MAYBE TOMORROW ... gilmore girls

chapter one

September 2000

43 Magnolia Avenue, Hartford

20:15

MY MOTHER calls while I'm in the bath.

I'd finally found time to relax, a glass of expensive merlot in one hand – a parting gift from the man I'd married eight years ago – and rose-scented bubbles covering the expanse of my tense muscles, when the ringing had essentially catapulted through my soothing Chopin CD. I let it ring through, deciding that I'd rather unwind than talk to anyone, but when it stopped and immediately started up again, I knew I wouldn't catch a break.

So, I slip out, grab the fluffy robe that had been a gift too many years ago to count and have been unable to part with since, and find the ringing phone on the side table of the upstairs hallway.

My mother's voice immediately hounds me.

"Why didn't you pick up the first time?"

I tighten the robe further around my body at my mother's chilly tone. "Hello, Mother. Yes, Mother, I'm doing alright. No, I don't need any support, thank you." She scoffs. Emily Gilmore scoffs at anything that isn't perfect to her, and ever since the finalisation of my divorce, I have been the most imperfect person in my family. It's quite the achievement.

"You're sounding more like Lorelai since you know what."

When was the last time any of us actually saw Lorelai, let alone talked about her? And now, here my mother is just casually throwing her into the conversation as if she hasn't been the centre of all of our family's problems since we were old enough to actually cause problems. Christ, I really must have fallen far from that family podium.

"You can say divorce, Mom. No one's stopping you."

She scoffs again and then her next words are muffled, obviously by her hand on the speaker, as she says – or shouts, probably – something to, presumably, my father sitting in his office away from all the drama she's stirring up just by me using the word divorce. Maybe Harrison and I should have stayed married. At least I could have had a bath in peace.

Maybe I wouldn't be acting so pissy about this whole thing if she just said 'I'm sorry, my daughter, I will be here for you'. Instead, she says:

"We're having dinner on Friday." She doesn't even need to ask. She knows this. I will be there, anyway, with a glossy black handbag sitting in the crook of my elbow and my hair curling around my chin. She will take one look at it and tilt her head, trying to decide if my new haircut – Not that it ever changes, I get the same thing every time. Short enough to sit around my chin, long enough to get tucked behind my ear when I'm marking. I've been using the same hairdresser as her for my whole life – is up to standard. She won't say anything, which means she doesn't hate it. She'll never say she likes it.

It's better than nothing I suppose.

"What time?"

There's no use arguing. She would never listen to my excuses. I could have a party planned. Could be staying late at school to finish marking. Could be going out with friends – what friends? All of my friends were Harrison's first. It felt like pushing a three into Fermat's Last Theorem and expecting it to be proven false. I was never really there to begin with. Who am I kidding? For the past however many months, I have sat in this house by myself every Friday night, drinking all the red wine Harrison had collected over the years and kept in the cellar for show, and watching every romantic movie I own on DVD in the hopes that it will spark some sort of sadness, I guess, inside of me. I guess I am sad. Not that Harrison is gone, even though he is good company and knows how to host an amazing dinner party much better than myself, but that I'm alone. For the first time in my life, I am truly alone in a house bigger than I have need for. For the first time in my life, nobody is telling me what to do.