The Foster Husband (19 page)

‘Not just me, Mum,’ I say, giving credit where it’s due. ‘Ben’s done a lot of this. He’s been really great; I couldn’t have done it without
him.’

Mum suppresses a laugh. ‘Well, love, according to Ben this has all been his idea. He’s ever so proud of it all. As far as he’s concerned you’ve had very little to do with
it.’

I grin back. ‘I love it when a plan comes together,’ I say. Allowing Ben to think everything was his idea was part of the training. No need to spell it all out for Mum, she’s a
married woman herself. She gets it.

‘I wish I could have persuaded your father it was
his
idea,’ she says. ‘I’ve been on at him all year to do something about this place. Well, whoever did it, it
looks wonderful, Kate.’

‘Ben’s really gone for it, Mum,’ I say. ‘Honestly, last night he woke me up at half eleven to ask me if I thought he should paint the radiators in gloss or eggshell. Now
he’s on it, he’s impossible to stop. I had no idea he’d be this easy to train.’

Mum gives me a quizzical look, her forehead creasing. ‘Train?’

I laugh dismissively. ‘Oh not
train
train – you know, I just didn’t think he’d turn out to be such an, erm, asset as a housemate.’

‘Hmm,’ says Mum, her eyebrows lifting a fraction, but she’s looking at me in that way only a mother can: as if she can see deep into my worst possible self. It makes me want to
fling myself on the floor and tell her everything. All the things I haven’t told anyone. But I know she will disapprove of my interfering in Prue’s relationship, so I keep my mouth
shut.

‘You haven’t seen the living room!’ I exclaim, ushering her in the direction of the door.

She allows me to steer her away, although I can feel a certain steeliness in her shoulders, as if she is tensed for something. She peers into the living room and gives a little gasp.

‘Do you like it?’ I ask.

‘It’s lovely,’ she says. ‘Just lovely.’

‘Okay,’ I say, clapping my hands together purposefully.

Mum starts in surprise, her hand flying to her throat. ‘I’ve got another surprise for you tonight. We’re going to have a spa evening!’

Mum looks rather more baffled than thrilled. ‘Spa?’

‘Yes, you know, mother–daughter bonding, beauty treatments, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh right,’ says Mum, for whom painting her toenails is a once-a-year event. ‘Lovely, darling.’

‘I thought it would be fun,’ I say, ushering her into the bathroom where I’ve laid out a dressing gown for her, and a pair of slippers. The lights in the bathroom are off and
I’ve lit a tea light in a jam jar for atmosphere. We haven’t done anything to the bathroom yet and the candlelight also hides the hideousness of the blue plastic suite.

Mum hesitates in the doorway, resisting me. ‘Do I really have to get changed?’ she asks. ‘Kate, it’s a sweet idea, but I’m not sure . . .’

My plan will not work unless Ben has a very good reason to turn around and go straight back out again as soon as he arrives home from work. I believe the sight of his future mother and
sister-in-law in a state of undress will be that reason.

‘I’m getting changed too, I’ll get into mine in the bedroom, Mum,’ I say, forcing her into the bathroom. ‘It’s more relaxing this way. Trust me. I’ve
been to loads of spas.’

Mum allows me to shut the door behind her. When she emerges she is hesitant, gripping the collar of the dressing gown anxiously, as if it might fall off and expose her.

‘Right, put this on,’ I say, sliding a towelling headband over her head. ‘It’ll keep your hair off your face for the masks and creams.’

‘Masks and creams?’ Mum echoes uncertainly.

‘Let’s have some wine,’ I carol, determined to remain relentlessly cheerful in the face of Mum’s lack of enthusiasm. She will enjoy this in the end, I’m sure of
it.

It takes a while – and two glasses of wine – but Mum finally relaxes into the spa experience. I’ve got us a DVD of
The Notebook
, which I think Mum will like. More
importantly, it’s the girliest film I can think of, and guaranteed to send any red-blooded male screaming out of the house. I’ve dimmed the lights and lit candles, and Mum is reclining
on the sofa, both of us sporting livid green face packs, while I paint her toenails a pretty pastel pink.

‘Darling, this
is
a treat,’ she sighs. ‘I can’t think when I last indulged myself like this.’

‘You deserve it, Mum,’ I say. My ears are tuned for the turning of a key in the lock, and at last, there it is.

‘Christ!’ Ben exclaims, as he steps into the living room from the hall. Two full Tesco’s carrier bags hang from his hands. ‘I mean, sorry, er, Mum. I
just—’

Mum shrieks and pulls her foot out of my hand, smudging her nail polish all over my dressing gown.

‘Oh hello, Ben,’ I say smoothly, turning around. ‘How was your day?’

‘H-hello, Ben,’ stammers Mum, clutching at her robe again, although she is hardly in a state of total undress. I may be using her a little, but I’m not about to humiliate
her.

‘Ah, Kate, I didn’t know you had company tonight,’ says Ben, a scarlet flush rising up his neck. He shifts his feet uncomfortably, the plastic bags rustling with each
movement.

‘Oh sorry,’ I say innocently. ‘Didn’t I mention it? How rude of me. I really should have told you my plans in advance. I didn’t mean to give you a shock.’

Ben coughs in embarrassment. ‘Not a shock, Kate, Mum. Not a shock at all. A lovely surprise. But – ah – I had made plans for this evening myself.’

‘Had you?’ I ask innocently. As if I didn’t know exactly what he had been planning.

Mum stands up suddenly. ‘I think I need to wash this off,’ she says, pointing to her face. She scurries away to the bathroom. My own face mask is tightening on my skin, but it is
constricting my face in a way that only helps me look innocently blank.

‘Look, Kate,’ says Ben, looking at his watch. ‘This is bloody awkward. I’ve got a friend coming round to watch the football in about ten minutes.’

‘Oh dear,’ I laugh airily. ‘I hope he won’t mind us being here as well. I’m sure we can keep quiet during the important bits. Mum and I can watch
The
Notebook
afterwards; I’ll pause it.’

I reach for the remote control.

Ben drops the bags and I hear the clink of beer bottles hitting the floor. A packet of Kettle Chips falls out onto the parquet.

‘Christ, Kate, I can’t have James round here with you and your mum half dressed! It’s bloody not on. He’s come all the way from Bristol to watch the match with
me.’

I feel a creeping sense of guilt. I didn’t realize his friend had travelled so far. Ben has worked so hard on the house, and he must miss his friends since he moved down here. But, I
think, no, he should have told me about his plans. There is an important lesson to be learned here, and though Ben looks distraught, I cannot back down.

‘Well you can hardly cast us out of the house dressed like this,’ I say. ‘And Mum’s been looking forward to this evening. If I’d known you had a friend coming round
I’d have gone over to theirs so you had the place to yourself.’

‘I thought you’d heard me on the phone,’ Ben says, petulantly kicking at the door frame. ‘Thought you knew I’d invited him.’

‘Oh I don’t listen in on other people’s conversations,’ I lie. Of course I do when they concern me – who doesn’t? ‘Sorry, Ben, if you wanted me to know
your plans, you should have shared them with me in advance.’

Ben picks up the bags furiously and makes for the kitchen. Halfway across the newly buffed floor he stops and turns back.

He opens his mouth to speak. I stare at him with my green masked face, which is becoming seriously uncomfortable. He thinks better of it and retreats into the kitchen. I’m surprised to
find myself feeling a bit trembly now that I’m on my own in the living room. I know I’ve done the right thing. He has learned a lesson this evening in the best way: painfully, and at
personal sacrifice. Those are the learnings that last, if you ask me. The carrot is far less mighty than the great big stick.

I hear Ben muttering in the kitchen, either to himself or on the phone, I can’t tell. I don’t need to listen in this time, the point has been made. Unless I am much mistaken he will
be changing his plans right now.

When Mum comes back into the living room, her face pink from the washed-off mask, she has taken off the robe and is back in her own clothes. She sees this disappoints me and shakes her head
firmly.

‘No, love, I’m not staying in that when Ben’s here. So embarrassing. Poor chap, he looked horrified.’

There is a cough from the doorway into the kitchen, and Ben reappears, his face no longer flushed. He has his coat buttoned up to his chin.

‘No need, Mum,’ he says jovially, and if there is a forced edge to his cheery demeanour we all pretend not to notice it. ‘No need at all. You make yourself comfortable here
– James and I will be at the pub. Much better idea all round. Should’ve thought of it before.’

‘I do feel bad,’ says Mum. ‘Kicking you out of your own home like this.’

‘Not at all,’ Ben insists. ‘Own fault. Forgot to tell Kate. Not used to her having visitors, I suppose. Bit of a surprise it should be tonight of all nights.’

