Behaving Like Adults Read Free Page B

was painful to see my mother wriggle to excuse Leila. She didn’t give a damn about the meanness; it was the lack of respect that got her. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘money’s tight for Leila. And you know Leila, she’s a batty old thing.’ Even though we both knew that ‘batty’ didn’t cut it. Unless you’re clinically insane, you know Tissue Holder As Gift is unacceptable. But I kept quiet. It’s easier to forgive than to confront. If you’ve been slapped in the face, you don’t need people saying, ‘Gosh, you’ve been slapped in the face’. ‘Why didn’t she just give you a pooh wrapped up in a hankerchief?’ cried Nick.
    Yea, behold the miracle. My parents adored Nick. He could say, do anything, cheeky as you like; they were in awe, treated him like a prince. That meant a lot. I’m uncool, parental approval matters to me. In fact,
any
parental approval matters to me, probably to the extent of weirdness. Once, Nick and I saw a brilliant new band play their first big gig, and the frontman kept saying, in a croak of disbelief, ‘This is incredible for us, thank you so much for coming.’ All I could think was, ‘His parents must be so proud.’ That’s my first thought, every time I see talented people on stage, ‘Their parents must be so proud’. (My second thought is, I wish
I
could do that.)
    The mindset, I suppose, of a woman resisting adulthood. I fell in love with Nick
and
his parents. I cherished the fact that he came from a glamorous family. His mother andfather, Lavinia and Michael Mortimer, were a revelation. Rich, sparkly, magical, mysterious, like the parents in
Peter Pan
. They travelled endlessly, collecting art. They campaigned for their favourite charities. They owned a villa in Italy, which they’d renovated from ruin a decade before Umbria became fashionable. They both spoke fluent Italian. I was so bedazzled, the first time I went there, that when Nick’s mother offered me a dish of olives I went blind with fright. I reached for the brightest item on the plate, and she said kindly, ‘No dear, that’s a lemon.’
    Nick’s parents indulged him, like we all did. He entertained us. The first two years of our relationship I had a blast. I’d never been naughty – I was content, I hadn’t felt the need. But it was liberating, to play. I thought it wild that I had a boyfriend whose job was to dress as Mr Elephant at children’s parties. It endeared me that his small Islington flat was a shrine to grime, and that when his mother visited she would sigh, in her silvery voice, ‘Oh
Nick
.’
I
didn’t comment. If my man chose to live on hygiene’s edge, I wouldn’t interfere. I was proud of not trying to change him. So very modern of me. Nick and I spent a great many months in his king-sized bed screwing, drinking vodka, or both. Only twice was I bitten by a flea.
    We bought a candyfloss maker from the Shopping Channel and ate pink candyfloss for breakfast. We got drunk and ran along the road swapping people’s doormats and then, because I felt bad about it, we ran along the road swapping them back. We bought twenty squirty bottles of chocolate sauce and had a food fight in the garden until we and the grass were brown. I was thinking to myself, ‘This is what couples do in films.’ Then Nick stood up and said, ‘I don’t like this. It’s like we’re covered in pooh.’
    I thought I was a secure person till I met Nick. Then I saw what it was to be heart and soul at peace with yourself. I do believe that people treat you as you present yourself, and Nick presented as a gift from God. Luck followed himaround like a puppy. Nick’s parents owned a big white boat, and Nick blew it up.
    He’d filled it with fuel after a day on the river, turned on the ignition and
BANG!
The wooden deck splintered under his feet, flames