Cover

Dedication

This one’s for the Free Range Chicks, with special mention to Jo Pestell, Pearl Moses and Vicky Warnes

1

Arriving home on Valentine’s Day, after a slog of a day, to find a bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates and the enticing fragrance of a homemade curry is a lovely surprise.

For me, however, currently single and living with my mother, this was neither lovely, nor, unfortunately, that much of a surprise.

‘Surprise!’ she cried, popping the cork off a bottle of Prosecco once I’d slipped off my sopping wet trainers, shaken the rain out of my hair and found her standing beside a dining table laid for two.

‘What’s this?’ I asked, trying to sound grateful rather than utterly dismayed.

‘Well, we can’t spend this evening sitting about feeling sorry for ourselves, can we?’ she gushed. ‘Team Tennyson, our favourite chicken balti and all the sides. Who needs a man?’

While I agreed with the sentiment – if I needed a man I’d be in big trouble, because I’d not had one for years – I had, in fact, arranged to meet one, that evening, for dinner. In an Indian restaurant.

Crap.

My first date in forever, and I was going to have to cancel.

Mum’s smile had begun to waver in the two-second hesitation while I tried to summon up the appropriate response.

‘Wow, it looks fantastic. The flowers are gorgeous. Thank you so much, Mum.’

Appeased, she tugged her hand-knitted jumper – pale grey with tiny love hearts in every shade of pink – down over teal cropped trousers that had been stylish ten years ago but now appeared faded and shabby. She’d blow-dried her chin-length salt-and-pepper bob and even added a swipe of lipstick to brighten her sharp features.

Inside, my heart drooped.

‘I’ll quickly get changed, if that’s okay?’ I worked for ReadUp, an adult literacy charity, and had spent all day in a grubby community centre on the other side of Nottingham. I was pretty sure the stink of stale sweat had followed me home.

‘Here.’ Mum handed me a glass of Prosecco. ‘Take your time. I’m not going anywhere!’

The second I got upstairs, I undressed, pulled on a dressing gown and messaged Steph, my best friend of eighteen years.

HELP!! Mum has cooked dinner and bought flowers and chocolates! What do I say to Mark?

Steph’s reply seemed to ping through before I’d even pressed send.

Tell him you’re looking forward to seeing him later AS PLANNED A WEEK AGO

I took in a shaky breath. Mark was a manager at one of the libraries where I met with clients. We’d been engaging in slightly awkward conversations for a few months now. Mostly about books, gradually progressing on to the weather, local news and eventually restaurants – his slightly bumpy segue into asking me out. He was nice, if a little over-earnest, and had beautiful brown eyes. If I could keep focused on the top of his face, and avoid his constant lip-chewing, I could quite possibly, almost definitely end up sort of attracted to him.

This was my first date in nearly two years. Even if Mark didn’t turn out to be ‘the one’, I was in desperate need of the practice.

I was also in desperate need of a social life that didn’t revolve around my sixty-three-year-old mother and my newly married best friend.

But I couldn’t go.

I can’t go!

I replied to Steph, even while willing her to force me into it. She sent me a flurry of replies:

No! NO NO NO! YOU HAVE TO GO!!

You cannot let her do this again!

I am literally begging you

Drew is begging you

Tell her the truth, turn off your phone and GO AND ENJOY YOURSELF

I sucked in an anxious breath.

I should have told her I had plans

Another split-second reply:

Have you forgotten tooth-gate?

I would never forget tooth-gate.

Ollie, you are not going to stand someone up on V Day! I forbid you to cancel!

I jumped in and out of the shower, trying to hold back the tears that had, if I’m honest, been building for years now. Steph continued bombarding me with messages as I got ready. I didn’t bother replying that I didn’t even like Mark that much. That it was rude and cruel to leave my mother, riddled with two decades of abandonment issues, alone on Valentine’s Day. That I wouldn’t enjoy the date anyway due to stressing out about Mum’s anxious messages reproducing like mutant bacteria on my phone.

And then her last message hit me like a punch in the guts:

Keep giving in to this and the Dream List might as well die.

