Down London Road (On Dublin Street #2)(81)
It wasn't just because they were my boyfriend's parents and I wanted them to like me. It was because they were Cam's parents – parents he adored – and I wanted them to think I was good enough for their son.
The last week had been strange. At the beginning of the week I'd still felt insecure and weird over Cam's announcement that he'd been in love with this exotic-sounding Blair person, but since he spent all his spare time with me, and was even affectionate at the bar – seeming unable to keep his hands off me for more than five seconds – those insecurities started to fade into the background until finally I was barely even aware of them.
As Saturday approached, and Cole and I readied ourselves for a night in Longniddry, I grew more and more anxious about meeting Cam's parents. I confessed this to him and he thought it was adorable. He appeared to be completely confident that they'd like me.
So was Malcolm.
We'd still been texting, and on Wednesday he'd called me to talk for the first time since the split. It had been awkward at first, but tension eased between us when he told me he was dating someone. The said someone was older than me and had a kid, and Malcolm felt a little out of his depth with her. I told him to spoil the working mother of one and he'd win her over in no time. He told me to just be myself and I'd win Cam's parents over in no time. I had got off the phone wondering which 'myself' he was talking about, since I didn't think I'd ever introduced him to the real one.
On Saturday morning Cam had rented a car to drive us out of the city and before I knew it we were driving down the main street of Longniddry, passing quaint cottages with their beach-coloured bricks and red-slate roofs and the local pub, which looked well-frequented, but I hadn't been able to enjoy the idyllic prettiness. It was a cool spring day and the sun was out and the little village was fairly busy. But me? I was too busy gnawing my lip. Despite both Cam's and Malcolm's assurances, little mini-versions of me had started freaking out together in my stomach. I could feel them kicking and screaming in there.
We turned left at a roundabout, I knew that, and Cam had pointed out the grand red-stone gatehouse to the Gosford estate, babbling on about something his father had told him about it. Cole had replied, so I gathered he was actually listening. I, on the other hand, was just trying not to upchuck.
When we pulled into a well-groomed housing estate and parked in front of a medium-sized whitewashed house with a red roof, I lost my ability to breathe. Cam laughed at my reaction, giving me a quick, hard kiss before ushering us out of the car and into his parents' house.
They had been lovely so far. Helena, or Lena, as she preferred to be called, was warm, kind and dry-witted, and Anderson – Andy – was quiet, friendly and genuinely interested in me and Cole. Their dog, Bryn, was an energetic fourteen-month-old King Charles puppy who immediately fell in love with Cole, and vice versa.
We'd gone to the local inn for lunch together, where we chatted about work, my work, Cam's work, their work, and Cole's talent for drawing and writing. I gathered Cam had told them something about Mum because they trod very carefully around the subject. Surprisingly, I didn't mind if they knew. Cam was obviously close to them and shared a lot about his life with them. If that included me and my life, I could only take that as a good sign for our relationship.
That night we'd watched some telly with them and Cole had been drawn into a history programme Andy was watching, finding Andy's knowledge about historical events completely fascinating. He had multitasked, listening to Andy while tormenting the life out of Bryn, who loved every minute of the attention. I'd sat in the kitchen with Cam and his mum while she pulled out old baby photographs that I giggled over. Cam had been a funny-looking pre-adolescent. It was so cute.
It was all so normal.
So perfectly ordinary.
It was wonderful.
At bedtime, Cole took the couch and Cam and I crashed in his old bedroom. It had been completely preserved from his teen years: posters of bands looking a decade younger plastered over his walls, cutouts from film magazines, as well as his own drawings. Like his sketches now, they consisted of cool little cartoon paradox people. He tended to draw cartoon people in an action that was completely at odds with their physical appearance. I'd stolen one of his recent drawings, sketched on a napkin at work. It was a cartoon mercenary – big, bulging muscles, leather vest, motorcycle boots, chains, bullet clips strapped around him, headscarf, guns in holsters and a knife tucked into his boots. In his hands was a big open box of chocolates in the shape of a love heart and as he ate them he wore this dreamy, goofy smile on his face. It was now my bookmark.