So I hope you’re satisfied, young lady, that’s all I can say.
Mum
Can my mum really be seriously ill?
The thought flickers fleetingly across my brain. Then I remind myself that her hypochondria is nothing less than world class. She once had an ingrowing toenail and thought it would result in amputation.
No, I’m absolutely confident that when Mum says she has something as serious as pancreatic cancer she could be referring to anything from a lingering migraine to nits.
That doesn’t make me feel any better about the email, though. The absence of kisses at the bottom stabs my heart.
The truth is I
agonized
about whether or not to go home for Christmas. On the one hand, I think I would have liked to see Mum and Dad. (Oh, God, just saying ‘I think’ probably makes me an even poorer excuse for a daughter than I already am.) But there’s no doubt about what the overriding theme of my return home would have been – the wedding. And, to be honest, I want to spend Christmas talking about the wedding about as much as I want to retrain as a mortician.
The other reason for my anxiety about going back is an even simpler one: Jason. I’d be as desperate to bump into him as I would be terrified to do so. And, frankly, at this time of year I’d prefer to be bursting with festive cheer than with raging paranoia, thank you very much.
So, in the end, my decision just sort of happened. To describe it as a decision makes it sound more deliberate than it was. I couldn’t decide what to do so I didn’t do anything. Which means I’m still here, with less than a week to go to Christmas and no practical way of getting home even if I wanted to. Every flight to Manchester will undoubtedly be booked by now, with the exception of seats so pricy an oil baron would need a second mortgage to get one.
But that doesn’t stop me feeling rotten. And I’ve got to put my mind at rest by finding out what this mystery illness of my mother’s is.
The time difference forces me to wait until the next morning to phone home and I do so while I’m making the kids’ breakfast. Mum answers after three rings.
‘Hello, Zoe.’ She sounds suitably wounded.
‘Mum, what’s all this about you being seriously ill?’ I ask. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘I never said I was— Look, I just said
it was serious
. I never said I was being immediately hospitalized or anything like that, so you don’t need to worry.’
‘So what is it?’ I insist.
She sighs. ‘It’s not something I want to discuss on the phone.’
‘Right,’ I say, through gritted teeth, trying to hide the fact that I want to throttle her.
‘It’s just not the sort of thing you talk about in a long-distance phone call,’ she continues haughtily. ‘So, if you’re that intrigued, you’ll have to come home for Christmas like any normal daughter would.’
‘Mum, are you blackmailing me?’ I ask, unable to conceal my annoyance.
‘No!’ she cries, outraged.
I pause for a second, thinking. ‘Put Dad on,’ I say decisively.
‘He’s not here,’ she informs me. ‘And, anyway, he’s under strict instructions not to discuss my medical issues with you so there’s no point in trying to go down that route.’
‘You’re a very frustrating woman sometimes, Mum,’ I tell her.
‘Ha!’ she squeals. ‘I’m frustrating? You’re the one who’s left me with precisely four and a half pounds too much of organic bronze turkey, thanks to your no-show.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Look, Mum, just tell me something. This thing you’ve got that Dr Ahmed has diagnosed, is it going to kill you?’
‘No.’
‘Is it going to leave you in any way significantly debilitated?’
‘No.’
‘Right, then,’ I say. ‘I’m going now.’
‘Zoe,’ she says, before I disconnect the call, ‘it isn’t anything to worry about, this thing. It’s just . . . I wanted to talk to you about it in person, that’s all. Oh, it doesn’t matter, it’s not urgent. You’ll be coming back soon after Christmas, won’t you, even if it’s not for Christmas itself?’
‘Y-yes,’ I say unsurely.
‘Right, then,’ she says. ‘We’ll have a chat then. And don’t worry, will you?’
Chapter 70
The party was gearing up to be the social highlight of my month until I saw a printout of an invitation shortly after Ryan emailed them. Apparently, with the backing of both children, he took the crucial decision to introduce a theme to the event that I feel distinctly uneasy about.
‘Does it
have
to be fancy dress?’ I ask him.
‘I thought you Brits loved costume parties. We usually only have them at Halloween. But the kids convinced me it’d be a good idea to have one now in your honour,’ he grins.
‘Great,’ I reply.
‘Do you still have nothing to wear?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say despondently.
