I’m half-hoping Ryan will lean forward and kiss me, but he doesn’t; he stands up and turns toward the dresser laden with trophies. We hardly ever use this room, so I’ve got used to the trophies being ignored. Disregarded by everyone except Mum. But now Ryan’s studying each one with fascination.
“I’d forgotten about your ice-skating,” he says. “That must have been a big dream for you too. What happened there?”
“Oh, that.” I feel a familiar painful twinge. “God. Whatever. Didn’t work out.” I get to my feet and reluctantly follow his gaze.
“But, look! You were good. I never knew why you gave up.” He’s picked up a framed photo of me in an aquamarine skating dress, aged thirteen, one leg held above my head as I glide across the ice.
“Oh, just lost interest, I suppose,” I say with a feeble smile, and look away.
Seeing that photo brings back a rush of bad feelings, because that was the day it all changed. I’d practiced my junior free program for months. The whole family had come to watch, to cheer me on.
If I close my eyes, I’m back at the rink again, the place that felt like home for so many years. I can recall the crisp chilled air. The silky finish of my outfit. And Jake, in a filthy mood, standing mutinously as Mum fussed around me and took photos. He was angry because Mum had found him secretly drinking in his room and stopped his allowance. And he took it out on me. When he came over to me, I thought he was going to say, “Good luck.” I was totally unprepared for what happened.
“How many hours?” he said into my ear. “How many fucking hours have I sat and watched you slide around? Mum’s obsessed, Dad goes along with it, but what about me and Nicole? You’ve ruined our lives, you know that?”
And before I could even draw breath, he walked off, leaving me trembling in shock.
I could blame him for my fall that day. I could say he put me off. And there would be some truth in it. As I skated out onto the ice, my legs were quivering. I’d never, not once, seen my skating as anything but positive. I’d always thought Jake and Nicole were proud of me. Just like Mum always told me they were.
But now Jake’s point of view was all I could see. Mum’s attention sucked up. Money spent on lessons and costumes. All the spotlight focused on me. It was all painfully clear. So I was off my game, not concentrating, and I fell. Badly.
Afterward, everyone told me not to worry—never mind, you nailed the jump in practice, and you’ll nail it again next time. My heart wasn’t in it, though. I gave up skating completely within three months, despite my coach, Jimmy, trying to talk me back into it.
I can’t only blame Jake. It was me. My personality. The best skaters are natural performers. They see the audience and blossom. They wouldn’t care if their brother was jealous—it’d spur them on. They’d approach their jumps thinking, Fuck you! and reach even greater heights. After Jake landed his bombshell on me, I approached every jump thinking, I’m sorry.
The trouble is, I’m sorry doesn’t power anything. It drags you down. By the end, I could barely get my feet off the ice.
“Do you still skate?” asks Ryan, and I flinch before I can stop myself.
“No,” I say flatly, then realize I sound too abrupt. “I went back to it in my year off,” I amend. “I didn’t compete or anything; I qualified as a skating coach and taught beginners.”
“I expect you’re sick of ice rinks.” He laughs.
“Yes,” I agree, although it isn’t true. I still love ice rinks. I go to Somerset House every year when they put on the skating. I watch all the people swishing round the ice—or falling, most of them—and I love the sight. I just don’t need to join in.
I take the photo from Ryan’s hand and cast around for a new subject—but before I can think of one, Jake strides in, holding a beer. “Here you are!” he says, almost accusingly.
“Have you been helping out Mum?” I ask, but Jake ignores me. He sees the photo in my hand and rolls his eyes.
“Showing off your past glories, Fixie? You should have seen her fall on her bum,” he adds to Ryan with a bark of laughter. “Classic. Wish I’d recorded it.”
“I don’t believe it,” says Ryan, twinkling at me. “I bet you never fell on your bum.”
Silently, I put the photo back on the dresser. I’ve never mentioned that day to Jake. We’ve never revisited that conversation. Does he even know what an impact he had on me?
Anyway. You move on.
“Hey!” I say, as a new idea seizes me. “Ryan, you could work at the shop with us for a bit. Learn the retail trade. We could teach you everything! And then you could move on to something, you know, bigger.”
