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‘I’m sorry, east wing?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘The east wing of Mum’s house, of course. Now it’s ours. It’s our wedding gift.’
Breathe, Emmie, breathe! It’s just a terrible, terrible misunderstanding. Or perhaps simply a bad joke. Stephen never did have a great sense of humour.
‘Uhm, Stephen?’ I begin, putting down my own spoon. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little too much? I mean, that’s extremely generous of your mother, but we should really be choosing our own home, don’t you think?’
Stephen’s face falls. ‘Emmie, what are you going on about? We’ve been talking about renos for months now.’
‘Yes, but I thought you meant of our own find. When instead you meant… No, Stephen. I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to live under the same roof as your mother. No offence intended, but—’
He suddenly stands up, throwing his napkin on the table.
‘No offence intended? You literally refuse all she has to give us with a sorry, no offence intended?’
I look up at him. ‘Stephen, you know your mother and I aren’t exactly on the same page.’
He crosses his arms. ‘Not being on the same page is one thing, Emmie, but outright refusing to accept such a gracious gift? This is the home I’ve lived in since I wasborn. I don’t want to leave it. And I want our children to live in it. I want to continue the tradition.’
‘The tradition of what? Living under Mother Stone?’ I throw at him. ‘No, Stephen. I’m sorry, but I just can’t. I value my privacy too much. She has a horrible habit of waltzing into any room without so much as announcing herself and I—’
‘Announcing herself? Do you hear yourself? You want her to announce herself in her own home?’
‘That’s why I don’t want to live with her, Stephen. I want our privacy.’
‘You can have your privacy once you close the bedroom door. She’s not going in there, is she now?’
I snort. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. And besides, I don’t want privacy only in my bedroom. I want to be free to walk around in my knickers and… and make love on the kitchen table if I so choose.’
Not that that had ever happened, and judging where this is going, it looks like it never will.
‘You are unbelievably ungrateful!’ he says as he reaches for his coat, heading for the door.
‘What are you doing? I thought we were going to have a nice dinner and a chat.’
‘You and I have absolutely nothing to talk about,’ he says as he opens the door, stalks out and slams it behind him.
For a few moments I sit, waiting for him to return. But I know he’s not going to.
*
‘And then what? Did he call you back?’ Maisie whispers, her sandwich forgotten in her hands.
Tuesday has started with a dreariness that has erased any remnants of the happy moments in Cornwall.
‘No.’
‘Jesus.’
I look around me at the staffroom still decorated with faded and forgotten paper pumpkins, ghouls and witches. Christmas, my favourite time of year, is only a few weeks away and already positively, irreparably ruined. There’s no way on earth that I’m going to succumb to the MIL’s will. And if Stephen cared about me the way he says, then he’ll see the madness of his mother’s ways and agree to live our own life.
I never said to cut ties with her completely, even if that’s what would give me ultimate happiness. In my experience, it’s better not to have anyone than a bad someone. It erases all the drama and the heartache. Look at me.
‘So, what are you going to do?’
I shake my head. ‘There’s nothing I can do, Maisie.’
Maisie puts down her sandwich. ‘Emmie, maybe this is the right moment to let go. I mean, we both know that he’s not right for you. God knows I’ve told you time and again. Maybe this coming year will see a new life for you.’
