In restaurants someone would inevitably come to the table to tell us, just in case we didn’t know, that my mother was a vision - the most beautiful woman he or she had ever seen. She had to have cheques printed without her phone number because the man in the liquor store would call and ask her on dates. The bag boys in the grocery store argued as to who would push her cart out to her car, and once or twice the winner tried to kiss her. This Is The Story Of A Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett BUY NOW This Is The Story Of A Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett Bloomsbury The best hours of my childhood were spent sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching her put on her make-up and roll her hair. She had a collection of silk underwear, and when she changed her clothes, she started at the beginning and changed her lingerie as well, the things that no one would see, because the lingerie was all part of it. She skipped desserts and dinner rolls, was fully committed to moisturiser and sunscreen.
Had she followed my example and done nothing more than wash her face and walk out the door in the morning, she would still have been the most beautiful woman you would see on any given day but my mother left nothing to chance. My mother, who looked like a cross between a Hitchcock heroine and one of John Derek’s wives, had drawn a winning ticket from the genetic lottery. And that was what she meant: Are the two of you the offspring of one set of parents? I came home from school and the bank teller stared at us earnestly, as if she was coming upon someone she couldn’t quite place.
My hair had faded to a colour I liked to call “dead mouse” and I’d put on weight, two things that hadn’t happened to my mother. Ann Patchett and her mother Jeanne Ray Heidi Rossīy the time I was in college, whatever resemblance we had shared before was harder to see.
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