I glance up at her, and see that she is frowning. Ah, I deduce – Zack was right. She has been worrying about me, and I hate that. I need to reassure her. I need to do what all us grown-ups do, and fake it till I make it.
“It will be, I’m sure, love – it was a great idea! I’m just nervous, that’s all. It’s been a long time, and I’m blowing off steam. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to go – ignore me.”
“No, I’m not going to ignore you,” she replies. “I’m going to help you. Come on, let’s get you sorted. You’ll feel better once you’ve got your casually stylish glad-rags on. I told Dan you were going out on a date, by the way.”
“Right. Did he make vomiting noises?”
“He did! But he also thinks it’s a good idea.”
Everybody else in the whole world, it seems, thinks that this is a good idea. I am very much in the minority thinking that it’s a spectacularly bad idea.
Within minutes, Sophie has selected my outfit. Cropped jeans and a pretty pink peasant-style blouse that I’d forgotten I owned. It looks nice, and is also flowing enough to hide myemergency whistle. She puts my hair up with combs, leaving a few tendrils loose, and hands me a pair of hoopy gold earrings to put in. We settle on very light make-up, and a spritz of my favourite perfume.
Once we’re done and I look at myself in the mirror, I realise that Sophie was right – I do now feel a bit better about the whole thing. I am a middle-aged woman who has had three babies and loves cake, so I can’t expect to look like a supermodel. But, I have to admit, I look okay. Better than usual, but still recognisably me. Surely that’s good enough? And if not, then I’m not on a date with the right person.
“There,” she says, grinning at me, “job done. You look great. And you are great – just be yourself, and you can’t go wrong!”
“Ha! People always say that: ‘just be yourself’. Then you spend ages wondering what that is.”
“Well, in your case, it’s super-nosy, always hungry, and ready to do karaoke at the drop of a hat.”
“Hmmm. You’re right. I suppose the being nosy bit might help.”
“Exactly – it’s not like you’ll ever run short of conversation is it, Mum? You and silence are mortal enemies.”
“What if I talk too much though?” I say, suddenly gripped by yet another fear. “What if I just don’t stop, and words keep flooding out of me in a stream of consciousness rant? What if I come across as a lunatic?”
“Then that would be pretty accurate. Look, don’t get so stressed – and remember they’ll be nervous too.”
I hadn’t even thought about that, but I know she’s right. It makes me feel marginally better. It’s not like I’m going to an audition or a job interview – I’m going to enjoy a pleasant social interaction with a couple of new people. When I think about it like that, I feel calmer. I like pleasant social interactions. In fact I am the queen of pleasant social interactions.
“Thank you. For everything. How did you get so wise?” I ask her. “Actually, if the answer to that is ‘because I am on a million dating apps and hook up with strangers all the time’, then don’t tell me.”
She stays ominously quiet, and I remind myself that she will be twenty this year. Of course she’s on dating apps.
“Thank you anyway,” I say. “I think I might have been on the verge of exploding before you came in.”
“I know. I’m amazing. You can repay the favour by making me and Marcy some pancakes.”
I nod eagerly, and head downstairs. I put on my apron, and get to work. As I whisk up the ingredients in a big bowl, I feel even better – soothed by the familiar actions of cooking, comforted by doing something that comes so naturally to me. In fact, I have a sneaky suspicion that that’s why Sophie asked for pancakes, now I come to think about it – she knew that it would help. My daughter, the benign manipulator.
I am pouring the batter into the pan when there is a knock on the door. The traditional mode of entry into my house is to knock, shout something like ‘it’s only me!’ and then walk straight in. The fact that nobody does this after the knock means that it is either a delivery person, or Zack. Or, you know, an axe murderer, because I seem to be thinking about them a lot these days. Though I’m guessing they don’t knock on the front door, so maybe not.
I dash to the door, open it, and run back into the kitchen, jumping over random piles of shoes and boots as I go. They were casualties in the Great Missing Sandal War, and I tell myself I really must get around to tidying them back up again. Famous last words.
“Sorry!” I say as Zack follows me through, looking amused. “I was at a critical point in pancake-land!”
He leans back against the island, and I see him gazing around. I wonder what this place looks like from another person’s view, with its clutter and organised chaos. I don’t suppose it looks organised to anyone else, though, just chaotic.
I flip the pancakes, managing a spectacular catch, and he applauds. I give a little bow and carry on. Bear looks incredibly disappointed each time I flip and catch, and if he wasn’t on a diet I’d have deliberately dropped one just to cheer him up. He follows my every move, nose twitching in excitement, tail swishing against the tiles.
I clear a space on the table, and lay out a big stack of pancakes, adding bowls of strawberries and sliced bananas, along with some home-made blueberry compote and a jar of Nutella. Pancakes aren’t complete without Nutella, in my professional opinion. I fetch some cream from the fridge and decant it into a pouring jug, knowing that Sophie likes hers drowned in the stuff.
“This looks good,” Zack says, gesturing to the spread. “And so do you. I especially like that flour smudge on your face.”
I realise as he compliments me that hearing those words makes me feel warm inside. And it strikes me all of a sudden that all the time I was trying on outfits and looking for shoes, it wasn’t just my dates’ reaction I was thinking about – it was Zack’s.
I give myself a rub, and say: “Did I get it? The flour?”
