Are you going to spill the beans or not, Oliver? Margaret blocked her sons path as he tried to sneak into his room, her arms folded like a bouncer at a dodgy pub. I see youre always gallivanting about, out every evening, sometimes even after midnight. Do you honestly think Im blind to your antics?
Oliver hesitated, hand still gripping the doorknob.He looked like a schoolboy caught nicking biscuits, cheeks pink, eyes darting everywhere but at her. Mum, must we go through this routine again?
Dont get clever. Im simply asking. Surely Im entitled to know whos monopolising my sons evenings?
He exhaled, shoulders slumping, surrender written all over him. Margaret could always wring the truth out of him, and they both knew it.
Her names Emily, he mumbled, barely above a whisper.
Margarets hackles rose, not at the name itselfEmily was as English as a cup of builders teabut at the way he said it. Like he was cradling a secret, something fragile and precious. His lips quivered, his eyes went all soft, and for a moment, he looked positively radiant.
Emily, Margaret repeated, rolling the name around her mouth. It tasted oddly sour.
Oliver nodded, sidestepping her and vanishing into his room. The door clicked shut, but Margaret lingered in the hallway, staring at the battered paintwork around the keyhole.
Emily
So now there was an Emily. And from the way her Ollie said her name, this was no passing fancy.
Margaret drifted into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on, and set about making tea on autopilot. Mug, sugar, teabagher hands knew the drill, but her mind was a jumble. For twenty-two years, shed been Olivers everything. The only woman in his orbit. His father had legged it before he was born, so it had always been just the two of them. Shed done it allskipped sleep, missed meals, pinched pennies, sacrificed everything. And now, some
A pang of jealousy jabbed her, sharp as a knitting needle. Margaret pressed her hand to her chest, trying to steady herself. Ridiculous, really. She was forty-five, not a teenager, and shed always known this day would come. Its one thing to accept it in your head, quite another to feel it in your bones.
For over two decades, shed been the sun in his sky. Hed confided everything: his first disastrous exam, his first playground scuffle, his first snog with Sophie from the year above. And now now he was keeping a whole new world from her.
The kettle boiled and clicked off. Margaret didnt budge.
In the days that followed, she watched Oliver like a hawk. He was out the door at the crack of dawn, back late, always glued to his phone, grinning at messages. He used to beam like that only at her. Each smile felt like a tiny jab.
Invite her round for tea, she said one evening, voice as steady as she could manage.
Oliver looked up from his shepherds pie.
Who?
Emily. Id like to meet her.
He froze, fork suspended mid-air. A blob of gravy plopped onto the tablecloth, leaving a brown splotch.
Mum, do we have to? Isnt it a bit soon?
Soon? Margaret arched an eyebrow. How longs it been? Three months? Four? And you think thats too soon for a proper introduction?
Oliver set his fork down. Appetite gone.
Its just I dont know. It feels
Feels what? Are you embarrassed by me? Or by her?
Im not embarrassed by anyone!
Then bring her. Saturday, seven oclock. Ill whip up something special.
She saw him hesitate, searching for an escape, but there was none. Eventually, he nodded, defeated.
By Saturday, Margaret was preparing as if for the Bake Off finals. She plotted the menu, rehearsed her questions, practised her welcoming but not too welcoming smile in the mirror. The girl would be young, surely. Twenty, maybe twenty-two tops. Probably all lip gloss and false lashes. Margaret had seen her type before. Easy enough to put in her placea few pointed remarks, a couple of icy stares, and shed be running for the hills.
Margaret fancied herself the archetypal mother-in-law from the telly. Stern, unflappable, never letting the new girl off the hook. She relished the role. Shed earned it, after all. Twenty-two years of solo parenting gave her that right.
On Saturday, she laid out the best tablecloth, dusted off the posh china, and filled the house with the scent of roast chicken. Salads gleamed in glass bowls. Everything was just so. Everything under control.
The doorbell rang.
Margaret straightened her blouse, patted her hair, and strode to the door, hostess smile firmly in place.
She opened it
A woman stood there. Not a girla woman. Thirty-five, maybe a touch younger. Dark hair, neat as you like, a gold pendant at her throat, a dress that whispered expensive without shouting. And those eyescalm, confident, with a glint of mischief.
You must be lost, Margaret blurted.
The woman arched an eyebrow, and just then, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Oliver appeared, and his faceoh, his face! It lit up like a Christmas tree.
Emily! he rushed to her, hugged her, kissed her hair. Im so glad you made it. Thought you might change your mind
Margaret stood rooted, the world tilting. Emily. This woman. This poised, grown-up womanshe was Emily.
Shock pinned her in place. Her carefully rehearsed lines, her arsenal of questions, all scattered like confetti. Shed braced herself for a giggling girl, not a peer. Someone who could have been her colleague, not her sons girlfriend.
Emily took her seat at the table, unruffled, her smile polite but not desperate. Margaret busied herself with the salad, eyes glued to the plates, words deserting her. Silence pressed in, thick as clotted cream, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the kitchen clocks tick.
Eventually, Margaret forced herself to speak. So, what do you do for a crust? Her voice sounded brittle, foreign.
I run a design agency, Emily replied, calm as you like. Mostly interiors. Sometimes we do restaurants, hotels, that sort of thing.
Of course she did. Of course she was successful, independent, the sort who could turn a young mans head. Margarets chest tightened. She glanced at Oliver, who gazed at Emily as if she were the only person in the world. The look in his eyesadoration, devotion, something unshakeable.
How long have you two been an item? Margaret asked, aiming for casual.
Five months, Emily answered. We met at a modern art show. Olivers got a real eye for painting. Thats what caught my attention.
Five months. Five months her son had kept this under wraps.
Margarets composure slipped. Doesnt the age gap bother you? she blurted, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.
Emily sipped her water, unhurried. Not in the slightest. Age is just a number on a bit of paper. What matters is the connection. Olivers a grown man. He chose me, and I chose him. What we have is real, Margaret. Proper understanding. Thats rare, whatever your age.
Oliver reached for Emilys hand, covering it with his own. The gesture, so gentle and easy, stung Margaret more than any argument.
Youve led him astray, she snapped. An experienced woman, a young lad.
