‘Do you’ – I couldn’t believe I was saying this out loud – ‘want to get back together or something?’
She snorted, her sniffling slowly grinding to a halt.
‘No. There were a million good reasons why we split up. Of course, there were the little things,’ Mum smiled to herself, ‘he used to browse the baking section in Waterstones, just to take a picture of a new recipe and send it to me – but they weren’t enough to keep us together in the end.’
I laughed despite the sentiment. ‘He would just put the book back and leave? Classic Dad.’
‘I never said he was perfect, Penny, far from it. And I don’t know if you remember this, but when you were little you had this phase of only eating chicken dippers and alphabetti spaghetti.’
I did remember this. Or maybe I didn’t, but it was fresh in my consciousness because of how often Joe liked to bring it up.
‘We all ate the same thing, mainly because I couldn’t be arsed making something different for your dad and me. Looking after you was tiring enough’ – she elbowed me softly so I knew she was kidding – ‘and your dad used to spell out messages on my plate. Sometimes stupid things just to make me laugh – like that time he spelt “shit” and then Joe wouldn’t stop saying it. But sometimes he’d spell out “I love you” in alphabetti spaghetti, and it seemed like the most romantic thing in the world.’
Obviously we both knew that family dinners had stopped happening shortly after the chicken dipper phase, when Dad’s office hours radically increased, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a good memory.
Mum sighed.
‘But those aren’t reasons to keep a marriage afloat when it’s sinking. I know that. I just thought maybe your app didn’t know that.’ She shrugged. ‘But even your app could see the cracks.’
I couldn’t pretend to understand the complexities of a divorce, but I did understand the sting of rejection.
‘The app isn’t always accurate, Mum. Just because he isn’t on your list, doesn’t mean you weren’t well matched. I promise.’ I moved closer to her on the bed, so that I was lying against the headboard too. ‘Level is not the be-all and end-all of compatibility.’
She leaned her head on my shoulder. ‘I told you it was silly.’
‘That’s definitely not silly. I can guarantee I’ve cried to you over more ridiculous things. Remember the time I cried for three hours when my helium balloon flew off?’
Mum laughed. ‘Yes, but you were 5 years old.’
A moment of silence before she spoke again, her voice much smaller this time. ‘Have I set a bad example for love?’
My reaction was immediate. ‘Of course not.’
‘Penny.’ She looked me dead on. ‘Tell me the truth.’
I thought back to their marriage, but more specifically the aftermath. Mum’s constant mantra that independence was the most important thing in the world. The decade-long black cloud that had fallen over Dad.
‘I mean, maybe a bit.’ I sighed. ‘But clearly it didn’t stop Joe, did it? So maybe it’s a me problem.’
She gave me a little shove. ‘Joe was that little bit older when we separated. He saw the bigger picture before any of us did.’
I remembered Joe squeezing my hand under the kitchen table when they’d told me that they were splitting up. Whispering in my ear that it was a good thing.
‘He’s always been annoyingly mature.’
Mum nodded. ‘Mature beyond his years. Another thing I worried about when he was little.’
My mum was a lot of things, but I’d never thought of her as a worrier. I said as much.
‘Where do you think you got it from? Until the divorce, your dad never worried about a thing.’
We sat in silence for a minute, and I mulled over what she’d said.
‘Mum, the only reason I’m single is because I haven’t found the right person. I’m in no rush. I just haven’t met them yet.’
She smirked. ‘Penny.’
I squeezed her shoulder and moved the conversation along. ‘Besides, if there’s one thing I absolutely learnt from your divorce, it’s that a woman doesn’t need a man to be successful. Why do you think I wanted to start my own business?’
I had very vivid memories of lying stomach down on our kitchen floor, drawing plans for my own business whilst Mum danced around me. It was in the very early days of Fondant & Flour, when everything was just barely getting off the ground. I’d considered opening my own florist (didn’t think through my horrific aversion to pollen), an open-air cinema (overdone) and had even drawn the plans up for a restaurant (bold, given that at the age of 12 I could barely fry an egg). It’d taken a while to find my calling, but I’d only ever tried to find it because I’d watched Mum find hers.
She smiled. ‘How did you become the one who knows how to cheer me up?’
‘I’m very wise, if you didn’t know.’ I pulled out a second cookie that I’d squirrelled away in my pocket. ‘You can pay me for my time in baked goods.’
‘I’ll make a note of that.’ Mum sat up a little bit, taming her hair into a ponytail with the scrunchie she kept permanently on her wrist. ‘But seriously, Pen, I don’t want you to think that love isn’t worth a shot. And definitely not because me or your dad made you think that. Promise me?’
I looked down at her phone, to where she was deleting Level. Was there anything my app could actually do right? In the real world, with real emotions instead of a testing lab, did the algorithm produce perfect matches? Or did it just breed doubt?
‘You’ve been the best role model a girl could ask for, Mum.’
She shot me a look. ‘That’s not a promise.’
I squeezed her, giving her one of the hugs she used to give us as kids. The kind of hug that meant you couldn’t breathe as easy, but instantly made you feel protected. ‘I promise.’
23
I rubbed my eyes, trying to avoid smudging my mascara, and stifled a yawn as I pressed the button in the lift. I’d stayed at Mum’s last night, only leaving to grab dinner for us and a sentimental can of alphabetti spaghetti, which I’d presented with a flourish. I’d even conceded my own TV preference so that she could lose herself in Death in Paradise. I felt protective of her in a way that was new, in the same way I’d always felt protective of Dad, who had texted me a thumbs up and smiley face emoji in response to my question about how his second date had gone. Unsurprisingly, given the quality of the stimulus, I’d fallen asleep on her sofa, waking up in the early hours of this morning with one of her huge, knitted throws over me.
