Enya felt his verbal elbowing, pushing her off the throne on which she had sat for most of his life, even when he was with Holly. He spoke resolutely and his meaning was clear: he had picked her, picked Iris Sutherland, who he had only known for three weeks, because he loved her, loved her so much he would die trying to make her happy. And for the first time since he had made mention of his plans and this new woman in his life, she felt a conflicting surge of optimism, knowing if they were going to succeed as a couple it was exactly this kind of grit, determination and strength of feeling that was key to making a marriage work.
‘Well, all right then.’ She sat up straight. ‘I will try, Aiden. I love you, and I will try to support you in the way that you need.’ She offered a small smile. ‘I guess what I want to know is, when can I meet this girl?’
He looked at his watch and then back to her.
‘She and her parents will be here by three o’clock.’
‘Are you . . . is this a joke?’
She felt the first wave of panic, worried in tandem that Jenny, Phil and – God forbid – Holly might see them all arrive, while calculating that she had approximately four hours to shower, vacuum the house, plump the cushions, make cakes, and find some mascara that wasn’t baked dry.
‘Relax, they’re not coming to see if you have dusty surfaces, they’re coming to meet me in person and so that you can meet her.’
‘Oh my God!’ Her heart stuttered as she mentally located the Febreze and decided to iron her floral cotton dress with the beadwork at the yoke and the big sleeves; it was quite bohemian yet informal, cool, yet flattering. This was her son’s fiancée who was coming to meet her, and she had no choice but to go with it.
‘Are you saying I’ve got dusty surfaces?’
Chapter Twelve
Enya stared at the tray with the red and white gingham cloth and wondered if she were the worst kind of person, intending to offer Holly’s home-made blondies to Iris and her parents with a cup of tea. Not that they’d know, not that Holly would, but still.
‘I’m nervous, Jonathan.’ She spoke as she put her mug into the dishwasher; the mug she’d put out for him she put straight back on to the shelf, before rinsing and folding the dishcloth neatly over the tap. ‘I feel duty-bound to be a bit cool with the girl, feel like I owe it to Holly, and yet I know that’s ridiculous. It’s not her fault, is it? And if she’s going to be our daughter-in-law, I want her to like us. I really do. What if her parents are awful, what if Jenny pops over and finds me sitting there having a cup of tea with her replacement like we’re old friends. I know that would make me feel terrible. I don’t do well with disloyalty. I guess it’s nice Aiden wanted them to come to his family home, but I really wish they weren’t.’
Her son was conspicuous by his absence. Knowing every square inch of the cottage, she could tell he was hovering at his window, this confirmed by the sound of the floorboard squeaks. She felt both aggrieved by his lack of visibility yet relieved too, as the idea of making small talk, of slipping up and accidentally letting him know that she felt nothing but dread at the prospect of meeting Iris and her family, was a worry. Or worse, her wish that she’d ratherthis wasn’t happening at all. This was the exact situation in which having Jonathan by her side would have made a difference. He always knew when to make a joke, how to pick a topic that might engage everybody, and, if these failed, the ace up his sleeve: a tour of the greenhouse to have a little look at his tomatoes. His tomato crop was always a bit crap. She now suspected it was far more about having those stinky plants to talk to, or to prod and water when a distraction was required, than the embarrassingly small harvest they provided. Although it had been a never-ending source of comedy, his tiny toms that she supplemented with punnets from the supermarket. And the delightful ritual eating of the sparse fruit with declarations that it was quality not quantity that counted had never failed to be funny. She looked over at the sink and there he was, leaning against it. His presence yet lack of engagement a little irritating at times like this.
Aiden’s feet thundering down the stairs told her it must be show time and she closed her eyes briefly and took a breath.
‘Just got a text, they’ll be here in five!’
He practically jumped on the spot with an energy that she hadn’t seen in him since he was a child. He looked smart, had shaved, tamed his curly hair as best he could, was aftershave-doused, and wore his shirt, one that had hung pressed and ready in his wardrobe. He might have set up home with Holly, but his room here was just as he’d left it when he had shipped out two years ago. She kept it that way, for just in case. The two stayed over on occasion, and she now wondered if at the back of her mind she had always hoped he might come home.
‘Are you nervous?’ She filled the kettle in preparation and instantly regretted it; that was always a nice diversion if conversation was stilted or lacking, the oldoff to fill the kettletrick. It could buy as many as three minutes of face-to-face avoidance.
‘A little bit, about meeting her parents, yes. I really want them to like me. But about seeing Iris?’ He shook his head. ‘Not a bit, just excited. Really excited. You’re going to love her, Mum. She’s amazing!’
So you’ve said . . .
‘I’m sure I will, and I trust your judgement.’
‘But do you really?’ He looked at her quizzically, as if he, like her, recalled their earlier conversation.
‘I do, Aiden. That doesn’t mean I’m not concerned about the whirlwind nature of it all, and my doubts about what comes next, but trust you? Yes, I do. I’ve worried a little in the past that you and Holly maybe hadn’t seen as much of the world as you might, queried if maybe it might be healthy to see other people before you took the big leap, but I didn’t imagine this.’
It felt good to be entirely open, like redressing the layers of deceit that the Hudsons were dealing with, a little.
‘I want to talk to you about Holly, and everything that happened yesterday, but not right now. I want to enjoy today.’
‘Of course.’ She forced a smile, and wondered how much Holly might be enjoying today. The tray of blondies sat like a sweet tempting poke in the ribs, making her presence felt.
The sound of a car outside saw her son run to the front door. In that instant Enya wasn’t sure where she should be. In the kitchen? Her worry was that it made her seem too domestic and mumsy. Sitting on the sofa, reading? That might give the impression she was aloof, disinterested or, worse, lazy. She hated how much thought she gave to such an inconsequential thing and how much it bothered her. The kitchen was where she’d stay. She was, after all, both domestic and mumsy and knew there was no shame in that.
‘Oh, this is so sweet, really cosy!’ A woman’s voice floated from the hallway, referring to Enya’s home. ‘We don’t really have a hallway at The Mount, this is so cute!’
It spoke volumes. It was a nice thing to say, complimentary in its way, yet with distinct undertones of comparison. The Mount, the woman’s house, was no doubt bigger, more contemporary, better. Enya stood tall and glanced downwards at the back door, where with horror she spied two slender turds in Pickle’s litter tray. Her heart sank and she made the executive decision to get rid of them right now! Moving quickly, hoping Aiden took his time and showed them the sitting room, which was even ‘sweeter and cosier’ than the hallway, she grabbed the litter tray, ran towards the open French doors, and in a moment of sheer panic threw the whole thing, grit, shit, and all, over the fence. With her pulse racing, her face no doubt a little flushed, she hurriedly returned in time to see two women, Iris and her mother, who were identical in both look and dress.
She could now confirm to Angela that yes, Iris, like her mother, was indeed beautiful.
They had layered, buttery-blonde bobbed hair that fell over sharp cheekbones, an abundance of silver jewellery with turquoise stones sitting strikingly against their summer tans, and they both wore skinny cropped jeans with crisp white shirts. On their neat and well-pedicured tootsies, they sported leather sandals that suggested their feet, so delicately encased, would never be troubled by bunions.
