‘Slippers,’ James said.
I assumed he was still playing the word association game so ignored him and glanced around the hallway instead. It was a wide space but the deep red textured wallpaper and mahogany furniture that lined one wall made it seem small and dark. A single light bulb, smothered by a dark brown velveteen lampshade, hung from the ceiling and framed photographs decorated one wall, some in black and white, some technicolour but faded with age. There were a lot of a small blond boy with a wide smile and sparkling blue eyes so I stepped towards them to see if they were of my boyfriend.
‘Slippers.’ James grabbed my wrist and jerked me back towards him.
I yanked my hand away and rubbed my skin. ‘James, that hurt.’
He kicked something across the carpet towards me. ‘Stop making a fuss and put those on.’
I looked down at the beige suedette slippers at my feet and shook my head. They looked like something my grandma would wear.
‘You need to put them on, Susan.’ He yanked open the cupboard door beside him and pulled out an identical, but larger, pair of slippers and slipped his feet into them. I looked at his face, waiting for him to burst out laughing but it didn’t happen.
I looked back at the slippers. I didn’t like the way he was telling me what to do but the last thing I wanted was for us to get into an argument before I met his mum for the first time.
I put the slippers on, trying not to think about who’d worn them before.
James looked at my feet then laughed and said they suited me. He slipped a hand around my waist, pulling me into him and his mouth found mine. I relaxed in his arms as he kissed me.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking my hand, ‘let’s find Mum. I just know she’s going to love you.’
He led me down the corridor and through a white door.
‘Mum,’ he said, holding tightly onto my hand, ‘this is Suzy. Suzy, this is Mum.’
I smiled and held out my other hand as the small, dark-haired woman on the sofa stood up and crossed the room towards me. It remained outstretched as she swerved around me and disappeared out through the living-room door.
‘James,’ she said from the hallway. ‘A word, if you please.’
I was surprised by her strong Welsh accent. I’d assumed she’d be posh like her son.
James followed her wordlessly, without so much as a backward glance at me, pulling the living-room door closed behind him. I stood stock-still, staring at the closed door. When I finally moved it was to perch on the edge of the pristine maroon leather sofa that shared a wall with an enormous mahogany display case. On the wall opposite me, hanging behind a sideboard housing a small grey television and an ancient-looking record player, was the most terrifying batik wall hanging I’d ever seen. It was black with a huge tribal mask in the centre, picked out in blues, whites and purples. The mouth was open, gaping, a black void beneath empty white eyes that stared across the room at me. I looked away, to the bookshelf, crammed with green-spined hardbacks I’d never heard of and then at the table covered with a white lace tablecloth, laden with food. My stomach rumbled at the sight of plates piled high with cucumber, egg and salmon sandwiches, a beautiful fluffy Victoria sponge on a silver cake stand and bowls of olives, nuts and crisps, but I didn’t touch a thing.
Instead I wandered up to the bookcase, plucked a green book off the shelf, and opened the cover. Ten minutes later the sound of raised voices filtered into the room. I placed the book back on the shelf and opened the door a crack.
‘James?’ I shuffled noiselessly towards a door at the other end of the house. It was ajar, light flooding out, turning a triangle of maroon carpet pink. The murmur of voices filled my ears as I drew closer. ‘James?’
‘How could you?’ His mother’s voice was strained, verging on hysterical. ‘After everything I do for you. How could you be so disrespectful?’
‘Mam … please … calm down.’ My outstretched hand fell away from the doorknob. James was talking with a strong Welsh accent too. ‘We’re a couple of hours late, that’s all.’
‘For family lunch! Have you no manners? Or did you lose them all the day Da killed his self?’
Killed himself? I rest a hand on the wall. James had told me his father died of lung cancer.
‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’
‘Late. With her. Some tart you’ve known for ten minutes.’
‘She’s not a tart, Mam. She’s special.’
‘And what does that make me? Something the cat dragged in.’
‘Of course not. You’re—’
‘I got up at 6 a.m. this morning to clean the house, James. 6 a.m! I’ve been scrubbing and cooking and cleaning all day. For you Jamie, for you and that woman. The least you could do is show me some respect and turn up on time. I thought we brought you up better than this.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake—’
A sound like a cracked whip cut him short and he gasped. I took a step back from the door. The maroon walls seemed darker and the furniture bigger. Even the photographs were leering at me. I tried to take a deep breath but the air was thick and heavy and I felt it catch in my throat. I glanced towards the front door.
‘James! James, I’m sorry.’ Mrs Evans’ voice was thin and desperate. ‘James, please don’t go. I didn’t mean to—’
I was sent flying as the kitchen door slammed open and James flew out towards me. He gripped my wrist and yanked me after him as he strode towards the front door.
‘We’re leaving.’ He pulled me, slippers and all, out into the front garden. I stretched my fingertips towards my beautiful red patent heels but we were already through the gate and onto the street. ‘Fuck family lunches. Fuck her. Fuck it all.’
‘Now do you see?’ he said, shaking me as he twisted me to face him. ‘Now do you see why I didn’t want you to come back to my place?’
He didn’t say another word to me for the next hour and a half.
Chapter 9