8
Every Rose Has Its Thorn
Despite the late night, I was awake by nine the next morning, but was surprised to find Simon already up when I came into the kitchen. If I’d known, I would have brushed my teeth.
‘Mornin’, Frixie.’
He looked remarkably poised for 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning. His clothes were crease-free, which must have meant that he’d hung them up last night and slept naked.
Oh God, I need to stop.
‘Morning, Si,’ I said, busying myself with tea bags and mugs. ‘Did you sleep okay?’
‘I did, thanks. I went out like a light. Last night is a complete blur.’
If I looked disappointed, he couldn’t see. I was facing the sink, refilling the kettle. What had I expected this morning? Certainly not a continuation of last night’s kiss. Without the benefit of alcohol and tiredness, would it even have happened? What I needed was a plan for the day. Something the two of us could do together, something fun but subtly coupley. Maybe a trip to Hyde Park, and some boating...
I reached for the bread. ‘Want some toast?’
‘That would be great, thanks. By the way, your mom rang, she was going to leave a message on the machine, but I picked up when I heard her voice. I hope you don’t mind.’
Simon had always got on well with my parents, and they liked him, Mum especially. She mentioned him from time to time, and when she did, she’d get that faraway look in her eyes, as if he were The One That Got Away.
‘She invited us over for lunch.’
I was halfway between the bread bin and the toaster. I stopped, a slice of bread going limp in my hand. ‘You didn’t say yes, did you?’
‘Of course I did,’ he said. ‘It was so sweet of her, and I would love to see them. They’re like family to me.’
His eyes had gone glassy and I looked away. When his parents’ rows got really bad, he’d climb over the broken fence at the bottom of our garden and come and watch telly with us. Mum knew he was feeling scared and so was always extra nice to him, even when it was after our bedtime.
‘They’d love to see you too,’ I said, feeling bad for my initial reluctance.
Simon stayed for a mug of tea, then left to go back to his hotel to shower and change. We agreed he’d come back around midday and then we’d go together to see my parents.
I finished the remains of my tea, then half-heartedly tidied the kitchen. Sharing Simon with my parents was the last thing I wanted to do, but he’d sounded so happy to see them, I didn’t have the heart to cancel.
A couple of hours later we were outside my parents’ home in Ealing. My brother’s Alfa was in the drive and my heart sank. Alice was most likely with him, and would surely put two and two together that Simon was the mystery ‘S’ from Friday night. And to top it all off, if there were six of us it had officially morphed into a Proper Family Do. Mum would have rolled out the more expensive cutlery, and not the Ikea set that everyone preferred.
The smell of charcoal gusted over the fence, making me hungry. Dad’s barbecues were famous, mainly for their frequency – neither rain, hail or snow could stop him. My Greekness had embarrassed me when I was young. I didn’t like having darker hair than everyone in my class, or that my lunchbox was packed with strange food. Back then, even pitta bread seemed exotic to my Anglo-Saxon classmates.
Mum was in the kitchen preparing a salad. She was swaying from side to side, in her denim skirt and FitFlops, singing along to something, even though the radio wasn’t on. When she saw us, she rushed over, waving a half-peeled cucumber. I had to duck to avoid getting it in the eye. Then she swept her gaze up and down Simon. ‘Look at you! You’ve put on weight.’
Personally, I didn’t think that was a great way to greet someone you liked.
‘Leave him alone, Mum.’ I glanced at Simon, but he didn’t seem bothered.
‘But it’s a good thing,’ she insisted. ‘Simon needed to put on weight.’ She tapped his chest. ‘Now he’s just right.’
‘Sorry,’ I mouthed, when Mum turned back to the cucumber. She finished slicing it, and added it to the salad. ‘Is this enough?’ she said, pushing up her glasses as if she couldn’t trust her eyes. The bowl was the size of a laundry basket. ‘You never eat enough fruit and vegetables.’
‘I eat plenty,’ I said. It wasn’t a lie if I counted the bean sprouts in my Chinese takeaways.
She fixed me with an I-love-you-but-don’t-believe-you stare, then surveyed her food mountain. ‘Maybe one more cucumber.’
She swung open the fridge and I took the opportunity to slink off to the garden.
Dad was barely visible through a halo of smoke. I could only see his bottom half. His jeans were the same colour as Mum’s skirt, which meant they’d gone on a recent spree in M&S. He shook Simon’s hand, and asked: ‘Are you well?’
