Greg and my dad have just returned from the customary game of golf that takes place any time there’s a hint of a boyfriend becoming serious. It’s a family joke by now – Dad’s the least judgemental person I know. He ends up loving everyone. Weird thing is, he hasn’t given me the usual, surreptitious thumbs-up. Has he just forgotten? Not that it would make a difference to me; I don’t need anyone’s approval. The whole golf thing is just Dad being funny, anyway. Still . . . weird.
At least the tough nut of the family is melting under Greg’s charm. Why? Because it’s genuine. He simply spots Mum’s patchwork, neatly cast aside in the kitchen, and becomes obsessed. How did she choose the colours? Did she ever think of depicting a narrative on a quilt? Does she know any men who do patchwork? Maybe she could teach him? Or maybe he could come up with a story for one of her wall hangings? None of us appreciates Mum’s patchwork. She has her sewing buddies who recognise the painstaking hours of effort that go into her work, but we just don’t get it. Boyfriends have always complimented her cooking; never her patchwork. Big mistake, I realise now.
I wonder if I should try the same approach with Greg’s mother, Phyllis, a few days later as we’re on our way to visit her for the first time.
‘What hobbies does your mum have?’ I ask Greg.
‘Hobbies?’ He frowns. Finally, he comes up with, ‘She’s pretty religious, I guess.’
I’ll have nothing in common with her, nothing to talk about! Just as well I’ve dressed conservatively and urged Greg to be on time.
Five minutes early, we drive through two imposing pillars, into the grounds of a beautiful old building that looks more like a sanctuary for war veterans than a nursing home.
I am not having a conversation about God. I’d just fail.
But, in a bright, leafy reception area, we’re informed that Phyllis isn’t feeling up to two visitors today and will see only her son.
‘I hope she’s OK,’ I say.
‘Just tired,’ the receptionist explains, but she looks a little awkward.
‘You go ahead,’ I say to Greg.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I’ll go for a walk.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Take your time.’
The lawns are beautifully manicured, the shrubs trimmed, the flower beds weed-free. I stroll around, trying not to worry that she doesn’t want to see me. After twenty minutes, my mobile rings. Greg’s on his way out.
We meet at the door and walk to the car.
‘Was she OK?’
‘Fine. Just tired.’
‘Not ill, though?’
‘Nah. She’s a tough old bird,’ he says with love in his voice.
‘Why is she in a home, Greg?’
He smiles. ‘Thought you might ask.’ He shrugs. ‘It was her choice. She won’t come to live with us. She’s very independent.’
‘But being in a home isn’t being independent, is it?’
‘Here, it is. You should see the set-up. There’s a section for active residents. She lives in a suite. It’s like a top-class, one-bedroom apartment. She comes and goes as she pleases. She has a few good friends she likes to fuss over. She has the chapel and her flat-screen TV. She has every modern convenience without having to cook or wash for herself. Rob takes her out shopping once a week. And she visits us for lunch every Sunday – on her own terms; she takes a taxi there and back.’
‘She sounds like a character.’
He smiles. ‘She’s that all right.’
As we drive through the gates, I turn to him. ‘OK, so this is going to sound paranoid, but do you think she just didn’t want to see me?’
‘No, Lucy. She was tired, that’s all.’ But he doesn’t look at me.
And I know, instinctively, that here is another person who doesn’t want someone new in Greg’s life.
I meet Colette, Grace’s friend, in a coffee shop. We settle down in a quiet corner, me with a coffee, Colette, peppermint tea. She waves away my thanks for her time. Then I fill her in.
‘So, how many times have you met Rachel and Toby now?’ she asks.
‘Three. Once for a barbecue, then a movie, then we took them to a playground.’
‘And how did you get on?’
‘They’re very quiet. Polite. Like I’m a total stranger. Which I am. They stick with Hilary – the nanny – mostly.’
She nods like a doctor listening to symptoms. ‘And how are you with them?’
‘Terrified. I’m parachuting into their little lives. Sometimes I feel like apologising.’
She smiles. ‘Well, you’re lucky in one sense; they’re still young. Teenagers are so set in their ways. If they take a dislike to you, that’s pretty much it. But,’ she says brightly, ‘every situation is different, every child is different. You just have to feel your way. Have you bought any step-parenting books?’
