Page 10 of Polo Fever
Ash
No
Too busy feeling sorry for myself
Sam
I can ask around if you like?
Ash
Thanks but no one will want me now
Oh
I’ve got to go, someone’s at the door
Sam
Call me whenever you need
I’ll come see you soon xxxx
When the doorbell goes, for a fleeting, hopeful moment, I wonder if it might be Chris here to apologise, offer an explanation and beg my forgiveness.
‘Ashley, it’s me,’ comes Mum’s crisp voice over the intercom. ‘Let me in before I shove this guy’s camera lens up his—’
I buzz open the door before she can finish her sentence. The last thing we need on top of the Chris Courtney drama is my mum getting arrested for smashing a reporter’s camera. I’m surprised there are any paps still lurking outside my building. The majority of them have given up hope of getting a picture considering I’ve refused to emerge into daylight since the story broke, except for that one Sainsbury’s trip which I instantly regretted. But I suppose now that those photos of Chris and his wife playing happy families havebeen published today, people are keen to see my reaction so the photographers have returned.
I wait by the door until I hear Mum’s footsteps on the stairs getting closer and then open it for her, letting her breeze past me laden with shopping bags, her Jo Malone perfume wafting over me as she goes by. I follow her into the kitchen as she plonks the bags down on the kitchen counter before turning to take me in. She puts her hands on my arms and gives me a good look up and down.
‘Uh-oh,’ she concludes.
‘Thanks, Mum, always a great comfort to have you here,’ I grumble, wriggling free of her grasp and going to slump back on the sofa where I’ve set up camp the last few days.
‘Have you been eating?’ she demands to know.
‘I haven’t got much of an appetite.’
‘You have to eat otherwise you’ll die,’ she says bluntly.
‘Very profound.’
‘I mean it, Ash; it’s important. What do you feel like? I got you… well,’ she gestures at the shopping bags, ‘everything. I wasn’t sure what you might want.’
‘Nothing.’
‘We’ll go easy then. I’ll make you some toast. Butter and jam?’ she suggests, beginning to unload the contents of the bags onto the counter.
I shrug.
‘Butter and jam it is. I got you Tiptree,’ she says smugly.
Mum grew up in Witham, Essex, which is down the road from Tiptree. She determines the quality of a hotel on whether it serves Tiptree jam with breakfast. If it does, she’s happy. If it doesn’t, she won’t trust it.
I watch as she busies herself, her natural high level of energy making me feel even more exhausted and useless than before. She’s wearing an all-black tailored three-piece suit and towering heels.
‘Are those Manolos?’ I ask, squinting at her footwear.
