‘How do you do it?’ I ask impulsively, watching my mum tuck her hair behind her ear as she scrubs at the surfaces. ‘With Dad? I mean . . . you’ve been together for . . .’
‘Twenty-five years,’ Mum says, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. ‘And it’s all about compromise, I’d say.’
‘Like how you always let Dad watch the telly after dinner and you tidy up?’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
‘Exactly. He cooks!’
‘But you do all the thinking about what to make,’ I point out. ‘And the shop.’
She frowns. ‘We each do our fair share.’
There is no point talking to my mother about mental load. For her, Dad is the ultimate modern man because he irons his own shirts.
‘Will you at least let me wash up?’ I ask.
‘Of course!’ Mum says, passing me the rubber gloves. ‘You really are a changed woman these days. Gone is the layabout student, in comes the responsible young lady who notices the pile of dirty pans by the sink.’
I stick my tongue out at her. ‘Urgh, I don’t know,’ I say, turning on the hot tap. ‘I don’t know why I’m holding back. I’ll ask him about moving in for a bit.’
‘Only if you’re absolutely sure, sweets – you’ve got a whole life ahead of you, there’s no need to rush things. Oh, Addie, careful with that plate, it was your grandmother’s . . .’
I let her step in and wash up the plate I am not qualified for.
‘But I don’t think you need to worry about him not being as interested as you are,’ Mum continues. ‘He hardly leaves your side.’
‘Can I help?’ Dylan says from the doorway.
Mum gives me a significant look, as if Dylan coming in to help with the dishes is a sign he can’t bear to be parted from me.
‘I’m home!’ Deb yells through the house, slamming the front door. ‘Is the Addie shadow here? Oh, good, hi, Dylan. I need your help with a job application. Can you read it through for me and make it sound, you know . . .’ She chucks her bag down in the corner of the kitchen. ‘More clever?’
‘The Addie shadow?’ Dylan repeats, half laughing.
Deb waves that off, tsking as she finds no clean glasses in the cupboard. She heads for the dishwasher. ‘Damn, is that running?’
‘You’re welcome,’ Mum says mildly.
‘Addie’s shadow, like . . . I follow her around in a sinister fashion?’ Dylan asks.
‘No, just like you’re attached to her ankle,’ Deb says. ‘I’ll have to use a mug – Dad! Dad! Have you got my French bulldog mug through there?’
‘No,’ Dad roars from the living room.
‘You left it under your desk,’ Mum says. ‘I cleared it up this morning. It’s in the dishwasher.’
‘Under the desk?’ I ask.
‘Attached to her ankle?’ Dylan repeats, his brow furrowing.
‘When’s Cherry arriving?’ Deb asks.
‘Tomorrow,’ Dad calls, in a loaded sort of way. Dad’s sulking because when Cherry stays he has to clear out of his ‘study’， the box room at the front of the house that he’s filled with crap. Parts of train and aeroplane models, old issues of The Beano, laptops that died but for some reason must not be thrown away. Dad hates guests coming. It gives Mum the perfect excuse to tell him to clear out the junk.
‘Do you think I’m clinging to your ankles?’ Dylan asks me, with a very sweet frown.
My heart seems to open up for a moment, and everything suddenly feels simple. I loop my arms around his neck and kiss him on the lips.
‘I think you should cancel the Airbnb.’
He pulls back. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Mum says you can stay here while you wait to buy a flat.’
‘Ooh,’ says Deb, shoving past us. ‘Dylan’s moving in!’
My cheeks go red. ‘Not moving in,’ I say, already regretting it a bit. ‘He stays over most nights anyway.’
Dylan blinks his long eyelashes at me. Just as the worry starts to bloom in my belly he wraps me up and presses kisses to my cheeks, my forehead, my neck. I laugh, wriggling in his arms.
‘Thank you,’ he says, lifting his head to speak to my mum. ‘That’s so kind of you and Neil.’ He lowers his mouth to mine again, then presses his lips to my ear. ‘And thank you,’ he whispers.
‘Wait until you’ve stayed a few weeks,’ I say, pulling away, but smiling. ‘You’ll be so sick of Dad’s snoring through the wall and Deb banging around the kitchen at five in the morning, you’ll be out the door like a shot.’