It was me that arrived at the restaurant first. Mum’s shock was visible when she came through the door – she was used to my trickle of texts – sorry, sorry, sorry – which would start to arrive ten or twenty minutes before we were due to meet. I’d find a distraction – an urgent piece of work, a sweatshirt with a slogan on it in the window of a shop – and somehow the time would slink away, and I’d arrive to find her with those pink splashes on her perfect cheekbones like two red flags marking danger. I stood up to greet her, my heart unexpectedly mulching inside my chest at the sight of her smile – genuine, unguarded. For once I had made her happy. ‘Hi, darling,’ she said, her eyes flicking across the white tablecloth. A single bottle of San Pellegrino, a full glass. The most daring thing was the slice of lime floating across the surface. More happiness. Could it really be this easy to make our relationship work? ‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, hugging her properly. She hugged me back, tightly. ‘Nice place,’ she said, looking around. It was a basement Italian in Marylebone, tables close together, waiters rushing between them with plates precariously balanced. It wasn’t fancy, but it was atmospheric. I’d booked it for us, and I was paying the bill. ‘Dad would like it,’ she added, then paused. ‘He wanted to crash, but he’s stuck on a contract negotiation call. He might make dessert.’ Was she wondering if that contract call even existed? I squeezed her hand, pushing away all the dark thoughts that could tank our evening. ‘He’s not invited. This is a girls’ night.’ ‘There isn’t really room, anyway,’ she said, ignoring any subtext. She signalled for a passing waiter who stopped immediately, despite the full plates he was balancing. Mum had that effect on people, the confidence of a woman who’d grown up unarguably beautiful. ‘Can we have another water glass please?’ The waiter twinkled at her, his dark hair falling in a floppy cow lick over his face. ‘No wine for madam? Really?’ Mum hesitated. ‘Go on Mum, have a glass of white. It’s fine.’ I patted her hand. ‘I’m fine.’ I looked up at the waiter. ‘She’ll have a glass of Pinot Grigio.’ ‘And nothing for you?’ ‘Nothing for me,’ I said smugly. ‘I don’t drink.’ I’d seen Mum once since the christening, stopping by for a hastily drunk latte when she and Sophie were having breakfast in Clapham one Saturday morning. It had done what I’d hoped, successfully decompressed the building tension between us, and a couple of weeks later, I’d come up with this plan. ‘Do you really have to do that?’ Amber had asked me when I’d told her at our fourth session. ‘Does it truly feel like what you need?’ I’d felt grateful and irritated all at once. She treated me like a precious glass ornament, as if ke eping me from breaking was the most important thing in the world. But sometimes it felt like that world she was inhabiting wasn’t the real one. I knew it would be more trouble than it was worth to ke ep Mum at arm’s length for too long. And now we were here together, I was happy to find that I was actually glad to be with her. I wanted to share my newfound clarity. My lightness. It wasn’t all lightness though: my emotional weather was changeable. I cried at odd times – brushing my teeth, my morning face make-up free and vulnerable, or at a child straining for their sister from their pushchair at a next-door lunch table. ‘You’re coming back to life,’ said Amber, when I told her how delicate I felt. ‘You’re not numb anymore. And I’m awe-struck!’
Mum was considering me from behind her raised glass. The waiter seemed to have brought her a bucket of wine to make up for my disappointing lack of interest. ‘You look well, darling,’ she said. ‘Your dark circles have gone.’ She laughed. ‘You’re not my little raccoon anymore.’ I bit back my irritation at how every compliment she ever gave me came with a ‘PS’. ‘I’m sle eping properly. Working hard. Doing lots of yoga. I feel great, actually,’ I said. ‘Tell me about what’s going on at work,’ she said. ‘Have you closed on a site now?’ This was one thing I did have in common with my parents: a career around housing and property. Mum had her own business, an upmarket rental company that put stressed-out tenants with too much money and not enough time into homes around West London. Dad’s law firm exclusively dealt in property, devising deals for multi-million-pound transactions. Both of them had done so well, particularly Mum, who’d herself grown up in a council flat in Hounslow that she’d never dream of st epping foot in now. Still, sometimes I felt like their proximity to the super rich left them feeling like they’d somehow failed by being merely wealthy. Mum’s drive had got her a long way, but it didn’t necessarily give her peace – you could apply that statement across the swe ep of her life. ‘Yeah, we’re going for this r epurposed industrial estate outside Letchworth,’ I said, relaxing again. She remembered what I was doing. We were talking about normal things, like a normal mum and daughter on a normal night out. For a second, I almost flagged down the waiter for a glass of wine, to add another layer of normal, but it was too risky. Meanwhile, Mum was running on. ‘With architects, the first month is critical. You’ve got to make sure they don’t start overthinking it and get behind. You need to be on their case every day. Out there in your hard hat!’ ‘Don’t you worry, neon really brings out the colour of my eyes,’ I said. ‘Orange gilets are so this season,’ Mum shot back, and we giggled. It was nice. ‘I’m enjoying it,’ I said, which was weirdly true. The rigour of trying had become addictive. It was like I was back to my stack of A level textbooks, order restored. ‘I’m really pleased,’ said Mum, and I could see in her eyes that she meant it. ‘Thanks for helping me get myself...’ these were hard words to find. A part of me didn’t want to offer them, but I resisted being stingy. ‘Back on track. I appreciate the support.’ ‘And you’re still seeing Amber every week?’ said Mum. ‘I just got her invoice.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, an in voluntary smile spreading across my face like I was in the first flush of love – which I suppose I was. When I’d seen Amber at lunchtime, she’d helped me pr ep for tonight. In fact, she was the reason I hadn’t reacted to being compared to a four-legged creature that buried its own shit. ‘She’s really...’ I searched for the right adjective. ‘She’s just really wise. But she’s also no bullshit.’ I paused. ‘Thanks for her, most of all. I know you went to a lot of trouble to find out about her. She’s amazing.’ Mum’s smile was more guarded this time. ‘That’s alright,’ she said. ‘We all knew that you desperately needed help. We’re just so glad it seems to be working.’ I took a breath, a shard of glass piercing my heart. We. The shiny clean, sober members of the family. And then there’s you. I summoned Amber up, a genie with great skinny jeans. I wouldn’t allow myself to feel bad. I shouldn’t have risked being vulnerable with Mum. I always paid for it. ‘Thanks for giving me the sessions, but I’ll take it from here,’ I said, my words flat. ‘I can pay my own bills.’ Mum looked down, then cocked her blonde head. How did her hair always stay so perfect, even after a day in a hot car showing spoilt people soulless penthouses? ‘Darling, it’s great you want to, but... Amber’s actually very expensive. And we really want you to get the treatment you need. Dad and I are
happy to ke ep footing the bill.’ The rage that was suddenly building inside me was out of proportion to the situation. A blowback of grief followed it: if only everything was as easy as smiling a pretty smile and obediently swigging my San Pellegrino. ‘I’ve got a job,’ I said, my voice rising. Right at that moment I’d have done anything to have a gulp of her wine, take the edge off. ‘I’m in charge of that whole project. It’s a major government project.’ I was bigging myself up, and we both knew it. ‘That’s wonderful. I’m proud of you. But...’ She put down her glass, waved a dismissive hand. ‘Trust me when I tell you that you can’t foot the bill. Let us take care of you.’ There was something so smug about her in that moment. She was so proud of how far she’d scrabbled up the ladder of achievement. How perfect it all looked. No wonder she was so thrilled by Josh’s triumphant days in court. Of Sophie’s ability to land a romantic catch. ‘Okay,’ I said, my cheeks burning. ‘Thanks, then.’ I wanted to throw the offer back in her face, but the truth was, my Mastercard had almost five grand on it, and I was still using it to buy tampons in the week before pay day. I felt pathetic, a teenager with wrinkles. I needed Amber, and I needed Mum to ke ep my grip on her. ‘Say thank you to Dad, too,’ she said, lightly cupping my hand. ‘He’ll appreciate hearing it from you.’ My heart sank even lower now, a dead weight inside a hollow shell. My spaghetti pomodoro k ept falling off my fork, slithering away before I got it into my mouth. Mum was elegantly impaling ravioli, telling me about the latest series of a twisty crime drama – corrupt cops with beady eyes and too many implausible motives – that everyone at work seemed obsessed with too. My joy had gone, her words just noise. ‘I’m not really watching much TV at the moment,’ I said. ‘I’d rather read.’ It was true. Amber had given me a stack of books with dreamy covers to immerse myself in. Love Your Inner Child, a blonde-haired angel on the cover with clouds floating above her. The Alchemist – ancient wisdom packaged for a Western audience. They comforted me. They made me feel Amber was with me, even when she wasn’t. I think I read them looking for clues to who she was, behind that messily glossy facade. I even k ept The Alchemist in my handbag, revelling in how dog-eared the pages were. It made me feel like we were reading it together. Any questions I asked about her were batted away, so those little moments of false intimacy I created were all the more precious. ‘You’ll feel safer if you don’t have to worry about me,’ she said. ‘Our time together is all about you.’ ‘It’s one of the only shows Dad and I can watch together,’ Mum said. ‘He actually wants to be home in time. It’s a miracle!’ ‘Big time,’ I said, immediately regretting it. She raked me with her eyes, took a forkful of salad from the bowl between us. ‘He works hard. He always has. I admire that about him.’ ‘Yes, no,’ I said, scrabbling for safe ground. ‘We all do.’ ‘You can obviously choose what you want to watch, living on your own,’ she said coolly. ‘But I do hope, when you’re really through all of this, you’ll meet someone too.’ Every time, that little postscript. That little reminder that I was the one lagging behind. The problem. Something dangerous spiked inside of me. Amber had been so calm when I told her, her steadiness giving me strength. I rarely spoke about it in those days. Even when I hated them, they were still my family and I didn’t want to give anyone else the chance to judge them. To judge me: I was them and they were me, and I’d been burnt in the past. I’d told a boyfriend who I believed I loved at university, and later, in a row about a girl in the bar wearing a tight rugby shirt who I knew fancied him, he threw it
back in my face. ‘Just because your family fuck the staff, there’s no reason for you to be such a psycho about us.’ I felt like he’d slapped me round the face, and yet I stayed with him for another whole year. In fact, he was the one who dumped me. Amber had asked me to map out my family for me, to describe how we all related to each other. I’d described for her how Sophie was the precious afterthought whom we’d all adored. The five-year gap between us made her more like a beloved doll than a rival, so different from my combative relationship with Josh, the brother who I swear hated me on sight at six hours old. ‘Why am I sensing sadness?’ asked Amber, as I described how Sophie would toddle into my bedroom every morning shouting, ‘Raach-el, Raach-el,’ when dawn was barely breaking. ‘It’s a happy story, no?’ I’d looked down at the floor, my cheeks starting to flame. Could I really tell her? Could I really not? ‘It wasn’t Sophie who made us unhappy,’ I whispered. ‘It was what it meant for my parents.’ She’d left a long silence, waited for me to find the words. ‘She’s why Esther came.’ ‘Who’s Esther?’ she asked eventually. ‘And if you’re not ready to tell me, please don’t force yourself. We have all the time you need.’ I looked up at her. ‘Sophie’s au pair,’ I said. I felt nauseous. ‘And then Dad’s girlfriend. Maybe she still is. Why else was she at the christening?’ Amber’s face was suffused with empathy. It was beautiful to watch: she saw me. She honoured my pain – she made it sacred. ‘Oh, Rachel.’ ‘I was the one who walked in on them together.’ ‘Who invited Esther to the christening?’ I asked, ke eping my voice deliberately light. ‘Josh, I imagine,’ said Mum, giving a brittle wave to the waiter. ‘That was so delicious that I’ll have another glass,’ she said, despite the pool of wine still sitting at the bottom of the current one. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘For a time, she was a member of our family,’ said Mum. ‘She was a very important part of Sophie’s childhood.’ ‘Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.’ Mum’s jaw was rigid, her eyes cold. Why was I doing this? ‘I’m surprised you want to talk about the christening at all,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d made a collective decision to leave it behind us.’ ‘I just want us to start being honest with each other,’ I said. ‘Even if it’s uncomfortable.’ ‘Is that the therapy talking?’ she spat, making angry quotation marks in the air. ‘No,’ I said, infused with an unexpected calm. ‘It’s me talking. Rachel. Your daughter. You know, the other one.’ The waiter reappeared; Mum’s wine glass balanced on a tray. As she looked up at him, her poise was all but gone, her hand shaking as she reached for it. It turned out she really did have a lot invested in me burying my own shit. ‘Let’s not do this to each other,’ she said, voice tight. ‘I thought things were getting easier.’ ‘I want it to be easier too, Mum,’ I said. ‘I just want to understand you.’ ‘Maybe there’s not all that much to understand,’ she said, her tone a full stop. I couldn’t help myself. ‘Why do you put up with it?’ ‘Don’t you think there’s something rather icky about prying into your parents’ marriage?’ she said. ‘Most children would run a mile in the opposite direction.’ ‘But it’s affected me,’ I said, my voice starting to rise. ‘These problems I’ve had, they’re not some kind of freak accident. They came from somewhere.’ ‘Oh, it’s my fault?’ she said. Her tone was piercing; heads were discreetly starting to turn in our direction. ‘What an appalling cliché, Rachel. Take some responsibility.’ I stood up, legs shaky. I wasn’t going to be victimized by her a second longer.
‘I’m sorry you’ve made the choice to be angry. I’m just trying to make our relationship better. I wish you could be brave enough to see that.’ She snorted, looked up at me with something close to hatred. ‘Which just goes to show how pitifully little you know about any kind of relationship.’ I pulled out as much cash as I could find from my purse, threw it down. There was a crumpled up ten-euro note in the pathetic pile I left. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I can’t do this anymore,’ I said, shoving my way through the tight tables before she could get up and follow me.