‘Well, that’s okay,’ he says brightly. ‘There’s a great little store in the city that I know you’ll be able to get something from.’
‘Oh, er . . . I’m sure I’ve left it too late now,’ I cough. ‘I mean, I’m happy to sit out the “fancy dress” bit.’
‘What?’ asks Ruby, incredulous.
‘Nooooo, Zo-eee!’
squeals Samuel.
‘You can’t be the only one not to join in,’ Ruby pouts.
Oh, God. I
hate
fancy dress. I’ve hated fancy dress since I went to Louise Bennett’s sixth birthday party dressed as a cocker spaniel, my mum having thought I was supposed to go as ‘something furry’. When I got there every other girl was dressed as a
fairy.
‘It’s all right for you lot,’ I tell Ruby. ‘Your outfits are fantastic.’
Ruby is going as Island Princess Barbie and Samuel is going as Dash from
The Incredibles
, after Ryan took them to choose their costumes last week.
‘And so will yours be, Zoe,’ she beams.
I wish I felt quite so enthusiastic.
I start with the store Ryan recommended but find it closed. So, I proceed to traipse round every costume emporium the entire state of Massachussetts has to offer, but by four thirty. I’m still out of luck. Until I reach one final store – which is open. The problem is, it’s not exactly overflowing with choice.
‘So, these are
really
the last two you’ve got in my size?’ I ask the storekeeper impatiently. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, hon. Really,’ he drawls.
‘I mean, you haven’t got something a bit less . . . full-on?’
He shakes his head.
I’m picturing my perfect fancy-dress outfit as I speak. I’m thinking Princess Leia, cool, a little bit retro, and with the added bonus of
everyone
having fancied her in their youth.
‘Nothing from
Star Wars
?’ I ask, hoping to jog his memory.
‘We’ve got a Jabba the Hutt left, but it’s not in your size,’ he tells me.
‘Oh. So, it’s these two then, is it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
I look at the first choice and decide on the spot that it’s out of the question. It’s a saucy nurse’s outfit, the sort of thing Benny Hill’s sidekicks wore in the early 1980s.
Which leaves me with the other. Not exactly what I had in mind, but at least I won’t be showing as much flesh as I would with the alternative.
The store assistant looks at his watch.
‘I suppose I’ll have this one, then,’ I say, heaving the costume on to his counter.
‘Sure,’ he replies, clearly relieved to be getting rid of me.
By the time I’ve humped the outfit back to Hope Falls, I’m exhausted and never want to look at it again. I’m also having second thoughts about whether or not I should have given Jabba the Hutt a go.
‘What did you get, Zoe?’ cries Ruby, rushing to the door.
‘I’m really not sure about this,’ I mutter, unwrapping my parcel.
‘Wow!’ exclaims Samuel, as I unfold it. ‘Wow! Wow! Wow!’ But he seems to be the only one who’s impressed.
‘It’s, um, nice.’ Ruby smiles diplomatically.
‘Oh, God, it’s awful, isn’t it?’ I grimace.
‘It’s great,’ Ryan whispers, kissing me when the kids are looking the other way. ‘You’ll be in it and that’s all that matters.’
Chapter 71
Ruby and Samuel have put up so many garlands around the place that the living room looks like a grotto.
Ryan is dressed – heart-stoppingly – as a cowboy. When I first see him I wonder if he somehow sensed my private fantasies while we were horse-riding in New Hampshire. I don’t give the issue too much thought, though. I’m too busy admiring his bum again.
When the first people arrive, Ryan goes to greet them at the door. On the way he turns to me. ‘You’re not dressed yet,’ he points out.
‘Are you really making me go through with this?’
‘Come on, Zoe!’ squeals Samuel. ‘Costume! Costume!’
Ryan frowns. ‘If you feel bad in it then don’t. I want you to enjoy yourself.’
Suddenly I feel like the world’s biggest bore. Everyone else is getting into the spirit of things and I’m obsessing about whether or not I look daft. At a fancy-dress party, for God’s sake.
‘No, you’re right,’ I decide, determined not to be a party-pooper. ‘It’s only a bit of a laugh, isn’t it? I’ll go upstairs and slip on my costume now.’
