The Chocolate Run (28 page)

I loved my mother, I loved my real father, but it took a while for me to warm up to them.

‘To whom do these belong?’ Mum asked, holding a pair of grey jockeys between her fingertips. She and Dad2 had arrived a few minutes earlier and she’d gone to change out of her travelling clothes – which in Mum speak was to check how untidy my flat was – and she’d reappeared thirty seconds later with the undergarments.

Warmth and life ebbed out of my body as I stared at Greg’s pants. When I’d gone into the tidying frenzy required of an imminent visit from my mother, I’d meant to collect all of Greg’s bits and pieces, put them into a box and stash them under the futon in my office where Eric slept (he wouldn’t go through my stuff). Meant to, completely forgot. And why did I forget? Because Greg was moving in with me on the sly.

I knew women who’d done this. Martha, for example, had started leaving bathroom things at her Tony’s place, then underwear, then jumpers and pyjamas; Tony only realised she hadn’t spent a night away from his flat in a month when he found a box of tampons in his bathroom. I’d thought only women were that sneaky until I started seeing Greg. He’d made it his duty to do the weekly wash now, not out of an altruistic need to make my life easier, but because half of it consisted of his clothes – he’d stopped carrying spare clothes with him a millennia ago. In the bathroom, a spare toothbrush had appeared. Not the type of spare toothbrush I used to carry in my bag when I was dating Sean. Nope, Greg’s was a permanent fixture, slotted into my toothbrush stand like it belonged there. Aftershave had appeared on the shelf in the bathroom, as had a shaving kit. He never got up early to go home and change any more. When I was going out with Sean, that was for over a year, I’d often be seen by people I knew boarding a bus to his with half my wardrobe and the contents of my bathroom shelf crammed into a holdall, no matter how long I was staying. I hadn’t left so much as an earring at Sean’s. Or at Greg’s.

Greg had so successfully and slyly moved in with me, I’d not noticed that his stuff shouldn’t be there. If I’d forgotten to hide Greg’s pants, then I hadn’t hidden other related paraphernalia. My body went weak. My vibrator. I’d left my fluorescent pink vibrator in the top drawer of my beside table – Greg had been chasing me around the flat with it the other day and I’d blithely chucked it in the drawer afterwards. And, oh no, on the bedside table, in the wooden box, were the condoms.
The condoms
.

As all these thoughts galloped through my brain, there was silence in my living room. Dad2 had paused in putting his glass of beer to his lips. Eric, who was stood about two foot away from me, was also staring at the pants. Even the television was holding its breath. The pores on my forehead opened and sweat started to creep out. I was thirty, for goodness’ sake, surely my mother wouldn’t still think I was a virgin. But then, knowing my three parents, they’d think I’d be a virgin until my wedding day and the man I married was my first boyfriend.

My mother was holding my boyfriend’s pants. Could things get any worse?

BUZZZZ! The buzzer exploded into the silence and D2 and I leapt out of our skins.

Eric, the calmest man alive, said: ‘I think you’re about to meet the owner of those pants, Mum.’

I moved past Mum and the offending article and went into the corridor, to the buzzer. I picked up the black phone by the door, grunted into it.

‘It’s me,’ Greg said.

Too horrified to speak, I grunted into the receiver again, pushed the button with the key symbol on it, then opened my front door ready to whisper to him, warn him, that my parents knew we were having sex and therefore not to make any comments that could be taken in an ‘I’m having my wicked way with your daughter and there’s nothing you can do about it’ manner. My voice shrivelled and died in my throat as I clapped eyes on him.

WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?

As if I hadn’t had enough shocks in the past three minutes, Greg was presenting me with another: he was wearing a three-piece suit. Waistcoat, jacket and trousers. All charcoal colour, teamed with white shirt, navy-blue tie. His hair was freshly washed and combed back off his face into a ponytail. (He might as well wear his suit jacket over his vest and hitch up his sleeves because ponytails on men were synonymous with ‘eighties wanker’ as far as I was concerned.)

My heart, which was already beating in double time, sped up to quadruple time. He was meeting my parents, not my bank manager. And even my bank manager, cool as she was, wouldn’t expect him to dress like that.

‘Do I look all right?’ Greg whispered as he arrived at my door.

I nodded, mute. And scared.
Dear God, please don’t let him start talking in a posh accent or something
.

I led the way into the living room. As we entered, Dad2 stood. Mum and Eric were already standing but, thankfully, Mum was no longer displaying Greg’s underwear. All three of them looked expectantly to the door as Greg stepped into the living room behind me.

