When she started holding jewellery parties, I was delighted. I thought it would be a fun hobby, and distract her from all the sadness. I went along, I sipped champagne with all her friends and I bought a choker and a bracelet. There was a second jewellery party which I couldn’t make, but apparently it went well.
Then she held an essential oils party and I bought Christmas presents for all Dan’s family, so that was fine. The Spanishware party was OK, too. I bought tapas bowls and I’ve used them maybe once.
Then there was the Trendieware party.
Oh God. Just the memory makes me shudder. Trendieware is a company that makes garments out of stretchy fabric in ‘modern, vibrant’ (vile) prints. You can wear each item about sixteen different ways, and you have to choose your personality (I was Spring Fresh Extrovert) and then the saleswoman (Mummy) tries to persuade you to throw out all your old clothes and only wear Trendieware.
It was horrendous. Mummy has a sylphlike figure for her age, so of course she can wear a stretchy tube as a skirt. But her friends? Hello? The place was full of ladies in their sixties, glumly trying to wrap a lurid pink stretchy top over their sensible bra or work out the Three-Way Jacket (you’d need a thesis in mechanics), or else flatly refusing to join in. I was the only person who bought anything – the Signature Dress – and I’ve never worn it even one way. Let alone sixteen.
Not surprisingly, after that a lot of Mummy’s friends dropped off. At the next jewellery party there were only half a dozen of us. At the scented candles party it was just me and Lorna, who is Mummy’s oldest and most loyal friend. Lorna and I had a hurried conversation while Mummy was out of the room, and we decided that this selling obsession was a harmless way for Mummy to process her grief, and it would come to a natural end. But it hasn’t. She keeps finding new things to sell. And the only person dumb enough to keep buying them is me. (Lorna has claimed ‘no more room’ in her flat, which is very clever of her. If I did that, Mummy would come round, clear out a cupboard, and make room.)
I know we need to stage an intervention. Dan’s suggested it, I’ve agreed, and we’ve sat in bed many times, saying firmly, ‘We’ll talk to her.’ In fact, I was all geared up for it, last time we visited. But it turned out Mummy was having a bad day. Lots of blinking. Lots of window-gazing. She looked so piteous and fragile, all I wanted to do was make her life better … so I found myself ordering an apple-sauce maker. (It could have been worse. It could have been the nine-hundred-pound special-edition retro ham-slicer: a unique and distinctive focus for any kitchen. I’ll say.)
‘So!’ Mummy arrives back in the kitchen, clutching the white gadget that I noticed before. Her cheeks have flushed and she has that focused look she gets whenever she’s about to pitch. ‘You may be thinking this is an ordinary food processor. But let me assure you, the Vegetable Creator is in a league of its own.’
‘The “Vegetable Creator”?’ echoes Dan. ‘Are you telling me it creates vegetables?’
‘We all get so tired of vegetables,’ Mummy ploughs on, ignoring Dan. ‘But imagine a whole new way to present them! Imagine fifty-two different chopping templates, all in one handy machine, plus an extra twelve novelty templates in our Seasonal Package, free if you order today!’ Her voice is rising with each word. ‘The Vegetable Creator is fun, healthy, and so easy to use. Anna, Tessa, do you want to try?’
‘Yes!’ yells Tessa, predictably. ‘Me!’
‘Me!’ wails Anna. ‘Me!’
Mummy sets the gadget up on the counter, grabs a carrot and feeds it through an aperture. We all watch speechlessly as it turns into tiny teddy-bear shapes.
‘Teddies!’ the girls gasp. ‘Teddy carrots!’
Typical. I might have known she’d get the girls onside. But I’m going to be firm.
‘I think we’ve got too many gadgets already,’ I say sorrowfully. ‘It does look good, though.’
‘A study has shown that owning a Vegetable Creator leads to thirty per cent more vegetable consumption in children,’ says Mummy brightly.
Rubbish! What ‘study’? I’m not going to challenge her, though, or she’ll start quoting some stream of made-up figures from the Vegetable Creator Real Proper Lab with Real Scientists.
‘Quite a lot of waste,’ I observe. ‘Look at all those bits of carrots left over.’
‘Put them in soup,’ Mummy retorts like a shot. ‘So nutritious. Shall we try making cucumber stars, girls?’
I’m not buying it. I know I’m her only customer, but I’m still not buying it. Resolutely I turn away and search for a change of subject.
‘So, what else is up with you, Mummy?’ I say. I head across to her little pinboard and survey the notices and tickets pinned there. ‘Oh, a Zumba class. That looks fun.’
‘All the unused pieces collect in this handy receptacle …’ Mummy is still doggedly continuing with her pitch.
‘Oh, Through the High Maze,’ I exclaim, seeing a hardback book on the counter. ‘We did that at my book group. What did you think? A bit hard-going, I thought.’
Truth be told, I actually only read about half of Through the High Maze, even though it’s one of those books that everyone has read and is going to be a movie, apparently. It’s by this woman called Joss Burton who overcame her eating disorder to set up a perfume company called Maze (that’s the play on words). She’s stunning, with cropped dark hair and a trademark white streak. And her perfumes are really good, especially the Amber and Rose. Now she hosts events where she tells business people how to succeed, and I suppose it is quite inspirational – but there’s only so much inspiration you can take, I find.
Whenever I read about these super-inspiring people, I start off all admiring and end up thinking: Oh God, why haven’t I trekked across the desert or overcome crippling childhood poverty? I’m totally crap.
Mummy hasn’t responded to my gambit – but on the plus side, she’s paused in her chat about the chopper, so I quickly carry on the conversation.
‘You’re going to the theatre!’ I exclaim, seeing tickets pinned up. ‘Dealer’s Choice. That’s the one about gambling, isn’t it? Are you going with Lorna? You could get a meal deal beforehand.’
There’s still complete silence from Mummy, which surprises me – and as I look round I blink in shock. What did I say? What’s up? Her hands have frozen still and there’s an odd expression on her face, as though her smile has been petrified in acid. As I watch, she glances at the window and starts blinking, very fast.
Oh shit. Obviously I’ve strayed on to another ‘wrong’ topic. But what, exactly? The theatre? Dealer’s Choice? Surely not. I glance at Dan for help, and to my astonishment, he seems frozen, too. His jaw has tensed and his eyes are alert. He glances at Mummy. Then at me.
What? What’s this all about? Did I miss the memo?
‘Anyway!’ says Mummy, and I can tell she’s pulling herself together with an almighty effort. ‘Enough of this. You must all be hungry. I’ll just tidy up a little …’
She starts sweeping things off the counter with an indiscriminate air: the Vegetable Creator, a load of Tupperware which was out (no doubt to store her vegetable creations) and the copy of Through the High Maze. She dumps them all in her tiny utility room, then returns, her face even more pink than before.
‘Buck’s Fizz?’ she says, almost shrilly. ‘Dan, you’d like a Buck’s Fizz, I’m sure. Shall we go through to the drawing room?’
I’m baffled. Isn’t she even going to try to sell me the chopper thing? She seems to have been utterly derailed, and I can’t work out why.