fading around the edges and becoming muddied, an empty and unnerving feeling is left behind. ‘Being left on the shelf’ has always had a metaphorical significance until now, so it’s flipping great to have a visualization to go with that horrendous spinster of an outcome. With dreams like that, who needs nightmares? And where the heck was Brett to add a little bit of sweetness? Surely my dream could’ve engineered a bit of that to give me a little emotional boost before heading over to my mum’s.
Shit!
‘What’s the time?’ I ask my sleepy-eyed friend, already reaching over to grab my phone to check.
‘Huh?’ she murmurs, nuzzling into her own arm.
‘Fuck,’ I groan, sitting up and looking around the room.
‘What?’
‘We went back to sleep.’
‘And … ?’
‘I’m meant to be at my mum’s in half an hour! What’s worse than an unmarried daughter? One that’s tardy.’
‘Oh the shame,’ Carly says laughing, pushing me out of the bed. ‘To the shower with you.’
‘I don’t have time.’
‘You stink. Make time. What’s worse than an unmarried tardy daughter?’
‘What?’ I ask, dashing around the room and grabbing clothes that my mum might deem suitable for a single lady hoping to procure a husband – finally fishing out my cleanest pair of black jeans and the maroon blouse with cream hearts all over it she bought me last Christmas.
‘One that smells like she’s been rolling in dog crap,’ Carly says flatly.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she replies, rolling over and going back to sleep.
6
One hour and fifteen minutes later, I’m in my reliable red Mini Cooper (a present from Mum and Dad for my twenty-first birthday), and pulling onto my parents’ driveway. They live in Tunbridge Wells in Kent, a short walk from The Pantiles – in the same house that my brother and I grew up in.
It has gates.
Big, black iron ones.
And everyone knows that a house with its own set of gates (complete with a buzzer system for security) is above the norm and a bit posh. Yes, my parents are well off. Not rich, just better than comfortable. Not that they’ve helped me and my brother out that much (other than to surprise us with our first cars, both Mini Coopers, which we were obviously both sincerely thankful for) – but beyond those, Mum and Dad took on the tough love approach and sent us out into the world with next to nothing in the hope that it would make us strive for more, seeing as we grew up with a taste for ‘the good life’. My brother did more than okay with this method of parenting – he’s a marketing manager for TechWays Corporation in Covent Garden. Not bad for someone who spent a whole year smoking spliffs in the Australian sun when he was twenty-five.
However, I work for Jonathan as his slave. Therefore,
my parents – my mum in particular – feel that the only chance I have of sampling ‘the good life’ once more is to marry up. But seeing as I’m single and living in a rented flat with my best mate, I think I’m failing in that department, too. Still, at least they have had a fifty per cent success rate with their parenting techniques so far.
Jumping out of the car I grab my bag and coat and am greeted by a waft of self-pity as the smell of Dan’s lingering aftershave drifts up my nostrils and makes me feel nauseous. I forgot to Febreze my coat last night and mentally bash myself over the head as I make my way to the front door. We’re meant to be going out later for a family walk. So unless I want the embarrassment of asking to borrow something from Mum’s wardrobe I’ll have to make do and take Dan along with me. How irritating.
‘All right,’ Max smiles as he opens the door. He has the same small mouth and cushiony lips as me, but he clearly takes more after Mum and her French roots – my granddad was born in France but moved here during the Second World War. He fell in love with my gorgeous Nana and never moved back, although we still head
Shit!
‘What’s the time?’ I ask my sleepy-eyed friend, already reaching over to grab my phone to check.
‘Huh?’ she murmurs, nuzzling into her own arm.
‘Fuck,’ I groan, sitting up and looking around the room.
‘What?’
‘We went back to sleep.’
‘And … ?’
‘I’m meant to be at my mum’s in half an hour! What’s worse than an unmarried daughter? One that’s tardy.’
‘Oh the shame,’ Carly says laughing, pushing me out of the bed. ‘To the shower with you.’
‘I don’t have time.’
‘You stink. Make time. What’s worse than an unmarried tardy daughter?’
‘What?’ I ask, dashing around the room and grabbing clothes that my mum might deem suitable for a single lady hoping to procure a husband – finally fishing out my cleanest pair of black jeans and the maroon blouse with cream hearts all over it she bought me last Christmas.
‘One that smells like she’s been rolling in dog crap,’ Carly says flatly.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she replies, rolling over and going back to sleep.
6
One hour and fifteen minutes later, I’m in my reliable red Mini Cooper (a present from Mum and Dad for my twenty-first birthday), and pulling onto my parents’ driveway. They live in Tunbridge Wells in Kent, a short walk from The Pantiles – in the same house that my brother and I grew up in.
It has gates.
Big, black iron ones.
And everyone knows that a house with its own set of gates (complete with a buzzer system for security) is above the norm and a bit posh. Yes, my parents are well off. Not rich, just better than comfortable. Not that they’ve helped me and my brother out that much (other than to surprise us with our first cars, both Mini Coopers, which we were obviously both sincerely thankful for) – but beyond those, Mum and Dad took on the tough love approach and sent us out into the world with next to nothing in the hope that it would make us strive for more, seeing as we grew up with a taste for ‘the good life’. My brother did more than okay with this method of parenting – he’s a marketing manager for TechWays Corporation in Covent Garden. Not bad for someone who spent a whole year smoking spliffs in the Australian sun when he was twenty-five.
However, I work for Jonathan as his slave. Therefore,
my parents – my mum in particular – feel that the only chance I have of sampling ‘the good life’ once more is to marry up. But seeing as I’m single and living in a rented flat with my best mate, I think I’m failing in that department, too. Still, at least they have had a fifty per cent success rate with their parenting techniques so far.
Jumping out of the car I grab my bag and coat and am greeted by a waft of self-pity as the smell of Dan’s lingering aftershave drifts up my nostrils and makes me feel nauseous. I forgot to Febreze my coat last night and mentally bash myself over the head as I make my way to the front door. We’re meant to be going out later for a family walk. So unless I want the embarrassment of asking to borrow something from Mum’s wardrobe I’ll have to make do and take Dan along with me. How irritating.
‘All right,’ Max smiles as he opens the door. He has the same small mouth and cushiony lips as me, but he clearly takes more after Mum and her French roots – my granddad was born in France but moved here during the Second World War. He fell in love with my gorgeous Nana and never moved back, although we still head
Similar Books
