“Oh boy,” I say. “Well, you should know that they are very nice and they will love you. My dad especially because you have arealjob. And my mum because she’s never seen me with a boy, even if she knows you’re my flatmate.”
“So why are you so nervous about seeing them? That all sounds normal to me.”
“Arghhhh,” I say. “I don’t know. Ash, I left home a bit of an asshole. I thought I was going to be somebody. I was a total country mouse heading for the big city. Like Christina Aguilera inBurlesqueor something. I was going to make it in...Hollywood. But, you know, Pinewood, because it’s England.”
“Uh-ha,” Ash says, looking down at my hand on the gearshift. The feel of his stare makes me feel the need to flex my fingers, so I do.
“And then Ifailed. I just hate seeing them. It reminds me of all the big dreams I had, how hard I fought for them to happen. And how they didn’t.”
“I’m sure they don’t judge you,” he says. “My parents were kindof relieved when I came back from Cambridge. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they bragged to the whole town when I went, but then they bragged that I missed home even more.” He laughs at the memory, which I find crushingly tender, and I’m surprised to feel longing for the same relationship with my mother.
“Maybe,” I say. “The problem is, I’ve not really been honest with them about how bad it was.”
“But they know you didn’t pass or whatever?” he says.
“Um... not exactly,” I say, side-eying him in abject humiliation.
“Oh boy,” says Ash. “Well, I’ll just nod along and do whatever you need me to do, okay?”
He reaches across and puts his hand on my thigh, patting it slightly, and it distracts me so much, the car juts hard to the right.
21
Six hours andthirty-five minutes after we left Broadgate, we turn onto my street.
The house I grew up in is on a postwar terraced street. Someone had the foresight to plant trees, but not to make room for car parking, so there is a constant planning battle with those who want to preserve fifty-year-old silver birch and those who want room for their second car.
The Mini inches slowly up the road, and I sneak a look at Ash, his hair blowing now in the cool northern wind and his Ray-Bans pushed up on his forehead. He looks cool. Hot, even. Maybe bringing him was a stroke of genius after all.
“Look, a sign,” says Ash, pointing at an A4 page stuck to the garage door of the neighbor. “It saysRESERVED 4 MARA. That’s sweet.”It is, I think, but don’t say it.
“My old bedroom,” I say, as I stop the car and point to thetop-floor bedroom window, the garish purple curtains still drawn. I get a visceral wave of déjà vu as I see them.
OPEN YOUR BLOODY CURTAINS AND COME AND JOIN US FOR DINNER, MARAwould be etched onto my mother’s gravestone, I swear to God.
“We so should have got the train,” I say, as we pull up and stop. I stretch my legs as much as I can in the cramped space and rub at my sore back.
“Agreed,” he says. “I want a nana nap.”
“Same. But game face on, okay? Heads down, polite hellos, then tomorrow we leave. Okay, you have to look away while I put this new dress on,” I say.
“New dress?” he says, looking down at his own outfit.
“You look fine,” I say quickly. “The outfit is my armor, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s going to be fine, Mara,” he says. “They’re your parents. They sound normal and like they love you, no matter what.”
“I’m not telling them anything, okay? We don’t go into details,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn red.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “Like I said, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Good. Otherwise they’ll do the thing they do all the time.”
“What thing?”
“Are you sure you’re happy, Mara?”I say with a shrug.
“You’re not happy?” he asks.
