Promised

‘Livy?’ Nan’s wary voice drifts through my door. ‘I’ve made breakfast. You’ll be late for work.’

‘I’m not going,’ I call, trying to croak and failing.

The door opens and she gingerly creeps in, giving my quilt-covered body the once-over. ‘Are you still feeling ill?’ she asks.

‘Terrible,’ I mutter.

She hums thoughtfully, picking up my discarded jeans and folding them neatly. ‘I’m going shopping. Would you like to come?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, Livy, come on,’ she sighs. ‘You can help me pick a pineapple for George’s upside-down cake.’

‘You need help picking a pineapple?’

She huffs her frustration and pulls the quilt back, exposing my semi-naked body to her inquisitive eyes and the cool morning air of my bedroom. ‘Olivia Taylor, you are getting out of that bed and you’re coming to help me pick a pineapple for George’s upside-down cake. Get up!’

‘I’m ill.’ I try to retrieve my covers and fail. She looks determined, which means this is a sure losing situation for me.

‘I’m not stupid.’ She waves a wrinkled finger at me. ‘You need to snap out of this, right now! There’s nothing less attractive than a woman wallowing in self-pity, especially over a man. Screw him! Pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and bloody get on with it, my girl!’ She grabs my stunned body and physically hoofs me up from the bed. ‘Get that skinny arse showered. You’re coming shopping.’ She stomps out, slamming the door behind her, leaving me speechless and wide-eyed.

‘That was a little harsh,’ I say to absolutely no one, hearing her stomping feet taking the stairs. She’s never spoken to me like that in her life. But I’ve never given her reason to. It’s always me faffing around her, although I’m certainly not as brutal in my pep talks as she was just then. This is hilariously ironic. She’s the one who’s constantly nagged me about living a little. I did, and look where it’s got me. Still stunned and not daring to retreat to the safety of my bed, I walk cautiously across the landing to take a shower.

‘We’re going to Harrods to buy a pineapple?’ I ask, holding Nan’s elbow as we cross the road towards the grand, green-canopied building.

Nan raises her hand to a truck driving at us, halting it dead in its tracks, despite it having the right of way. I wave a thank you, while Nan continues across the road, tugging her shopping trolley behind her. ‘I might buy some double cream, too.’

I catch up with her and pull the door open. ‘Going to town, aren’t you?’ My eyebrows waggle suggestively, which she completely ignores, instead marching on in the direction of the food hall.

‘It’s a pineapple.’

‘That we could’ve bought from the local Tesco Express,’ I retort, goading her.

‘It wouldn’t be the same. Besides, the ones from here are perfectly formed and the skins are shiny.’

I’m trying to keep up with her, and everyone’s moving out of the way of the elderly, determined woman marching through the store pulling a shopping trolley behind her. ‘You’ll be cutting the skin off!’

‘It doesn’t matter. Here we are!’ She halts at the entrance of the food hall, and I watch as her shoulders rise and drop slowly on a satisfied sigh. ‘The meat counter!’ She’s off again. ‘Get a basket, Livy.’

I sag, exasperated, and reach for a shopping basket, then go and join her in front of the glass meat counter. ‘I thought you wanted a pineapple.’

‘I do. I’m just browsing.’

‘Browsing meat?’

‘Oh, my girl. This isn’t just meat.’

I follow her admiring stare to the perfectly displayed lumps of pork, beef and lamb. ‘What is it then?’

‘Well,’ her wrinkled brow furrows, ‘it’s posh meat.’

‘What, like well-spoken meat?’ I’m trying hard not to grin as I point to a steak. ‘Or did that cow shit in a toilet instead of a field?’

Nan gasps and swings infuriated eyes to me. ‘You can’t use that language in Harrods!’ Her eyes shoot around, checking if any attention is on us. It is. The old woman next to Nan is looking at me in disgust. ‘What’s got into you?’ Nan straightens her floppy hat and hits me with warning eyes.

I’m still fighting a grin. ‘Where are the pineapples?’

‘Over there.’ She points, and I follow her finger to another glass cabinet, formed in a square and showcasing the best-looking fruit I’ve ever seen. They’re only your standard fruits – apples, pears and suchlike, but they are the most beautiful apples and pears I’ve ever seen – so beautiful, my face is pushed up to the glass counter to check if they’re real. The colours are vivid and the skins polished. They literally look way too good to eat.

‘Oh, look at that pineapple!’ Nan sings, and I do. Her enthusiasm is warranted. It’s a stunning pineapple. ‘Oh, Livy.’

‘Nan, it’s too pretty to hack up and shove in a cake.’ I join her by the supermodel of pineapples. ‘And it’s fifteen quid!’ My palm slaps against my mouth, and Nan’s hand slaps my shoulder.

‘Will you shut up?’ she hisses. ‘I should’ve left you at home.’

‘Sorry, but fifteen pounds, Nan? Surely you’re not.’

‘Yes, I am.’ She straightens her shoulders and waves to get the attention of the server, her hand movements rivalling the Queen’s. ‘I would like a pineapple,’ she tells him, all posh and proper.