The tears came then, as she collapsed into a chair, shaking her head as if completely baffled.
‘No, it’s fine. Of course. I’m just disappointed. I’d picked out a film, and had cocktails for later. Of course you must choose this friend from work over your silly mum. Don’t worry about the food – you go off and enjoy your night without me. I’ll be fine.’
She rubbed her chest a few times, face scrunched up to let me know the ‘pains’ were back, as predicted. I felt a prickle of guilt that I’d upset her, but the stab of anger that she was trying to manipulate me was, for the first time, stronger.
‘Okay, that’s really kind of you, Mum. We can save all this for tomorrow, and enjoy a really lovely evening together then.’
Her head jerked up, unable to hide the shock that I’d agreed.
‘Right.’ Watery eyes darted from the table to me, and then the door. ‘If you wouldn’t mind taking everything back into the kitchen, only – ooooh – my chest isn’t feeling very good.’ She took a deep breath, blowing it out as if trying to ease the agony.
‘No problem.’
I ignored her rapidly increasing huffs and groans as I raced in and out of the kitchen and tidied all the food into the fridge. ‘All sorted. We can leave the table set up ready for tomorrow. Here.’ I handed her a glass of water and an aspirin. ‘Why don’t you get settled on the sofa and have a rest? That usually helps your chest feel better.’
I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when I slipped into my shoes, grabbed my bag and walked out. My mistake was pausing, ears pricked, one hand on the open front door.
‘AH! OOOH!’ Mum’s cries easily carried down the hallway. ‘Olivia, have you left yet? Only… my chest… I need… please don’t…’
I closed my eyes. There was a moment’s silence while she waited for me to rush back inside. When I held my ground, she called louder. ‘No, it’s fine. You go and have a nice time. I’m just… calling… 999… If you wouldn’t mind texting Aunty Linda… I’m scared to go to hospital on my own… ouch… OOOOH!’
Yes, I was ninety-five per cent sure it was an act. Yes, I’d heard it all before and worse. But I still couldn’t walk out leaving Mum waiting for an ambulance alone.
Once I heard her speaking to the emergency operator, I stepped back inside and closed the door. Even as I fetched a blanket, as I texted Mark with the same pathetic apology I’d used so many times before, I made a life-changing decision:
This was the last time my mother was going to control my life.
The last time.
I was done.
2
The following day, I finished work at three. Having arrived back in Sherwood half an hour later (Sherwood the Nottingham suburb, not to be confused with the forest), I got off the bus and headed straight to the shop.
Mum’s older sister, Aunty Linda, ran the Buttonhole craft shop and haberdashery, situated in prime position in amongst Sherwood’s artisan bakeries and gin bars. Aunty Linda’s shrewd business mind and talent for evolving one step ahead of the times had allowed the Buttonhole to not only survive, but thrive for over three decades. Mum also worked there, but when her ‘pains’ flared up a few years ago, she’d cut down her hours along with her enthusiasm, demoting herself from sought-after craftswoman to lacklustre shop assistant. She wasn’t in today, hence me visiting.
I entered the Victorian-style doorway to find one of their hugely popular workshops in full swing. Several women were seated around two large tables, heads bent over balls of wool, needles clacking in time to their animated conversations. Linda stood up as soon as she saw me, automatically pausing to compliment someone’s handiwork before striding over to where I hovered by the counter.
‘How’s she doing?’ Linda grimaced, her lilac glasses halfway down her nose. She shared Mum’s wiry frame and narrow features, but her hair, far more salt than pepper, was invariably wound up in a plaited bun, into which she’d have stuck a crochet hook, or a random ribbon.
‘She’d made an amazing recovery by the end of the evening.’
‘Oh, love.’ She gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze. ‘There’s tea in the pot, and plenty of cake.’ She moved over to the refreshment counter, setting out two large, flowery mugs.
‘What do you think would happen to her if I ever moved out?’ I asked, causing Linda to pause, still holding the teapot in mid-air.
‘I think you need to focus on what it would mean for you, and your life.’ She eyed me carefully. ‘Leave your mum to worry about herself.’
The previous evening, as we’d eaten the curry in front of a romantic comedy that made me feel more like crying than laughing, I had thought of little else.
‘I’m scared to even consider how she’d cope without me.’
‘Moving out doesn’t mean severing all contact. It’s what most people do, Ollie. Find their own place to live, pop back home at the weekend and Christmas, like your cousins.’
‘But if her “pains” are bad again, I’ll end up back home so often it would be easier not to bother leaving.’
‘What’s the alternative? Stay, and sacrifice your happiness for hers?’
‘I’m not unhappy…’
My aunt rolled her eyes. ‘Only because you don’t allow yourself to feel anything much at all. I don’t want to presume that you hope to have a family one day. But it was something you used to talk about a lot, when you were with Jonathan.’
Jonathan.
Hearing his name still made my heart clench.
We took our drinks and cake over to an empty table and sat down. ‘I do want to meet someone. I have a whole list of things I’ve dreamt of doing when I can finally move out. Things I don’t want to do with my mother.’
Linda raised one eyebrow. ‘Oh yes?’
‘I mean… like get a puppy. Or camp out under the stars. I want to host a party, full of noise and laughter and the kind of friends who push the table to one side to make room for dancing.’ I sighed, before taking a bite of fudge cake. ‘I have so many dreams about how life would be, once I’ve found the person to do it with. But they seem to just keep getting further away the older I get. How am I supposed to find a partner, when I can’t even make it to a first date?’
Linda sipped her tea. ‘Perhaps it’s time to stop waiting.’