Miracle on Regent Street (18 page)

‘Mmm,’ he replies unconvincingly.

‘OK, well
he
might not be,’ she says churlishly, ‘but I am. It’s the nearest I’m going to get to any romance these days,’ she adds pointedly.

‘What does that mean?’ Will shoots back, glancing back at me in the mirror as if to say, ‘Look what I have to put up with.’ I immediately gaze out the window. I hate
getting involved in their spats. Besides, he should know by now that I’ll always side with Delilah, whether she’s right or wrong. She’s my sister, after all.

‘Just what I say,’ she retorts. ‘It’s not like you’ve whisked me off to, you know, Paris recently. Or
anywhere
,come to think of it.’

He shakes his head in bemusement. ‘I wasn’t aware you
wanted
to go to Paris again.’

‘My point exactly.’ She rolls her eyes at me and shoots him a dark look. Even I think she’s being a bit unfair. But I wouldn’t dare say so. No, best to keep quiet in
these situations. Unless . . .

‘The wipers on the bus go . . . swish swish swish,’ I sing brightly, hoping I can break the tension that is building up and remind them who’s in the car.

‘Swithh swithh swithhh,’ repeats Raff.

‘Shwish swishy shwish,’ sings Lola after him.

‘The wipers on the bus go swish swish swish,’ the three of us sing.

Then Will and Delilah suddenly join in. ‘ALL DAY LONG!’

Suddenly we’re all laughing and the argument is averted. For now.

Finally we pull into Mum and Dad’s driveway and emerge from the car with Raffy shouting, ‘Granmadad! Granmadad!’ to announce our arrival.

My mother comes out, gliding effortlessly across the perfectly manicured front lawn, looking a vision of style and elegance in an ochre shift dress over cropped tights, which she has teamed with
a statement necklace and bejewelled ballet pumps. Her blond hair sits in perfectly set waves over her shoulders, fanning across her eyes in the Farrah Fawcett flick that has been her signature
style for years. There’s not a sliver of silver to be seen on her head – despite the fact that she’s nearing her sixtieth year. Her make-up is done to perfection: a hint of pale
green eye shadow and brown mascara to bring out her chestnut-coloured eyes, and just a touch of coral lipstick. She spreads her arms wide as she walks towards us, as if to embrace every single one
of us at once.

My mum lives for her family. She adores our visits and she’d love – more than anything, I think – to have every one of her children back at home, or at the very least, down the
road. But this distance hasn’t stopped her being a very ‘hands-on’ mother. Aside from the monthly Sunday meets and the many family occasions we come home for, my mother uses the
two-bedroom flat in Hampstead as a pied-à-terre from which to regularly check up on all her children.

‘My darlings!’ she squeals with delight, and covers her grandchildren’s heads with kisses as Lola and Raffy wrap themselves around her legs like koala bears. Then she looks up
and smiles at us. ‘Come inside! Your father’s just finishing an important phone call but he’ll be right with us. Now, what can I get you all? Gin and tonics all round?’ We
nod wearily as we head towards the front door. Neither Delilah, Will nor I can bring ourselves to speak yet. We’re still recovering from the journey. That doesn’t stop my mother,
though.

‘Noah and Jonah are already here, so make yourselves comfy and I’ll bring you some drinks and nibbles out. We’re having roast pheasant with all the trimmings for lunch! Oh, it
is
so
good to have all my babies here! You all look so well. Although, Eve, darling, you could have made a bit more of an effort,’ she chides.

I gaze down at my weekend uniform of jeans and a hoodie. My mum is a perfectionist about everything: the way she looks, her house, her children. There’s never a hair out of place on her
head and not a cushion unplumped in the house. I may have got her whole neat-freak gene but the way we look couldn’t be more different. She would have hyperventilated at the sight of me
dressed up for my date with Joel.

‘Why you insist on wearing those drab clothes is beyond me,’ she sighs wearily. She reaches over and tries to smooth down my hair, then pinches my cheeks to colour them.

I wriggle from beneath her grasp. ‘Stoppit, Mum,’ I grumble, flapping my hands at her like she’s a persistent fly.

‘But, darling,’ she says, stroking my face, ‘how are you ever going to meet a man dressed like that?’

There’s a snort of laughter from the lounge; Jonah and Noah are obviously listening.

