Rob ignored my explanation, his frown lines deepening as he clicked through messages on his phone. I gave up trying to talk to him and found Bertie lying on his bed watching videos on his iPad.
‘We need to get going, Bertie.’
‘I don’t want to go.’
Neither did I. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes, or be thrown into a snake pit than spend more than five minutes with my in-laws, or grim-laws as I called them in my head. I squared my shoulders. ‘Come on, it will be fun.’
‘Can I go in the pool?’
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Despite having an outdoor heated swimming pool among their many acres of garden, my in-laws had declared it an adult-only space, insisting the risk of snot, urine and vomit was too great to allow children into its jewel-like waters. ‘Tell you what, if you’re a good boy today, I’ll think of a treat on the way home.’
‘What kind of treat?’
‘Movie night with me?’
Bertie narrowed his eyes. ‘Will there be popcorn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do I get to pick the film?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ Bertie jumped off the bed and shoved his iPad into his bag.
‘No iPad, Bertie. You know how Grandma and Grandpa feel about devices.’
With a dramatic sigh, Bertie swapped his iPad for a comic, before hitching his bag onto his back and taking my hand.
The memory of my first visit to my in-laws’ home still sent shivers down my spine. I’d been desperate to make a good first impression, but seeing their mansion (just a large house, according to Rob) in the Devonshire countryside, my insides had turned to mush and I’d lost the power of speech. The full list of disasters which occurred over that one weekend is too great to mention. But the highlights include: the heel of my cheap shoes breaking as I walked up the driveway, forgetting my in-laws’ names, enthusiastically joining in a conversation about polo mints, only to realise too late they were discussing a sport. But the pièce de résistance came after an evening barbecue, when I found out I had a hitherto undiscovered allergy to seafood. I’m not sure their marble-covered bathroom has ever recovered. Oh, and Rob got drunk and announced the bombshell of my pregnancy while I was reacquainting myself with barbecued squid in the bathroom.
‘Here we are,’ said Rob, pulling his Range Rover to a stop outside Rigby Manor. ‘Best behaviour, Bertie.’
Hugo and Marion greeted us at the door. I still expected a capped-headed servant to appear as the closest point of reference I had to how my in-laws lived was ‘Downton Abbey’.
‘On time for once,’ bellowed Hugo, checking his pocket watch.
‘Don’t stand there in the doorway, come in.’
I walked past Marion, nearly choking on the excessive amount of perfume seeping from her skin. ‘You look well,’ I said.
‘Thank you, Olivia,’ said Marion, not returning the compliment. She patted her neat chignon. Her thick makeup had creased into the crevices of her face, and dabs of shimmery pink lipstick clung to her teeth. She fiddled with the string ofpearls around her neck. ‘Go through to the dining room. Lunch is almost ready.’
I took Bertie’s hand and led him through the house, keeping him close just in case we knocked against any priceless ornaments as we went. We sat ourselves in uncomfortable high-backed chairs at the dining table. Bertie began fiddling with his napkin. I placed a hand across his to still it.
Once we were all seated, Marion brought through china dishes filled with the various items she had prepared for the Sunday roast. Rob loved his mother’s cooking, but to my taste buds, it was bland and overcooked. To be fair to Marion, (something I was loath to do), nothing could compete with the patatas bravas, gazpacho, or tortillas my mother cooked in the days post-university when both my parents were finally bringing in a reasonable wage.
‘So, Albert, how are you getting on at school?’
Beneath the table, I twisted a napkin between my fingers. My in-laws insisted on calling Bertie Albert, having never forgiven me for adding the ‘o’ to the end of his name. Perhaps if Rob had been there when I registered the birth, he could have put his Anglo-Saxon case across, but as Cass liked to say,you snooze, you lose.
‘Um… um…’
‘He’s doing very well at school,’ I said, coming to Bertie’s rescue.
‘Let the boy speak for himself, woman,’ shouted Hugo. ‘What’s your favourite subject, Albert?’
‘Spanish.’
