walked the five minutes or so to the tea rooms, I looked around at the impressive medieval architecture, while Mum rang Acanthe. Even I was impressed when, as we approached the iconic building, the windows of which exploded with a fabulous sparkly, snowy Christmas display, a smartly dressed man appeared, greeted both of us by name and swept us past thelong, cold, jealous queue and straight over to a corner table – my mother’s usual favourite spot as she could see the rest of the room and didn’t have anyone behind her back.
‘Please do make sure that everyone waiting has a hot drink on me,’ said my mother, smiling graciously.
‘Thank you, Miss Honeywood, I’ll see to it immediately. How very kind of you,’ said the man and disappeared, to be instantly replaced by a smiling waitress who handed us menus, then melted away again. Mum gave a contented sigh.
‘What a delightful place,’ she said, taking several selfies from different angles. ‘I’ll mention them on my socials. Now, what shall we have?’
When the waitress came back, I ordered the smoked haddock fish cakes, which came with various sides and sauces and sounded delicious, then I settled back to wait while my mother indulged in one of her favourite hobbies: ordering off-menu. She started by clocking the waitress’s name badge, then began her campaign.
‘Melody, hello, how lovely to meet you. Now, do you ever watchMayfair Mews? You do? I’m thrilled! Don’t let me leave without us taking a photo together, will you? Now, about my lunch. You understand that I do have to be very careful about what I eat, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask for a fewtinychanges? You don’t? Splendid. So. The salmon salad soundsdivine, but I must have my fish grilled, not fried, and please leave out the garlic. I will have cabbage rather than the chicory, and if you could pop on some fresh organic tomatoes, I’d besograteful. The salad dressing soundsdeliciousbut will play havoc with my waistline, and right before Christmas as well.Sucha shame, but I’ll just have some low-sodium soy sauce, please. Is thattoomuch trouble? Oh, thank yousomuch, you’re an absolute heroine! Oh, and a glass of champagne, of course. Fallon, are you going to have one?’
Resisting the urge to applaud this virtuoso performance of entitlement, I merely shook my head.
‘No, thanks, just some sparkling water for me, please.’
While we waited for our food to arrive, we made small talk about the sumptuous décor and piles of festively themed goodies: iced cinnamon buns, biscuits shaped like chimney pots with Santa hats peeping out and richly decorated tins of Christmas tea. I was, remarkably, beginning to enjoy myself, when the inevitable happened.
‘So, darling, whatwasgoing on with you and Alexander last night? I can’t say I blame you, he’s gorgeous.’
I sighed.
‘Nothing’s going on and nothing’s going to go on, all right? I tripped and he caught me, end of story.’
‘Well, you know what I think, darling?—’
I interrupted her.
‘Yes, Mum, I do know what you think, but I also know what I think. No romance with Alexander, end of story. Now can we please talk about something else?’
Inevitably that ‘something else’ was Jacqueline Honeywood, this time the plans for her foray into ‘wellness’. I was nodding along, only half listening, when she suddenly said:
