The Secret to Falling in Love

‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, Melissa, Happy Birthday to you,’ she sang down the phone in her high-pitched yet tuneful voice, honed by countless school assemblies. Mum had been the headmistress at an all-girls secondary comprehensive in Manchester. ‘Are you having a good day, darling?’ she chirped.

‘Morning, Mum.’ My voice croaked into action as I realised it’d been almost twenty-four hours since I actually spoke to a real-life person. ‘Yes, I’m still in bed, so it’s been lovely so far.’ I treated myself to a catlike stretch.

‘Did you get anything nice?’

‘Not yet. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but I’m catching up with my friends later on tonight.’

‘Oh, that’s nice, love. Should we go out for a spot of lunch later? You know Dad and I aren’t too familiar with the city centre, so you can pick somewhere?’ Alarm bells rang. If I suggested a place to eat she’d be on TripAdvisor immediately, looking at all the one-star reviews and compiling a list as to why we should find another establishment, giving little or no regard to my opinion. I was in no mood for the stress.

‘Actually, Mum, it might be nice if you just came here. We could just have some homemade sandwiches or something.’ I wracked my brain for a sandwich recipe that involved a mere dribble of Pinot Grigio and a shrivelled up tomato.

‘Great idea! Well, I’ll let you go and open your presents, and Dad and I will pop round at midday. I’ll bring a special birthday lunch.’ Typical Mum, not paying any attention to the fact I’d already said I didn’t have any bloody presents. Still, I’ve learnt over time to keep my mouth shut, and she’d be bringing lunch, which sounded good. I didn’t want to jeopardise that. ‘Oh, has Amanda been round?’ Mum asked before I had time to say anything.

‘No, like I said, I haven’t seen anyone yet.’ I maintained my cool.

‘I saw on The Facebook that she’d won a fancy lawyer award,’ she cooed. The Facebook? I shook my head. As for the award, she had no bloody idea it was from the piss-take awards ceremony Amanda’s company held each year, and she’d won Lawyer Most Likely to Turn Up in Last Night’s Clothes. I bit my tongue.

‘Yes, that’s Amanda. Career woman of the year!’ Mum didn’t seem to pick up on my sarcasm.

‘Ah, she’s a star.’

‘She is,’ I replied through gritted teeth.

‘Anyway, lunch sounds wonderful. I’ll see you later, darling. Love you.’ She hung up before I had chance to say goodbye, probably already mentally preparing lunch and planning which shops she needed to drag Dad into.

I finished checking my messages and jumped into the shower – my mother would not appreciate being greeted by greasy hair, plus, it would only give her some ammo to add to her ‘why Mel’s still single’ arsenal. Afterwards, I scanned my wardrobe for something decent to wear. I always wanted to look my best on my birthday, like I was subconsciously (okay, consciously) trying to defy the age gods by scrubbing up well, almost like sticking two fingers up at them.I wondered how many more birthdays I could actually get away with feeling like this.

I decided on some smart dark blue skinny jeans and a cream cargo shirt – perfect for a smart yet casual look. A great pair of Kurt Geiger boots and a gold Michael Kors strand necklace completed the look. The necklace had been a Christmas present from Gemma last year. As I put it over my head, I started to think about how ridiculous it was to have felt jealous that she’d gone out with other friends and didn’t invite me. It must have been the wine and pre-birthday-blues cocktail. Anyway, Channing Tatum played a blinder in cheering me up, so all was good.

It was a lovely feeling to have a whole morning to laze about and get ready. I’d seen lots of buzz around contouring on Facebook and decided to give it a whirl. I found a YouTube tutorial that looked promising, where the poster looked like Kim Kardashian. Two minutes in and I realised you apparently needed an awful lot of make-up to get the ‘natural, make-up free’ look of a flawless celebrity. I dug out an old pan stick that was about five shades darker than my skin (a flashback to my tantastic twenties) and gave it a whirl.

The results were terrible – my face looked like it would camouflage brilliantly in a sea of Oompa Loompas. I washed it off, opting instead for just a touch of base to hide some red blotchy skin that seemed to have a knack for appearing when I least wanted it to, a bit of highlighter, mascara and a slick of nude lipstick. Not quite a Kardashian, but definitely polished, and natural enough to pass the ‘Mum test’.