His gaze flicks to mine and away again so fast that I’m not quite sure if I saw a glint of rebellion there, as if he knows exactly what I’m up to.

‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘If only I’d known.’

Ben’s bonhomie seems to desert him for a moment. ‘Point taken,’ he says sternly, before remembering himself and reinstating his cheery smile. ‘Anyway, Mum, Kate, have a
good evening, won’t you? I expect I’ll be back late. G’night.’

‘I do feel guilty,’ says Mum as we hear the front door close behind him.

‘Don’t,’ I say. I have enough guilt for the pair of us. I thought Ben too thick-skinned to see through my scheming. Clearly, he’s not as biddable as I’d first
thought. ‘Really, Mum, it’s just a mistake. And anyway, it’s my home, too.’

‘Of course it is, darling,’ says Mum. She eases herself back onto the sofa and picks up her wine. ‘But you know, he’s with the family all day at work, and then with you
when he gets home. It can’t be easy for him never having any space to himself.’

‘He didn’t have to move in here,’ I say sulkily.

‘No,’ Mum agrees. ‘It was rather thrust on you. But that’s life. And it does rather feel like you’re making him do all the fitting in with you, rather than
compromising on both sides.’

‘I need to wash this off,’ I say, indicating the face mask, which is setting rock hard.

‘Of course you do,’ says Mum. ‘I’ll pour us some more wine.’

It’s not that I haven’t spent much time with Mum over the last few years, because she came up to London fairly often, but I hadn’t realized she could be such
relaxed and fun company. It occurs to me, as we drink our wine together, and snigger over
The Notebook
, which turns out to be pretty preposterous, that she is quite different in Lyme to
how she has been as a visitor to our house in London. Because my trips to Lyme have been so sporadic and rushed, fitting in a visit with Granny Gilbert and my parents and making sure Matt
wasn’t too bored, and trying to squash down the panicky feelings that often rose up in my chest when I came home, I’d seen Mum here as part of a whole rather than as an individual. She
was Mum-and-Dad-and-Prue-and-Granny-Gilbert rather than someone in her own right.

When she came to London, she was someone else altogether. All the calmness that I see in her now seemed to desert her as soon as she stepped off the train at Waterloo. Suddenly she became
anxious and fretful, confused by the ticket machines at the tube station, so worried about being in the way that she was, inevitably, always in the way. Even once we got home she’d be unable
to sit still – constantly offering to make tea or do the gardening, even though there were hardly any plants on our patio. I knew she meant it kindly, but when I came into the kitchen to find
that she’d helpfully rearranged the fridge it made me want to scream – it felt as if she was telling me I wasn’t any good at this business of making a home. Sensing my annoyance
would make her try all the harder, so she’d refuse to make any decisions in case they might be wrong.

Every treat and outing I had planned would be spoiled by my expectations and her hesitations; her insistence on not being any trouble becoming more troubling and infuriating by the hour. By the
time I waved her off at the station at the end of each trip, both of us would be tense and snappish. As soon as she’d gone I’d be devastated; angry at myself for not being a better
daughter, for not being more patient and kind.

Matt despaired. He didn’t understand how I could long for my mother’s visits, and then allow them to be spoiled by insignificant incidents. He couldn’t see that it was because
we both cared too much about it all, because there was so much we wanted to say to each other and couldn’t, or didn’t, that the smallest decisions became freighted with vast importance.
That Mum’s inability to choose between a latte and a flat white – ‘Whichever one’s the least trouble, love.’ ‘But neither of them’s
trouble
, Mum,
we’re in a
shop
, which one do you want?’ ‘I don’t mind, whatever you think.’ ‘I’ll get you a latte, then.’ ‘Oh, I didn’t realize
it would be so milky.’ – was only the vessel for all the complex feelings we had about each other. Her wanting to mother me, me insisting on my independence, her trying to let me be the
grown-up.

Here in Lyme it was different. I felt bad that I hadn’t noticed it before. In her own environment Mum was relaxed, certain of her place and less concerned with getting things wrong. Here
she was confident about her opinions and not afraid to express them. If I’d put her in a dressing gown in London, she’d have forced herself to stay in it even if Matt’s entire
cricket team had come round unexpectedly; she wouldn’t have wanted to upset me by going against my suggestion. Here she changed out of it the minute she felt uncomfortable. I wonder if I am
different here, too. Perhaps I have less to prove to her – to everyone – now that I don’t have anything left of my own, except Minnie.