being greeted by greasy hair, plus, it would only give her some ammo to add to her ‘why Mel’s still single’ arsenal. Afterwards, I scanned my wardrobe for something decent to wear. I always wanted to look my best on my birthday, like I was subconsciously (okay, consciously) trying to defy the age gods by scrubbing up well, almost like sticking two fingers up at them. I wondered how many more birthdays I could actually get away with feeling like this.
I decided on some smart dark blue skinny jeans and a cream cargo shirt – perfect for a smart yet casual look. A great pair of Kurt Geiger boots and a gold Michael Kors strand necklace completed the look. The necklace had been a Christmas present from Gemma last year. As I put it over my head, I started to think about how ridiculous it was to have felt jealous that she’d gone out with other friends and didn’t invite me. It must have been the wine and pre-birthday-blues cocktail. Anyway, Channing Tatum played a blinder in cheering me up, so all was good.
It was a lovely feeling to have a whole morning to laze about and get ready. I’d seen lots of buzz around contouring on Facebook and decided to give it a whirl. I found a YouTube tutorial that looked promising, where the poster looked like Kim Kardashian. Two minutes in and I realised you apparently needed an awful lot of make-up to get the ‘natural, make-up free’ look of a flawless celebrity. I dug out an old pan stick that was about five shades darker than my skin (a flashback to my tantastic twenties) and gave it a whirl.
The results were terrible – my face looked like it would camouflage brilliantly in a sea of Oompa Loompas. I washed it off, opting instead for just a touch of base to hide some red blotchy skin that seemed to have a knack for appearing when I least wanted it to, a bit of highlighter, mascara and a slick of nude lipstick. Not quite a Kardashian, but definitely polished, and natural enough to pass the ‘Mum test’.
I’d never quite felt good enough for Mum. It seemed like whatever I did I couldn’t please her, that she enjoyed disapproving of me. When I was younger, I’d never cared that she loved Amanda so much. In fact, I’d thought it was great, because she always let her come for dinner or stay over, and she never minded me going to her house. But as I got older, I started to feel inadequate, paling in Amanda’s shadow.
Mum never approved of my ‘little writing job’ as she called it, despite the fact it afforded me a pretty good life in the city – my own flat and the odd designer splurge on payday. She’d never said it, but I knew she’d had higher hopes for me. Amanda would have been her dream daughter – the career girl climbing the rungs of the ladder in a good old-fashioned legal company, a true brag-worthy offspring. My sister Lizzie was off the hook because she’d had the fairy-tale wedding and had so far produced one hundred per cent of Mum’s cute grandkids. (She earned extra brownie points for doing marriage and kids in the correct order too.)
Gran used to say it was Mum’s way of pushing me to do the best for myself. ‘She sees something in you,’ she’d say. ‘Imagine watching your child dream but never achieve, to watch them have a talent that’s wasted.’ I always wondered if Gran was talking about Lizzie not pursuing her art. Once she’d met her husband, Ben, she sort of lost her own ambition.
‘Why is she so desperate to marry me off then? Surely she wants me to be this super career girl?’ I’d sulked.
‘Because you are a super career girl, Melissa. Now she wants you to achieve your other dream.’ Gran had made me feel better, even though I hadn’t believed her. Mum was her daughter after all, and I was sure she just wanted to die knowing we were all happy.
The buzz from the intercom surprised me; I’d not realised the time. I put my phone down and bounced across the carpet to the intercom to let my parents into the building, opening my front door ready to greet them.
‘Ooh, you look nice, love. Have you had friends round?’ Mum waltzed straight in and planted a kiss on my cheek.
‘Thanks, Mum, and no, my friends haven’t been round. Like I said on the phone, I’m seeing them later on tonight.’ I bit my tongue and pushed the niggling frustration to the darkest depths of my brain.
‘That’s nice, love,’ she muttered, heading to the kitchen. I noticed that she was carrying a brown paper bag from Patisserie Valerie, and a pang of guilt hit me. It was my favourite place to lunch, and Mum had remembered.
‘Ooh, my favourite. Thanks, Mum.’ My voice cracked.
‘Happy birthday, love.’ My dad walked in carrying several bags, all brightly coloured and oozing with an indiscreet air of ‘generic female birthday gift’.
I followed them into the kitchen. Mum was already busying herself putting out some homemade Moroccan lamb sandwiches; they had been cut into triangles, just how I liked them. I stood for a moment, watching Mum cheerfully taking pride in her platter, arranging the triangles neatly and adding a salad garnish.
I hadn’t noticed before how much she had aged recently. The lines on her forehead had deepened, along with her crow’s feet and the lines around her mouth – a telltale sign of years of laughter. The afterthought makes the corners of my mouth turn up into a small smile. Despite my grumblings, she had always been so full of merriment and now wore the evidence proudly. I could still see her younger self beneath her creases; her bright cornflower-blue eyes a window to her youth.
People had always said we looked alike, but I’d never seen it. The thought had horrified me when I was younger, but at that moment, I suddenly saw myself – it was those eyes. Seeing myself like that scared me. Mum had Dad. Who would I have?
My thoughts were interrupted by the crumpling sound of a paper bag. I glanced down and saw the delicious selection of treats that Mum had brought, which cheered me up somewhat. A scrumptious-looking chocolate éclair filled with whirls of cream; an exotic fruit tart, piled high with sumptuous strawberries, juicy peach and star fruit, all topped with bright red cranberries; and finally, my favourite: a deep-filled millefeuille topped with decorated fondant icing. A single golden candle was placed in the centre of the latter.
Mum spotted me staring (okay, practically drooling). ‘I got your favourite, love, for your birthday. I thought you were a bit old for a big cake now.’ I appreciated it, though I didn’t think I’d had a ‘big’ birthday cake since my twenty-first.
We took our seats around my small kitchen table, and we chatted. My dad had taken up squash and my mum had joined a book club at the library. I was glad to hear that they were getting out and doing something with their retirement years. It was nice to just talk in such an adult, carefree way, with none of the parental bullshit that normally cropped up, like: ‘Have you sorted out your contents insurance yet?’
Just as I was devouring the last messy mouthful of my millefeuille – I was on the hunt for a more dignified way to eat them – the dreaded question came, fist-punching frustration back into my chest with a G-force to rival Rita at Alton Towers. ‘So, have you been courting anyone?’ Mum adopted a rather silvery tone especially for this question, a paltry attempt at trying to conceal her desperation for an answer.
My face twisted involuntarily, and I wiped my sticky hands on a napkin as a groan escaped me.
‘Look, Melissa, you’re a pretty girl, but you aren’t getting any younger. I can see a frown line as we speak, and you aren’t even frowning.’
I wasn’t frowning because my eyes were burning with rage and embarrassment. I couldn’t even speak.
‘I know you’d love children like your sister.’ She prodded the table with her finger whilst I sat in exasperated frustration – for the record, by that point I was frowning. ‘Dr Phelps has been on the TV this week warning women to conceive before they’re thirty! Apparently your chances drop quite rapidly after that, and it’s been half a decade since you turned thirty. By my calculations . . . thirty-five now, say six months to meet someone . . .’
She glanced at Dad, who was pretending to study the intricacies of my plain white coffee mug. ‘Maybe even a year to meet someone, a year of courting before a proposal at least, eighteen months to plan a proper wedding, and then a year of marriage before even trying to conceive,