With a breathless grin, she tugs me inside by the front of my t-shirt.
‘Get your arse in here.’
And I follow her, knowing I’m exactly where I want to be.
FORTY
MAGGIE
Meeting someone’sgran is infinitely more terrifying than meeting their parents.
Parents still have something to prove to their potential in-laws. Grans have seen everything, survived all sorts, and no longer have the energy to give two fucks who they offend.
So naturally, I’m shitting a brick by the time we get to her door.
I have a rather nice bottle of whisky in one hand and a cake box in the other, and I feel like I’m on my way to meet royalty.
Roman and I have only been together for a few weeks, and I can’t exactly wiggle out of meeting the woman who raised him. Particularly not with the way I hard-launched him into mine
His gran opens the door before we’ve even rung the bell. She’s small and sharp-eyed, and wrapped in themost wildly patterned cardigan I’ve ever seen. Which I want. Her hair is white and set in neat waves, and she gives me a cheeky smile.
I think I already love her.
‘You must be the girl,’ she says.
‘Lovely to meet you, Eleanor. I’ve come laden with gifts like I’m a wiseman, but I can assure you I’m neither wise nor in possession of a penis.’
Not even inside the house, and I’ve already said penis to my boyfriend’s grandmother. Damn it, Maggie.
She lets out a chuckle and reaches out to tug me inside. ‘Oh, I like you already. Come in, before Roman drags you away.’
Roman flushes and mutters, ‘Gran…’
She waves him away and hauls me inside, leading me to a sweetly decorated sitting room. The colours fade in comparison to her loud outfit. ‘You can put the kettle on, son. And I’ll get to know Maggie while you make the tea.’
‘Or,’ I counter, ‘We could have coffee with a tipple of whisky in it.’
Eleanor studies me. ‘Or. We could have it without the coffee.’
Roman shakes his head at us. ‘Three whiskies coming up.’
Her cottage smells like furniture polish and flowers. She ushers me into the sitting room, where there are crocheted blankets on every available surface, and a television paused on what looks like a very serious crime drama. You know it’s serious because it’s in thatdismal shade of blue which denotes either crime or the before in a before-and-after show.
‘Sit,’ she says.
And the inevitable small chat gap opens up before me like a great gaping mouth. What do I say? Hello, I once kidnapped your grandson and got him to feed my ex to the pigs.
No. That won’t work.
Instead, I slide right in with a hobby starter question. ‘I love your cardigan and the throws. Did you crochet all of this?’
‘I did. It keeps the hands busy. And the mind, too. Gotta stay sharp to keep Roman on the straight and narrow.’
She smiles indulgently at him.
We end up talking about the best place to get high-quality yarn, our favourite stitches and how she’s currently making a blanket for a neighbour’s new baby. Roman watches us, slightly bewildered by the conversation, until it descends into crime dramas. Before I know it, the three of us are dissecting plot holes and arguing about how we think the hot new series we’re watching will end.
In this busy little cottage, I find a level of easy warmth that I didn’t know I’ve been looking for. While Roman and his grandmother rib each other, there’s an undercurrent of pure love that runs through everything they say.
