I follow Mum into the garden with a tray of glasses and iced lemonade. She’s immaculate as always in a strappy floral sundress, pale-pink raffia sandals and a straw sunhat. I feel underdressed by comparison in navy cargo pants and a white vest top. We’re eating on the patio today as the weather still thinks we’re having a European summer rather than the usual drizzly British affair.
Dad takes the jug off the tray and starts pouring, ice cubes clinking as they slide into each glass. ‘What you need, Alice, is a bit of routine. You should get back to work.’
‘I will. I’m just not quite ready yet.’ I take a seat in the shadiest spot beneath the sun umbrella. Mum, Dad and Elizabeth are all sun worshippers, but I’ve always preferred shade. Mum sits next to Dad so they’re both facing me and I realise they’re colour-coordinated – Dad in a lavender short-sleeved shirt the same tone as Mum’s dress. ‘Anyway, I’m not due back until next week.’
‘Doesn’t matter when you’re due back,’ he replies, vigorously slicing into his Yorkshire pudding. ‘What matters is that you start getting back to normal.’
His no-nonsense pep-talk irritates me, yet I can’t help begrudgingly agreeing with what he’s saying. I have had too much time on my hands. Too much space to brood and think. To wonder about what might have been. To fear the future and doubt myself. But the thought of going back to work makes my stomach lurch. What if I can’t do my job any more? How will I be able to face my clients without wondering if they’re aware of what happened to me? Ringwood is a small town. Everyone knows everyone’s business, so it’s not unreasonable to assume that everyone’s been talking about it. Aboutme.
‘The sooner you get back to normal, the sooner you can put all this behind you,’ Dad says, bulldozing on. ‘What’s happening with Seth? You went to see him yesterday, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And ...?’ he asks, putting a forkful of roast potatoes and green beans into his mouth.
I clench my teeth. ‘And ... I still don’t recognise him, if that’s what you’re asking.’ I haven’t touched my food. Not sure why we’re having a roast dinner on what feels like the hottest day of the year,but heaven forbid we break with tradition. I sip my lemonade and try to dredge up an appetite.
Dad nods. ‘Okay, but now that we know your scan was clear, you need to spend more time with the man. Get to know him again. You fell in love once, you can do it again, no?’
‘Um ...’ We’ve only just started the main course, but I don’t think I can sit here any longer and listen to my father’s advice-slash-lecture. The sun has moved around and is now shining directly into my eyes like an interrogation lamp. I shift my chair to the left, but I’m hot and sweaty, jittery and anxious.
‘Just going to the loo,’ I say, getting up. As I leave, I catch my father’s exasperated glance at my mother. I walk across the baking hot terrace, back into the relative cool of the kitchen, along the carpeted hallway and into the downstairs loo where I sit on the toilet seat to gather my thoughts and try to make sense of my car-wreck of a relationship.
It’s quiet and chilly in the cloakroom. My eyes still haven’t adjusted from the brightness of the garden, but the gloomy interior is a welcome relief. Dad’s insistence that I get on with my life is frustrating because of course that’s what I want to do. I’d like nothing more than to snap my fingers and get back to how everything was before the wedding, but unfortunately my brain isn’t complying. Do I swallow down my doubts and fears and just push on with my previous life? Or do I abandon it all until I figure out whether Seth is still the one?
But how can I get back with a man who I can’t even bear to be in the same room as?
I let out a frustrated groan. Why is this happening to me? I just want to live my life! Although it’s completely different, I can’t help drawing comparisons to my relationship with Damian. That was another horrible situation where I wanted to jump ship. I think I must be cursed.
A tap on the cloakroom door makes me jump.
‘Alice, darling, it’s Mum.’
I sigh. At least it’s not Dad trying to wrestle a decision out of me. ‘Coming,’ I squeak, standing and peering at myself in the mirror above the basin. My hair has gone frizzy in the humidity, and my skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. I splash my face and blot it with the hand towel before taking a breath and letting myself out of the loo.
Mum is standing at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing at an invisible stain on the banister. ‘I was having a clear-out of my wardrobe and came across a couple of nice tops that might suit you,’ she says. ‘Come up and have a look.’
‘What about Dad?’ I ask, glancing back towards the garden.
‘Oh, he’ll be happy out there with his lunch for a while. Come on, it won’t take long.’
I’m relieved at the change of subject. Mum and I have always bonded over clothes. I follow her up the stairs, across the landing and into my parents’ dressing room, a pristine space of white wood, mirrors and plush grey carpet.
Mum pulls open one of the doors to reveal shelves of tops and sweaters. ‘Now, where’s that orange cami-top?’ She frowns and runs her fingers down a stack of folded silk. ‘Ah, here. Try this ...’ She hands me a gorgeous apricot-coloured top that I instantly know will suit me.
‘That’s so nice!’
She smiles and kisses my cheek, strokes one of my curls. ‘I knew you’d like it. Let’s see what it looks like on. Better than that grubby vest thing you’re wearing, anyway.’ She smiles to let me know she’s not being mean, just honest. ‘Tell me you didn’t wear that to Seth’s yesterday!’
‘No, course not,’ I reply, omitting to tell her about the old jeans and stained T-shirt I actually did wear. I peel off my vest top and let the apricot silk slide over my head.
‘The colour looks perfect on you,’ Mum says. ‘I knew it would.’ She sits on the large white-velvet ottoman and looks at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. ‘So, it didn’t go very well yesterday?’ she asks.
I tense up at her question, feeling the shutters come down on my briefly lifted mood.
‘I’m only asking because I’m worried about you,’ she continues. ‘We both are.’
‘Dad’s just worried about how it looks to everybody else,’ I mutter.
