Enya wasn’t sure whether to curtsy in her frock with the voluminous sleeves and beads or run away.
It was always the way. She was quietly confident in her own skin, went about her routine without giving too much thought to her attire, ancient hairstyle and lack of make-up. Yet put her in the presence of a goddess and she shrank, dissolved inside, and morphed into her fourteen-year-old self who no one wanted to snog as she stood a full head taller than most of the boys; and if you were a girl no one wanted to snog, the popular girls did notwant to be your buddy, fearing the lack of snoggability might be contagious.
‘You must be Aiden’s mum! I’m Trish.’
Trish was friendly, confident and with an air of someone who lived a golden life, and one who had invested in very good teeth. Her make-up was shiny and perfect. Enya cursed her own pathetic two coats of mascara, the ancient tube of which she’d had to spit into.
‘I am, it’s lovely to meet you, all a bit strange, but lovely!’ She walked forward, and she and Trish held each other’s hand. It was a moment of connection that set the tone. She just hoped Jenny wasn’t anywhere close.
‘I’m Iris.’
The girl – assured, calm, a little cool, and oh so beautiful – smiled. It felt only right to hug her. Enya took a step forward and opened her arms, when, much to her humiliation, Iris reached for her hand and shook it. It was a demotion. By declining the hug, Iris had made it clear that Enya was not someone she wanted to hold or be held by; a stranger, no matter that this was the girl who was going to marry her son.
Enya’s heart hardened a little towards the girl, and flexed for Holly, who was affectionate in the way it was possible to be with such a shared history. Holly, who right now couldn’t sit up, speak, or open her eyes, so great was her distress, a little rag doll, and who she guessed would probably welcome a hug right now.
‘Hello, Iris. It’s lovely to meet you.’
‘Show Aiden’s mum your ring!’ Trish clapped, her glee evident. Her own mammoth rock glinted in the sunlight.
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Enya had quite forgotten this detail.
Iris splayed her manicured fingers and showed off the whopping gem that nestled on a white gold band. It was really something. She wondered how much of Aiden’s savings he had blown on theimpressive piece and cursed the fact that her thoughts had fled to what would happen if they didn’t make it to the altar. Would Iris get to keep it? It was unkind and fatalistic, and she felt suitably ashamed to have mentally gone there at all.
The ring was a symbol, maybe a little gaudy for her tastes, but it was not her tastes that counted. Nor her opinion on the whole carry-on, apparently.
‘The whole thing was pretty perfect.’ She tuned in to Iris’s slow rhythm of speech, her low tones, very different to the giddy way in which Holly spoke, chattering and laughing and hopping from topic to topic with such speed that Enya often lost the thread. ‘We wandered down to the Spanish Steps area, and AJ had the whole thing planned.’
AJ?
‘The jeweller had all these rings laid out on little silk pillows, waiting for me to try. I cried, of course. Pathetic, I know, but it was special. The boy did good!’
Enya stared at the statement piece that Aiden had planned. ‘Wow! It’s beautiful.’ She turned to comment to her son, acknowledging that the boy had indeed done good, to give the approval he had already explained they were not seeking, when she realised he wasn’t there. ‘WhereisAiden?’
‘Chatting to my dad outside.’ Iris shook her head. ‘I know they’re going to get on. Which is both great and intensely annoying. My dad will steal him for hours.’
‘I think that’s lovely.’ She found a smile, feeling suddenly outnumbered here in her own home. Even Pickle had done a runner, although in fairness she had left a parting gift. God, how she missed Jonathan.
‘Has he told you all about the proposal?’ Trish grinned.
‘No! He hasn’t actually.’ She clicked on the kettle.
‘We’ll have to get him to tell you his version of the story,’ Trish gushed, ‘I’m never going to get sick of hearing it! We were watching TV, eating supper, the next thing, we’ve got madam here on the phone, and she’s got this huge dazzler on her finger! We had a virtual toast – they had a bottle of champers at their end, and we did the same. I don’t mind telling you, Enya, I cried too! Still can’t believe it! My little girl is getting married!’
Enya could relate as she too felt like crying, picturing the joyful celebration across the miles while she had only got to hear of the impending nuptials in the car park yesterday. She felt left out, excluded, lost.
‘Yes, it’s all so exciting!’ She hoped she sounded excited and not knackered and wishing she could curl up in bed.
‘How long have you lived here?’ Trish looked around the kitchen, taking in the island, the French doors, the pale oak floor, the Danish oiled wooden countertops, and cabinetry the colour of winter sage, with knobs in matt brass to match the taps, door handle and all the other ironmongery.
‘A long time, we moved in when we got married and just, stayed!’
‘You never wanted a bigger house?’
Enya stared at the woman, considering several responses, none of which she decided were polite to share.
‘No. That’s why we’re still here.’
Me. Why I’m still here . . .
