Naked

Tension was always fraught when my parents where visiting. They'd called at the beginning of the week to request to pop over for lunch at the weekend, and Oliver wasn't a fan of lunches with my parents.

My mum, Courtney, and dad, David, had been together 25 years. I remember few arguments between them growing up, and those they did have were forgotten with a kiss and hug by the kitchen sink before supper. My mother always told me "Never go to bed on a bad word".

They had visited often when I'd first moved in with Oliver, but over time the visits had lessened and they settled for phone calls and text messages. It was sad, really. I missed my parents, and as their only child I felt so responsible for them, and so aware they probably missed me too.

Oliver and my parents had gotten along fairly well in the beginning. But as I began to change, so did their opinion of my boyfriend. It wasn't just my shrinking frame, but apparently my "attitude" and how I allowed Oliver to steer me in whatever direction he chose. At least that's what they said. And so when they called at the beginning of the week I was very surprised that they wanted to come to our place, even when I confirmed that yes, Oli would be here.

"I thought they were coming at half past?!" Oliver grumbled, looking at the clock on the wall. 11.36.

Rolling my eyes, I said, "they're barely late. Can you calm down please I haven't seen them in ages."

He grumbled something again, under his breath. He'd put a check shirt on, I think in some sort of half arsed effort to look smart for my parents. Specifically my dad. I didn't think Oliver really cared what they thought of him, but when their relationship began to deteriorate I realised that part of the reason is that he felt uncomfortable around them was he like they were judging him. And I think they were.

The door knocked and Oliver quickly rose from the kitchen bar stool. He was nervous. He rearranged his collar and pulled open the door.

"Hiya Dave," Oliver smiled, clapping his large hand into my Dads smaller, chubbier one. My Dad did not like being called Dave.

"Oliver," he nodded, shaking his hand briefly and squeezing past, out of the way to let my mother in. She shot me a sad smile over Oliver's shoulder as he kissed her cheek. She barely registered him.

I hugged them both tightly, not paying attention to the awkward small talk they were making with Oliver. I breathed in their smells, of the family dog, Bailey who was on her last legs, of Dove soap and the expensive fabric conditioner that they used. I missed that smell, of *home*. My old home.

They were both slightly greyer than the last time I'd seen them, two or three months ago. And my dad was rounder around his stomach. He'd always been on plumper side, I think I'd shared his appetite when I was a child. He had a neat comb-over, a bushy moustache and always wore a flat cap and dark grey bomber jacket. My mum was a slender woman, with full curly, dark blonde hair and wide blue eyes. She looked so kind and utterly harmless, the sort of lady you'd approach for help as a child if you'd lost your own parents.

I was close with both of my parents growing up, but more so my mother. That closeness scared me now, as I felt when she looked at me she was looking into me, like she knew everything. She was waiting, just waiting for me to tell her.

They asked us all the usuals as I made lunch and Oliver boiled the kettle for their coffees. *How had we been? Where had we been. When was Oliver next out on the road? How was writing going? *

Oh Christ, I thought. Don't ask him about that.

"Not well, to be honest." I stopped and looked to my boyfriend. I was surprised with his frankness. He always put up such a front for my parents, for everyone really. It wasn't like him to show any form of vulnerability. I felt something pull at my chest, a little sadness for him.

"Bit of the writers block, eh?" my dad said in his deep voice. My mum stayed quiet, glancing at me often, with that same sad smile.

I hurried lunch onto the table, avoiding her gaze and tried to change the subject.

"So what did you want to talk about?" I asked. " You said you wanted to speak to us when you called."

They shared a glance and shifted in their seats. Shit. What was it? My stomach clenched, thinking about the previous times they'd sat me down to speak with them. To talk about Oliver. Was I happy? Was I sure? They were worried about us, about me. They didn't think he was good for me. They didn't like that I didn't work, that I stayed cooped up where he could keep an eye on me. They didn't like that he left for weeks and weeks at a time and that then was they only time they really saw me. But they didn't understand. I liked being here for Oliver. I wanted to be wherever *he* wanted me be.

I did feel isolated at times. I did long for something else, something to focus on other than our relationship, his happiness and the constant invading thoughts I had. The obsessive thinking that would keep me up at night. If I could just be better for him, more perfect. Maybe if my breasts were bigger; after all they'd shrunk to nothing over the years. Maybe if my hair was bouncier, my lashes longer. Then maybe I wouldn't worry about what he was doing when he was on tour, on those wild nights out with the guys and crew.

"We're going away," my mums voice brought me back to the room.

"Away? Where, on holiday?" I asked.

"We'll....sort of," my dad looked at my mum for help. I was lost.

"Your dads not been well, Love," my mums hand reached over the kitchen island and landed atop mine. Her palm was so warm, I felt like crying at the contact. "He's had a bit of a scare, we all have really. He-" she paused and my stomach sank, I felt , my legs wobbled. An arm wrapped around my waist but I couldn't pay attention, I just gawped at my parents, my eyes already starting to sting.

"I went to the hospital and they found a tumour love," my dad interjected. Quickly, he added, "it's benign. But we didn't know that straight away."

"Where?!" I asked, breathless.

"On his spine, love" my mother answered, her hand still on mine. "he's got to have surgery at some point, as it's causing him some pain and discomfort. But we're going to put it off. We want to go travelling a bit, see all the things we couldn't when you were young."

I wasn't sure if I was computing what they were saying, but I started crying. My dad, my old dad seemed so invisible to me. The hand around my wait, Oliver's, dropped away as my dad swerved round the island to hug me.

"Dont be daft now lass," he chuckled. "I'm fine, tough as old nails."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I sobbed into him. I felt like a child again.

"We didn't want to worry you until we knew what the game plan was."

I sniffed, pulling away and wiping my eyes. "So you need to have it removed."

They told me about the operation, what it involved. There were risks, but small, and the surgeon my dad would be seeing was experienced and had preformed a lot of operations like this. Slowly I felt air come back to my lungs. He wasn't going to die then.

"But there's a long recovery after the op," my mum said, crunching on the crisp I'd laid out. "Your dad suggested we travel a bit first. And well, we've booked some flights."

"What about Bailey? The shop?" I asked. A year or two before I left home my parents had some sort of mid life epiphany that they were going to open an organic food shop. Basically a health food shop, but they had fresh fruit and veggies delivered from local farmers. My dad retired early from his job as an engineer, and my mum gave up her part time job at a nursery school. I was terrified for them when they told me, they remortgaged their house and took out a substantial business loan to get it started. But to my relief, the business had done well. They'd set up on the edge of the town centre leading into the "posh" part of town, and the families and retired couples who lived in the community loved it.

"Well," my mum said and she shifted in her seat again, flicking the crisp crumbs from her fingers. She looked nervously at my my dad. Then at Oliver. Then back to me. "We wondered if you would look after Bailey. And the shop."

I saw Oliver's hands clench from the corner of my eye