Page 28 of The Pieces of Us

‘Ooh, is that your date?’ says Ruby in a sing-song voice from her perch on the window sill.

‘It’s not a date,’ I hiss at her.

‘Whatever you say.’ She gives me a look – the one Minnie and I used to call the Ruby look , the one she perfected when she was barely out of nappies.

‘He’s your gran’s estate agent, and he’s got us a really good offer on the house.

’ I give my reflection a quick check in the small mirror on the wall next to the fridge.

‘Something big to score off the list. It means we’ll be able to finalize Gran’s care package, have a bit more certainty about the future. ’

‘That’s great. And you look cute. For Gran’s estate agent. Your non-date. Is he cute?’

I pause for a fraction too long.

‘He is cute,’ she squeals.

‘Best behaviour,’ I warn her on my way out.

I can hear the television blaring from the living room, which hopefully means Minnie is in the same position on the sofa as when I checked on her ten minutes ago.

If she’s willing to comply, I’ll bring her to the table at the last minute.

If not, she can eat her dinner on a tray on her lap.

It’s hit and miss these days, and one of the battles I’m willing to lose.

I push the button to unlock the entrance to the flats and open my front door. Asim’s long legs take the stairs two at a time. He’s got a bottle of wine in his hand and the familiar wide, easy smile on his face.

‘Hey. Long time no see.’ He hands me the wine. ‘You OK?’

‘Thank you – you didn’t need to bring anything. Yes, I’m good. Better.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ he says.

He follows me into the kitchen, where Ruby is grating Parmesan.

‘This is my daughter, Ruby. Former queen of the household, until Minnie dethroned her. Ruby, this is Asim.’

‘Hi.’ Ruby smiles at him. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

‘Hi, Ruby.’ Asim shrugs off his denim jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ I tell him. ‘Let me get you a drink. Wine?’ I open the fridge. ‘I’ve also got beer … or juice?’

‘Juice is great,’ Asim says.

‘Cheese is done,’ Ruby says. ‘I’ll go and check on Gran. Leave you to it.’ She winks at me on her way past; I narrow my eyes at her then quickly put a smile on my face before I hand Asim a glass of apple juice.

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to crack this wine open.’ I rummage in the drawer for a corkscrew.

‘Go for it. You should celebrate the offer. It’s brilliant news.’

‘It is,’ I agree. We clink our glasses together, maintaining eye contact while we sip.

‘I’m hoping Minnie will join us for dinner, but it’s never guaranteed. Sometimes it’s just better to let her do her own thing.’

‘I get it,’ he says. ‘Whatever she’s comfortable with. And whatever is easier for you.’

‘I think we’re good to go.’ I open the oven door. ‘Dinner should be … oh .’

Don’t cry over pasta. Don’t cry over pasta , I warn myself. ‘I seem to have overcooked the pasta,’ I say, forcing out a laugh. I thrust my hands in my oven gloves and reluctantly extract the dish.

Under the harsh kitchen spotlights there’s no denying it. I’ve cremated the veggie pasta bake.

Ruby returns just in time to join Asim in offering encouraging words and gentle teasing. Hey, it doesn’t look too bad; That’s definitely still edible; We can scrape the burnt bits off the top, no bother; How did you know I like my pasta overdone?

‘We can’t eat this.’ I put it on the table; the three of us gather round the charred centrepiece.

‘Of course we can,’ says Ruby. ‘Honestly. The underneath bits will be fine. We’ll just cover it with grated cheese. You’ve done worse, Mum.’

‘Cheers,’ I mutter.

‘It’s definitely salvageable,’ Asim insists. ‘But I’m happy to treat us to a takeaway.’

‘I can’t let you do that,’ I say just as Ruby punches the air.

Asim grins. ‘Majority rules. What do you fancy? Pizza? Chinese? Indian? Thai?’

I look at my daughter’s hopeful eyes and Asim’s unwavering smile, and think of all the times we’ve felt like takeaway but didn’t because money was tight or we had leftovers I didn’t want to go to waste. ‘My vote’s for pizza,’ I tell him.

Ruby nods. ‘I’m always cool with pizza.’

‘Me too,’ says Asim. ‘Pizza it is.’ Then he slides the oven gloves off my hands, puts them on his own, and carefully places the vegetable pasta bake into the empty sink. Out of sight for now.

It’s a unanimous decision – pizza is best eaten in front of the television. This is just as well, as Minnie’s grouchy. She tells me her fingers feel like sticks, which means her arthritis is playing up.

‘It’s getting really bad,’ I tell Asim. ‘Her doctor keeps suggesting cortisone shots, but she’s not great with needles.’

‘Does a hot bath help? I’ve got a dodgy knee from years of playing football; I couldn’t live without my heat pad when it flares up.’

