those things? I wasnât sure.
The only thing I knew?
I didnât want to be on that yacht any more. I mean, obviously I hadnât been concentrating on my future, otherwise I wouldnât have screwed up my A levels, but I wanted to have a future.
You have to understand , it wasnât all bad with my mom. The thing that made her terrible was also the thing that made her amazing. So there was my fifteenth birthday, for example. She knew I wanted to go out with my friends in the evening and she was OK with that, so long as I had breakfast with her. Dad was on a business trip somewhere made-up-sounding, like Uzbekistan or something, talking about bank loans.
We were living in London by then. This was a Friday in October, still in term time, so of course I had to go to school after breakfast with Mom. I got up and did the usual, got dressed, did my make-up â not that I ever spent long on it, just put on some eyeliner and mascara, a bit of lipgloss. I donât do lipstick. Then I went downstairs, where Mom was already sitting at the table, which was piled high with croissants and pains aux raisins â my favourite â as well as all kinds of fruit. There was a bottle of champagne, too, which she popped the moment I walked into the room, like sheâd been waiting, ready to do that exact thing, and poured into two glasses.
My dad would never let me drink â he hated it â but he wasnât there, so I took the glass that was proffered and sipped it. Bubbles, tasting like croissants smelled, went up my nose.
â Happy birthday, beautiful, she said. Here. I made coffee, too.
â Wow, Mom, I said. You didnât have to. I was confused: it wasnât even like it was my sixteenth or anything. Maybe that should have been my first warning. Maybe she knew she wouldnât be there the next year.
I sat down, and she gave me my present, a sort of shy expression on her face. A small blue box, like the ones jewellery comes in, no fancy logos on it. I had an idea what it was before I opened it. I cracked the box like an oyster and I think I probably screamed. I definitely jumped up and gave Mom a kiss.
â You remembered! I said. Thank you, thank you.
Inside the box was a vintage Chanel watch, the leather of the strap scuffed and the face scratched, the dial an elegant oblong, kind of art deco. I put it on. Iâd seen it in an antique shop in Richmond a few months before. Iâd loved it at first sight. It wasnât that expensive or anything. I mean, maybe it was. Itâs hard to know what is and isnât when you grow up with money. You lose perspective. Anyway, something about the watch reached out through the glass of the shop window and tapped me on the shoulder. It was old, yes. But it had charm.
I started to clear up after breakfast but Mom put a hand on my hand.
â Youâd better change out of your uniform, she said.
â What?
â Get changed. Youâre not going to school today.
â Iâm not? Where am I going, then?
â Youâll have to wait and see.
â What about your work? I asked.
One of the weird things about Mom: she was totally awesome at her job. I donât think anyone there even knew about her being ill, apart from maybe her boss, and only because Mom sometimes had to take time off for appointments and stuff. I could never understand it, the way she was so flawlessly good at that bit of her life. But apparently itâs common with people like her. Dad called it compartmentalisation . Me, I mostly called it unfair. It wasnât like Mom to just call in sick.
â I took the day off, she said. Iâve been planning this for a while. She winked and smiled.
â Er, OK.
Mom flapped a hand at me.
â Come on! Get moving.
I started up the stairs.
â Oh, and wear something warm, Mom called after me.
When I came back down, we left the house and started walking. I thought maybe weâd get in the car,
The only thing I knew?
I didnât want to be on that yacht any more. I mean, obviously I hadnât been concentrating on my future, otherwise I wouldnât have screwed up my A levels, but I wanted to have a future.
You have to understand , it wasnât all bad with my mom. The thing that made her terrible was also the thing that made her amazing. So there was my fifteenth birthday, for example. She knew I wanted to go out with my friends in the evening and she was OK with that, so long as I had breakfast with her. Dad was on a business trip somewhere made-up-sounding, like Uzbekistan or something, talking about bank loans.
We were living in London by then. This was a Friday in October, still in term time, so of course I had to go to school after breakfast with Mom. I got up and did the usual, got dressed, did my make-up â not that I ever spent long on it, just put on some eyeliner and mascara, a bit of lipgloss. I donât do lipstick. Then I went downstairs, where Mom was already sitting at the table, which was piled high with croissants and pains aux raisins â my favourite â as well as all kinds of fruit. There was a bottle of champagne, too, which she popped the moment I walked into the room, like sheâd been waiting, ready to do that exact thing, and poured into two glasses.
My dad would never let me drink â he hated it â but he wasnât there, so I took the glass that was proffered and sipped it. Bubbles, tasting like croissants smelled, went up my nose.
â Happy birthday, beautiful, she said. Here. I made coffee, too.
â Wow, Mom, I said. You didnât have to. I was confused: it wasnât even like it was my sixteenth or anything. Maybe that should have been my first warning. Maybe she knew she wouldnât be there the next year.
I sat down, and she gave me my present, a sort of shy expression on her face. A small blue box, like the ones jewellery comes in, no fancy logos on it. I had an idea what it was before I opened it. I cracked the box like an oyster and I think I probably screamed. I definitely jumped up and gave Mom a kiss.
â You remembered! I said. Thank you, thank you.
Inside the box was a vintage Chanel watch, the leather of the strap scuffed and the face scratched, the dial an elegant oblong, kind of art deco. I put it on. Iâd seen it in an antique shop in Richmond a few months before. Iâd loved it at first sight. It wasnât that expensive or anything. I mean, maybe it was. Itâs hard to know what is and isnât when you grow up with money. You lose perspective. Anyway, something about the watch reached out through the glass of the shop window and tapped me on the shoulder. It was old, yes. But it had charm.
I started to clear up after breakfast but Mom put a hand on my hand.
â Youâd better change out of your uniform, she said.
â What?
â Get changed. Youâre not going to school today.
â Iâm not? Where am I going, then?
â Youâll have to wait and see.
â What about your work? I asked.
One of the weird things about Mom: she was totally awesome at her job. I donât think anyone there even knew about her being ill, apart from maybe her boss, and only because Mom sometimes had to take time off for appointments and stuff. I could never understand it, the way she was so flawlessly good at that bit of her life. But apparently itâs common with people like her. Dad called it compartmentalisation . Me, I mostly called it unfair. It wasnât like Mom to just call in sick.
â I took the day off, she said. Iâve been planning this for a while. She winked and smiled.
â Er, OK.
Mom flapped a hand at me.
â Come on! Get moving.
I started up the stairs.
â Oh, and wear something warm, Mom called after me.
When I came back down, we left the house and started walking. I thought maybe weâd get in the car,
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