I’m trying to sound as though this is simply a reasonable career suggestion, although my heart has seized up in delirious hope. It’s the perfect solution! I’d see him every day…he’d feel like part of the family….
“Ah, I’m not sure about that.” Ryan wrinkles his suntanned nose. “Might be awkward, working for you guys. Jake, mate, didn’t you bring me a beer?”
I force myself to keep smiling, determined he won’t see my disappointment. Why would he think it would be awkward? It wouldn’t be awkward! But there’s no point pressing the idea. If he doesn’t want to work at the shop, he doesn’t.
“Have you been helping Mum?” I ask Jake again. “Or has Nicole?”
“Jeez, Fixie.” He rolls his eyes. “Get off my case. I haven’t even seen Mum.”
Now that Jake is in here, the magical, transfixing bubble we were in has burst. And suddenly I feel guilty. I’ve dodged all the work. I’ve forgotten about the party. I’ve forgotten about everything except Ryan and me.
“I’ll go and see if Mum needs anything,” I say. “You know what she’s like. She’ll be back in the kitchen.”
I’m not being totally noble here. I’m feeling the need of Mum’s calming presence. Jake unnerves me, and I was already unnerved enough by Ryan. I need an injection of Mum’s calm, loving, steadying voice. I want her to say something that makes me smile, so I can take a step back from life and see it all in perspective.
I head out and glance into the sitting room, where the guests have given up standing. They’re perched all over, on chairs and even the floor, chatting and smoking and still nibbling food. But sure enough, Mum isn’t anywhere to be seen. I knew it.
“Mum?” I call, as I stride down the corridor toward the back of the house. “Mum, are you there?”
I see a familiar flash of blue linen through the ajar kitchen door, but it’s in the wrong place somehow. I pick up speed, frowning as my brain tries to process the sight. There’s something not right, but I can’t work out—
“Mum?” I push the door right open—and my heart freezes in horror.
Mum is collapsed over the table, motionless. Her piping bag is still in her hand; her straggly hair is all over her face. “Mum?” My voice is strangled in alarm. “Mum?”
I push her shoulder gently but she doesn’t respond—and now terror is ripping through my guts.
“Mum? Help!” I yell through the door, frantically patting her cheeks, trying to work out if she’s even breathing. I can’t feel a pulse, but then, I don’t know how to feel for a pulse; I should have done first-aid lessons….
“Mum, please wake up, please….Help! Someone please HELP!” I yell again, my voice hoarse, tears of fright springing from my eyes. “HELP!”
Footsteps are thudding along the corridor. I grab for my phone with fumbling, panicky fingers, feeling totally surreal. I’ve never dialed 999 in my life and I’ve always wondered what it must feel like. Now I know. It’s the scariest thing in the world.
Seven
When everything happens at once, it’s hard to process. It’s hard not to go around with a bewildered look and your brain only half engaged, because the rest of it is crying out, What’s happening? What’s happening?
First Ryan arrived o
ut of the blue, which was enough to be dealing with. Then Mum collapsed and I thought my world had caved in. And then we got to the hospital and she was OK, and that was kind of shocking in its relief.
Except of course she wasn’t really OK. She isn’t really OK. As it turns out, she hasn’t been OK for ages.
She’d never even mentioned she’d been having chest pains, which is so bloody Mum. I wanted to scream when it came out. All this time, she’d had a dodgy heart and she’d never let on? A lot of her trouble comes down to smoking, they’ve said. She used to smoke, and of course Dad was on thirty a day. But then there’s the fact that she works fourteen-hour days in the shop. Still. At her age.
Make changes is the phrase every single medical professional used during those few days that Mum was in hospital. Make changes to your life. When Mum replied, “I’m not changing what I do! I love what I do!” they just reiterated it. You need to make changes. But this time they looked at us—Nicole and me—as they said it. They gave us the job of changing Mum. (And Jake too, I guess, except he wasn’t there much of the time. He had meetings to be at, apparently.)
