You Had Me At Hello. Mhairi McFarlane
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I’m not going through it, like a squall of bad weather on the road to still getting married. We’ve broken up.’
‘If you’d allow me to speak, as someone who’s been married forty years …’
I pick sullenly at a seam on the sofa.
‘… Marriage is difficult. You do get on each other’s nerves. It’s relentless. It’s very, very tough and quite honestly, even in the good times, you do wish they’d go boil their head, most days.’
‘I’m not too bothered about missing out on it then!’
‘What I’m saying is, what you’re feeling – it’s perfectly normal.’
‘If relationships are only ever what we had, I’d rather be on my own.’
Pause.
‘You could be throwing away your only chance to have children, have you thought of that?’
My mum: not a loss to the world of motivational speaking.
‘Amazingly enough I had factored it in, but, thanks …’
‘I simply want you to be very sure you’re making the right decision, that’s all. You and Rhys have been together an awfully long time.’
‘That’s why I’m sure.’ Pause. ‘It’d mean a lot to me if you took me seriously and accepted I know my own mind about who I do and don’t want to marry, Mum. This is hard enough as it is.’
‘Well. If you’re absolutely sure.’
‘I am.’ And of course as I say it, I realise I’m not absolutely sure. I’m as sure as I assume you need to be, given I’ve never broken off an engagement before and have nothing to compare this to.
My mum stands up.
‘Your dad and I will be round soon. Let us know if we need to bring any odds and sods you’re short of.’
‘OK, thanks.’ Suddenly my throat has furred up and I give her a tight squeeze, inhaling her familiar scent of YSL Rive Gauche in place of Rupa’s flat’s olfactory newness.
With my mum’s departure, relief though it is, I feel almost as bereft as I did when waving my parents off from the halls of residence car park. I need a massive cup of tea, one that requires two handles on the mug in order to lift it. With a tot of Maker’s Mark in it.
I stare out of the huge window and suddenly the vastness doesn’t seem glamorous, but precarious. I imagine how tiny I’d look from the other side of the glass. A little scared sad insignificant figure peering down over the Manchester rooftops.
For a lurching moment, I’m so homesick I almost shout out loud: I want to go home. But home and Rhys are indivisible.
13
In late afternoon, when I’ve filled dead air with impersonal radio, a weird additional sound echoes round the room and I realise it’s the doorbell. I unlatch the chain and swing the door open to see an explosion of pink and white flowers and a pair of legging-clad legs beneath them.
‘Happy Moving-In Day!’ Mindy shouts.
‘Hello, wow, lilies. That talk. That’s lovely of you.’
Mindy pushes her way through the door, Ivor trailing behind, hands in pockets. He leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek. I can tell from his reluctant demeanour that Mindy’s given him a ‘Congratulate Her On Making A Good Choice’ lecture on the way here. He holds out a Marks & Spencer bag.
‘From me, but not chosen by me, I hasten to add,’ Ivor says. ‘I did not touch cloth, as they say.’
I peer inside. Pyjamas. Really nice ones, in cream silk.
‘You’re not going to cry are you?’ Ivor says. ‘The receipt’s in there.’
‘I’m not going to cry,’ I say, tearing up a bit. ‘Thank you.’
As Mindy turns this way and that, looking for the right surface to put the flowers, she leaves a massive sweep of ochre pollen on the pristine, wedding cake wall.
‘They’re from Ivor too,’ she adds, finding her pitch and marching over to the coffee table, more pollen from the trembling flowers shaking a fine, fire-coloured powder in her wake.
I discreetly put a hand over my mouth, surveying the mess.
‘You’re welcome!’ Mindy sing-songs, turning round and seeing me, taking it as being agog at the gift.
Ivor has followed my line of sight. He adds under his breath: ‘Let’s say they’re from you. I’ll clean up, shall I?’
‘What do you think, Ivor?’ Mindy calls, doing a gameshow-girl twirl to indicate she means the flat.
‘I think it looks like a female American Psycho’s lair. Patrick Batewoman.’ He rinses a chamois under the tap, which is on one of those bendy arms you usually see in industrial kitchens. ‘In a good way.’
As Mindy potters around in vermilion ankle boots, taking it all in for a second time, Ivor gingerly dabs at the damage. He turns to me and nods, to say it’s coming off, and gestures for me to join Mindy.
‘Drink?’ I ask, wondering as I say it where my kettle is and what I’m going to do for milk.
‘I can’t stay actually, I’ve got a date,’ Mindy says.
‘Bo … Robert?’ I ask.
‘Bobby Trendy’s been given his cards,’ Ivor interjects, breaking off from his cleaning up.
Robert was always head-to-toe in All Saints with bicycle chains hanging out of his back pocket and got the nickname ‘Bobby Trendy’ from Ivor. Unfortunately, once uttered, it was hard to un-stick it from your mind.
‘Yeah, he sacked my family dinner off for a paintballing thing with his brother-in-law.’ Mindy waves her hand. ‘Enough was enough. There should be a TripAdvisor on dates, so you can give feedback. Nice view. Bad service. Book waaaay in advance.’
‘Small portions,’ Ivor coughs into his fist.
‘Who’s this one from, Guardian Soulmates?’ I say.
‘My Single Friend.’
‘Is that the one where a friend recommends you?’
‘Yeah. I posed as a man and sold myself as a low-maintenance mamacita who “works as hard as she plays”.’
I make an ‘oh dear’ face.
‘It only means solvent, not a clinger, potential for sex,’ Mindy adds. Ivor grimaces.
‘Yes, I know,’ I say. ‘Isn’t someone else supposed to do it?’
‘How could anyone else describe me better than I can describe myself?’
‘Why join a site where that’s the point then?’
Mindy shrugs. ‘Men trust tips from other men. Recommendations from other women are like, “bubbly, great social life” and they think, ho hum, hooched-up woofer.’
‘Narcissism and deception, the classic inceptors of healthy relationships,’ Ivor says, dropping down on the sofa next to us.
‘Anyway. I’ve kind of over-fished on Guardian Soul Destroyers. Waiting for stocks to replenish. This one’s twenty-three.’ Mindy chews her lip. ‘And he likes grime. The music, you know, not dirt. God knows what we’re going to talk about.’
‘Well, him, if your previous experiences are anything to go by,’ I say, and Ivor laughs.
‘But his profile picture – young John Cusack,’ Mindy sighs.
Ivor gives