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“Okay. What's the deal with this Tom guy?”
“Tom?” I said, relieved. I could talk about Tom. “He’s just a good friend. We have known each other for a long time, and he has helped me through some really hard times.”
“Hard times? Like what?” He asked, intrigued. Could I do it? Could I tell him, just like that? I so badly wanted to open up to him. I must have been silent for longer than I thought, because next thing I knew he was saying my name.
“Em, don't feel you have to answer that. We all have things in our past. If you're not ready to talk to me, I completely understand.” He spoke gently.
I felt the tears as they rolled down my chin, forming a pool in my hand. I brushed them away angrily. Why do I always cry? If someone said 'boo' I'd burst into tears. I hated that about myself.
“I don't like to talk about the past. With anyone.” I added. Especially not you, I thought. It wasn't that I didn't think he would understand. It was more I thought he'd understand too much. He saw people like me every day. Victims. I didn't want to be his victim.
“When you are ready, I'm here Em.” He changed the subject. “What are you doing Friday?”
“Friday?” I repeated. “Nothing. Why?”
“Well I think you need some lessons on what classifies as a decent movie. I will bring some over.” He was having a go at my taste in movies? I rolled my eyes. I saw no point arguing though. That would be like baiting a wild dog with a piece of raw steak.
“Sure. Come over and teach me a lesson, professor.” I cringed. Did I really say that? He was laughing at least.
“I will see you Friday then.” He was still laughing as I hung up the phone.
So was this a date or two friends watching some movies? Friends. I had to think of us as friends. Anything more would be bad, bad, bad. I flung open my closet and began tossing through options to wear.
I realised as I pulled out the final top in my closet, my clothes sucked. Sure, they were fine for sitting on the couch twiddling my thumbs, but I had next to nothing suitable for Friday. I needed sexy, but not slutty. I texted Cass. I needed a fashion intervention. I could imagine her reaction.
She loved clothes and anything fashion, and she was forever trying to get me to dress up a little. I didn't see the point. Who was I dressing up for? The doorman? Mom and gran? I'm sure they'd appreciate a little sexy number.
Well, gran probably would, b
ut then I'd have to sit through another lecture on the benefits of online dating. Or the marvels of modern medicine and the benefits Viagra can have on a woman's orgasm (yes, deadly serious).
The last time she'd called she had hinted that some of them will even come to your house. I blatantly ignored that very obvious hint. I wondered how long until Gran ended up murdered. I'd called mom to have a talk to her about inviting strange men to her house. Not that it had done much good. Gran had insisted Bernie and Neville had been nothing but gentlemen. I didn't want to know if that was some kind of twisted threesome.
Between the stories I'd heard from Cass and gran, I was pretty sure I never wanted to date anyone, ever.
Scones in the oven, tea ready in the pot, house cleaned. At last, I was ready. Most of the time I loved seeing Mom and Gran. Today I was glad for the distraction. It had been a weekly tradition having them over for lunch, and I'd felt bad about missing our date on Monday. Besides, I missed grans stories.
Gran was moms grandmother (so my great grandmother). She had raised mom after mom’s mom had died during childbirth. Gran was very 'spirited'. She was a young woman trapped in a pensioner’s body. She was more tech savvy than me, could drink my father under the table, and got more action than even Cass.
She was loads of fun and always full of great (although often embarrassing) advice. She had slowed down considerably since pop died five years ago, but recently, it seemed like she was hitting her stride again. Apparently (if you asked mom) it was the bad influence of her friend and room-mate Dulce.
I had met Dulce once. She had come to a Christmas party with Gran. I remembered her spiking mom’s punch and trying to seduce my uncle Gerrard. All the while trying to convince Gran to have a go at the 'hot' 50 something head waiter. Not that Gran needed much convincing after her sixth sherry and apple juice. I still remember the look on mom’s face when she caught the pair in a rather compromising position in the study.
I jumped again (of course) when the doorbell rang. Mom and gran were here. The smell of half-baked scones wafted through the kitchen as I cracked open the oven door. Almost ready.
I plastered a smile on my face as I swung open the door. In truth, opening that door terrified me. I could feel the symptoms of a panic attack building. I willed the ball of fear rising in my chest down. Focus. Breathe, Em. I hugged them both, taking their coats as they made their way into the living room. I practically ran back to the kitchen, avoiding any eye contact. Finally, I could breathe.
Control.
“Emma, it smells lovely in here, scones?”
“Of course.” I nodded. “But I can't take all the credit. It is your recipe after all.”
“Nonsense,” Gran snapped, a twinkle in her eye. “We all know I could certainly never do the recipe any justice. I was too busy kanoodling with your pop. No wonder they always ended up like little black rocks.”
“Gran!” Exclaimed mom, rolling her eyes at me. I am sure 90% of what came out of gran’s mouth embarrassed my mother.
In personality, mom and gran were like chalk and cheese, though it was obvious where my mother got her looks from. Even at her age, Gran had silky smooth skin, deep green eyes, and a smile that still managed to tempt men ten years younger than her.
