CHAPTER FIVE
Mum is kneeling in the garden having a chat with a big green bush when I arrive home. There’s a wicker basket next to her filled with some kind of leaf, her floral patternedgardening gloves perched on top. A straw hat keeps the sun from her eyes and she’s wearing the denim dungarees which she most definitely did not buy as a fashion statement that time when dungarees came back in. As ever, my heart bursts with love for her.
‘I’m back,’ I call out. ‘What are you talking to?’
‘Horatio the Hosta, he’s in fine fettle today.’
Mum’s named all the plants in her garden.
‘Right. Horatio does look very, um, green.’
It’s safe to say that I haven’t inherited her aptitude for horticulture.
‘Doesn’t he just?’ Mum beams, happily telling me all about a new compost she’s been trying out while I squat down to get a better view. If I’m being entirely honest, I don’t really know what makes a good or a bad compost. Or, come to think of it, what makes compost full stop. But seeing my mum this content, this full of joy, never ceases to put a smile on my face.
Our garden teems with life these days, butterflies fluttering from one plant to the next and bees getting giddy on the lavender. When I was little, the place was overrun with weeds and only ever tamed when Dad got the chance to whizz a lawnmower over the unruly grass.
‘Home-made lemonade?’ Mum asks, jumping up from Horatio and pointing towards a jug of cloudy liquid. Mum’s home-made lemonade tastes like pure acid and yet she makes a fresh batch every weekend. Apparently it’s ‘restorative’.
‘Just a small glass,’ I reply, which she thoroughly ignores, pouring me a pint of the stuff. See ya later, tastebuds.
‘I was sorry to hear what happened with James,’ Mum squeezes my hand. ‘I know how much you were looking forward to the wedding this weekend. Still, Mila tells me thatshe’s taken charge of your love life which sounds like a wonderful idea. A shake-up will do you the world of good.’
I pause midway through trying to cram two biscuits into my mouth at the same time. My mum and my best friend have been close since forever. . . Mila calls her own mother a deranged sack of shit, which is sadly accurate. I hadn’t quite realised that she and Mum are at the let’s-talk-about-Jasmine’s-love-life stage, though.
‘To be honest I’m not sure if I’ll be able to see the plan through. I mean, seven dates is a lot. But I did go out with a guy in France, so that’s something!’
‘Just see how you go, darling. There’s no need to rule it out yet. And the date in France sounds fun!’ A wide smile lights up her face. It’s the smile I’ve loved best ever since I was little. . . the one she used when she came to see my A Level art display and the one beaming back at me during a starring role as Piper Number Three for my primary school’s nativity play. I guess I didn’t have the most ‘normal’ family set-up, growing up. Dad was an artist and the kind of man who withered at the thought of having to work in an office. He did give it a go, but he’d come home raging about ‘The Man’ which made little me super confused. Who was this Man getting up in Dad’s grill? But Mum would always soothe him, always tell him it would be okay. That he’d sell some paintings soon and that he simply wasn’t designed to work a nine-to-five. Instead, she worked tirelessly to provide for our family and sweet Piper Number Three, was she good at it. It wasn’t long before Mum was made a partner at her marketing firm. It meant long hours and she missed out on stuff like eating tea with me and Dad a lot, but she did it because she wanted the best for us all. And Ilovedhanging out with Dad. I’d potter around his studio (garden shed) where he set me up a little easel so I could copy him and create ‘masterpieces’ of my own. (Cat Does A Sick is, I believe, one of the finest examples of my early work). So, while Dad and I were still in ourpyjamas eating Sugar Puffs, Mum would be slipping on a power suit and heading into central London to be the ultimate girl boss.
The weekends were my favourite though, when I got to hang out with her too. By the time I was a teenager, I was hell bent on making it is a photographer and in my wildest dreams, I’d go off to study at this world-renowned academy in New York. Mum told me in no uncertain words that I must follow my dreams. I remember, quite clearly, that she teared up when she said those words.
‘Like you,’ I’d said.
‘Working in marketing is not my dream,’ she’d replied. ‘I like what I do, I’m good at it, and it means I can support my family. But that’s it.’
This had come as a massive surprise. It turned out that Mum dreamed of being a yoga teacher, but, given how hapless Dad was at anything other than art and being a brilliant father, she’d transformed herself into a kick-arse businesswoman instead. Teenage Mila worshiped the ground she walked on and I think Ben had a bit of a crush on her, which really doesn’t bear thinking about. She was an awesome mum too but, growing up, Dad was the one to stick plasters on my scabby knees and Dad was the one who knew if fish fingers were in or out that week. Subconsciously, I reach for my camera bag just to check that it’s there.
‘That camera,’ Mum smiles softly. ‘Your father would love to know that you’re still using it. Have you thought about. . .?’
‘Nope,’ I cut in. ‘How is Tiger doing?’ Mum is dating a man called Tiger. He shares many of her loves; horticulture, pickling, naked yoga.
‘Just wonderful,’ she smiles as the sun streams through the kitchen window, lighting up her silver hair. One solitary grey used to have Mum booking herself in for an expensivecut but these days she cuts it herself and uses the discarded hair to make jewellery which she sells to questionable characters on Etsy. I guess you could say that she’s a bit of a kook now, and I love her all the more for it. There was a time, after what happened, when I thought I’d never see her smile again. Now that beautiful broad grin spreads so easily across her face and, best of all, I know it’s because she’s finally able to do what she wants to do. After the tears, the betrayal, the hurt, she picked herself up off the floor and dusted herself down like an absolute trooper. She quit her job, trained as a yoga teacher and has never looked back. If she was my ultimate hero when I was little, she’s like the queen of everything now.
‘Tiger is coming over later this afternoon and we’re going to practise our chaturanga dandasana. You’re welcome to stay? You look like you could do with working on your flexibility. We can all keep our clothes on if we really must.’
Even the Queen of Everything has that inbuilt ability to embarrass the crap out of her daughter. ‘Now there’s an offer,’ I laugh slash shudder, planting a kiss on her forehead and making my excuses.
Sundays might just be my favourite day of the week. Today Ben and Mila wanted to go for bottomless brunch but I reminded them that I’m not made of money so we’ve settled for a picnic breakfast in the park instead. I’m watching Mila unfold a tartan blanket at our chosen spot by the lake. There are TWELVE different types of beige foods in the two brown paper bags I’m carrying and yes itisacceptable to eat glazed doughnuts first thing – why would you even ask that question? Ben couldn’t shake the idea of champagne for breakfast and so, being the big baller that he is, he’s bought two bottles of fizz to the party. I don’t think I could be happier.
I’mpouring drinks into plastic cups while Mila admonishes Ben for ditchingyet anotherone-night-stand to come hang with us. If there were to be medals given out in that department, Ben would be on his way to a knighthood by now.
He shrugs. ‘She’s nice but it was a one-off and we haven’t hung out in a while,’ he says, motioning to the three of us.
‘Aren’t you bored of it?’ Asks Mila.
‘What?’
‘All the women. Don’t you ever think about finding just one?’
