The mother
It's been a while, Substackers. Here's a very different offering to usual. I'd really love to hear your thoughts.
“Darling, bring me my sunglasses, would you?” Shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare, she stretched out her long body, yawning as she lazed languidly in the middle of the vast, lush lawn. Sprinklers ticked round, repeatedly drenching the same patches of grass until pools formed, glinting in the sunlight, dazzling.
“Where are they, mum?”
She rolled over, tutting ever so slightly, swinging her tanned legs round.
“Never mind, I’m up now…ouch!” she exclaimed as she slipped her feet into a pair of sun-baked sandals.
She was undeniably beautiful. Her features had the sort of timeless symmetry that drew one’s gaze; impossible to ignore.
Even edging towards old age, she held herself in such a way that showed she had been a real beauty; she had an easy elegance, an innate confidence that comes only from being adored one’s whole life.
Delicious rumours had swirled when she first arrived, tales of movie star beaus, of yachts in the South of France. Golden. Glamourous.
Fanning herself with a magazine - only ever Vogue - anything else was simply irrelevant, she strolled gracefully over to the wide French doors, planting a kiss on her grandson’s tousled blond head as she went. He squirmed and darted away from her, complaining, not looking up from his device.
“You really must do something with that boy, sweetheart,” she admonished, not altogether kindly, “He spends all day on that thing, and it just makes him grumpy. Your brother doesn’t allow the children on screens, you know.”
The daughter, arms plunged elbow deep in the sink, paused for just a beat, lifted her head a fraction and stared straight ahead. Deep breath.
“Well, perhaps when he has four children, mum, I’ll ask him for advice.”
“Now, now, darling, I’m only saying. Don’t be defensive. Are you almost done? Oh, dammit!”
She dabbed gingerly at a smudge on her ecru cut offs as she went on about the afternoon’s plans, “and after tea, I was thinking we should all discuss Christmas…” her intonation rose slightly as she drifted off, the merest hint of a question, which of course everybody present knew was nothing of the sort.
She was in complete control, that much was obvious. From her expensive highlights - darling, Anthony is simply the best, you really should call him - to her French-manicured toes, nothing was an accident. Deliberate. Insouciant. Nonchalant.
And yet.
I wanted so much to dislike her, but I too was held captive in her presence. A passive observer, I kept my counsel. Curled in a wicker corner chair, pretending to read, I watched silently as the familial intricacies played out.
She leaned back easily in her chair, casually twirling the ends of her hair as she unwittingly - or deliberately, who knows, with her? – shifted talk to guest lists, menus, tablescapes. Only white flowers, darling, too much colour is so…tacky.
The daughter – my friend, the reason I was there at all – sighed heavily and agreed to “make some calls.”
“Just don’t leave it too late, you know how the neighbours get booked up,” she warned the busiest member of the family, without so much as a hint of irony.
How I wished for a mother like her. I found myself strangely fascinated by her; willing myself yet unable to look away. The moment she entered a room, the atmosphere became charged, electric; consumed by her beauty, heady with her scent.
“Sorry?” I snapped to attention as I realised that she was speaking to me.
“Such a shame about your father, darling, I simply adored him!” It was impossible to read the intent behind her steely cerulean gaze. Eyes like sapphires, my mother always said. Stunning. Hard. Expensive.
I mumbled an incoherent response; tongue-tied and thrilled at being the centre of her attention for the briefest moment. But she’d already moved on, turning away as my words hung on the air, unfinished. Unheard. Unwanted.
Why did I want so badly to be noticed by her? I couldn’t even work out if I liked her, I knew plenty of reasons why I shouldn’t.
And yet.