‘But why?’ I ask, genuinely confused. To berate us for our shoddy parenting?I tried to tell him about contraception but he was too busy burrowing for Magnums in the freezer!
‘To see what you’re like, I s’pose.’ Eddie seems to cringe as he looks at us, clearly finding us lacking. And admittedly, I can’t imagine that anyone would mistake us for members of this presumably private members’ club. Frank always looks good – and I often see other women checking him out – but today his ancient denim jacket, black jeans with a small rip in one knee and a yolk-coloured T-shirt with a cartoon bear on the front, plus the slogan ‘I prefer their earlier stuff’, don’t seem quite right.
Not that I look any better. This morning I’d been too preoccupied by Frank’s brooding ill humour, and whether we’d be able to present a united front, to be able to even think about putting an outfit together. I’d simply grabbed an old stripy sweater plus jeans, scruffy Chelsea boots and a jacket that’s definitely tipped over into the realm of gardening wear. My face is bare, my hair unwashed.
Now an immaculate woman in a charcoal trouser suit has appeared from a back room. ‘Can I help you?’ She flashes even white teeth.
‘We’re meeting, uh, Lyla Balfour and, ah … Mrs Balfour,’ Eddie blurts out.
‘Ah,the Balfours.’ She stations herself behind the reception desk. ‘They’re through in the restaurant. Justalong there.’ She indicates a corridor leading off the foyer. ‘Like me to take you through?’
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ Eddie says quickly. We follow our son towards the convivial sounds of chatter and clinking crockery, passing a glass cabinet housing a display of what look like ceremonial swords. But what if they’re not? What if they’re real and we’ve been lured here for our execution?
‘What’s her name?’ I whisper to Eddie, grabbing at his arm.
He shakes me off irritably. ‘Lyla!’
‘I mean her mum.’
‘Uh, Shelley, I think …’
That’s a friendly name, I try to reassure myself. A Shelley won’t have a list of questions ready for our interrogation – or a gun.
We step into the bustling restaurant and stand close together, like small woodland animals huddling for safety. ‘I’m too ill for this, apparently,’ I murmur. ‘My sciatica’sso bad…’
‘Mum, don’t start,’ Eddie says through his teeth.
‘I need to go to hospital. Get an ambulance, Eddie. Call 999—’
‘Mum!’ His sharp nudge shuts me up, and I gaze bleakly around the restaurant. There’s more polished wood panelling, lit by glowing wall lamps with tasselled shades. Although the room is sizeable the effect of all this copious dark wood is making me feel like I’m trapped in a box. Or a coffin, more like. A coffin with the lid just put on. There are windows, but they’re almost obscured by drapes and swags, like giant tartan knickers. It’s all veryposh, old-school Scottish and somewhat overheated. Or is that just me?
I tug off my jacket and glance down at my sweater, noticing with horror how bobbly it is. Did this happen suddenly as we power-marched here? It must be ninety-five per cent bobble. I can’t take it off and stuff it into my bag, as I have a rank old T-shirt on underneath, unfit for public display. Maybe, I think wildly, Lyla and her mother aren’t here after all. The receptionist got it wrong—
‘There they are,’ Eddie announces in a tone more suited to,There’s a parking attendant. Look, she’s sticking a thing on our car.
‘Where?’ I ask, heart thudding.
‘Over there.’ He nods towards a tiny blonde girl in a distant corner. She’s raised an arm to attract our attention, and my mouth’s interior is as dry as toast as we make our way towards her. Now an older, equally beautiful – also blonde – woman is waving too. Then they’re both up on their feet, and we’re greeted in a blur of introductions and unexpected hugs and artfully dishevelled hair.
‘Hi, hi!’ I say, inanely. How to act? They say I’m unflappable in the library, and despite what Eddie might think it’s not all stamping books and tidying shelves. The odd drunk person blunders in, mistaking us for the kebab shop. We’ve had people falling asleep in the poetry section, vomiting by the kids’ books and one crazy man shouted at Jamie for apparently ‘looking at’ him. Whatever happens in the library, I know what to do. And now Idon’tknow.
‘Lovely to meet you, Lyla, Shelley,’ I start.
‘It’s Suki actually.’ Lyla’s mother beams, dismissing my apology with an elegant hand. I can see now that she’squite a bit younger than me – possibly early forties. Or maybe she’s just better preserved.
‘Don’t worry! It’s a silly name—’
‘Not at all! It’s a lovely name,’ I insist.
‘—A nickname from back in my teens. But it stuck. Please, sit down …’
I glance at Eddie as we take our places at the circular table. Panic is radiating from him as he lands next to Lyla. He looks as if he’s realised he’s in the wrong exam hall; the one for final medical exams when he’s only done a day’s workshop in cake decorating.
‘Really nice to meet you both,’ Lyla says, echoing her mother’s easy charm. ‘I’ve heard lots about you.’
I take a moment to register her calmness and poise. So we’re plunging headfirst into the lie. ‘We have too,’ I manage. ‘About you, I mean. We’ve beensolooking forward to meeting you …’ I glance at Frank in panic and he shoots me a warning look. Am I talking like a terrible actress, struggling with her lines?
‘Well, you’re lucky!’ Suki casts her daughter a fond glance. ‘All this time and she’d never even mentioned you, Eddie. Not until last week. And now this. Such a dark horse!’
