Three Amazing Things About You(21)

Stressed of Southampton

‘Go on then,’ said Flo. ‘What’s the answer?’ Since Margot had begun subscribing to www.threethingsaboutyou.com, reading the problems aloud and debating the replies had become a regular ritual between the two of them.

‘I hope she gives her a piece of her mind,’ Margot snorted. ‘Right, here we go:

Dear Stressed,

I see you didn’t bother putting much thought into your three things about you. Luckily, the rest of your letter told me pretty much all I needed to know about your character.

Oh dear, poor you, how dare your mum turn up at your wedding in cheap shoes? It’s almost as if she’s been trying to scrimp and save all these years so that someone else can afford to have everything they want!

How lucky your mum is to have a daughter as loving and thoughtful as you. What does your fiancé think of this situation? If he agrees with you that your mother should be banned from the wedding because her dress is the wrong colour, then you two truly deserve each other.

If your mother was the one writing to me, I would urge her to sew neon-yellow fringing around the hem of that orange dress and kick off her cheap shoes when she dances on the table at your wedding. After all, she’s going to be in the mood to celebrate, having succeeded in offloading her selfish, ungrateful daughter on to someone else.

Seriously, you need to apologise to your mum, tell her you love her and let her wear whatever she likes to the wedding. Then maybe you should thank her for spending the last twenty-odd years single-handedly bringing you up.

‘Good answer,’ said Flo.

‘Great answer.’ Margot nodded with satisfaction. She was quite the connoisseur when it came to advice columns; she subscribed to half a dozen, but this was the one she liked best. ‘Rose always gets it right.’

‘I wish we knew what she looked like. In my head she’s all soft and cuddly, in her sixties, with rosy cheeks and a kind face.’

‘But not afraid to say what’s on her mind. Tells the grandchildren off when they’re naughty. She could be Irish.’ Margot paused to consider this possibility. ‘Or Cornish.’

‘Or a big burly truck driver calling himself Rose.’ Flo checked her watch; she was due off duty in five minutes. ‘I have to leave soon, Margot. Anything else you need me to do before I head off?’

‘No thank you, my darling, I’m fine. Oh, but I’m almost out of Tabasco . . . next time you’re in the supermarket, could you be an angel and pick me up a couple more bottles?’

‘No problem. I’m not in again until Sunday, though. Can you last until then?’ Margot’s addiction to splashing Tabasco over almost everything she ate meant she carried the little bottles in her handbag wherever she went and lived in terror of running out.

‘I can. Ah, you’re a good girl.’ Margot smiled at her over the top of her elegant silver-framed reading glasses. ‘Make it three bottles. That’ll be perfect.’





Chapter 11


‘Ta-daaaa!’ Bea burst into the living room, where Hallie was engaged in painting her toenails bright coral. ‘Guess what I’m doing for my thirtieth birthday?’

Hallie straightened up. ‘You’ve already told me. You’re having a party at the White Hart.’

‘That was the plan. But now I have a new plan. I’m going to Paris.’

‘Really? Wow, fantastic. And so perfect for you,’ said Hallie. ‘I hear the men in France prefer older women.’

‘Cheek.’ Bea aimed a playful swipe at the plastic tubing snaking between Hallie’s nasal cannulae and her oxygen tank. ‘I could always unplug you, you know. Anyway, guess who’s coming along with me?’

‘Bradley Cooper again? Poor boy, hasn’t he suffered enough?’

‘This time it’s girls only. Sarah’s coming.’ Bea began counting off on her fingers. ‘And Jen. And Poppy and Carla. And me, obviously.’

‘You’ll have an amazing time.’

Bea carried on counting on her fingers. ‘And you.’

Hallie’s heart sank. ‘Oh Bea, no. I can’t.’

‘You can.’

How to explain? ‘Look, thanks for thinking of me, but it just wouldn’t . . . work.’

‘It would. I’ve checked with Luke. And I asked your mum too. There’s no reason why you can’t come along with us.’

‘It’s just so . . . complicated.’

‘But not impossible. People with cystic fibrosis can travel abroad; they do it all the time. You know that.’

Hallie sat back, bare legs stretched out before her, toes splayed in order not to smudge the glossy polish. ‘I know, and it’s really kind of you to invite me, but I don’t want to be the one who spoils things for everyone else. I’d just hold you back and then I’d feel guilty—’