Page 3 of The Mother-in-Law

Diana extends her hand. As I reach for it, I notice that she is almost a full head taller that her husband, despite her flat shoes, and she is thin as a lamppost, apart from a slight middle-aged thickening at the waist. She has silver hair cut into an elegant, chin-length bob, a straight Roman nose and, unlike Tom, bears a strong resemblance to her son.

I also notice that her handshake is cold.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Goodwin,’ I say, dropping her hand to offer the bunch of flowers I am carrying. I insisted on stopping at the florist on the way over, even though Ollie said, ‘Flowers aren’t really her thing.’

‘Flowers are every woman’s thing,’ I replied with a roll of my eyes. But as I take in her lack of jewellery, her unpainted nails and sensible shoes, I start to get the feeling I’m wrong.

‘Hello, Mum,’ Ollie says, pulling his mother in for a bear hug, which she accepts, if not quite embraces. I know, from many conversations with Ollie, that he adores his mother. He practically bursts with pride as he talks about the charity she runs single-handedly for pregnant refugees in Australia.Of courseshe would think flowers were trivial, I realise suddenly. I’m an idiot. I should have brought baby clothes, or maternity supplies.

‘All right, Ollie,’ she says after a moment or two when he doesn’t let her go. She pulls herself upright. ‘I haven’t even had a chance to say a proper hello to Lucy!’

‘Why don’t we head to the lounge for drinks and we can all get to know each other better,’ Tom says, pink-cheeked and smiling, and we all turn toward the back of the house. That’s when I notice a face peeking around the corner.

‘Nettie!’ Ollie cries.

If there is a lack of resemblance between Ollie and Tom, there is no doubt Antoinette is Tom’s daughter. She has his ruddy cheeks and stockiness, while at the same time being endearingly pretty. Stylish too, in a grey woollen dress and black suede boots. According to Ollie, his younger sister is married, childless, and some sort of marketing executive who speaks at conferences about women and the glass ceiling. She’s thirty-two years old, only two years older than me, and I found her career a little intimidating, but this is immediately forgotten when she comes right over to me and greets me with an enormous hug. The Goodwins, it appears, are huggers.

All of them except Diana.

‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Nettie says. She links her arm with mine and I am engulfed in a cloud of subtle, expensive-smelling perfume. ‘Come and meet my husband, Patrick.’

Nettie drags me through an arched doorway, past what looks like an elevator—an elevator!—past framed artwork and ornaments, and photos of family holidays on the ski slopes and at the beach. There is one photo of Tom, Diana, Nettie and Ollie on camels in the desert with a pyramid in the background, all of them holding hands and raising their hands skyward. Growing up, I went to the beach town of Portarlington for holidays, less than an hour’s drive from my house.

We stop in a room that is roughly the size of my apartment, filled with sofas and armchairs, huge expensive-looking rugs and heavy wooden side tables. A gigantic man rises from an armchair.

‘Patrick,’ he says, offering his hand. His handshake is clammy but he looks apologetic so I pretend not to notice.

‘Lucy. Nice to meet you.’

I’m not sure what I expected for Nettie—perhaps someone small, sharp, eager to please, like her. At six foot three inches, I thought Ollie was tall, but Patrick is positively mountain-like—six foot seven at least. Apart from his height, he reminds me a little of Tom, in his plaid shirt and chinos, his round face and eager smile. He has a knitted jumper around his shoulders, preppy style.

With all greetings out of the way, Ollie, Tom and Patrick sink into the large couch and Diana and Nettie wander off toward a drinks table. I hesitate a moment, then follow them.

‘You sit down, Lucy,’ Diana directs me.

‘Oh no, I’m happy to help.’

But Diana raises her hand like a stop sign. ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Just sit.’

Diana is obviously trying to be polite, but I can’t help feeling a little rejected. She isn’t to know, of course, that I’ve fantasised about bumping elbows with her in the kitchen, perhaps even facing a little salad crisis together that I could overcome by whipping up a makeshift dressing (a salad crisis is about all my culinary capabilities can stretch to). She isn’t to know that I’ve imagined nestling up to her as she takes me through photo albums, family trees and long-winded stories that Ollie would groan about. She doesn’t know I’ve planned to spend the entire evening by her side, so by the time we go home she’ll be as enamoured with me as I’ll be with her.

I sit.

‘So, you and Ollie work together at the IT company?’ Tom asks me as I plant myself next to Ollie on the sofa. He pronounces IT ‘it’, God bless him. Ollie has explained that technology isn’t his father’s strong suit.

‘We do,’ I say. ‘Have done for three years.’

‘Three years?’ Tom feigns shock. ‘Took your time, didn’t you, mate?’

‘It was a slow burn,’ Ollie says. ‘For her.’

Ollie was the classic solid guy from work. The guy always available to listen to my most terrible dating stories and offer a sympathetic shoulder. Ollie, unlike the powerful, take-charge assholes that I tended to date, was cheerful, unassuming and consistently a good guy. Most importantly, he adores me, and there is something about being adored. It is much nicer, I realise, than being messed around by charismatic bastards.

‘He isn’t your boss, is he?’ Tom twinkles. It’s horrendously sexist, but it’s hard to be annoyed with Tom.

‘Tom!’ Diana chides, but it’s clear she finds it hard to be annoyed with him too. She’s back now with drinks, and she purses her lips in the manner of a mother trying to discipline her very cute disobedient toddler. She hands me a glass of red wine and sits on the other side of Ollie.

‘We’re peers,’ I tell Tom. ‘I recruit for the IT positions, Ollie recruits support staff. We work closely together.’