Was Sabina beginning to look her age? And worse – had others noticed too?
THE END Rebecca Mansell
I look into the mirror and my mother stares back at me. Well, not my actual mother. She’s not lurking behind me, suddenly appearing from the shadows of my bedroom to make me jump with a noisy ‘Boo!’.
No, I just look like my mother now. My green eyes are creasing at the sides, especially when I smile. I attempt this, then grimace. Not only do I have crow’s feet, but my forehead is wrinkling, and I’ve got jowls. Ugh!
This isn’t to say that my mother is unattractive. She is still considered a classic beauty, but somehow, though I know I look like her, I can’t see that appeal in my reflection. I just look like I am getting old.
Is 50 old? My daughter, Louise, thinks so, but she’s kind in how she phrases things.
‘Mum, that dress looks lovely, but do you think those shoes match?’
We are meeting to discuss her wedding (for about the 30th time). She is due to marry her childhood sweetheart, Ben, in two weeks. We decided to meet at the cafe by the river and enjoy the spring sunshine (as well as the sparkling wine).
I glance at my feet, encased in red stilettos. Not really high heels, mind. No, these are sensible three-inch court shoes. Rather nice with their glossy finish. And my dress is quite fitted and maybe a little low cut. But I am wearing a cardigan, too.
I see my daughter glancing at my décolletage and frown.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t be getting my boobs out at your wedding,’ I say with a nervous laugh and watch Louise squirm.
‘Mum,’ she says, her voice husky. ‘Please.’
‘Please, what?’
I take a hasty gulp of my drink and choke. It has gone down the wrong way.
Louise jumps up and slaps me on the back, none too gently.
‘OK, thank you,’ I gasp, my eyes streaming. Great, now my mascara has run.
My daughter returns to sit opposite and surveys me thoughtfully as I dab my eyes with a serviette. It’s just a matter of time before she says something I have a feeling I won’t want to hear.
‘Mum, I’m not sure about your dress for the wedding.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
She pauses, glances around, then says, ‘I don’t think it’s really suitable.’
I look back at her, taking in her long, glossy hair, curling at her shoulders. Her clear complexion, with just a dusting of freckles on her nose. Her wide, blue eyes, fringed with thick eyelashes so she rarely needs make-up. She will make a beautiful bride.