In the event, it’s about as easy to ‘slip’ into this particular costume as it is to cha-cha across a tightrope in a pair of Christian Louboutin studded booties. It takes me no less than forty-five minutes to get ready. I consider popping my head round the door to see if anyone could come up and help – Trudie, ideally – but all I can hear is people mingling happily.
When my costume is finally in place, I squeeze out of my bedroom, make my way across the landing and peer down the stairs.
I see Barbara and Mike King dressed tastefully in Roman togas and curse myself for not having come up with the same idea. All I’d have needed was a couple of sheets and that pair of ethnic flip-flops I got from New Look in Manchester airport.
Still, too late now.
Nancy, Tallulah’s mum, has come as Cruella de Vil, and is stunning in a long black wig and Dalmatian coat. Her husband, Ash, is dressed unoriginally as a Hell’s Angel, and little Tallulah is a teddy bear.
I scan the room for the other nannies and spot Felicity in the corner. She’s wearing a sixteenth-century-style dress, all bodice and ribbons, a beautiful creation that wouldn’t have looked out of place in
Shakespeare in Love.
Her long red hair is tousled into ringlets down her back, her green eyes accentuated by soft, smoky makeup. In short, she looks totally and utterly gorgeous.
‘Oh, God,’ I mutter, doubts about my outfit kicking in once again.
I put one of my feet on the first stair to get a better view of everyone else. There’s a nun, an angel, a jester, a 1920s flapper and a woman from Ryan’s work dressed as a character from
The Matrix
who looks particularly fantastic. In fact, they
all
look fantastic.
What the
hell
was I thinking? I just
cannot
go down dressed like this. I
will not
go down dressed like this.
I’m suddenly hit by a flash of inspiration and Plan B. A brilliant Plan B, actually. I can turn round, put on my jeans and dig out my old bandanna (the one I use to keep my hair off my face when I’m doing my makeup) to tie round my neck and pass myself off as Calamity Jane.
Perfect! I can’t
believe
I didn’t think of it earlier!
Relief sweeps through me as I turn round – when something goes wrong. Horribly wrong.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve never attempted to turn round at the top of a flight of stairs wearing a pair of webbed rubber feet. Whatever it is, something happens to the foam padding at my knees that tangles it with a leg – or a foot, or maybe even my tail. God, have I got a tail?
The next thing I know, I’ve got this horrendous time-standing-still sensation. I’m conscious of losing my step – and falling – and bumping – and falling – and bumping. The only positive thing I can say about the experience is that, with all my padding, it doesn’t hurt much.
But, believe me, that’s little consolation.
As I land in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, the head of my costume having half come off and one of the feet lost altogether, I wonder why I can’t hear anything and why everything is pitch-black.
I sit up and attempt to straighten my head so I can at least see through the eyes.
Tallulah is standing in front of me, sobbing. ‘Mommy!’ she gasps. ‘Mommy! Look what happened to Big Bird. Is he dead?’
Chapter 72
‘I never even liked
Sesame Street
,’ I grumble, after my Big Bird costume has been abandoned and I’ve tracked down Trudie.
‘You’re sure you’re not injured?’ she asks, genuinely concerned.
‘No, that’s about the only positive thing I can say about that costume,’ I reply. ‘All the rubber made such good padding I could have fallen down the southern face of Krakatoa and remained bruise-free.’
The party’s in full swing and everyone’s getting into the festive spirit. Mike King has had at least six glasses of mulled wine and keeps having to be reminded to keep his toga closed.
Trudie and I have spent the last hour with scores of children, rehearsing an impromptu nativity play in which absolutely nobody would agree to be the donkey. We’ve had to make do with Eamonn as a zebra.
‘I was lucky to find this costume,’ Trudie says.
She’s in the nurse’s outfit I turned down at the fancy-dress shop. It was small in the first place but on Trudie, well, I’m surprised she wasn’t arrested on the way here. ‘It was the last one in the place. I can’t believe no one wanted it, can you?’
‘No,’ I lie, straightening my bandanna and picking a crusty bit of exfoliator off it.
I remind myself that things could be worse.
Poor Trudie hasn’t heard from Ritchie since his aborted proposal in the bar and – despite her Oprahworthy attempts to tell everyone she’s ‘moving on’ – she hasn’t been very convincing.
‘Hey,’ Trudie nudges me, ‘have you seen those two?’
Amber is engaged in deep conversation with the Reverend Paul.