“You forgot about our brunch.”
I frown and plod past her, heading into the bedroom to find my phone and check my calendar. She’s right, of course. We have a catch-up brunch scheduled for today. I go to stand in the kitchen doorway. “Mum, it’s eight thirtyA.M.”
“Yes?” she says, as she pours boiling water.
“Do you understand the meaning of brunch? It’s breakfast andlunchpushed together.”
“That’s right.”
I stare at her. “So why are you here now?” I ask, hoping the paracetamol kicks in soon.
She gets the milk from the fridge, her forehead creased. “You said to meet you for brunch. So, here I am.”
If my head didn’t hurt already, I’d be banging it against the wall.
“Yes! But brunch isn’t at eight thirty! That would be breakfast!”
“It’s all very confusing,” she says, with an exaggerated sigh, handing me my tea. “Anyway, I’m here now.”
There’s no point in continuing this battle. I’ve already lost. Thissituation is so Mum that I really should have been better prepared. There’s no doubt that my organization skills come from her side of the family. Dad is the complete opposite, head in the clouds, loses everything, never quite sure where he’s meant to be but having a jolly time along the way. Mum, on the other hand, has several color-coded diaries and takes great pains never to be on time for anything. She is, instead, always early. In this case, several hours.
Before she retired, a year ago, Mum worked in public relations for TV personalities and was so used to dealing efficiently with the consequences of bad press that she’s the master of finding solutions and opportunities in any life hiccup that comes her way. She’s smart, busy, and practical, and has a resting pensive expression as though she’s already trying to work out how best to deal with the next problem before it’s even happened. Having such a sensible mum is mostly a good thing, especially when things go wrong and she can set you on the right path, but it can also be quite intense.
I always feel exhausted after a conversation with her.
“So, are you going to answer my question?” she says, moving into the lounge and perching on the sofa.
Thank goodness I hoovered in here yesterday or there would have been a comment. Her house in Putney is always tidy, everything where it should be. Dad likes to move coasters on purpose just to see her reaction: “Here you go, a nice cup of t—Hang on! Where’s the coaster that should be on this table? I don’t know how this—Oh, there it is! On the table over there! How did that happen? I must have moved it. Anyway, here you are, darling, a nice cup of tea on the correct coaster.”
He does this at least twice a week and she still has no idea how things move.
“Which question was that?” I ask.
“Why were you and Cara out drinking heavily on a Monday night? It’s not like you.”
I’ll have to tell her eventually. I scan the room for the invitation and see it poking out from the side of the sofa behind Mum. Oh, yeah. I held it last night while I listened to sad pop songs. God, I’m tragic.
“This is why.” I hold it out to her. “I’m going to get into the shower. I have a hundred things to do this morning.”
“Oh, Sophie,” she says sadly, reading the invitation.
“I’m fine. Honestly,” I say, as chirpily as I can, heading into the bathroom. “I just needed to have a rant last night to Cara and now I’m ready to forget about it.”
I lock the door and catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I lookawfuland feel instantly ashamed of myself. Ashamed and annoyed that I’ve let Daniel have this effect on me when I’m over him—make me sleep in past my alarm, cause me to be irresponsibly hungover when I’ve got lots to do, and leave me feeling like I’m somehow failing at life when I know I’m not.
Having said that, I do notice from my reflection that I removed the makeup from one eye last night, clearly forgetting I have two.
“Pull yourself together,” I say, turning the shower on. “You’re better than this.”
I’m going to reply to that invitation, forget about it, and continue with my life. Yes. That’s right. In your face, Daniel. I willnotbe attending your stupid wedding with its stupid perfect invitations and stupid dream venue with a stupid four-course fine-dining menu. Instead I’m going to do somethingawesome.Something Daniel would never expect me to do. Something outrageous. Something daring and different. Something completely out there. Something impressive that makes people go, “Wow!”
Something like… skydiving! Why not? Throw myself out of a plane. I can do that. I’ll book it for Daniel’s wedding day.
Then if he happens to ask one of our mutual friends what I’mdoing that means I can’t go to his wedding, they’ll be like “Oh, Sophie? Yeah, she’s skydiving.”
BOOM. Take that, Daniel.
Then he’ll be like “What? Sophie’s skydiving? That’s so brave and crazy and amazing! I got her so wrong. I never deserved her. She’d never want me back.”