‘I’ve tried a hot-water bottle,’ I tell him. ‘But she won’t keep her hands on it.’

‘I need to pop to the chemist tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Let me see if they have any ideas.’

‘Thanks, but you don’t have to do that,’ I say quickly.

With my help, Minnie eats two slices of Hawaiian while Asim ribs her gently: ‘Pineapple does not belong on a pizza.’

‘Mum says that,’ Ruby pipes up.

‘Really?’ Asim grins at me.

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Pineapple on pizza is a hard no,’ Asim says. ‘But in a curry – yes.’

‘Pineapple in a curry?’ Ruby screws up her face.

‘You haven’t tried it? You haven’t lived. It’s my grandmother’s signature dish. Once you’ve tried it, you’ll regret ever eating pineapple on pizza.’

I offer Minnie another slice; she shakes her head. Then looks at Asim, as if she’s only just realized he’s here.

‘You’re quite handsome,’ she says.

Ruby laughs. ‘Gran, you’re such a flirt.’

‘You’re one to talk,’ Minnie claps back.

The pizza is delicious but I’m struggling to join in with their relaxed chat.

I’m sitting with my teenage daughter, who told me only hours ago that she was going ahead with her pregnancy and my mother who never told me she adopted me, both of them acting like they don’t have a care in the world.

I’m annoyed that I can’t be more like Asim, that I can’t focus on the positive.

I close my pizza box lid over my crusts. ‘Give me your empty boxes, guys.’

Ruby follows me into the kitchen. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Besides the obvious? I’m tired.’ I pile the pizza boxes by the sink, next to my charred, rubbery dinner disaster.

‘You’re always tired,’ she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘Hey … I think Asim likes you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I tell her. ‘And I don’t know why I invited him over to be honest.’

‘He’s nice,’ she says. ‘Be nice back to him.’

‘I’m trying,’ I snap.

She raises her eyebrows. ‘If you stomp around all moody, he’ll get uncomfortable and leave.’

‘Then that’s his choice,’ I tell her, opening drawers for no reason, slamming them shut.

‘You’re a nightmare,’ she says evenly. ‘It’s no wonder you’re single. Who would put up with this?’

Before I can reply, she’s stalked out of the room, leaving me with my empty boxes and burnt pasta.

I take my bad mood to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, preparing myself to rejoin the shiny happy people in front of the television.

Even Minnie is laughing. I shut the door so I can’t hear their chirpy voices and stare at my sulky face in the mirror, which only serves to exacerbate my bad mood.

Jesus. What the hell is Asim doing here? I look like a miserable old crone.

I keep staring: punishing myself for behaving like a toddler. Everything on my face hangs downwards: my mouth, the outer corners of my eyes, my jowls. As for my hair … it’s limp and neglected, in that unkempt place between straight and curly.

When knuckles rap the door, I assume it’s Ruby to lecture me further. ‘I have jowls,’ I moan, pulling the skin on either side of my mouth to prove to her that it no longer bounces back in the gravity-defying way I took for granted in my twenties.

It’s not Ruby. It’s Asim. He stares at me. ‘Jowls?’

Nothing I do in this moment can go unnoticed. All I can do is own my jowls, because they’re mine and they’re not going anywhere. ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not even forty yet and I have jowls.’

‘Cool,’ he says. ‘Mind if I take a seat?’

‘Sure.’ I watch Asim perch on the toilet and cross his long legs. I laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ he demands, but he knows.

‘If someone had told me this morning that this is what I’d be doing tonight …’

‘Talking to me in your bathroom?’

‘Yep.’ I glance in the mirror again. I might be imagining it, but it looks like everything on my face is hanging a little less downwards.

‘Ruby is great, Cat. You should be very proud.’

‘I am,’ I say, thinking about the pregnancy.

‘You know what? Even with jowls, you’re very pretty.’

‘Don’t,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t try to flatter me. You don’t have to do that.’

‘OK,’ he says gently. ‘Um … can I use the toilet?’

‘Oh, God. Sorry. Do you want a coffee?’

He grins. ‘That would be lovely.’

Back in the living room, Ruby has plucked her eyebrows and turned her attention to Minnie’s, who is well and truly in her own world. ‘She’s making me look good for the Memory Cafe,’ she says. ‘Are we leaving soon? I don’t want to be late.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re not late,’ I tell her.

‘OK.’ She shrugs. ‘I want to look pretty.’

I catch Ruby’s eye. ‘You’re always pretty, Gran,’ she says, and Minnie giggles.

‘Oh, away with you!’ She turns to me. ‘Would you listen to her? Trying to give me a big head, she is. She’s the pretty one. Look at those big bonny eyes. She’d give those Hollywood stars a run for their money, so she would.’