Free When in Rome... by Gemma Townley Page A

little chats. Now, Mike is chasing after me. Now, girls in bars are talking about us getting married. I can’t contain this for another minute.
    There’s only one thing for it: I’m going to have to see my mother.
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    James is reading theFT ’s “How to Spend It” supplement and is staring at an advert for a large four-by-four car.
    “This is what you should be driving,” he says to my mother, who is making tea in the kitchen. “Not that ridiculous little thing that could break down at any minute.”
    “We are not spending thousands of pounds on a new car,” my mother says firmly, bringing a tray into the dining room. On it are two cups of normal tea and one cup of green . . . well, I’m assuming it’s some sort of tea, though it looks utterly vile. She has poured the milk into the real cups of tea already, but has brought a separate bowl for the sugar. She always does this so that she can look at James and me reproachfully when we heap our teaspoonfuls and stir it into our tea. Sugar is enemy number one, according to my mother, worse than cocaine, even. Not that she knows the slightest thing about cocaine.
    “Lovely.” James takes a big gulp of tea and puts the car advert in front of my mother.
    “Look how much more comfortable you’d be. And it can give you directions, too. It’s got a TV screen in the front that has maps and information, and it’s all voice-activated. Camilla, why don’t we get you one?”
    My mother looks at James sternly.
    “We have discussed this a thousand times already, James. I do not need a new car, and that’s that.”
    James is in property. At least he used to be. I’m not sure what, if anything, he does now apart from playing golf. I approve of James’s outlook thoroughly. His philosophy on life is to lie back and enjoy it. He never lets the little things worry him, which is why, I suppose, he manages to live with my mother so contentedly.
    “Okay, what if I buy another car for myself and I just let you drive it all the time?”
    “I knew it!”
    “What?”
    “I knew you didn’t want a new car because of the Mini being unsafe. It’s because you just want the excitement of buying a new car!”
    “I give up,” says James and mooches off into the sitting room with his newspaper and cup of tea.
    My mother sits down at the table.
    “So, what happened to your exciting afternoon out with Candy? I thought you were too busy to see your boring mother?”
    “Mum, don’t be silly. I met Candy, we just didn’t spend as long shopping as I thought we would.”
    “Darling, you look drained.”
    “Drained? No, I’m fine, really. Maybe a bit tired, but nothing serious.”
    My mother is peering at me for clues.
    “Are you suffering from executive stress?”
    “What?”
    “Well, I was reading an article the other day on young women like you with stressful jobs, who can’t keep their friendships going because they don’t have anything of themselves to give. It all gets zapped at work. I think it might have something to do with sick building syndrome.”
    “Mum, what are you talking about?” My mother, when faced with a new syndrome or complaint that she cannot possibly say she has, will generally try and convince me or James that we have it. That way, next time she’s discussing it with her friends at the Club, she has a real life example to bring up.
    “I do not have executive stress. And I can keep my friendships going. I just . . .”
    “Yes?”
    Having waited so long to tell someone about Mike, I now can’t quite find the words. Somehow telling Mum that my ex-boyfriend fancies me doesn’t sound like a particularly compelling story.
    “Do you remember Mike?” I ask tentatively. You never know, she might say something like “Oh, the one who left you so foolishly?” and I can tell her triumphantly that he’s seen the error of his ways now.
    “Of course I remember Mike. Very cheeky, I always thought. Perfect charmer. Why?”
    Why?