My friend Harriet ran a beauty salon, a sharp and generous soul with an uncanny knack for spoiling her friends with little gifts. She never took a penny for her services, refusing to let any of us pay. To return the favour, I lent a hand looking after her daughters from her first marriage. Harriet had left her first husband, a miser of such spectacular skill hed pinch pennies even when it came to his own childrens supper. Her second marriage fell apart as well, jealousy like a thick English fog settling over it. The third? Well, the less said about his faithfulness, the betterit ended much the same way. All those swift divorces, though, let her keep the flat in London, so at least she never had to share her keys with anyone.
Harriets valiant but wildly impractical attempts to find me a partner were dashed by her packed diary. Still, one afternoon everything shifted. She met a gent called Matthew, a London cabbie, on one of her erratic journeys across the city. Striking fellow, keen green eyes, and despite all her doubts, they hit it off in a way that felt almost cinematic. By the end of the week, Matthew was introducing her to his mum, whom he oddly called Mother Beatrice as if she was some kind of benevolent ghost from a Victorian novel. Mother Beatrice seemed kindly at first, but soon her affection became smothering, as though the boundaries of sensible English reserve had quietly dissolved.
Despite Matthew being thirty-four, Mother Beatrice seemed grafted to his side, glued to her mobile, ringing up constantly, popping by at the oddest hours, meddling with an enthusiasm that bordered on surreal. She once asked Harriet whether they kissed before work, then solemnly claimed it was essential for household happinessas if reciting some forgotten English ritual. Shed insert herself into little spats or make a show of bringing over shepherds pie late at night, using it as a pretext to stay over. Matthew, delighted with the domestic arrangementtwo women bustling in the kitchen and one sharing his bedremained firmly entwined with his mothers apron strings.
In the end, Harriet broke things off. Escape seemed the only way outfleeing both the persistent mother-in-law and the stifling, dreamlike domestic tangle that had wound itself silently around her flat and her peace.