‘Mu-um!’ I exclaim, swatting her away. She shakes her head and scuttles off into the kitchen to clean the surfaces one more time, and arrange some flowers for the centrepiece of the
table. The house is already laden with gorgeous Christmas decorations, greenery and festive touches that Martha Stewart would be proud of. There’s Mum’s annual homemade Christmas wreath
on the front door. This year’s is fashioned from dried oranges, holly and cranberries. I walk into the lounge to find Noah and Jonah sprawled over the two huge chesterfield sofas in front of
a roaring fire (complete with stockings hung round the holly-and-ivy-laden mantelpiece), reading the business and property sections of the papers.

Jonah looks up first. ‘E.T!’ he says, and untangles his legs and arms to stand up and hug me. This was one of the (many) nicknames given to me as a child because, according to them,
my pale complexion reminded them of the Extra-terrestrial when he gets ill and nearly dies. I punch Jonah on the arm and he pretends to wince. I know he’s just pretending because Jonah is
built like a New Zealand rugby player. He’s all beef and bicep, with thick dark hair like Dad’s, thighs like tree trunks, a big mouth and a big heart.

Noah turns from his newspaper before jumping up and giving me one of his bear hugs. He is Jonah’s wingman. Just a year younger than he and three years older than me, he is a slighter
version of our big brother; less beef, less hair, less impact. He’s gentler in every way. I guess you could say I’m closer to him than Jonah, but they come as a pair. It’s rare to
see one without the other. I pull back and make a childish face at them but they just flop back down on the couch and pick up the papers whilst I arrange myself neatly on the end of the sofa,
twiddling my toes in front of the roaring fire.

Mum and Dad’s Grade II listed house is a big Regency-style pile on the outskirts of Norwich. It’s beautifully decorated to Mum’s – and Laura Ashley’s –
exacting standards. It’s kind of twee, with lots of florals and pastels, but I don’t think I appreciated it enough when I was a kid. I sometimes found it suffocating, surrounded by so
much, well, perfection. And silent. Dad would always be working, and Mum was always busy doing the house up, or at various charitable events. Delilah had left home and gone to university by the
time I was old enough to notice, and when I was a teenager, the boys were always out at football or rugby games, going to the pub, going out with girls, or revising for exams. Usually in that
order. I was just a nuisance to them. Most of the time they barely even noticed I was around. I mean, they loved me – I always knew that; they were protective like only big brothers can be
– but other than that I held no interest for them. Delilah was an entirely different matter. With her hot university friends, followed by her fancy media job and swanky lifestyle, she was
always of interest. This dynamic has never changed. I’m still the baby sister who they dote on but who isn’t worth listening to. But it’s fine. I’ve accepted my position in
the family hierarchy.

Delilah drifts in with Will, and the boys get up and practically rugby tackle each other to get to him first. They are as much in awe of Will the Hotshot City Hedge Fund Manager as my sister.
There is much hugging and backslapping. Will and the boys immediately start talking about rugby and Delilah and I roll our eyes at each other. It’s at times like this that I’m so glad
I’ve got Delilah. I’d be truly outnumbered otherwise. The testosterone in this house can get unbearable.

Mum drifts in and out of the room in her Cath Kidston apron, serving drinks and snacks and checking we’re all happy and settled. Dad, apparently, is still on an important work call. As
usual.

‘Kids!’ Dad smiles as he finally sweeps in with the force of a hurricane, filling the room with the power of his voice and presence. He is the master of the house
and he knows it. He envelops Delilah and me and his grandchildren in big hugs and makes his way over to the boys for more backslapping. Then he stands, hands on hips, grinning widely at us all,
clad in his usual Sunday gear of checked shirt, V-neck jumper and cords. He is still movie-star handsome, if I can say that about my own father. He has the chiselled features and determined jaw
that would look great on camera. In many ways he and Mum have barely changed in the years that they’ve been married. My mum can still fit her petite frame into her wedding dress and has the
slightly nervous, girlish gait of a new lover around him, as if she can’t quite believe that he’s really her husband. She is standing in the doorway now, looking fondly in on us all,
although no one else seems to have noticed her. Her eyes light up when they rest on my father, and she heads over to him and hands him his pre-lunch gin and tonic. He takes it and pats her on the
bottom without looking at her, so engrossed is he in his conversation with Will about stocks and shares. She stands there for a moment, then picks up some empty glasses, straightens some cushions
and goes back to the kitchen.

