“I’ll be right back,” she sings, her bangles jingling in rhythm with her steps as she saunters to the kitchen.
I breathe out asigh. It’s been less than five minutes, and I’m already exhausted.
While she’s away, we take our seats at the table and start chatting with Oscar. He’s an English teacher at an all-boys school outside London. I knew he was different from her usual boyfriends. Most of them are healers or pet psychics.
Soon, Mum comes back with our drinks and a few bowls of snacks balanced precariously on a mismatched tray. She barely takes her seat before her attention zips straight back to Archie. “So, what kind of sports are you involved in?”
Ugh. Here we go.
“I’m a footballer,” Archie says. “I play for the Regents.”
“No way.” She places a hand on his forearm, her bracelets clinking. “This is wonderful. Katherine, why haven’t you mentioned him before?”
Well, Ididmention him, but not in the most glorious of terms. No need to bring that up again now.
“The Regents were my dad’s favourite team,” Oscar chimes in, sipping his drink. “I don’t really follow football. You’ll have to forgive me.”
Archie smiles. “That’s okay. Katherine’s not a fan either, and we still manage to be friends.” He winks at me, and I drink a long sip of iced tea, hoping the cold will travel straight to my cheeks and cool the sudden heat.
“Well,” Mumsays, looking fondly between Archie and me, “surely, that’s all about to change. I knowIwant to watch a match now, just to see you play. What position are you?”
“I’m the goalie. And if you ever want to come to a match, just let me know. I’ll get you tickets to the VIP suites. You’d be treated like royalty while witnessing the best team in England.”
Oh no, what did he just do?
Mum’s eyes are sparkling brighter than ever. Surely because she just heard two of her favourite words: “VIP” and “Royalty.”
“I would love to. We should go together,” she says, turning to me, then to Oscar, who nods along in agreement.
I press my lips in a thin line. “Can’t. I’m working.”
“Katherine,” Mum scolds with a dramatic sigh, as though I just turned down a marriage proposal from an eligible bachelor. “It’s rude to refuse an invitation. You don’t even know when the match is.”
“I know when it is. Saturday. And I also know that I’m working this weekend.”
Archie rakes a hand through his hair, his forearm muscles flexing slightly. “That’s okay. Another time. The invitation still stands for both of you, though.”
Mum relaxes athis words. “Perfect. We’ll exchange numbers afterwards to get it all sorted.”
The conversation shifts as they start peppering Archie with football questions. And honestly, I don’t mind. He handles it like a pro—charismatic, quick-witted, and warm without trying too hard. This is, shockingly, the most relaxed I’ve ever felt while having dinner with my mum.
Until she shrugs off one of her many shawls, and I catch a glimpse of the spot on her neck.
My stomach lurches.
“Mum, you said it was gone!” I put my fork down with a clatter and push away from the table, stepping around it to get a better look.
“It’s nothing,” Mum says hastily, tugging the fabric back into place.
“Let me see,” I demand, not budging.
She sighs theatrically but removes the shawl. As I feared, the spot is still there. Dark brown. Kind of like a birthmark—except it only showed up a few months ago, and I’m certain it’s grown since then.
“Just a beauty spot,” she says, forcing a little laugh. “Katherine tends to overreact. And besides, I had it checked out by my doctor. She gave me a balm to put on it, with calendula, lavender, and turmeric. Doesn’t it smell divine?”
My blood goes from a simmer to a full boil.
“Mum, she’s not a doctor. She’s aherbalist. You need to have it checked out by a professional and have a biopsy done.”