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Connie stirred the creamy garlic sauce bubbling away on the hob. ‘Can you read me the letter?’
Various noises followed, as her mother tried to locate the piece of paper. ‘It says… we have received your driving licence renewal form.’
‘Why have you renewed your driving licence?’ Connie stopped stirring the sauce. ‘You’re not allowed to drive any more, Mum.’
‘Of course I am. Don’t talk nonsense.’
Connie silently cursed. How did her mother even complete the form? She could barely operate the TV controls these days. A well-meaning neighbour probably helped her. It’d happened before, with various off-limit activities being reinstated that Connie subsequently had to cancel. ‘Your driving licence was revoked when you were diagnosed with dementia, remember?’ Although asking someone with memory problems if they remembered something was probably daft on her part. She carried the sauce over to the counter and poured it over the chicken.
‘How am I supposed to do my shopping?’ her mum asked, sounding annoyed.
‘I take you.’
‘No, you don’t. I take Lucille for a spin.’
Lucille was the 1970s old-style VW Beetle that her mother had managed to keep on the road for over thirty years. ‘Mum, you sold Lucille ten years ago.’
‘Don’t be daft, she’s parked in the garage – I polished her only this morning. Next you’ll be telling me I no longer have a garage.’ Doris’s incredulous laugh was caused no doubt by her daughter’s ludicrous claims.
Tempting as it was to point out that her mother did not own a garage, as she now resided in a small retirement flat in a community village in Godalming, Connie knew the fallout wouldn’t be worth it. Correcting a person whose reality no longer matched your own was exhausting. It was also confusing, often leaving Connie wondering which one of them was of sound mind.
She decided to change tack. ‘You don’t need to worry about the letter, Mum. I’ll deal with it when I pop over tomorrow after work.’
‘But they want my organs. I have to register them.’
Connie vaguely recalled seeing an article on the news about the DVLA taking over the organ registration system and realised what the letter was about. ‘They’re just asking if you want to sign up to be an organ donor, Mum.’
‘Well, I don’t. How dare they!’
‘That’s fine, Mum. You don’t have to.’ Connie grated Parmesan over the chicken and placed it in the oven.
‘How on earth do they expect me to function without my organs?’
Connie stilled, unsure whether to laugh or cry. ‘They don’t take them until after you’ve died, Mum.’
‘Oh… oh, well, in that case, they can have them.’
With that, her mother ended the call.
Sighing, Connie removed the lemon meringue pie and placed it on a heat mat. Dropping her head on the counter, she closed her eyes, counting to ten in an effort to combat the rising stress levels. She needed to stay calm and serene. Tonight was about making an impression, not resorting to having a screaming fit because her mother was losing the plot.
The doorbell rang.
Game time.
With a deep calming breath, Connie shook away her anxiety and took her time walking to the front door. It wouldn’t do to appear too keen, she needed to retain the illusion of being slightly aloof and unobtainable. Kenneth had to want her, to desire her, and be unsure as to whether he could have her. He needed to prove that he was worthy, and with any luck, resort to begging. It was the least she deserved. Making Kenneth suffer and break a sweat might go some way to repairing her crushed self-esteem.
But she was getting ahead of herself. One thing at a time.
Fixing what she hoped was an alluring smile, she opened the door, only to be greeted by a strong waft of aftershave she didn’t recognise. A gift from Tiffany, no doubt.
‘You look nice,’ Kenneth said, and offered her a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers.
It was a promising start, and a glimmer of hope shimmered within her, until she realised the wine was a cheap bottle of Chardonnay and the flowers were a supermarket purchase. It was a far cry from days gone by, when she’d been showered with expensive jewellery and sexy lingerie, and whisked away on city breaks.
Still, it was better than a kick in the teeth… just.
‘Thank you,’ she said, mustering as much grace as she could. ‘Come through to the dining room, dinner won’t be long.’