I could imagine what Greg was seeing: a five-foot-nothing woman, with black, curly-permed hair. She has a nice face and is wearing a blue pleated skirt, white blouse and a big cream cardie. To the woman’s left, about half a foot taller in height, is a white man. He has glasses on that don’t hide his lined, jowly face. What hair hasn’t receded is white. He wears suit trousers and a white shirt, with the collar open, curls of his chest hair showing at the top. To the woman’s right, taller than both of the older people, is an Aryan type in baggy blue combats and white T-shirt.

‘Everyone, this is Greg . . .’ My voice died.
Shite, hadn’t even thought about what to call him
, ‘My . . .’
What was he? My boyfriend? Yes, obviously. But I’d only called him that out loud to Mr Chocolate Sniffer. And nobody who could even vaguely be described as my boyfriend had met my parents. This was all too brand new
. ‘My erm . . . boy . . . fmnd. Greg, this is my mum, Dad2 and my brother, Eric.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Mum said, taking Greg’s proffered hand.

‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ Greg replied, straight into flirt mode – the creep even kissed the back of her hand.

‘Hello, Greg,’ Dad2 said. ‘Are you named after Gregory Peck by any chance?’

‘Yes, sir. My mother absolutely loved
Roman Holiday
.’

SIR?!

‘All right, mate,’ Eric said, shaking Greg’s hand warmly.

Greg visibly relaxed. ‘Hi,’ he said with a grin.

‘Mate, thanks to you, I’m going to have to change,’ Eric said. ‘It’s not a good way to start things, you know? Making your girlfriend’s brother look bad.’

‘Sorry?’ Greg said.

‘Look at yea. Suit. I’ll have to change. Wear my suit. If I don’t my
ma
will go on and on about how smart yea look. Won’t yea, Mum?’

Mum gave him a look that said,
Stop being so silly
.

Greg shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

‘A wee tip for yea, lad. Always try to impress the brother, not the old folks. Brothers have more sway with the girlfriends.’

Mum raised an eyebrow at Eric that said,
Go to your room and change
.

‘See?’ Eric smirked at Greg, then headed for the office/second bedroom.

Eric’s mucking about had been an attempt to put everyone at ease. The pants incident hadn’t done Greg any favours so Eric made Mum relax enough to give him a couple of her world-famous looks. Mum and Dad2 went off to change, too, leaving me with Greg.

‘That went all right, didn’t it?’ Greg whispered anxiously.

‘I suppose, if you don’t count the pants and the condoms.’

‘Bye, everyone, it was great to meet you. I’ll see you soon,’ Greg said, picking up his jacket and tie. I stood too, ready to see him out.

Dad2 chuckled. ‘Soon? Yes, lad, I guess tomorrow is soon,’ Dad2 said.

‘I don’t know why he’s going home anyway, pretending he doesn’t sleep here. It’s not like Mum hasn’t already found his pants,’ Eric smirked.

Dad2 almost spat out his beer as Eric collapsed in laughter. Mum had the beginnings of a smile teasing around her eyes (two small sherries had loosened her up). I hooked an arm through Greg’s. He was the only person who hadn’t had a drink because he’d driven us to the restaurant. He looked confused.

‘See you tomorrow, lad,’ D2 said.

‘See ya tomorrow, mate,’ Eric said, tossing Greg a can of beer. ‘Have this when you get home.’

Greg caught it one-handed.

‘Good night, Gregory,’ Mum said, ‘see you tomorrow.’

Greg and I started to the door and as I shut it behind us D2 called out, ‘Don’t bring the car tomorrow, lad, we’ll pay for your taxi home. You’ve got to have a couple of drinks with us.’

‘Aye, and none of that suit nonsense, either,’ Eric added.

‘Byeeeee,’ Mum called.

Fresh air pulled its cool blanket of oxygen and nitrogen and all the other elements that made up the air we breathe around us as we stepped out of my building and went to his red Escort.

Greg opened his car door, threw his jacket across into the passenger seat. Immediately his arms wrapped themselves around me, pulling me tight against him. I was a whole galaxy of emotions, but the sun in my galaxy right then was relief. Greg hadn’t batted an eye about my family. I hadn’t caught him giving sly looks or acting like he was trying to work things out. He came, he saw, he accepted. He’d even had the common decency to be scared they’d hate him. That’s all I wanted, for him to realise my family is like a box of chocolates: we all looked different, but were essentially made from the same stuff. We belonged together.

