‘We’ve booked you into the Travelodge up the road from us,’ I informed them as we helped wheel their cases to the car. ‘I’ve also arranged for your rental car to be dropped off there tomorrow.’
‘When did you become so organised?’ Dad laughed, giving me a squeeze. ‘Molly, I remember when your mum used to be such a scatterbrain. She was hopeless.’
Why do grandparents do that? Why do they try to make you sound like a dick in front of your kids? I’m quite capable of doing that myself, thanks all the same. Besides, if I was an idiot child, it’s their fault.
We dropped them at their hotel and I arranged to see them for dinner later, then headed back to the house where Oliver was busy not meeting my parents at the airport.
‘They get in OK?’ he asked, sprawled out on the couch.
I nodded. ‘We’ll eat with them later. They look good!’
‘Remember Molly has Adam’s birthday party tomorrow. I’ll take her – let you catch up.’
Oliver hates kid’s birthday parties but would offer to disembowel himself with a spoon if it meant wriggling out of a family get-together. Still, he had to endure dinner later so I let it slide.
We’d booked a table at a Thai place for six but we still had to wait fifteen minutes for our table, which gave me time to down a double Jack and Coke. When we finally got seated, they handed over presents they’d brought for Molly, including a framed picture of their dog, a plush beaver toy and a couple of t-shirts she feigned interest in before returning to the beaver, which admittedly was pretty cool. It had a hat on.
My parents talked incessantly throughout dinner; they are a very endearing couple to be around. They enjoy listening to each other and they both get overly involved – finishing each other’s sentences and finding the other hilarious. I was also thankful that they were mindful of the content of their stories while Molly was around. The same rules don’t apply when it’s just me. I think Molly sees Oliver’s parents as grandparents – they’re grey and old and they creak a lot when they move – whereas mine are just slightly older weird people who happen to be my parents.
Friday October 20th
Day Two of the Henderson Invasion. I took Mum and Dad out for lunch while Oliver took Molly to her friend’s birthday party. The restaurant was reasonably quiet for a wet, Friday afternoon; I’d have expected chaos during the school holidays.
Dad excused himself to give his neighbour a quick call to check on Daphne while Mum and I were seated at a window table overlooking the pissing wet beer garden.
‘Any recommendations?’ Mum asked, taking a menu from the holder.
‘I always have the fish and chips here,’ I replied. ‘It’s great.’
Mum mumbled something about sustainable haddock and continued browsing the menu, shortly followed by Dad who announced that Daphne was ‘well’ andin good spirits.
What the fuck did he expect to hear? That she’d taken ill with fever and was walking the moors until his return? She’s a dog.
‘So what’s been going on with you then, darling?’ Mum asked, rearranging her napkin. ‘Any news for us?’
My parents and I have always been able to discuss anything and they’re generally more forthcoming than I am when it comes to matters of love or sex, often making me cringe with their frankness and willingness to say, unfiltered, whatever the fuck comes into their head at any given moment. But I took a leap of faith.
‘Oliver proposed,’ I informed them, casually looking through the menu. ‘On my birthday.’I didn’t look up from my menu but was aware of them glancing at each other. ‘I said no.’
‘Why on earth would you say no?’ Mum enquired. ‘Oh, let me guess. It’s an archaic institution and it’s nothing more than a piece of paper.’
Now my eyes were on her. ‘Well . . . yes!’ I replied. ‘We’ve been together for years. We have Molly. There’s no reason to change anything.’
Dad laughed. ‘Honestly, Phoebe, I’ve never met anyone so frightened of change. What are you afraid of? Why would you want everything to stay the same for the rest of your life? That’s not living, it’s just existing.’
Before I had a chance to reply, the waiter came to take our order, hovering impatiently while Mum tried to decide whether she wanted potatoes or chips with her steak. In a feeble attempt to prove I wasn’t scared of change, I ditched my plans for fish and chips and impulsively ordered the Chicken Schnitzel instead. That’ll show them.
Once the waiter had scurried off with our order, I picked up the conversation again, stubbornly trying to get my ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ point across, but a little voice in my head repeatedly reminded me that he was right. I do fear change. I’ve been in a job I’ve hated for years. I’ve had the same hairstyle for as long as I can remember. Apart from the list I created a few years ago to change my sex life, I haven’t actively gone out of my way to rock whichever boat I might be in at the time. My life exists around routine, which I thought was for Molly’s sake, but now I realise might actually be more for mine.
‘He kissed someone else,’ I confessed, not caring that the waiter was now placing a dreadful-looking chicken dish in front of me. ‘A while ago. We’ve worked –are working– through it . . .’
Mum placed her hand on mine. ‘Hmm . . . a kiss isn’t the worst thing he could have done.’
‘What? He felt her up too!’
She shrugged. ‘Oh darling. We all get bored. I’ve been married to your dad for four hundred years – sometimes these things happen . . .’
I wasn’t sure whether she was trying to tell me that she had personal experience in this area or that they’d each been tempted to stray, but she didn’t volunteer any further information and I wasn’t about to ask for it. I’ve heard enough about their sex life over the years without bringing new players into it.
