A Hopeless Romantic by Harriet Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

than before. “Of course. Thanks a lot.”
     
    “So, darling,” said Angela Foster that evening, smoothing the sofa cushion with her hand. “How’s work?”
    She glanced around the sitting room as if she expected a troupe of tiny tap-dancing mice to cancan out from a hole in the skirting board and pirouette off with her handbag.
    “Fine, fine,” Laura said hastily. “Today was…er, fine. Thanks for these, so much. They’ll look great.” She gestured to the pastel-spotted blinds her mother had bought her from John Lewis as a belated birthday present. “It’s so nice of you to bring them round, Mum, you shouldn’t have.”
    “Not at all, darling,” said Angela. “And I wanted to see my girl. We haven’t seen you for such a long time, you know. You’re so busy these days.”
    Laura changed the subject quickly. “So, Mum. Have you got time for a cup of tea, or do you have to go, then?”
    Angela looked at her. “I can see you’re longing for me to stay,” she said drily.
    “No, of course I am,” Laura said. “Of course. Do stay. I’ve got some biscuits, too. Sit down, Mum. I’ll put the kettle on. Sit down, make yourself at home.”
    “I’ll try,” said Angela, lowering herself gingerly onto the blue sofa with its tea-stained arms and cigarette holes in the cushions.
    Laura sighed and hurried into the kitchen, glancing anxiously at her watch. Dan had said he’d come round later, and she didn’t want the two to collide. Not that it was likely they would—he only ever turned up after the pubs shut, whereas her mum was usually in bed and fast asleep by the time the pubs shut.
    When Laura returned with the tea, Angela said, “The flat’s looking nice.” Laura gritted her teeth. Her mother was a grand master at the art of faking it. Laura knew she didn’t do it on purpose, but her superbly repressed nature meant that whenever an unkind or negative thought crossed her mind, she felt she had to atone for it by saying the opposite of what she thought. It was quite a good barometer, actually. “What a lovely short skirt, darling!” meant “I am embarrassed to go with you dressed like that to the Hunts’ anniversary party, you look like a common prostitute.” Or “Your friend Hilary is very lively, isn’t she? Dad loved talking to her” meant “Your friend Hilary drinks more than is socially acceptable at a barbecue buffet lunch in Harrow and is nothing more than a jailbait husband stealer.”
    “Thanks, Mum. It’s a bit of a tip at the moment. Yorky’s been on half-term break from school and he just lazes round reading newspapers all day in his dressing gown.”
    “Ahh,” said Angela fondly. She had more than a soft spot for Yorky. “How is James?” She always called him by his given name. It was strange, Laura mused, that Yorky could read mothers—and his female friends—like open books, yet be so disastrously out of sync with the opposite sex the rest of the time. Half-term break had been notable for Yorky’s attempts to catch the attention of the girl in the flat downstairs, which involved hanging around the stairwell for half the day and smiling mysteriously, raising the eyebrow he’d now learned to raise, and generally looking like an unemployed spy. The girl in the flat downstairs—whom Laura had met; she was called Becky and seemed really nice—simply cast him looks of something amounting to concern for his mental state every time she saw him. He was despondent about it, because he actually did really like her. And before he’d decided he fancied her and had started acting like a lunatic, they’d actually got on quite well, the few times they’d chatted. Added to which, Mr. Kenzo from the flat opposite now thought Yorky was a delinquent or else some kind of dodgy sex practitioner, and spent a lot of time watching him watching Becky, which all contributed to the atmosphere of light comedy pervading the stairwell of the building.
    “Yorky’s fine. Bit gloomy at the