Greg was lovely. I kept forgetting that. I kept expecting him to turn into Darth Vader when he was so blatantly Han Solo. He didn’t need to be constantly held at arm’s length. And I didn’t regret lessening the distance between us now. I’d almost driven myself crazy by worrying about it beforehand, but it’d been done and he didn’t run away, and I hadn’t wanted to run away either. He was special.

‘So, you suit-wearing weirdo, do you think you could handle a weekend with my family? Will you come back tomorrow?’

‘Do you want me to?’ he asked.

‘After only three hours you’re like part of my family: Eric likes you; D2 thinks you’re a laugh and Mum was impressed with the suit and the “yes, sir”. But, apart from all that, I’ll miss you.’

‘Really?’ He was surprised. But not as surprised as me – all the nice stuff I’d been thinking had spilled out.

I pushed my lips on his. If I kept talking I might say something stupid. Greg pulled me away after a few seconds.

‘I’ll have to stop you right there,’ he murmured against my lips. ‘After three days a simple kiss could get very messy.’

‘OK, get in the car before I drag you back upstairs. And, Sunday night, no telly, no food, just sex,’ I said. I leant in through the car window as he shut the door behind him. ‘Did her parents adore you after about six seconds too?’

‘Who?’

‘The six-yearer, did her parents adore you straight away?’

Mid-breath, Greg froze. His whole body meanwhile seemed to drain of colour and life. Ahh, there it was, ‘something stupid’ courtesy of Ms Amber Salpone.

Maybe if I back away from the car he won’t notice that I’ve dredged up what is obviously a painful memory
.

‘Do you really want to know? About her?’

Not really. Not when you have a penchant for telling me every detail about what you’ve got up to in the past. Not when you don’t yet know that I was highly selective about my past
. ‘If you want to talk about it,’ I said neutrally.
Please say no, please say no
.

Greg leant across, opened the passenger door. ‘You’d better sit down.’

Great
.

I got in the car, shut the door, twisted in my seat, pulled my knees up and draped Greg’s jacket over me, hooked it under my chin. It smelt of him. His soft but manly scent. It reminded me of going to sleep, listening to his heartbeat. Greg twisted slightly in his seat so he could look at me while he spoke.
Do not say anything sarky or ‘clever’. Even if it looks like the conversation’s going to get heavy, you are not allowed to become Sarky Salpone
, I warned myself.

‘Kristy and I slept with each other on and off during college but in the final year we got together properly. She was my soul mate. I know it sounds weird, a bloke saying that, but that’s how I felt. Anyhow, during our fourth year together we talked about going travelling. During our fifth year we talked about splitting up. During our sixth year she got pregnant.’

OK, heart, please start beating, this is no big shock. Greg’s got a child. I suppose nobody who shagged around as much as he did could not be a baby father to at least one child. No, heart, I’m not kidding, please start beating. Please
. . .
Thank you
.

‘I was so excited when she told me. I got down on one knee and asked her to marry me. She said yes. Everything was so good, so perfect. There I was, about to marry my soul mate and have a baby with her . . . Kristy started doing forgetful pregnant things, leaving things lying around, leaving letters lying around. I was practically living at her flat then. I know I shouldn’t have read it . . .’ He stopped.

Greg, who had a key to her flat because he was practically living with her, had been there all alone. Bored, restless, wanting his pregnant fiancée to come home so he could take care of her. The letter was lying on the bedside table. He hadn’t meant to read it. It’s just, he saw his name on the blue sheet of paper. Like hearing your name in a crowded room, his name and the word ‘baby’ jumped out at him. This was odd because they’d planned to wait three months before telling anyone their joyous news.

I don’t think you should tell Greg the baby isn’t his
, the letter read.
You never know, it might be. Just hold off until after you get married
.

‘And do you know what I did?’ Greg asked me.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to know. Not really. I just couldn’t be with a bloke who hit a pregnant woman. Or even hit a woman. My life had been through that too many times already.

‘I pretended it wasn’t happening. I cooked dinner as usual, sat and waited for her. I don’t know how I did it, but I put it right out of my head. Kristy knew, though. It might have been out of my head but it showed on my face. When she went into the bedroom she saw she’d left the letter out and guessed. The whole story came out then. That year we’d gone through hell, she’d got close to another guy. She’d fallen in love but leaving me would be like leaving her best friend so she stayed.