I’d never quite felt good enough for Mum. It seemed like whatever I did I couldn’t please her, that she enjoyed disapproving of me. When I was younger, I’d never cared that she loved Amanda so much. In fact, I’d thought it was great, because she always let her come for dinner or stay over, and she never minded me going to her house. But as I got older, I started to feel inadequate, paling in Amanda’s shadow.

Mum never approved of my ‘little writing job’ as she called it, despite the fact it afforded me a pretty good life in the city – my own flat and the odd designer splurge on payday. She’d never said it, but I knew she’d had higher hopes for me. Amanda would have been her dream daughter – the career girl climbing the rungs of the ladder in a good old-fashioned legal company, a true brag-worthy offspring. My sister Lizzie was off the hook because she’d had the fairy-tale wedding and had so far produced one hundred per cent of Mum’s cute grandkids. (She earned extra brownie points for doing marriage and kids in the correct order too.)

Gran used to say it was Mum’s way of pushing me to do the best for myself. ‘She sees something in you,’ she’d say. ‘Imagine watching your child dream but never achieve, to watch them have a talent that’s wasted.’ I always wondered if Gran was talking about Lizzie not pursuing her art. Once she’d met her husband, Ben, she sort of lost her own ambition.

‘Why is she so desperate to marry me off then? Surely she wants me to be this super career girl?’ I’d sulked.

‘Because you are a super career girl, Melissa. Now she wants you to achieve your other dream.’ Gran had made me feel better, even though I hadn’t believed her. Mum was her daughter after all, and I was sure she just wanted to die knowing we were all happy.

The buzz from the intercom surprised me; I’d not realised the time. I put my phone down and bounced across the carpet to the intercom to let my parents into the building, opening my front door ready to greet them.

‘Ooh, you look nice, love. Have you had friends round?’ Mum waltzed straight in and planted a kiss on my cheek.

‘Thanks, Mum, and no, my friends haven’t been round. Like I said on the phone, I’m seeing them later on tonight.’ I bit my tongue and pushed the niggling frustration to the darkest depths of my brain.

‘That’s nice, love,’ she muttered, heading to the kitchen. I noticed that she was carrying a brown paper bag from Patisserie Valerie,and a pang of guilt hit me. It was my favourite place to lunch, and Mum had remembered.

‘Ooh, my favourite. Thanks, Mum.’ My voice cracked.

‘Happy birthday, love.’ My dad walked in carrying several bags, all brightly coloured and oozing with an indiscreet air of ‘generic female birthday gift’.

I followed them into the kitchen. Mum was already busying herself putting out some homemade Moroccan lamb sandwiches; they had been cut into triangles, just how I liked them. I stood for a moment, watching Mum cheerfully taking pride in her platter, arranging the triangles neatly and adding a salad garnish.

I hadn’t noticed before how much she had aged recently. The lines on her forehead had deepened, along with her crow’s feet and the lines around her mouth – a telltale sign of years of laughter. The afterthought makes the corners of my mouth turn up into a small smile. Despite my grumblings, she had always been so full of merriment and now wore the evidence proudly. I could still see her younger self beneath her creases; her bright cornflower-blue eyes a window to her youth.

People had always said we looked alike, but I’d never seen it. The thought had horrified me when I was younger, but at that moment, I suddenly saw myself – it was those eyes. Seeing myself like that scared me. Mum had Dad. Who would I have?

My thoughts were interrupted by the crumpling sound of a paper bag. I glanced down and saw the delicious selection of treats that Mum had brought, which cheered me up somewhat. A scrumptious-looking chocolate éclair filled with whirls of cream; an exotic fruit tart, piled high with sumptuous strawberries, juicy peach and star fruit, all topped with bright red cranberries; and finally, my favourite: a deep-filled millefeuille topped with decorated fondant icing. A single golden candle was placed in the centre of the latter.

Mum spotted me staring (okay, practically drooling). ‘I got your favourite, love, for your birthday. I thought you were a bit old for a big cake now.’ I appreciated it, though I didn’t think I’d had a ‘big’ birthday cake since my twenty-first.

We took our seats around my small kitchen table, and we chatted. My dad had taken up squash and my mum had joined a book club at the library. I was glad to hear that they were getting out and doing something with their retirement years. It was nice to just talk in such an adult, carefree way, with none of the parental bullshit that normally cropped up, like: ‘Have you sorted out your contents insurance yet?’

