* * *
I’m still extremely pleased about our fake relationship when Tom and I meet at Waterloo on Sunday to go to his parents’ house at the northernmost end of the Northern Line.
Hopefully it will work as perfectly for Tom as it has for me so far.
He messaged while we were on our separate trains to say that his mum literally thismorningslipped in a little, ‘Your cousin Jack’s bringing his new girlfriend. He’s only twenty-seven and already looks as though he’s likely to settle down soon,’ comment when she phoned him to check – for what Tom said was about the tenth time – that he was going this afternoon. He said he thinks she must be planning to try out a fancy new recipe or something because he never pulls out of family things and she never usually checks up on him.
He also said that everyone’s going to get a surprise when they see me because on both occasions he’s tried to tell his mum that he’s bringing someone she’s bulldozed (his word) on through with some chat of her own and he hasn’t had the opportunity, so he’s decided to give her a nice surprise. Plus, he didn’t want to introduce me as an actual girlfriend, so he thought it would be best just to say when he gets there that he’s brought a new friend and waffle a few words about how we met very recently and it’s early days in our friendship, nice and ambiguous so that no-one’s really deceiving anyone.
‘Nice dress,’ Tom says, one eye on me and one eye on the hordes of people swirling round us as we make our way towards the Tube entrance.
‘Thank you.’ I’m proud of my choice of clothing today. If you’re going to do something, do it properly. What would a very new, early-days-but-things-look-promising girlfriend wear to meet her boyfriend’s parents at an afternoon barbecue? She’d wear her prettiest summery flowery dress and bring a nice bag. I spent quite a long time trying to work out whether the new girlfriend would dress it down with trainers or go a bit more formal, and decided in the end to go for strappy but flat gold sandals, because I’m never quite sure what the older generation think of trainers, and Tom said his grandmother and her sister, his great-aunt, are going to be there, and I wouldn’t want to be disrespectful.
Tom is wearing trainers, and these aren’t my most comfortable footwear ever, so I’m regretting my shoe choice, but never mind. This isn’t about me, this is about Tom getting a break from people nagging him while he’s getting over his Lola disappointment.
I ask him about Lola once we’re seated on the Tube.
‘I’m still not sure whether I should let sleeping dogs lie or maybe look for her just to check she’s okay. But, on balance, if she got cold feet, I’m not sure how appropriate it would be to try to find her; I certainly shouldn’t try to meet her in person if she doesn’t want to. I might send her another message in a couple of weeks’ time, just saying I hope she’s okay.’
‘I think that sounds very wise,’ I say. It definitely sounded like a high-risk strategy finding her in person and telling her he loved her. Thatcouldbe great but rationally it seemed more likely it would be a complete disaster.
* * *
When we arrive at Totteridge and Whetstone Tube station, I’m surprised to see that it’s now three thirty; it’s taken us about forty minutes from Waterloo. It’s alongway from Central London.
Tom tells me that his parents’ house is a ten-minute walk.
I look at him with narrowed eyes. ‘At your speed?’ I check.
‘No, at the speed of a galloping horse or a snail. Yes, at a person’s speed.’
I shake my head. ‘Yourspeed is not my speed.’ I don’t think he’s fully aware of that because each time we’ve walked anywhere I’ve basically been trotting to keep up with him, but I can’t do that in these supremely uncomfortable shoes. I bought them at the end of last summer in a sale, and they were not a good buy it turns out. ‘I need to put some plasters on my toes and heels.’ Fortunately I’ve come prepared for any eventuality; I have many things, including plasters, in my tote.
With me plastered up, we begin the walk.
At my speed.
A couple of minutes in, Tom said, ‘I’m guessing that we’re going at your pace now? And that’s why you said my speed is not yours?’
‘Yep.’
To change the subject away from my slow walking, I say, ‘So tell me about your family.’
‘It’s large. Noisy, fun, nice. They’re great. It’s just that the older generation’s little obsession with me settling down and having kids is sometimes not what I want. My brother Jake has three kids, aged five, three and one, and my sister Libby has twins aged four, and three of my cousins, all similar age to us, also have young kids, and my mum can’t help letting slip from time to time her conviction that I need to have kids imminently or everyone will be missing out because there’ll be a big age gap.’
I’m not totally sure what to say because I don’t want to criticise Tom’s mum to him, obviously, but I do think it’s very silly for families to say things like that. What if he doesn’t want kids, or can’t have them for some reason, or who knows what. Plus, there have to be pros and cons to different age gaps, surely.
I settle for saying, ‘Weird how, even though of course it’s lovely, sometimes people really caring about you and wanting the best for you can be slightly suffocating.’
‘It’s exactly that.’
* * *
For the rest of the walk Tom tells me stories from his (mis-spent) youth based on what we’re walking past at the time, until we turn into a leafy road with a small number of extremely large houses, and he tells me we’ve pretty much arrived.
Halfway along the road, we stop at the iron gates of a quite extraordinarily wide house, and Tom presses the buzzer on a keypad to the side, saying, ‘This is us.’
Moments later, the gate slides sideways and we walk through into the gigantic drive, where there are literally seven cars parked (I count them twice), with space for several more, without anyone having to be even the tiniest bit careful with their manoeuvring. It’s basically the size of a small actual car park.