Dressed in flared black trousers and a pale blue halter-neck top, coppery hair curled into soft waves, my grey eyes rimmed with a smudge of eyeliner, I took a breath fit for a deep-sea dive, picked up my chunky-heeled shoes and steeled myself for impact.

Mum was ready and waiting for my footsteps on the stairs. As soon as I entered the dining room she hurried in, bearing two plates, piled high. A platter of samosas and bhajis was already on the table.

‘Well, don’t you look gorgeous! Almost a shame you haven’t got a date tonight.’

‘Well, actually, Mum, I have.’ To avoid me backing out as soon as I saw her, I’d messaged Mark to say that a family emergency had come up, and I would be half an hour late, but I was definitely coming.

‘What?’ Mum’s face crumpled in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘A friend from work invited me to go for a drink with him later on. I’ll stay and eat with you first, then head off.’ Not entirely true, and my lie would require eating two meals in one evening, but that was the least of my worries.

‘You’re going to leave me. On my own. After I’ve done all this for you?’ The smile was gone, her face mottled with crimson.

‘No, I said I’m going to eat with you, and then pop out afterwards. If you’d checked first, I’d have told you I had plans.’

‘If I’d checked first?’ She pressed a trembling hand to her chest. ‘It never crossed my mind that you’d not tell me if you had a date. I didn’t even know you were interested in anyone.’

‘It was a last-minute arrangement.’ I was frustrated by the quiver in my voice. If I’d told her I had plans, she’d only have had more time to invent a reason for me to cancel them. Two years ago, she developed agonising toothache on the day I was supposed to be going away for the weekend with Steph. By the time I’d taken her to the emergency dentist and found out that it was nothing that couldn’t have waited until Monday, we’d missed our flight to Amsterdam.

‘Well, I organised this days ago. You’ll have to tell him you’re busy.’

‘No. I’m sorry, but I’m not cancelling a date on Valentine’s Day to spend yet another evening with my mum. Let’s just enjoy our dinner, and then I’m going out. It’s not that big a deal.’

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.’

She didn’t add what we both knew to be true – I stood no chance of finding a man who wanted to share my current life, unless he was also prepared to share it with my mother. I had met Jonathan in my final year at Nottingham University (commuting every day from home). Back then, it was probably only natural that Mum and I were close, given that it had been the two of us for so long. It was as Jonathan and I grew more serious that her mystery pains began, and as her illness grew worse, alongside the anxiety, I ended up having to repeatedly prioritise her over Jonathan.

The frailer she grew, the clearer it became quite how much she needed me. She told Jonathan, several times, that I was ‘the man of the house’ and once she reduced her hours at the shop it seemed sensible to transfer household accounts to my name. After a few months, she had deteriorated to the point where she couldn’t drive any more, so also depended on me for lifts.

For three years Jonathan was inordinately patient. When he asked me to marry him on my twenty-fourth birthday, I said that I couldn’t leave Mum when she was still so ill. He asked again, twice more, over the next year, sure that we could make it work, even offering to pay for some home help for her. I dithered and delayed answering, until, eventually, his patience ran out. He said that as much as he loved me, he couldn’t handle always coming second. It hurt him too much to see me trapped in what he called a toxic relationship and if I wasn’t prepared to build some boundaries, we weren’t going to make it.

I was shocked. How could he ask me to build boundaries when she was so ill, and still had no diagnosis?

How dare he make me choose between him and my mother?

When he quietly suggested that Mum had subconsciously imagined the symptoms because she was scared to lose me, I was beyond furious. And when in the argument that ensued he took it a step further, accusing her of deliberately making them up, that was it. We were over.

And yes, a tiny part of me may have reacted with such ferocity because for one horrible moment, I had wondered that, too.

In the days after Jonathan and I split up, as I cried on the sofa, nursing my broken heart with a giant tub of ice cream, Mum’s pains began to improve. I put away all thoughts that Jonathan had been right. She was better now, and that was what mattered.

