Katie’s eyes began to glaze over as she stared out of the kitchen window into her mother’s small, but beautifully, manicured London SW1-facing garden.
The continuous drone of her mother’s voice delivering her tedious and well-rehearsed marriage monologue was beginning to grate. She had lost count how many times she had heard it before and it was all such total bullshit anyway. Her mother of all people, extolling the virtues of married life and portraying herself as the epitome of the perfect wife and mother was outrageous because she lacked any emotional genes.
Excelling as a loving wife was not in her nature. As long as the registry office ceremony took was Cynthia’s idea of standing by her man. As for a loving mother, Katie had grown up fantasising about how sweet her life would be if her mother had been Shirley from the Partridge Family.
Cynthia moved around the kitchen slowly during her monologue. She was tiny, like a ballet dancer and like a danseuse, pointed her toes before putting her foot on the floor. Occasionally, she would pause for effect, shaking an irritated finger or clasping an exasperated hand to her forehead.
So many times over the years Katie had attempted to disagree, but her mother would talk over her. So what was the point in trying again now? Reasoning with, let alone disagreeing with a self-opinionated narcissist in full flow is totally futile.
“You should be concentrating on finding yourself a husband before it’s too late. That nice Tom Lucas asked you once … how you had the nerve to turn him down is beyond me. He won’t be asking you again anyway, as he’s moved on to greener pastures now, you missed your chance and we can only hope you’ll get another.’
There was a pause as Cynthia clamped her hand over her brow. Katie could feel and hear the steam rushing out of both ears. Enough was enough and she grabbed her mother’s theatrical silence as the opportunity to interject.