Now it’s two weeks after the party. And if it were up to Nicole and me, even with our best efforts, I’m not sure anything would have changed very much. But that’s irrelevant now. Because last Friday, a brand-new thing hit us, like a juggernaut: Mum’s sister, Karen, came to stay.
We don’t even know Aunty Karen. She might be our aunt, but she’s lived in Spain for twenty-seven years. She never comes back to the UK, because it’s “too bloody cold.” She doesn’t do email, because it’s a “pain in the neck.” She didn’t come to Nicole’s wedding, because she was having a “procedure.” But she’s here now. And not only has Mum changed, the whole house has changed.
She burst into the house like a suntanned whirlwind, dragging a bright-pink wheelie case, her hair in a highlighted, straggly blond ponytail.
“I’m here!” she cried to Mum, who was sitting on the sofa. “Don’t you worry! I’ll take care of things! Now, first things first: flowers for the invalid.”
We all watched, a bit gobsmacked, as she produced a bunch of bright-red fake flowers from her bag, like a magician. “I don’t do fresh flowers,” she added. “Waste of bloody money. Put these in a vase, just as good, and you can use them again.” She thrust the plastic flowers at me, then she peered at Mum and shook her head. “Oh, Joanne. Bloody hell. Look at you. Look at your lines. I know I’m lined”—she poked at her suntanned, crinkly face—“but these are from fun. Look at you, working yourself into an early grave! That’s got to stop. If you can’t enjoy yourself, what’s the point of life? I’m taking you away.”
At first, I didn’t even know what Aunty Karen meant by “away.” Then I realized she meant away to Spain. Then I thought, Yes! Of course Mum should have a holiday. Then I thought, Mum will never have a holiday. No way. She won’t go.
But I’d reckoned without Aunty Karen. Somehow she’s got sway over Mum. She can talk her into things no one else can. Like, she told Mum she had to have gel nails, had to—and Mum listened meekly and let her apply them. How many times has Leila offered to do Mum’s nails without getting anywhere?
And now she’s talked Mum into coming back to Spain with her. Mum, who hasn’t been on a plane since before she was married. The doctors have okayed it. (I phoned up the consultant especially, to be extra sure.) Mum’s bought a new swimsuit and a hat and a one-way ticket. She doesn’t know how long she’s going for, but it’ll be at least six weeks. It was Aunty Karen who insisted on six weeks. She said short holidays are stressful. She said Mum would never properly relax otherwise. She said they might go to Paris too and she barely knew her own sister and it was about bloody time.
Which is great. It’s so great. Mum deserves some time to relax and see the world and get to know her sister properly again. When she told me she’d be gone for six weeks, if not more, I flung my arms around her and said, “Mum, that’s amazing! How exciting!”
“It’s a long time to be away,” she said with a nervous laugh. But I instantly shook my head and said, “You need it. And, anyway, it’ll fly by!”
Today we’re having a meeting to talk about how we’re going to manage the shop. Jake and Nicole have both promised to give more time to it. (It’s turned out that Nicole’s yoga course isn’t quite as “full-time” as she’s been making out.) We’ve upped Stacey’s hours and reworked the shifts so that everything is covered. Still, it’ll be weird with Mum away.
We’ve cleared the oak gateleg dining table that we only use at Christmas and we’re sitting round it with cups of coffee: Nicole, Jake, me, and Mum, whose appearance keeps making me draw breath. She’s now an unfamiliar biscuity color and has sparkly blue earrings dangling from her lobes. Aunty Karen talked her into the fake tan last night—and the earrings appeared this morning as a “little pressie.”
The chair at the end with the big wooden arms is empty. That’s still Dad’s chair, even after all these years. No one would ever sit in it, but no one ever moves it either. It’s like we still respect Dad and his position in the family, even though he’s gone.
“Here we are!” Aunty Karen plonks a bowl of pink marshmallows on the table, and we all blink at her. “You didn’t know you needed those, did you?” she exclaims triumphantly as she sits down and pops one into her mouth, and we all stare at them, a bit baffled.
This is what Aunty Karen says every time she brings something new into the house—which is every single day. From fake flowers to bowls of sweets everywhere to plug-in air fresheners, she’s constantly “improving” the place with things which aren’t really us. And each time, she cries, “You didn’t know you needed that, did you?” But she’s so bright and breezy and bossy, no one objects.