I thought about Aunty Linda’s advice as I walked back through the murky drizzle, to the street of 1920s semi-detached homes where I’d spent my entire life. She was right, of course – I was earning enough to support myself, if I was careful, so money was no reason to wait until I was married before moving out. Yet, that was the eventuality Mum had always drilled into me: ‘When you get married, and have your own place…’

For the most part, Mum and I had a good relationship. Leaving would devastate her, and I wasn’t sure it was worth it. If I spoke to her and put some boundaries in place, maybe things could get better without me having to move out.

Besides, I’d never spent so much as one night alone. What if I hated it?

Even thinking about the logistics of it all: telling Mum, packing up, sorting all the admin, finding somewhere new… the whole idea was exhausting, and that was all before I’d actually gone anywhere.

But as I trudged up our narrow, concrete drive, I allowed myself one moment to imagine what it would be like if the house that awaited me was empty. I’d slip off my shoes, sink into the sofa and soak up the blissful silence. I’d watch whatever I felt like on television instead of endless soap operas. Eat what I wanted, when I wanted, rather than the standard six o’clock sit-down meal.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I’d please myself.

Was I a horrible, selfish cow for even thinking about it?

Either way, I thought of nothing else for the rest of the week. On Saturday morning, as soon as Mum left for work at the Buttonhole, I drove round to see Steph, with the promise of her usual weekend breakfast pancakes, bacon and eggs and token bowl of berries.

Her brother, Nicky, answered the door. ‘Hey, Ollie!’ he yelled, while racing back into the kitchen. ‘Can’t stop!’

I followed him down the hallway as he whipped open the back door and sped out.

‘Drew’s taking him for a bike ride,’ Steph said, shaking her head. ‘Helmet on first!’ she yelled through the door. ‘Drew – are you watching him?’

‘He’s fine!’ Drew appeared at the door, snaking one arm out to snatch a slice of bacon, grabbing Steph and kissing her when she leant forwards to slap his hand. ‘Relax and enjoy your breakfast.’

‘I’ll relax once you’ve stopped ogling me and are properly watching my brother!’

Drew grinned at me, waggling his eyebrows, before disappearing into the garden.

Having a brother with Down syndrome was the main reason why Steph had waited so long to marry the boy she’d loved since seventeen. She had basically raised Nicky, along with their two brothers, having been adamant that they would escape the future that too many people considered inevitable for mixed-race boys growing up on an estate run by criminals, with empty cupboards, a father in and out of prison and a mother who clung to whatever man would have her. With Jordan now a junior doctor, Simeon studying for a PhD in computer science and Nicky settled in supported accommodation, Steph had pretty much sprinted down the aisle last year.

She made two cappuccinos using the machine I’d bought for a wedding present, and joined me at the table, squeezing her generous curves into the breakfast nook. ‘I thought you might want to talk without Tweedledum and Tweedledee chipping in every two seconds.’

I helped myself to a pancake and a spoonful of scrambled eggs. Steph knew me well enough to decipher the tornado of emotions swirling behind the brief messages I’d sent during the week.

‘Have you spoken to Mark?’ she asked, easing me in with a low-key topic.

I cringed. ‘He avoided me at the library on Thursday, and then sent a text saying that he’d decided to give things another go with his ex. He didn’t want me to feel awkward, because she works in the library and I might see them together.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Yeah. I knew who he meant straight away. She’s one of those really enthusiastic, smiley people who ends every sentence with a question and I sort of already hated her a bit.’

Steph made a scoffing noise. ‘She can have him. Mark was only a practice run, to get you back dating. He was never going to be the man you embark upon the Dream List with.’

I sighed. She was probably right.

‘You know I’m right.’

‘Okay, but whatever Mark might or might not have been, that’s not the point, is it?’

It was Steph’s turn to sigh. ‘What are you going to do? This is not going to get better on its own. She’s not going to get any better if you keep dropping everything whenever she imagines a new twinge.’

I could feel my shoulders hunching over as my internal organs shrank away from this truth.

‘She’s ill!’

‘Yeah, a chronic case of selfish cowitis. Smothering mothering syndrome.’ She used a chunk of crispy bacon to mop up the remains of syrup on her plate.

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