‘That’s it, darling! You will do it, won’t you?’
‘What? Do what?’
She clicked her tongue impatiently.
‘Fallon, I do wish you’d pay attention. I don’t know how you get athingdone in that business of yours. I was saying that I was worried when you first started complaining about this “exhaustion”…’Mum had been worried about me?This was a first, and a welcome one. I smiled encouragingly and she continued, ‘I thought some journalist would get hold of it and it might reflect badly on me in some way.’Of course. She had beenworried abouther. Silly me. ‘But now I realise that it’s the most superb opportunity for both of us!’
She smiled at me triumphantly, but I didn’t smile back.
‘What sort of opportunity…?’
‘Well, you could do some posts about how awful you’ve been feeling and then it could come out that I’ve brought you up here with me and under my guidance you’ve made a full recovery! I’m sure the apothecary could recommend some supplements or teas or something for tiredness. What do you think?’
What I thought was that it was the most monumentally selfish and unfeeling thing I had ever heard in my life. But what was the point in saying that? I poked my fish cakes disconsolately, my appetite suddenly gone.
‘Aren’t you going to finish that, darling? I can’t say I’m surprised, it washuge.’ She patted her flat stomach. ‘I could never eventhinkabout fitting in such an enormous lunch.’
Glaring at her, I scooped up a large forkful and put it in my mouth. She continued, undaunted.
‘So, we’ll get some pictures of you at the apothecary, looking wan and tired, which will be easy, and then in a week or so we’ll take some where you look much better, under my guidance. Don’t worry, it’s all a question of light – we can have you looking beautiful.’
‘Mum, I donotwant to be featured on your Instagram page for any reason, least of all looking like some sort of lost soul. I’m sorry, but it’s a no.’
This firm line in the sand was nothing more to my mother than an invitation to open negotiations.
‘I understand, but think of it like this: youarefeeling terrible and I can help with that. It will be fun, I promise. I’ll even see if I can get some therapists in to help out – they must have them up here? They could come to the house – that would make a marvellous backdrop for photos – or you could go to theirtreatment rooms, maybe even a spa. You’d start feeling better in no time and it would probably help you work more effectively with Alexander, if you were feeling better.’
I ate some more fish cake and turned the idea over in my mind. Spas and treatments and feeling betterdidsound tempting. I was so used to looking after myself, of always having a wall up when around Mum, that the prospect of being taken care of was hard to resist.
‘All right,’ I said, and she clapped her hands girlishly and beamed at me. ‘But only on the condition that I have veto overevery single photoof me that goes on social media.’
She pouted.
‘Must you, darling? It takes the fun out of it, and we do want to see a radical transformation.’
‘I get that, Mum, I know all about before and after shots, and I’ll let you have your Henry Higgins moment, don’t worry, but that is my condition. Oh, and no weight loss angle. This is about recovering energy, nothing else.’
She looked at me intently for a moment, then nodded briskly.
‘All right then. And of course we won’t talk about weight loss, it’s notà la modethese days – or that’s what everyone pretends anyway. We’ll focus on self-love and acceptance, and if you lose a few pounds along the way, that can only be a good thing.’
I turned and waved at the waitress, who came over instantly. I smiled at her.
‘May I have the pudding menu, please?’
ELEVEN
To my surprise, the rest of the day in York went well. Now my mother had got what she wanted, and doubtless thought she could push me into the parts she had agreed to compromise on, she was as happy as anything. We went to the apothecary, which wasn’t as terrifying as it sounded: less medieval medicine and more soothing scents and sympathetic assistants, who were thoroughly starstruck by Mum and eager to help her poor daughter.
‘She’s the mostwonderfulbusinesswoman,’ my mother told them. ‘I’m so proud of her. But she does push herself too hard, and you can see the results.’
I silently questioned whether she was remotely proud of me, but submitted myself to being discussed and photographed while I smelled various oils and allowed creams to be rubbed onto the back of my hand. We left after forty-five minutes with three thick cardboard bags full of expensive preparations and went to embark on clothes shopping. I was flagging badly by this time, but Mum swept me along, showing such unprecedented care and interest that instead of my usual approach to buying clothes – try a few things on, get fed up, buy something identical to everything else in my wardrobe and hope for the best wherefit is concerned – I came away with some gorgeous items. My favourite was a soft, knitted cream poncho with a loose roll neck, thin enough to wear under coats but warm enough to be worth it. I also had a hat, scarf and gloves and that would have been enough for me, but Mum insisted that I let her buy me a cashmere jumper in a rich emerald green.
‘You don’t have to, Mum,’ I protested, seeing the eyewatering price tag.
‘I know I don’thaveto,’ she replied, whipping out her credit card, ‘but have you thought that I mightwantto? You never let me do these mother-daughter things and I’m enjoying it. I hope you are too.’
I smiled my agreement and decided against reminding her why these bonding moments had never happened before: because she hadn’t been there to participate. I reminded myself that even this, pleasant though it was, was only for her social media. Tiredness washed over me.
