‘So, why has Alexander had a hard time?’
‘Well, his wife left him and his son about four years ago when the child was only little – about five – and went off with an Italian banker. But then she was killed in a car accident a year or so later.’
‘How awful.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? But it’s not just that. Alexander was a wildly successful heart surgeon, but before she left – maybe part ofwhyshe left – he had an accident of some sort himself and damaged his hand, so had to give up surgery.’
‘Sounds a bit like a storyline fromMayfair Mews,’ I said, sipping my champagne and wishing I felt uplifted by it, rather than even more tired.
‘Doesn’t it? Although there’s not been much of a happy ending for him. He’s teaching at the university and has started some sort of drinks business on the side, but he’ll never regain the status – or the salary – of a surgeon.’
‘Must have been so hard, though, being a surgeon. Imagine the pressure and the weight of expectation – quite literally holding people’s lives in your hands.’
‘Maybe, darling, but plenty of people cope with pressure better than you do.’
And there it was. Just as we were having a pleasant conversation, out shot the barb. Tears stung behind my eyes, and I tried to take some deep breaths, as I had been told by my doctor to do. The problem with my mother is that if you spend too long trying to compose yourself before replying to her, she has a tendency to carry on the attack. For about the millionth time, I deeply regretted agreeing to come away with her thisChristmas; she was exhausting at the best of times, but I felt too fragile to cope with it all right now. I could see her gearing up again, so I spoke quickly, but as calmly as I could:
‘Iamable to cope with pressure, and I think I’ve proven that, Mum. I built my business from scratch and it’s very successful.’
‘But—’
I carried on, sounding more determined than I felt.
‘However, I made a mistake in taking on too much work and not enough help. I am driven to produce excellence for my clients, and these things combined led to complete exhaustion but not, thankfully, a complete breakdown.’ I was talking like a mental health manual now, but it was the best way to get my point across without letting emotion in. That only succeeds in irritating Mum and stopping me from thinking clearly. I continued, ‘I do need some recovery time, as you know, but I will return to the business in the new yearbetterequipped to deal with the pressure than I was previously – and with more understanding of and sympathy for how people can be affected when life becomes overwhelming.’
My mother’s lips tightened, a rare occurrence which is usually quickly corrected, due to her terror of how it might accelerate the forming of fine lines. I decided it was a prudent move to return the conversation to her favourite subject: her.
‘Anyway, Mum, you haven’t told me how you managed to get a month offMayfair Mewsover Christmas. I can’t remember the last time you had such a long break.’
Her mouth relaxed into its familiar pillowy smile, and she topped up our glasses.
‘True, true. Being the axis of the whole show does come with some penalties – uneasy lies the head that wears a crown and so on, darling.’
I debated with myself whether a bit of idle provocation along the lines of ‘well then, don’t you think it’s time to retire?’ mightbe an enjoyable way to pass a few minutes but decided to save that for another day, when more serious distraction tactics might need to be employed. She continued.
‘But I said to them that Douglas was simplypiningfor more time with me. The festive season spent at his family seat, getting to know them all, was the perfect opportunity, especially seeing as the big Christmas episodes are filmed weeks in advance.’
I hid a smile in my glass. I suspected that Douglas and his family might not have warranted quite so much of her company if the visit had interfered with the seasonal ratings war between all the big soaps, whichMayfair Mewshad won for seven years straight.
‘Have you got a juicy storyline again this year? I liked last year’s brush with death at the hands of that deranged doctor.’
She shot me a sideways look.
‘I’m sure you did, darling, but – and I’m sorry to disappoint you – this year we decided to go for something equally dramatic but more feel-good. I’m at the heart of the story…’
Naturally.
‘…naturally, but it also features Margot leaving Dirk when she hears the news about him and the online account.’
‘Margot leaves Dirk? But I thought they were one of the Soap’s most solid couples?’
‘Well, yes, but the producers seemed to think that Lucinda was pushing for too much screen time and have decided to edge her out. I’m devasted, of course, such a wonderful actor and a dear friend, but I’m sure they know exactly what they’re doing.’
And I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing, too, I thought. The producers – yeah, right. This had Jacqueline Honeywood written all over it. Poor Lucinda: she’d been playing the popular part of Margot for five years, but it didn’t look as if she’d make it to six. Mum could be ruthless, but it was part of the reason she’d made such a success of herself, as I know full wellas her daughter. Although she brushes any memories I have of growing up with her aside as if I were making it all up, my recollections of my childhood are clear. When I was little, I was often left with random friends of hers when she needed to go away for work or to socialise, and there never was any sense of stability. She often wasn’t there, and when she was, she would spend much of her time telling me not to get used to it because she would be going away again soon. When I was six or seven years old, a teacher at school once asked my class to write about their families and all I could come up with was: ‘My mummy is the lady in the Martini advertisement on telly. My daddy has gone away.’ I found the exercise book it was written in not long ago and such a pang of sorrow shot through me for that child. I remembered how alone I felt. But my mother’s success became mine too. Her status and salary rose stratospherically, and I was sent to a fancy boarding school in Devon aged eleven. I absolutely loved no longer being alone all the time and I was blissfully happy for seven years. After university, I got a few work placements and finally a job in a small events company whose main customer base was discreet millionaires who wanted fabulous parties for themselves, their children and even their dogs. I appreciated their high standards, which I not only reached but usually surpassed, and when the woman who owned the company decided to retire, I took over, at first as a salaried manager then eventually buying her out. I have resisted letting the business grow too big, holding on to our niche and very exclusive status and sticking with only two other permanent members of staff – Sam, who our customers worship, and Talitha, as sharp and organised a PA as anyone could hope for. Despite all this, I worked so hard, with so few breaks, that my stress, exhaustion and inability to sleep all eventually caught up with me. It was Sam who had given me the final push I needed to take a break, that night after the party at the V & A. Afteragreeing to take some time off, I had been looking forward to Christmas spent largely at home doing some long-overdue reading, cleaning and general pottering but then foolishly mentioned this to my mother.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, darling, you can’t spend Christmas mouldering away in that little place all by yourself.’
‘But I’d quite like to moulder – I think it will be restful.’
