to survive the weekend. âI wonât be well until Iâve had more sleep. Iâm just at Beardâ at Leoâs.â
I pick at the formerly white, now yellowing and coffee-stained terrycloth fabric wrapped around me. I would be tempted to marry a man who replaced his towels occasionally, though I suppose it is a blessing that Beardy even has sheets. Itâs shocking how many grown men think itâs acceptable not to own them. Regrettable one-night stands and the feel of a bare mattress against my skin are indelibly linked in my mind.
âLeo! Who is that? You didnât tell me you have a new boyfriend!â My mother manages to sound accusatory, worried and elated all at once. Shit. I had forgotten about my resolution not to tell her anything about my love life until an unavoidable occasion such as a wedding or childbirth. I always live to regret passing on any gossip to her, as she is both extremely judgemental and irritatingly accurate in her character assessments.
âErm, well, itâs early days ⦠I wouldnât say that exactly.â
âOh, darling. You havenât slept with him, have you? Why buy a cow when you can get the milk for free? I kept your father waiting until our wedding night.â
And the over-sharing guilt trips commence. I know far more about my parentsâ former sex life than can possibly be healthy, especially coming from someone who believes that vibrators are a feminist myth propagated by âThe Mediaâ. In her mind, âThe Mediaâ is run by gay men and radical feminazis. No amount of high street sex shops will ever be able to convince her otherwise.
âAnd why buy a pig for a sausage link? Mum, you sound Victorian, itâs like the womenâs movement never happened. Only crazy ring-obsessed ladies who think they can use a manâs sexual frustration to blind him to their flawed personalities do that these days. And Iâm only twenty-four, Christ.â
âWhat are you saying, youâre nearly twenty-seven!â
âSeriously? Mum, Iâm twenty-four.â You would think that your only child emerging from your genitals would constitute a memorable occasion, but apparently not. Lying about her own age has apparently scrambled mine.
âWhat? Oh. Well, it is your birthday come April. Twenty-five is nearly twenty-seven, which is nearly thirty. You really need to start thinking that your next boyfriend might be your husband and practise pretending to be wife material, you know. Where is this boy from? He doesnât have a speech impediment like that last one does he?â
âHe didnât have a speech impediment. He was Northern.â
âOh darling, it amounts to the same thing.â
âDid you call just to hassle me?â
âWhat does this Leo do then?â
âUh ⦠heâs a graphic designer. And a musician.â
There is a pause. I hear a deep whistling sigh on the other end of the line. And then it comes, as I knew it would come:
âDarling, do try to meet a man who can afford you. I really donât want to see you ending up divorced, or living on a council estate with some wastrel husband whoâs lost his good looks to drugs. He is at least good looking isnât he? Please donât give me ugly grandchildren; I have enough crosses to bear as it is. You know, you give birth, children are so expensive and then they go off and waste all the money youâve invested in them designing clothes and sleeping with swarms of unsuitable men who only want One Thing.â
I wish. Going through swarms of unsuitable men is a long-cherished dream.
âWell, maybe you should have aborted me and invested your money in something with better returns. Iâm your only child, not some vanity project gone carelessly awry,â I say dryly. Weâve had this conversation many times before and it has long since failed to register emotionally. In our household, saying
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