Delilah has cornered me and is trying to get me to impart the last details of my date with Joel. I, quite sensibly, am refusing. If my family gets wind of it I will never hear the end of it.

‘Come on, Evie,’ she whispers out of the corner of her mouth. ‘This is killing me. I promise I won’t make a fuss, but just nod once for yes if he kissed you.
Pleeeease.’

I glance sideways at her, then look back into the room. Delilah’s kids are jumping up and down to a song they’ve put on, Mum is busy brushing invisible dust off Jonah’s
shoulders and he, Will, Dad and Noah are standing in an impenetrable circle in front of the woodburner, arms folded. Delilah and I may as well not be here.

I speak quickly, carried away by Delilah’s desperation to hear about my life.

‘OH MY GOD HE KISSED YOU!’ she screams when I get to the good bit, then slaps her hand over her mouth, aware that what she’s just done is akin to throwing me into a
lion’s cage. The Taylor clan all turn to face us as if in slow motion.

‘What?’ says Mum, a combination of hope and confusion plastered over her face.

‘Who?’ says Dad, as if cross-examining me in court.

‘WHY?’ say Jonah and Noah in unison, and they burst out laughing.

Then everyone else joins in.

After the initial furore, Mum’s timely announcement that lunch is ready means my news is quickly forgotten. The Taylor men (and Will), like most men, are governed by their stomachs. I am
hopeful that I can get through the next couple of hours without anyone bringing up the kiss again.

No such luck.

If the male members of my family are like hungry lions when it comes to food, my mother is like a blood-sucking vampire when it comes to my love life. Or lack of it. She has spent the last five
years waiting for me to announce that I have met The One and am about to settle down and give her lots more grandchildren.

I think any mother likes to see something of herself in her daughters, and whilst Delilah ticks all the boxes on the looks front, I know my mother feels slightly out of her depth when it comes
to Delilah’s career. She’s never understood Delilah’s dogged ambition to break the glass ceiling. Delilah has always been driven by her desire to succeed. I often catch Dad
shooting Delilah admiring glances when she’s telling us about another big pitch she’s won, or an important event she’s been invited to speak at. She’s appeared on numerous
lists of most influential women in the media, was one of the youngest MDs of an ad agency ever, and has consistently proven that she’s as capable as any man in her industry.

No, Mum seems far more able to relate to me, which means I get far more hassle from her than my sister ever did. She also believes that because I have followed in her footsteps by working at
Hardy’s, that means I too am just waiting for the right man to come along so I can give it all up for a life of baking and babies. And no matter how much I try to tell her that I value my
independence and that I have no intention of giving up my career dreams for a man again, she is utterly convinced that someone handsome will sweep into the store one day and take me away from the
drudgery of having a job. And I just cannot cope with her thinking that is about to happen.

The usual high-octane Taylor talking-round-the-dinner-table ceases for a moment as everyone tucks into the delicious roast lunch. And, like a seasoned pro, that’s when Mum seizes her
moment to snare me.

‘So come on, darling, tell us about this man you’ve met!’ she coos, and all heads turn to face me, chewing like cows on cud. I rapidly stuff a forkful of food into my mouth to
try to delay my answer, but quickly realize this is a rookie mistake.

‘She met him at Hardy’s, Mum! His name’s Joel and he’s
gorgeous
, apparently!’ Delilah exclaims excitedly, and she and Mum squeal and clap their hands like
teenagers. I don’t know what’s got into Delilah recently. She knows about Mum’s obsession with my love life and usually she is sensitive to it. I feel like Tom Cruise in
Top
Gun
when Goose croaks it: suddenly I’m flying solo. I shoot Delilah a warning glare but she doesn’t see me. She just carries on sharing my private affairs. I’m clenching in
embarrassment as Noah and Jonah roll about laughing.

‘Oh, I knew it!’ Mum breathes as Delilah finishes telling the story of how Joel and I met. ‘It’s just as I said it would be.’

‘Mu-um,’ I groan, but she doesn’t seem to hear me either. ‘Do you remember when we first met, Charles, darling?’ she says, gazing at Dad adoringly.

‘Of course, Grace,’ he answers, stabbing at a piece of meat and then looking at Mum fondly. ‘How could I forget the best day of my life?’