We walk to her house together and she doesn't ask. Instead, she says: “We'll need to stop at Tesco's to get some more cider. And maybe another packet of bacon. I'm thinking of penne with leek and bacon, but I had two rashers for breakfast already this morning.”
This is why we haven't had a serious conversation since I did my GCSE's. Mum's made an art of avoiding the subject. As if she can sense what's on my mind, her defence mechanisms automatically switch on. Suddenly, I feel I've been waiting for this talk for five years and I'm running out of patience.
She chatters on about five-a-days and how she's gone off Delia Smith lately, when I finally lose my patience at the booze isle.
“You'll never guess who was at my desk today.”
“Who?”
“Elaine Johnson.”
She sighs. “Can we talk about this when we get home?”
“You don't even know what I want to say yet.”
She puts a bottle of Strongbow into her basket and says: “Let's get the groceries first and discuss this over supper, okay?”
I know she'll give me “not whilst I'm cooking” and “can we do this after dinner? It's giving me indigestion” later, but I shrug and shut up anyway. There's no point in making a scene in the supermarket. I don't even know what I want to say, let alone what I want to hear from her.
-----
Go to the opening scene of Trophy.
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