Thankfully, living on the other side of the world shields me from the worst of her qualities. But I still pick up on the passive-aggressive tone in her messages when I don’t get back to her quickly enough, check in frequently enough, or support her in a way she feels she should be supported.
I rise from the seat and head down the platform to look atthe passenger information display. As I walk, my attention is caught by a poster advertising Alexander’s run of O2 shows. His gaze seductively draws me in, until the ping of the tube doors opening forces me to look away and board the train, right behind a woman with her stroller.
Thankfully, the carriage isn’t too busy. I manage to find a seat opposite a man reading a copy of the Metro. Alexander stares back at me from the front page.
God.
Do I really need more reminders of him?
My cheeks flush as I pick at the cuticles on my fingernails.
Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t know Alexander Morgan existed. Now he’s there everywhere I turn—except the one place I’d hoped he would be: behind me in the steam room.
The loud sound of the tube rumbling along the tracks sets the baby in the stroller off, its lungs packing a powerful scream. The mum sits there, lost on her phone, ignoring the baby.Great. Another neglectful mum, forcing me to ride through purgatory. I shake my head and cut a death stare toward the baby, who catches my gaze and goes silent.
If only that power worked on my mother.
“Finally, he bothers to grace us with his presence,” my mother bellows. She puts her wine glass down, shaking her head as the waiter escorts me to the table where she and my sister are seated. Her purple clutch, which matches her dress, sits next to her wine glass on the table.
“Lovely to see you, too, Mother,” I say, bending down to lean in for a hug. The embrace is over before it even begins, just like the presence and sudden withdrawing of her love.
I quickly move around the table to hug Kelly, who looks resplendent in a floral summer dress. Her auburn locks are tied back in a loose ponytail, allowing the freckles on her porcelain skin to shine.
“Tread carefully,” she whispers in my ear before releasing me.
I widen my eyes at her.Like I’m not used to navigating the minefield by now, I think.
The waiter returns, pours another glass of Cabernet Sauvignon for my mother, and looks at me.
“Anything for you, sir?”
I open my mouth to speak, but I’m interrupted by my mother raising her hand.
“We’ve already ordered food for you since you kept us waiting.” Her sideward glance at the waiter says,Can you believe my child?“But go ahead, let the gentleman know what you’re drinking. I can never recall what it is you like to drink these days.” She waves at me, finally giving me permission to speak.
I let out a short exhale, swallowing down my frustration, and look across to Kelly’s drink.
“I’ll take the same as her,” I say, nodding at Kelly.
“It’s just a soda,” Kelly says, grabbing the glass and sipping through the straw.
“Then I’ll take mine with vodka, please.” I smile at the waiter as he heads off and then cut a confused look at Kelly, who shrugs my look away and places the glass back down.
“I’m glad to see thatoneof you is still willing to drink,” my mother says. Her hand pats the back of mine while she rolls her green eyes at Kelly. Kelly chose to cut back on her drinking after Dad died. My drinking habits stayed the same. My mum’s, if anything, increased.
I’d have thought today would have prompted Kelly to have atleast one alcoholic drink to deal with Mum and her constant disapproval. But it’s displayed differently to Kelly than it is to me.
By the time the three Caesar salads arrive twenty minutes later, mine thankfully graced with chicken and bacon, my mother has barely taken a breath. She barely notices as the waiter sets the food down.
She’s been walking us through the minute details of the next week. Fittings to attend here, final samples to sign off on there. The rehearsal dinner. All of this prompts reassuring nods andum-hmmsfrom Kelly and me intermittently. My mum doesn’t mind our indifference; she really just wants an audience.
The conversation only stops when she asks me who I plan on bringing to the wedding.
“You know,” she begins, placing her cutlery down in the bowl and leaning forward, “I may have come to terms with your sexuality over the past couple of years, but the wider family still doesn’t know. I think it’s best we keep it that way.” She arches her eyebrows and narrows her eyes at me.
I’ve taken too big a bite of my salad, so I cover my mouth to stop myself from spitting my food at her. I chew instead, buying some time to swallow down my anger.
“I was thinking of renting one of those mail-order brides. You know, to keep up appearances. But apparently there’s been problems with getting them in the country since Brexit.” I slouch back into the padded chair, crossing my arms.
