‘Thanks, but, like I said, if you mess with it and something goes wrong, I’m liable. I could lose my deposit.’
‘Bloody ridiculous, standing outside in the dark.’
I imagine the man with the serial-killer glasses following me home at night, then creeping up the steps behind, watching me fumble for my key beneath the broken security light, his moist breath on the back of my neck.
‘You okay, love?’ asks Mum. ‘You’re awfully twitchy.’
I nod. I haven’t told my parents about the man I think is following me. I don’t want to worry them, especially not at Ada’s party.
‘You wouldn’t have these issues if you owned instead of rented,’ says Mum with the air of a schoolteacher addressing a wayward child. ‘It’s a waste of money.’
Briefly, I close my eyes, already weary. We have this conversation at least once a month. She and Dad bought their first house in 1984 for ￡34,000 and they don’t seem to grasp the fact that, thanks to an inflated house market and wages failing to keep up, deposits are extortionate. Anyone I know who’s my age and owns a house only managed it because a family member copped it and they got a healthy inheritance to ease their mourning. Or, like Ada, married rich.
Sensing my reluctance to cover old ground, she changes the subject. ‘So, are you seeing anyone?’
Out of the frying pan and into the inferno. I’m going to need another drink to get through this conversation.
Dad excuses himself to join Ethan, and a small band of men gather around the BBQ. Ethan chucks a piece of meat onto it. Flames shoot up from the grill, hissing and spitting, and the men look on with childish delight.
‘Not right now …’ I trail off. Mum’s brow creases in dismay. I haven’t dated anyone since Noah. My parents adored him; he was easy-going and funny and always bought flowers for Mum and cider for Dad when we visited from London. They loved him almost as much as they love Jack. I feel guilty for not putting myself back out there; it means a lot to my parents to see me happy and settled but, even though it’s been nearly a year since Noah, it’s still too soon. ‘I mean, I’m focusing on my book,’ I offer by way of distraction. ‘I spent all morning at the library, coming up with new ideas for my agent.’
Mum’s frown deepens and I’m hurt. I didn’t realise how desperately I wanted her to smile warmly and ask questions the way she does when Ada announces another unnecessary renovation. I remember how proud my parents were the day I graduated. Mum wore her best heels, the satin ones with the little bow detail reserved only for extra-special occasions; Dad teared up as I stood in front of that mottled blue backdrop, holding the plastic scroll used as a prop for photographs. I was the first in the family to go to university, but that achievement has paled against the glittering glory of Ada’s grand wedding on the Amalfi Coast and her grand house and her grand car and her grand husband. Ever since I decided to try for publication, there’s been a wall between us.
‘It’s going really well,’ I lie, even though Mum didn’t ask. This lie adds another layer of bricks to the wall. ‘Lara’s had loads of interest. Loads. She’s expecting big things.’
Mum frowns. ‘Lara?’
‘My literary agent …’
‘Agent?’
‘Lara from Beckworth & Gold.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’
We’ve lapsed into silence again. Mum’s the first to break it. ‘Have you heard any more from Arabella?’
Arabella was the founder and CEO of ACH Marketing. The last time I saw her was when I handed in my notice. Nine months later, Arabella started another company with a huge investor and asked if I wanted to join – by that point though, I had an agent and I couldn’t fully commit to my career and writing. So I turned her down. My parents knew I always loved to write but I don’t think they believed I’d ever quit my job to do it. The truth is, I only took a job at a fancy marketing company to please them, but after Noah died, my happiness was more important than a job my parents could tell their friends about. ‘No,’ I say, honestly. ‘Not for a while now.’
Mum swirls Merlot around her glass, not meeting my eye. ‘Well, darling, maybe you could give her a call, see if she still needs your help.’
There’s a pang of pain, sharp and hot, like she’s accidentally knocked a pot of scalding tea into my lap. She really doesn’t understand or, more to the point, doesn’t want to understand. Some people write for years without ever getting this far.