‘Good. You can’t look after me for ever. A young thing like you should be out enjoying herself, not tending to her grandmother.’ She eyes me cautiously. ‘And I don’t need tending to, anyway.’
‘I like looking after you,’ I argue quietly, bracing myself for the usual lecture. We could argue about this until we’re blue in the face and still be in disagreement. She’s fragile, not physically but mentally, no matter how much she insists she’s okay. She draws breath. I fear the worst. ‘Livy, I will not be leaving God’s green pastures until I see you pull things together, and that’s not going to happen if you spend all your time henpecking me. I’m running out of time, so get your skinny little arse in gear.’
I wince. ‘I’ve told you. I’m happy.’
‘Happy hiding from a world that has so much to offer?’ she asks seriously. ‘Start living, Olivia. Trust me, time soon passes you by. Before you know it, you’re being measured for false teeth and you won’t dare cough or sneeze through fear of pissing yourself.’
‘Nan!’ I choke on a piece of bread, but she’s not amused at all. She’s deadly serious, as she always is during these types of conversations.
‘True story,’ she says on a sigh. ‘Get out there. Take whatever life throws your way. You’re not your mother, Oliv—’
‘Nan,’ I warn slowly.
She visibly slumps in her chair. I know I frustrate her, but I’m quite happy as I am. I’m twenty-four, I’ve lived with my nan since I was born, and as soon as I left college, I made my ex-cuses to stay at home and keep an eye on her. But while I was quite happy looking after my nan, she was not. ‘Olivia, I’ve moved forward. You need to, too. I should never have held you back.’
I smile, not knowing what to say. She doesn’t realise it, but I needed holding back. I’m my mother’s daughter, after all.
‘Livy, make your nan happy. Put some heels on and go out and enjoy yourself.’
It’s me slumping now. She just can’t stop herself. ‘Nan, you’d have to pin me down to get me in heels.’ My feet ache at the very thought.
‘How many pairs of those canvas things do you have?’ she asks, buttering me yet more bread and passing it over.
‘Twelve,’ I answer, completely unashamed. ‘All in different colours.’ I plan on buying them in yellow on Saturday, too. I take the bread and sink my teeth in, smiling around my bite when she huffs her displeasure.
‘Well at least go out and have fun. Gregory’s always offering. Why don’t you take him up on his constant offers?’
‘I don’t drink.’ I wish she’d stop with this. ‘And Gregory will only drag me around all the g*y bars,’ I tell her, raising my eyebrows. My best friend sleeps with enough men for both of us.
‘Any bar is better than no bar. You might like it.’ She reaches over and brushes some crumbs from my lips, then strokes my cheek softly. I know what she’s going to say. ‘It’s frightening how similar you are.’
‘I know.’ I rest my hand over hers and hold it in place while she silently reflects. I don’t remember my mother very well, but I’ve seen the proof; I’m a carbon copy of her. Even my blond hair falls strangely similarly into waves that cascade over my shoulders, almost making it seem like too much hair for my tiny body to carry. It’s incredibly heavy and only behaves if rough dried and left to do as it pleases. And my big navy-blue eyes that match my grandmother’s and my mother’s have a glassy reflecting quality. Sapphire-like, people have said. I don’t see that part. Make-up is a pleasure, not a necessity, but it’s always minimal on my fair skin.
Once I’ve given her enough time to reminisce, I take her hand and place it by her bowl. ‘Eat up, Nan,’ I say quietly, continuing with my own soup.
Dragging herself back to the here and now, she carries on with her supper, but she’s quiet. She’s never got over my mother’s reckless lifestyle – a lifestyle that stole Nan’s daughter from her. It’s been eighteen years and she still misses my mother terribly. I don’t. How can you miss someone you hardly knew? But watching my nan slip into these sad thoughts every now and then makes it just as painful for me.
Yes, there’s definitely something to be said about making the perfect cup of coffee. I’m staring at the machine again, but today I’m smiling. I’ve done it – the correct amount of foam, the smoothness like silk and the little dusting of chocolate, forming a perfect heart on the top. It’s just a shame that it’s me who’s drinking it, not an appreciative customer.
‘Good?’ Sylvie asks, watching with anticipation.
I hum and gasp, setting the cup down. ‘The coffee machine and I are now friends.’
‘Yay!’ she squeals, throwing her arms around me. I laugh and match her enthusiasm, looking over her shoulder as the door to the bistro swings open.
‘I think the lunchtime rush is about to start,’ I say, breaking free from her grip. ‘I’ll get this one.’