Jake eyes the marshmallows with disfavor, then pushes them away slightly and turns to Mum.
“Right,” he says. “So. Mum. You’re off to Spain.”
“Hola!” puts in Nicole brightly. “Por favor, signor.”
“Por favor-e,” corrects Jake.
“No, it’s not.” Nicole rolls her eyes. “It’s por favor.”
“It’s por favor,” Aunty Karen confirms. “But don’t bother with any of that nonsense,” she adds to Mum. “Miguel down the beach, he pretends he only speaks Spanish. Load of rubbish. Just speak English, nice and loud.”
“Really?” Mum looks taken aback. “But if he’s Spanish—”
“Oh, he can speak English well enough when he wants to,” says Aunty Karen scoffingly. “I’ve heard him at the karaoke bar. He does Adele, Pet Shop Boys…what else?” She thinks. “Wham! Lots of Wham!…”
“Could we get back on track?” says Jake, his smile a little fixed. “Not that this isn’t fascinating.”
“Yes. We should. Because I have something to announce—no, to ask you all. It’s rather…” Mum glances at Aunty Karen, who clearly knows what she’s about to say. For an instant I feel shut out—Mum’s been talking to Aunty Karen before us? But then that thought is swept away as Mum looks round the table at us and says, “I’ve had an offer on the shop.”
What?
There’s a startled silence. Jake’s eyebrows have shot up. Nicole murmurs, “Wow.” As for me, I’m beyond shock. An offer? For Farrs? Who would buy Farrs? We’re Farrs.
“We don’t want to sell,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Do we?”
“Well,” says Mum. “That’s the question. I’m not as young as I was, and things have…changed.”
“Your mum needs a rest,” puts in Aunty Karen. “And it’s good money.”
“How much?” demands Jake, and Mum slides a piece of paper into the middle of the table.
It’s never even occurred to me to think how much Farrs might be worth. But it’s a lot. We all stare at it silently, and I can sense our brains are reconfiguring the facts of our lives.
“Your
mum could retire. Put her feet up. Buy a little place in Spain near me,” says Aunty Karen.
“But this is so weird. How come you’ve had an offer now?” I stare at Mum, suddenly stricken. “Oh God, this isn’t some kind of ambulance chaser, is it?”
“No!” Mum laughs. “Love, the truth is, we’ve had offers to sell all the time over the years. Never wanted to, before. But after everything that’s happened…”
I look at the piece of paper again, my brain doing new sums. Yes, it’s a lot of money, but if that means the end of Farrs, of our incomes, of our jobs…then it doesn’t seem that much after all.
“Do you want to sell?” I ask Mum. I’m trying my hardest to sound neutral. Pragmatic. Supportive. All those grown-up things. But even so, I can feel my eyes glistening as the idea really hits me.
Sell? Our beloved Farrs? Dad’s beloved Farrs?
I look up, and as she sees my expression, Mum’s guard drops.
“Oh, Fixie,” she says, and reaches a hand across the table to squeeze mine. “Of course I don’t want to. But I don’t want to burden you children either. If I’m going to step back, what then? Running Farrs is hard. It’s full-time. It’s got to be what you want to do. Not just for me. Or for Dad.”
She’s blinking too now, and her cheeks are rosy. I think Mum and I are the only ones in the family who feel Dad’s presence every time we step into that shop. Jake only sees money. And Nicole sees…I have no idea what Nicole sees. Unicorns, probably.
“I want to do it,” I say without hesitation. “I don’t want to give up. Mum, go to Spain and don’t worry. We’ll run the business. Won’t we?” I look at Jake and Nicole, trying to get their support.
“I agree,” says Jake, to my surprise. “I think Farrs has great potential.” He jabs the piece of paper. “I mean, this is all very well, but we could double that figure. Treble it.”
“What about you, Nicole?” says Mum, turning to her, and Nicole shrugs.
“If you wanted to sell, I’d be, like…fair enough,” she says in her drifty, absent way. “But if you don’t want to, then, like…”