Page 14

7

Of all the sounds to be woken up by, I think I’ve found the worst one. Forget a blaring 6 a.m. alarm, the wind and rain battering the window, a UFO smashing into the roof.

Loud, intrusive and completely terrifying – my mum singing happy birthday to me.

It’s not her usual singing – like when she sings Engelbert Humperdinck songs to herself while dusting – she’s belting it out with enthusiasm, louder than I knew her voice could go. It almost feels like an attack. At best, it has to be sarcastic.

I pull the duvet over my head, which hasn’t worked for me thus far, and wonder what kind of illness I’d need to fake to be allowed to stay here all day. Maybe if I don’t acknowledge the day, it won’t count – which is okay, if people stop trying to force me to celebrate, but I suspect it will be more like parking fines, where ignoring them only makes things worse.

‘Happy birthday, darling!’ Mum yells for her grand finale.

Ugh. Thirty. Fucking Thirty. It sneaks up on you, truly, because I swear I’ve only just started to feel like I was in my twenties. In your early twenties, you still feel like a teen, but by the time you hit your late twenties, it’s more like ‘young adult’ territory. Thirty, though, oh my God. It’s not that I think thirty is old, it’s just that I really thought I would have had my life together by thirty.

Thirty is supposed to be a milestone – I’m supposed to have things to show for it. But look at me. Really look at me. No job. No home of my own. No romantic prospects. No plan, to be honest with you. I’m back living in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by Leonardo DiCaprio posters, and I know I joked about it before, but it’s true – looking at the age of Leo’s recent girlfriends, I am actually officially too old for him. I can’t get my head around it. Then again, I’m a long way off being able to date twentysomethings and be double their age. Bloody hell, I can’t imagine being fifty and dating a twentysomething man – they annoy me now.

Mum hands me a mug – presumably a cup of tea, but something a little stronger for my birthday would have been a better shout. She’s wearing a pumpkin jumper, specifically one with two large pumpkins, one intentionally covering each boob, which she probably didn’t realise when she bought it. I bet she’s still none the wiser.

‘I can’t believe my little girl is thirty,’ she says brightly, putting the mug on my bedside table. ‘Thirty! Can you believe it?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘And can you stop reminding me?’

‘Oh, don’t be silly. It’s a wonderful age.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes,’ she insists. ‘You’re still young, but people take you seriously. You finally start seeing the shape your life is taking at thirty.’

I stare at her.

‘Mum, I’m unemployed and living in your house.’

‘Well,’ she says after a beat, ‘people will take you seriously once you’ve figured those minor details out.’

I close my eyes.

‘Please tell me you haven’t made a fuss.’

‘I haven’t made a fuss.’

Her compliance in repeating the words back to me is exactly how I know she has made a fuss.

‘Mum…’

‘It’s just a little lunch.’

‘How little?’

‘Just… a bite, with a few people…’

‘Who’s coming?’

She attempts to make my bed – that I am still in – to buy herself some time.

‘Your dad, obviously. Rory said he might pop in with Jack. Sally’s resting. And Mel said she and Angie might drop by later. You might see your auntie – a cousin or two. I invited a couple of my friends to, you know, boost the numbers.’

‘Boost the numbers?’ I blurt, unable to suppress my cackle.

‘It’s a day to celebrate – people want to pop in and see you,’ she insists.