The Happy Home for Ladies: A heartwarming,uplifting novel about friendship and love. Michele GormanЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter 1

      ‘Well, Mum, I’ve really got to hand it to you this time,’ I tell her, yanking at the snug waistband of my dress. My comment gets carried away, though, by all the chattering going on around us. My parents’ friends talk nineteen to the dozen. ‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ I admit, louder this time. I am trying, though I sound tetchy as tetchy can be. On today of all days too. What am I like?!

      I guess she shouldn’t really expect me to take the high road now, just because we’re at a funeral. We’ve never let something as trifling as the spectre of death stand in the way of a good snipe. ‘You were right. As usual.’ And nobody in the entire history of angsty mother-daughter dynamics wants to admit that. Which just shows how much I’ve grown recently as a person.

      If I’m being honest, Mum does deserve every bit of credit today. Dad would have chucked a few frozen sausage rolls into the oven and maybe ordered some portions of chips from the cheap chippy that’s on his way home from work. ‘It is the party to end all parties,’ I admit, meeting her green eyes. The eyes that I didn’t inherit. I got Dad’s mud-brown ones instead. I missed out on her film-star legs too. My brother got those and her eyes. I’ve got her allergy to grass and dodgy karaoke voice.

      ‘It’s just a lot of money to spend on one day. A lot,’ I can’t keep from adding.

      Not that she’s listening. Which is typical. She’s always been more interested in making sure everyone’s gobsmacked by her generosity.

      The house is heaving with people. I’ve never laid eyes on most of them. They’re packed into the dining room and out back where the French doors lead on to the terrace and into the garden, and around the pool that Dad rushed to open early even though it’s freezing out and nobody in their right mind would turn up with their swimsuit on under their clothes. People are huddling together in the lounge, or the ‘great room’, as Mum makes us call it. I’ve got no idea what a great room is supposed to be, but I guess having a library full of books and a grand piano that’s never had anything but ‘Chopsticks’ played on it qualifies.

      Sighing, I say, ‘I’ll go check that Dad’s all right.’ I leave her grinning over another perfect party.

      I don’t mean to make my parents sound like nightmares. It’s just that Mum drives me round the bend. And this is us on our best behaviour. You might have guessed that they throw lavish parties, and maybe you can tell that they live in a big house. But if I say it’s Mum’s mission in life to outshine absolutely everyone – which is totally true – you’ll probably start thinking they’re horrible. They’re not, though. It’s just that they worked really hard to start their own business and build themselves up from nothing. Plus, they’re very generous. So hopefully you’ll forgive them for wanting to flash a bit of their success.

      I catch a glimpse of Dad through one of the six-foot-high lilac rose floral arrangements. Mum’s got them all over the house. Lilac and deep green, that’s the colour theme. She’s coordinated everything: the flowers, tablecloths, serviettes, plates, foil-wrapped chocolates by the lorry load, and even the guests.

      I tug again at the waist of my lilac gingham dress. I look like fat Dorothy, off to see the Wizard, but it was all I could find at such short notice.

      Will wore gingham too. He’s my older brother. He’s also my only brother, unfortunately. We looked ridiculous standing beside each other. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber. I’m not surprised he’s already scarpered.

      Dad’s not happy with his tartan purple shirt, either, but he knows which side his bread is buttered on. If Mum wants everyone to dress like their granny’s kitchen curtains, then everyone is going to turn up in their granny’s kitchen curtains.

      He’s deep in conversation with their neighbour. Valentina, I think she’s called. Or Valentine. It’s hard to keep all their friends straight. According to my parents, that’s because I don’t visit enough. I was here more when they first moved away, just after I’d finished school, when the two-hour journey to Essex was worth it to get my laundry done for me.

      ‘Everyone’s having such a nice time!’ Valen-something says, kissing my cheek. ‘I mean… under the circumstances. I’m so sorry.’ Her face reddens to match her lipstick.

      Dad squeezes her arm. ‘It’s exactly what Bev would have wanted, Valerie.’

       Valerie, that’s it!

      We all stare across the room, over the friends’ and neighbours’ heads, past the OTT floral arrangements and beyond the long dining table, to Mum’s photo leaning against the fireplace. It’s one that Dad took last year on their cruise. She’s smiling right into the camera, looking suntanned and happy. Dad’s right. It’s exactly the kind of send-off she’d have wanted.

      Of course it is. She planned every last detail, because that’s the kind of control freak Mum is. Was.

      Everyone’s finally gone and I’m dead on my feet. If you’ll pardon the expression. You wouldn’t think people would outstay their welcome at a funeral, but that Valerie just wouldn’t take the hint. I was ready to flick the lights off and bang Mum’s stew pot with the ladle to get her to go. And she and Mum weren’t even that close.

      ‘That went well,’ Dad says, like he’s just passed his driving test or something.

      ‘Yeah, except for Mum being… you know.’

      ‘Yeah. Except for that,’ he says. Then he laughs. Of all things! ‘She’d have loved the look on everyone’s faces when the cake came out.’

      The man’s wife is dead and he’s laughing over the cake? I’m no grief counselling expert, but that’s not right. ‘Dad, aren’t you even a little bit upset? I mean, she and I had our differences, but I am sad that she’s gone. Now I’m an orphan.’

      His dark eyebrows draw together. They’re only so startling because his hair is nearly white. ‘What about me? Aren’t I still your parent?’

      ‘I’m half an orphan, then.’

      His pat on my shoulder is awkward. Dad’s not a great one for the touchy-feely. ‘Now, now, there’s no use crying over spilt milk, Phoebe. What’s done is done.’

      ‘It’s not spilt milk, Dad, and Mum’s not done, she’s dead! Will you stop trying to make it sound like no big deal?’

      I dash away the tears with my hand. Maybe I’m sad. Maybe I’m frustrated. All I know is that I do feel something. Unlike my father, the Dalek.

      I look into his face, trying to remember whether I’ve ever seen him get emotional. He shouts at his football team on TV sometimes. ‘How can you be so cold?’

      ‘Phoebe, come on,’ he says, running a hand over his five o’clock (yesterday) shadow. If Mum were here, she’d have made him shave this morning. She hates stubble. Hated. ‘Just because I’m not falling to pieces doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything. People show their emotions differently, that’s all.’

      ‘Yes, but they show them, Dad. You’re acting like you don’t even care.’

      ‘Let’s not fight,’ he says. ‘Not today. Want a cup of tea?’ Without