Victoria Cooke - The Secret to Falling in Love

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.

‘She was organised. It’s perfect,’ I said, breathing in hard to stop any stray tears.

The last gift bag was from Lizzie. Inside was a gorgeous chunky gold Marc Jacobs watch. A warm feeling gushed over me. I felt blessed to have such a generous and caring family.

As Mum and Dad left, I heard a high-pitched shrill coming from my tablet, indicating someone was trying to Skype me. The sound seemed to be coming from my bedroom; as I dashed in, it grew louder, but I couldn’t find it. I rummaged through drawers and under piles of clothes, the sound and vibration making me feel stressed, until I spotted it, hiding underneath a discarded blouse. Of course – where else? I dashed over and pressed the answer button to connect the call without even noticing who it was.

‘Hey, sis, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’ Lizzie shouted excitedly. In the background, a chorus of toddlers was also yelling for ‘Anti Lissa’ to have a happy ‘birfday’. It was too loud for me to answer so I animatedly stuck my fingers in my ears in mock-revulsion. The children fell into fits of giggles and then screamed higher and louder until my sister encouraged a more appropriate noise level, presumably through bribery. I giggled.

Lizzie has two-year-old twin boys and a three- – and a half, because I have to say that – year-old girl, who are all boisterous and scrumptious in equal measure. I didn’t see my sister much as she had a busy family life and ran an eBay shop selling craft items she made between nursery runs and grocery shopping, so we tended to catch up via Skype when we could, which had the added bonus of volume control. The image of a winky emoticon popped into my mind – too much time spent online!

After twelve minutes and thirty-four seconds of mainly noise, one of the twins announced that he needed a poo, and my sister hastily announced that she had to go, as his warnings were about as useful as a fire alarm is at detecting an oncoming flood. I began to ask her if she could make it into town for a few birthday drinks tonight, but halfway through, everything went silent and I realised I was just shouting at my own face. I half considered calling back or sending a text, but I knew she wouldn’t come out; she never did.