Page 29 of The Work Husband

‘Thanks, Mum. You too.’

That wasn’t code for anything – it was true, but it was also expected.

‘Come in. We’ve got chicken salad and watermelon, and a lovely bottle of wine.’

‘Great!’ I forced a smile with as much difficulty as if I was on the phone to Cormac. ‘Thank you so much!’

She led the way into the flat. It had been two years since I last visited her here. For her last birthday, I’d insisted on taking her out for afternoon tea, an experience that had led to enough leftover cake to cater for a child’s party and me agreeing to lunch at hers this time round.

But the flat looked just the same now as it had then – just the same as it had when I’d arrived in 2020 after my six-week stint in Covid quarantine. The walls were painted white. The fitted carpets were dove-grey, as were the sofas. The kitchen units were white too, the worktops glittery quartz with sharply right-angled edges. The only colour came from a serried rank of blue and green cushions teetering on their points on the sofa.

In fact, there seemed to be corners everywhere. Corners and edges, and the smell of cleaning products. Nothing soft; nothing homely.

It was like Mum’s resentment of having to live here – even though she had chosen and bought the place herself; even though the area was as desirable now as it had been then – had made her refuse to do anything that would make it feel welcoming.

She glided over to the fridge and took out a bottle of wine and two glasses, pouring a small one for herself and a larger one for me.

‘I know you like a drink, Gigi,’ she said. ‘Enjoy it – once you get to my age you’ll find it bloats you horrendously.’

She looked pointedly at my waist, and I involuntarily sucked my tummy in.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Cheers. Happy birthday.’

We sat down and Mum opened the present I’d bought her – a silk scarf I’d found in the Selfridge’s sale, which I couldn’t have afforded if it hadn’t been reduced by fifty per cent.

‘Oh, that’s pretty,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Now, you must tell me how you are, and then we’ll have something to eat.’

When I left home, I’d been hungry. I knew I’d be hungry again almost straight after I left. But now, the thought of the chicken salad, every trace of skin removed, lemon juice spritzed homeopathically over the leaves and cucumber slices, and Mum’s loaded offer of some bread and butter if this wasn’t enough, removed every last trace of my appetite.

‘Really good,’ I told her. ‘Work’s busy. I’ve been going to the gym a couple of times a week.’

‘Mind you don’t bulk up,’ she warned.

Once, I’d made the mistake of telling her that women don’t bulk up from lifting the occasional heavy weight and even if we did, it would stand us in good stead when we got older. I wasn’t going to make it again.

‘I won’t,’ I said.

‘And how’s Sam?’

‘He’s well. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it, but he sends his love and birthday wishes.’

He’d signed the card, which she hadn’t yet opened – Many happy returns Marina, with love from Sam – and added a row of five kisses, such was his relief at not having to sit in this sterile room listening to Mum pick away at my self-confidence. Even now, he was probably thanking his lucky stars that he was somewhere other than here. But I didn’t want to think about where that somewhere might be. He’s swimming, remember? Just swimming.

Mum took a birdlike sip of her wine. ‘So, Gigi – and I know you don’t like me to ask this, but it’s my duty as your mother – has he… you know?’

I did know.

‘No wedding on the cards just yet,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m sure we’ll get around to it in a couple of years, though.’

‘You know what my mother used to say? “Why buy a cow when milk is free?”’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Thank goodness we don’t allow such horribly chauvinist attitudes any longer.’

Except you just did allow it – actually, you owned it, I thought crossly.

‘Just as well Sam doesn’t think I’m a cow,’ I said as calmly as I could, not allowing my voice to betray the disgust her words had made me feel.

How did you ever expect me to like myself when you don’t like me? I wondered, blinking rapidly to banish the tears that so often seemed to spring from nowhere when I was with her.

She laughed again. ‘Oh, sweetie, of course he doesn’t! But you must find yourself wondering sometimes, the more time passes, whether he’s actually that into you?’