Just as I was devouring the last messy mouthful of my millefeuille – I was on the hunt for a more dignified way to eat them – the dreaded question came, fist-punching frustration back into my chest with a G-force to rival Rita at Alton Towers. ‘So, have you been courting anyone?’ Mum adopted a rather silvery tone especially for this question, a paltry attempt at trying to conceal her desperation for an answer.

My face twisted involuntarily, and I wiped my sticky hands on a napkin as a groan escaped me.

‘Look, Melissa, you’re a pretty girl, but you aren’t getting any younger. I can see a frown line as we speak, and you aren’t even frowning.’

I wasn’t frowning because my eyes were burning with rage and embarrassment. I couldn’t even speak.

‘I know you’d love children like your sister.’ She prodded the table with her finger whilst I sat in exasperated frustration – for the record, by that point I was frowning. ‘Dr Phelps has been on the TV this week warning women to conceive before they’re thirty! Apparently your chances drop quite rapidly after that, and it’s been half a decade since you turned thirty. By my calculations . . . thirty-five now, say six months to meet someone . . .’

She glanced at Dad, who was pretending to study the intricacies of my plain white coffee mug. ‘Maybe even a year to meet someone, a year of courting before a proposal at least, eighteen months to plan a proper wedding, and then a year of marriage before even trying to conceive, you’re going to be . . .’ There was a pause as she finished wittering and ran her mental calculations. Her face paled, so I put her out of her misery.

‘Old. I will be old!’ I cut in, tightly. Of course I’d already run those calculations myself, though I generally used a six-month figure to actually meet someone. I knew that I’d be old; I just didn’t need reminding, especially by my mother, who was supposed to love me unconditionally and not judge me.

There was short silence before she continued. She reached her hand across to mine. ‘I’m sorry, love. I just don’t want you to be . . . well, disappointed if you don’t get what you want.’ She softened her tone, the same soft tone she’d used when I was a poorly child. ‘Your dad and I, we’ve had such a wonderful marriage.’ Dad raised his eyebrow in mini protest but ensured that only I saw. I winked back. I knew he was joking, but Mum would’ve held a seven-day grudge if she’d caught him.

‘I know. For your information, I actually went on a date on Thursday with a lovely man.’ As soon as I said it I regretted it; I knew that a barrage of questions would ensue.

‘Oh that’s wonderful news, love! Tell me what he’s like. Will you be seeing him again?’ She struggled to conceal the eagerness in her voice and even did a mini clap, but this I could deal with, since it was nice that she was actually listening to me. I was just glad she didn’t ask if she needed a new hat for the wedding or if my widowed Uncle Bernard could bring a plus-one.

‘He was nice, pleasant enough, but I doubt I’ll see him again. I just thought you’d like to know that I am not avoiding men. I just want to meet the right one for me.’ My skin prickled uncomfortably; I hated having these conversations with my parents, but if divulging details helped to get me through the conversation quicker, then I was all in. Well, nearly all in – certain details were better left private.

‘Okay, well that’s good news . . . You know, Jean next door has a son who is just going through a divorce. A nice young man, he is. I’ve not asked Jean why he’s getting a divorce yet, but I’m sure she said something about an affair on his wife’s part. Luckily there are no children involved – break-ups can be so hard for kiddies. No doubt he’ll be looking for female companionship soon.’

Mum’s attempt at sounding nonchalant failed miserably. Her eyes glowed with eagerness, and my cheeks start to burn; I could feel the warm pink searing through my earlier, largely abandoned, attempt at contouring. The notion that my mother, thinking I was such a hopeless lost cause, felt the need to set me up with her neighbours’ divorcee son was, quite frankly, horrifying.

‘Mel, love, don’t you want to open your presents?’ my dad cut in before I had a chance to answer. Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure if he was being insightful, or if he had just got bored with the din of female gabble; either way I was relieved.

The boyfriend conversation was soon forgotten – for the moment, at least – as I opened floral gift bags and unwrapped delicate pink tissue paper to reveal some truly wonderful presents. Mum and Dad had booked me a spa day, which couldn’t have come at a better time. My merriment was subdued when my mum handed me a card from my gran. A tear pricked my eyes. ‘You know how organised your gran was. She’d got this in November.’ Mum smiled; tears were pooling in her eyes too.

I opened the card, and in it was a gift card for Selfridges. She knew me so well. Mum patted my hand.