When I Met You. Jemma Forte

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      The day was feeling more like an endurance test by the minute. I felt dreadful and the last thing I felt like doing was helping Mum get ready for a state visit from Hayley, Gary and his bloody family. Especially since I could hear that Pete was upstairs, blasting Elvis as usual. I know he’s younger. I know I should have a place of my own. I know I need to pull my weight but I also know Mum will never expect anything of Pete simply because he’s male. She’s raising a Neanderthal. My mum’s a sexist.

      I heaved myself upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom, where I began the process of changing from a clown back into a normal person. As I stood under the shower, the pan-stick make-up dripped off my face and disappeared down the plughole, along with any hopes I might have been harbouring about Simon. What a bastard. Thank god nothing had happened. At least now I could still tell Andy I’d waited for him. The thought of Andy made me instantly nostalgic – and guilty – and as the water pounded my head, I wished more than anything I was miles away from here, on a beautiful beach with him. Preferably lying in a hammock eating a banana pancake at my favourite time of day, five o’clock. Although that’s only my favourite time of day when I’m on the beach, not when I’m at home. That is to say I don’t like it when everybody’s pouring out of work after a gruelling day, battling home in heavy traffic, or on the bus without a seat, head squashed into someone’s armpit. But five o’clock on the beach is another story altogether. It’s when the sun’s starting to dip and its rays are losing their intensity, but it’s still so beautifully warm that you can feel yourself drifting off into a peaceful, dreamy slumber.

      ‘These vol-au-vents aren’t going to stuff themselves!’ Mum shrieked up the stairs, putting paid to any more of that whimsy.

      Ten minutes later I’d shoved on some black leggings and was just about to pull an oversized sweater over them when suddenly I pictured Hayley’s look of outraged disapproval. Off they slid again and I selected instead a dress and belt that I didn’t think even she could take umbrage with. I dragged a brush quickly through my hair, another reason to love having short hair, along with the fact I no longer feel like a poor man’s Hayley. We both used to have long, straight, blonde hair, only hers was that bit blonder and straighter. Since going for the chop, I feel more like I have my own identity and less like people are constantly comparing us when we’re together.

      I hoped my outfit would keep her happy today. Not because I gave a shit whether she approved or not, but because I couldn’t be bothered with any more scenes. Still rattled by my confrontation with Simon, I slapped on a bit of mascara and some blusher and then went downstairs to help stuff Mum’s ruddy vol-au-vents.

      ‘You need to give your eyebrows a rub,’ said Mum, who was in full flap mode. ‘You’ve still got black make-up on them. Other than that though, you look nice.’

      I was surprised. I don’t usually get many compliments from Mum – they’re usually all reserved for Hayley or Pete and, on occasion, Martin – and when I had my hair cut short she acted as if I’d mutilated myself. Today Mum was wearing too tight white capri pants with perspex wedges and a v-neck fuchsia sweater that matched her lipstick. Her ash blonde hair was looking bouncy. She’d obviously tonged it to within an inch of its life and her eyes and cheeks were plastered with shimmery make-up. She’s good looking my mum, attractive for her fifty-one years, though her sweet tooth contributes towards what she calls her muffin top. Last year, Martin bought her an exercise bike, which she keeps in the bedroom and goes on religiously every day. She likes to watch Loose Women while she’s on it and has been known to devour an entire packet of biscuits as she pedals.

      As I rubbed my eyebrows viciously with a bit of kitchen towel she rushed around the kitchen, making sure it looked pristine. ‘When Wendy and Derek get here, I want to fill them in about Sing For Britain,’ she said. ‘You know how much your sister looks up to Wendy, so if we can just get her on side.’

      I sighed.

      ‘The forms have come through, so now I’ve got all the dates for the London auditions. You will back me up about what a good idea it is, won’t you?’

      ‘I’m not backing you up Mum,’ I said wearily. Having heard about nothing else for months the subject was starting to wear rather thin, especially since she wouldn’t listen to reason. Going on the show would spell disaster for my sister. Sad but true I’m afraid. I flicked the kettle on for a much-needed cup of tea. ‘I’ve told you already Mum, I don’t think Hayley should audition. The judges will crucify her. She can’t sing.’

      Mum narrowed her eyes at me, outraged. ‘Marianne Baker, how can you say such a thing? Don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive. Just because you have no idea what you’re doing with your life.’

      I despaired. Ultimately it was pointless trying to say anything because the fact that I don’t have my own life particularly well sorted out – thanks for pointing that out Mum – means she wrongly assumes I’m jealous. This really upsets me because I certainly am not and am only saying anything because I’ve got Hayley’s best interests at heart. It’s hurtful that she thinks I’m so selfish. She won’t listen to reason though and it’s just such a shame her enthusiasm is so misguided.

      Mum is the living definition of a pushy stage mum, or at least she is when it comes to Hayley. In fact, if you were to look up pushy stage mum in the dictionary you might find a picture of her with a frenzied look in her eye, which is the look she gets whenever Hayley opens her mouth to strangle a tune. Ideally it would be an animated picture so you could also see her mouthing the lyrics without realising she’s doing so.

      Mum and Martin sent Hayley to stage school when she was about thirteen. At the time they did ask me if I wanted to go too, but fairly half-heartedly and I can still remember the relief on their faces when I declined. They simply couldn’t have afforded two sets of fees and that was fine. I’d never been interested in singing or dancing, only violin, so it probably wouldn’t have been the place for me anyway, although I did sometimes wonder why they never encouraged my passion as much. Maybe if they had, I would have got further with it? Who knows?

      Now Hayley’s ‘career’ is pretty much Mum’s reason for being, which is a shame for a few reasons. Firstly, because I strongly suspect Hayley only goes along with Mum’s obsession because she’s never been allowed to consider for a moment what it is she might actually like to do herself, and secondly because even if she did want to be a star I can’t see how it would ever happen because she’s simply not that good. She’s already thirty-three and all her showbiz ‘career’ amounts to so far is one fleeting appearance in an advert for a cruise company, a few shit modelling jobs, panto, and wearing hot-pants at events where she gives out leaflets. It doesn’t help that other people egg Mum on because Hayley’s so beautiful. Though just because someone’s beautiful doesn’t mean they have what it takes to become the next Elaine Paige. Singing in tune helps for a start. Still, this small detail has never bothered Mum or Hayley, or at least it hadn’t until a few years ago when Hayley grew utterly sick of never having Christmas off because of panto. She’d had enough. She was starting to get too old to play one of the villagers anyway and was sick of failing every audition she went to. By now she was settled and married to Gary, so shifted her focus from becoming a star, to bearing his children, which personally I think is wonderful. When she told me she wanted to try for a baby it was the first time I’d ever seen Hayley speak truly passionately about anything. Her entire face lit up in a way it never does when talking about performing. I could see then how caring for someone else could be the making of her. Plus, becoming a parent would take the pressure off as Mum would surely, finally, have to back off.

      ‘Guess who I bumped into last night?’ I said now, determined to avoid a row, so deciding to change the subject.

      ‘Who?’ she asked, still looking huffy.

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