‘Three.’
She laughs. ‘Only three?’
I smile.
‘And how are you with Greg around the children?’
I have to think about that. ‘Well, I avoid public displays of affection like the plague – obviously.’
‘Recipe for disaster, right there,’ she agrees.
‘I try not to feel like he’s judging how I am with them. Because he’s not. He’s not like that. He knows it’ll take time.’
‘Good. And, listen, if you learn nothing more from me than this, always remember you’re in this for Greg. That’s the most important relationship here. There’ll be tough times, challenging times, when you feel like you can’t go on. That’s when you’ll need to remind yourself why you’re doing this.’ I swallow. ‘But I really believe that, if you’re patient and sensitive to the children’s needs, if you give them space, carefully build a relationship and never try to replace their mother, then, eventually, you might all fit together.’
The word ‘might’ has never sounded so huge.
I make Colette repeat everything she’s just said so I can take notes.
The following day, Greg and I drive to meet Ben and Ruth, his in-laws, Catherine’s parents.
‘Seeing as you’re going to be their grandchildren’s stepmum, I think it’d be good to meet them, at this stage. I think they’d appreciate it.’
I nod. Nervous, of course.
As we turn into the five-star hotel, he says, ‘I should warn you: you might find them a little cold.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s nothing to do with you, you understand?’
‘What, then?’ I’m sceptical after the Phyllis incident.
‘It’s to do with me.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s no big deal. I’m just not their favourite person. I’m not worried about it. You shouldn’t be. They adore the kids, who are their last link to Catherine. They’re polite to me. I’m just telling you because I don’t want you to think their chilliness has anything to do with you. OK?’
‘OK.’
We pull up in front of the hotel. A valet opens my door, giving me no time to dwell on what Greg’s just said. The hotel doors are opened for us. The flower arrangement in the lobby is bigger than I am. A piano tinkles in the background.
‘There they are,’ Greg says.
They stand when they see us, their smiles reserved. Ben is tall and noticeably lean, with an air of success. His wife, by contrast, looks timid, slightly plump and almost six inches shorter.
Greg introduces us. We shake hands and sit. Ben does the talking, or, rather, questioning. I’m the subject of his attention. When he asks how Greg and I met, I know not to mention cars racing on a motorway.
‘Work,’ I say. ‘I design Greg’s book covers.’
‘So, you’re a graphic designer? Who do you work for?’
‘I’m a partner at Get Smart.’ I wonder if he knows it.
He nods. ‘And will you continue to work after you’re married?’
I’ve never considered an alternative. ‘Yes,’ I say, wondering suddenly if Catherine did.
I spend an hour under the spotlight. It feels like an eternity. An eternity on the defensive. It’s as though they’ve already decided that I’ll fall short of their daughter.
‘Sorry about that,’ Greg grimaces as we sit in the car. ‘I thought if we met on neutral territory Ben would behave himself.’
‘I need a drink.’
He smiles. ‘It was good we did it, though. They’re driven by worry. At least, now, they know you’re not a Mrs Doubtfire.’
‘I love Mrs Doubtfire.’
‘Trust me, Mrs Doubtfire would not be their cup of tea.’
I look at him. ‘Did Catherine work?’
‘Yes, Catherine worked. Lucy, do not compare yourself to Catherine. Do not feel intimidated by them.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She was an architect. Lucy, we’ve done our duty. Forget about them now.’
‘What’s their problem with you, anyway?’
‘Ah!’
‘Ah, what?’ I look at him.
He sighs, long and loud. ‘That goes way back.’
‘Do you see me rushing anywhere?’
He smiles. ‘All right. I was never exactly what they’d planned for their only daughter. Didn’t go to the right schools. Wasn’t from the right part of town. Wouldn’t know an old boys’ network if it came up and bit me on the arse.’
‘He’s a snob, basically,’ I say, guessing that Ruth just follows his lead.
‘Ben thinks writing books should be a hobby.’
I roll my eyes.
He shrugs. ‘Doesn’t bother me. It’s his problem.’
‘Well, I think you’re great,’ I say, squeezing his thigh. ‘Although, I don’t know . . .’ I take my hand away. ‘What school did you say you went to, again?’
He makes a face at me.
Next Part Will come Soon