I’ve reverted back to a pouty thirteen year old with an attitude problem and raging hormones.
‘I’ve been baking,’ she chirps.
‘Fine!’
Blast Mum and her bribes. In the shower, I have to lean on the tiles for support. I struggle to turn the shower head on and then give up, opting for deodorant and some dry shampoo instead, it’s far less demanding. I drag myself into a pair of old jeans and a well washed jumper. Perhaps I’m actually dying from a hangover. I could be the first in the world to actually die from excessive Chinese food and cocktails, I’ll be in the Guinness Book of World Records. Sweet. A pair of giant Beckham-style sunglasses eases the glaring November sunlight as I fumble with the keys to my Volkswagen Golf. Indicating and switching lanes requires more brain cells than I now have at my disposal, and I need to keep the windows down at all times for fear of vomiting into my lap. Sadly, the mechanism on the electric windows has gone, so this is a manual job now. Also, the windscreen wipers still don’t work and annoyingly it’s raining. Again!
I squint. A truck blasts its horn as it passes me. It’s not my fault I can’t see where the continuous white lines on the road are! My last pay cheque went on a darling pair of diamond earrings, so I will try and get to the garage next month. So worth it, though. See how they sparkle?
I arrive at Mum and Dad’s and try my best not to violently puke in the flower beds and poison Mum’s gladioli. I’d never hear the end of it; she’s highly strung like that. One year I showed up for Christmas dinner with the mother ship of all hangovers, and she still talks about ‘the year I ruined Christmas’ like I’m the Grinch or something. Believe me, forcing yourself to eat reheated Marks & Spencer’s turkey roll when your body has gone into shock due to alcohol poisoning is not pretty. I did this to keep my mother happy, since she kept reminding me of how she had ‘slaved over a hot stove’. Sure, I think I was being rather selfless, actually.
In my defence, Barry and I had been at his work Christmas Eve bash the night before. The mulled wine reception preceded the free bar, so you do the maths. It would have been rude not to take full advantage. I was nervous as hell. Let’s just say that the night ended in robot dancing, ripped tights and tripping down the main stairs of the Shelbourne Hotel.
Mum greets me at the door in her apron and slippers, arms outstretched. Her adorable little poodle, Boy George, scampers up to greet me. Dad is on the landing pretending to polish, but blatantly ear-wigging. He has been given instructions to steer clear. I slump at the kitchen table, my head in my hands. I get dizzy if I move too quickly.
‘Let’s have it.’ Mum sits across from me.
‘What?’ I tickle Boy George on the tummy.
Mum raises her eyebrows. She’s pouring the tea and layering thick butter onto the scones. This will be the perfect cure if I can keep it down. Mum took early retirement last year and Ian has finally flown the nest. Like any Irish mammy with time on her hands now, she bakes.
‘Hello, Fairy,’ Dad kisses me on the forehead.
He has called me that since I was six and had a monstrous appetite for fairy buns. It was rather unusual for a child of that age, he would tell all of my boyfriends who visited over the years, to have such an unstoppable appetite for baked goods. He would then reveal the anecdote involving a plump six-year-old version of me and a note from the teacher saying that I’d pinched a fairy cake from another child’s lunchbox to the cringing boyfriend-of-the-month. The theft was never proven, and I deny it vehemently.
‘Hi Dad,’ I give a watery smile.
‘Gerry,’ Mum hisses. ‘Rebecca and I need to talk.’
Dad scuttles off behind the door, pretending to dust. He rearranges ornaments and whistles the theme tune to Blind Date.
‘So, what happened, darling?’ Mum cuts straight to the chase.
I roll my eyes. Mum has made it clear over the years that she doesn’t approve of Barry and I living together in sin. She’s even keener than I am on the idea of us getting married, and only dying to announce a wedding to her Bridge Club biddies. This relationship is her last shot at grandchildren. That’s assuming Ian is firing blanks or too immature to have a kid.
Last Easter, she brought up the subject of my biological clock after a few too many sherries. She wanted to know when she would be buying a new hat. Dad tried to change the subject and was promptly shushed. I threatened to become a lesbian if she didn’t put a cork in it. She stalked out, and Barry nearly choked on his trifle. He comes from a more refined home. No wonder he ran away from me. It’s definitely my family’s fault.
‘Look, it’s nothing really. We just had a bit of a barney.’
Mum pours more tea.
‘He says I’m going on about getting married too much.’
‘…And are you?’
‘Well. A smidge,’ I confess. ‘Last week, he overheard me on the phone to Links of London ordering bridesmaids’ gifts. Hit the roof. It’s too bad, they were fab. And he thinks that booking the honeymoon was taking things too far. He copped the deposit on the credit card statement yesterday.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘He saw me flicking through Confetti magazine last week and said I shouldn’t have asked the girls to be bridesmaids yet. Jumping the gun, he said.’
‘And what did you say?’ Mum looks worried.
‘I said, sure you can pick whoever the hell you want as groomsman. Just make sure he looks good in a tuxedo and doesn’t ruin the pictures. No-one likes bulging buttons on a waistcoat.’
Mum is not laughing.
‘Anyway, Mum, he says that’s not the point. He says I’m too pushy. Now he’s fecked off to flipping China or somewhere on some conference or other. Says he needs time to think about our relationship.’ I use the sarcastic bending of fingertips to show how silly he is being.
‘It’s not looking good for us.’
I feel a tear prickling my eyes.
Mum takes me in her arms. I’m too hungover to fight the tears, and they trickle down to my chin. She says nothing, and I inhale the scent of her familiar perfume.
‘It’s so unfair,’ I cry.
‘Just try and give him a break, darling. You don’t want to push him away. He’ll do it when he’s ready.’
Dad appears at the table and Mum pours him some tea.
‘There you are now, Gerry,’ she slides a buttered scone in his direction.
We discuss everything from Coronation Street to the muppets running the country, but sidestep the topic of Barry and my shambles of a relationship.
‘Did you spend your birthday vouchers yet, Fairy?’
‘Not yet, Dad.’
‘Will you join us for dinner, darling? We’re having beef?’
I recall the sharp exit stage left of last night’s curry beef and shake my head.
‘And fairy cakes for dessert!’ Dad smiles. ‘And Ian will be here soon.’
I’m reaching for my handbag. Facing my little brother as he surfaces from his student hovel in Rathmines is best avoided.
‘Call that man of yours and sort it all out,’ Mum calls after me at the hall door.
As I turn to open the gate, a taxi pulls up.
‘Have you got ten euro, Dad?’ Ian greets us.
‘Can you not catch a fecking bus?’ Dad mumbles and reluctantly hands over the cash.
‘Alright, sis,’ Ian shuffles past me. He is dragging a large black bag which I assume to be