In September, Mary chose the café and asked her mother to meet her there at eleven.
Ruth was already at a table when she arrived. She had put her coat on the spare chair, then moved it as soon as she saw Mary.
“You're early,” she said.
“So are you.”
Her mother smiled. Mary kissed her cheek and sat down. It was a warm Saturday, the twelfth, with sunlight reaching halfway across the table. Neither of them needed the coats they had brought.
They ordered coffee. Ruth asked about Mary's work, and Mary told her about a client who had approved a design then asked for the colours she'd rejected first. Her mother listened without proposing terms Mary should put into the contract.
Mary asked what she'd been doing. Ruth told her about the hall, then a book she'd borrowed that she wasn't enjoying but felt obliged to finish.
“You can stop,” Mary said.
“I want to know what happens.”
“Then you're enjoying something.”
Ruth laughed. Mary liked the sound, still. She didn't need to make it strange in order to remember what her mother had done.
The coffee came. They sat for a while talking about ordinary things.
Ruth took an envelope out of her bag.
“There's a play on this afternoon. A comedy. I thought we might have lunch, then go.”
She unfolded the little theatre leaflet. Her own ticket lay inside it.
“They still have seats,” she said. “I checked this morning.”
Mary looked at the picture on the leaflet. She would have liked the old afternoon: her mother making the choices, Mary coming along, both of them finding somewhere for tea after the performance. She could imagine forgetting the time and letting lunch become the whole day.
She wanted that ease enough to pause before answering.
“I can only stay for coffee,” she said. “I'm meeting June for a swim at one.”
Ruth's smile faded a little. She looked down at the ticket. Mary waited for her to ask whether June could meet her later, whether she couldn't give her mother one afternoon.
“All right,” Ruth said.
She folded the leaflet again and put it back in the envelope with her ticket.
Mary kept both hands round her cup. The refusal had been heard the first time. She didn't quite know what to do with the quiet afterwards.
“Will you still go?” she asked.
“Yes. I'd like to see it.”
“On your own?”
Ruth nodded. “I'll find somewhere for lunch beforehand.”
There was no sentence about loneliness added to it. She had wanted Mary's company. She would spend the afternoon without it. Mary could see the disappointment and didn't have to turn it into a different answer.
“Tell me whether it's good,” she said.
“I will.”
They returned to the coffee.
When the cups were empty, her mother didn't order another round before asking. Mary said she should go, and Ruth called for the bill. They each paid for their own coffee.
Outside, Ruth put on her coat despite the warmth. Mary watched her settle the bag over her shoulder. For a moment she wanted to offer to walk her to the theatre, to fill the small gap left by declining the afternoon.
She didn't. June would be waiting at the swimming pool, and Mary wanted to keep the plan she'd made with her.
“Could we have coffee again in a couple of weeks?” Mary asked.
Ruth looked at her. “I'd like that.”
“I'll ring and arrange it.”
“Yes.”
They hugged. It was brief and real. Then Ruth turned towards the shops and the theatre beyond them, carrying her own ticket. Mary watched her go without following.
She took out her phone to tell June she was on her way, then put it back in her bag. The street was busy. Someone carried flowers wrapped in brown paper. A couple were arguing mildly about which way to walk, and then one reached for the other's hand and they went together.
Mary still wanted that. A home shared by choice, an ordinary dinner, a promise made in front of people she loved. She hadn't become embarrassed by wanting marriage.
The traffic changed. Mary crossed the road towards the pool, where she had somewhere to be and someone she was looking forward to seeing.