A woman nearby gives me a look as if to say, ‘Get it, gurl.’
Nope. Never been more embarrassed.
‘Can you stop shouting please?’ I say, shrugging my shoulders up around my ears.
‘But did you?’
I’m going to have to come clean.
‘No, I did not.’
‘So who was it?’
‘How can you even tell? You’re so clever and intuitive, Mila. And pretty.’
‘Who.Was. It?’
There’s nowhere left to hide.
‘Hot Tom,’ I mumble.
‘I’m sorry, for a minute there I thought you said Hot Tom. But that can’t be right, can it? Because Hot Tom is no longer on your to do list. Pretty sure I drew a red cross through his name and told you to move the eff on.’
I’d like to argue that my best friend is not the boss of me but, let’s face it, I need all the help I can get. If she wants to take charge, she can. I’ve nothing to lose. I reach over to pat my best friend on the head, grateful for her support.
‘Stop that,’ she barks, swatting away my hand with her own. It hurts a bit and I give it a rub. ‘I am so mad at you. Are you saying that you hooked up with Tom this week?’
‘Yes,’ I say meekly, draining the last of my drink. ‘In my defence, I was about to give up on the mission full stop. Then your flowers arrived and I got this renewed sense of purpose, so off I went to ditch Hot Tom, but then he was all naked and. . . You know I make bad decisions when you’re not around.’
She looks almost as disappointed in me as I am in myself. ‘Did you feel good about it? And I don’t mean what he did with his aubergine emoji. I mean EMOTIONALLY.’
I shake my head. ‘I did not. But I did see sense in the end and he’s officially out of my life now, so I’m looking at it as a blip in the plan. Besides, he definitely got the message. I haven’t had a dick pic in days.’
Mum’s all in a dither. She’s fanning herself with a brochure and faffing with the broach on her dress. She thinks she’s spotted that gardening guru all mums fancy walking our wayand from what I can gather, that’s the equivalent of me seeing Cillian Murphy on the approach.
(He’s hot, no? Guys?!)
‘Quick, say something clever about flowers,’ she whispers.
‘You’re really asking the wrong person here,’ I madly look around for inspiration. My eyes land on a display of pink and yellow petunias. ‘Don’t these petunias look particularly full of. . . petal?’ I announce loudly as a billowy haired man walks past.
‘Panic over, it wasn’t him,’ says Mum, letting her breathing return to normal. ‘And darling, that’s not a petunia.’
‘Oh soz,’ I reply, crestfallen.
‘Thank you for trying, though,’ she adds kindly, linking my arm as we shuffle our way through the crowds during our annual flower show visit. We first came here the year after Dad did what Dad did and it’s become a mother–daughter tradition ever since. I buy the tickets and then have a little weep for my bank balance, but we always have the best time. Mum has never given up on the dedicated pursuit of trying to educate me about horticulture and sings out the Latin names of each plant/herb/tree as we pass. Then she attempts to test me over a picnic lunch and we’ll fall about laughing as it transpires that I’ve remembered chuff all and make up my own names instead. Though I do thinkPerky McPetalPantsshould be a real name for a flower.
It sounds like a middle-aged day out but I love it. There’s actually some seriously cool stuff here. . . designs by incredible architects and ideas to get you thinking. I always bring my camera. Somehow, even though we’re still in London and surrounded by people, it feels like an escape. And seeing that smile on my mum’s face will be something I never, ever tire of.
‘I’vegot a surprise for you,’ Mum suddenly stops and spins round to face me, her purple dress whipping around her legs. Mum’s got the figure of a model, btw. Even before the yoga, she was like a tall, wispy wisp. I got the height genes but am a little bit more. . . blessed?. . . in the butt and hips department.
‘Ooh. What is it?’
‘I thought I’d treat us so I’ve booked a table at that seafood place.’
‘The one with oysters and caviar?’
‘The very same,’ says Mum. ‘Shall we?’
