Banana Girl: a thatcherjoe love story

Chapter 30- A little out-of-line, but not crazy

We decided to get some food, so we went to the hotel restaurant. Just as I was getting out of the lift, wearing the cream lace dress that I bought earlier with gorgeous brown eyeshadow and dark lipstick, Tracey came running towards me as if she hadn't seen me in days. Reality? I'd seen her just 20 minutes before.
Hi!" Cried Trace, as she hugged me tightly, maybe too tightly. In actual fact, it was way too tight.
"Tr-a-ce! Tra-cey! I... Ca-n't... Br-ea-the!  Tra-c-ey!" Despite my struggles, she seemed to just hug me tighter and tighter, as if she was trying to strangle me.
"Mum! Mum! Let go! Stop!" Joe shouted, throwing her off me, "Oh my god, Vi! Vi, are you okay?" I was breathing heavily and quickly, panting like a dog.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He kissed me anyway, just to make sure, although I caught his mum giving me a spiteful look out of the corner of my eye.
Pushing my chair over-protectively, he guided us to a table, then ordered drinks, not talking to, or even making eye contact with, his mum.
"So. How long are you two planning to be together?"
"Mum!" Cried Joe.
"Tracey!" Cried her husband, who I was told I could call Graham.
"What?" She looked at Joe's dad, "it was a genuine question!"
"No, it was a genuinely rude question!"
Joe and I sat silently awkwardly, watching the drama. I was still breathing slightly too heavily.
Whilst we were ordering the food, Trace spoke to me about types of rope, the theory of unicorns and growing golf trees. I guessed she liked Fantasy stories. Or something like that.
"I'm tired, Joe."
"Mm, me too," he replied, "Shall we head back to the room then? Eat our food up there?"
"Oh, well, kids, I might as well come with you!" Cried Tracey, eagerly getting her coat from the rack and finding money for a tip to the waitresses.
"Oh, no, Mum, that's okay. You don't have to...."
"Oh, but I want to!"
"Okay then!" He added sarcastically, fake-clapping as I tried to suppress a giggle. His mum obviously didn't get sarcasm.
She helped me into a lift and stood alarmingly close the whole way, even though the lift was huge. After around 5-6 minutes, we were back in the bathroom, after Joe pushed in my wheelchair.
"Why are we in here again?" I asked, having sat in silence for what felt like hours, but what was probably a minute or two.
"Because," he began, running a hand through his sexy, caramel-coloured hair, "my mother is crazy."
I thought of the accidental strangling, the peculiar conversations...
"What? No! Maybe a little out-of-line, but not crazy!"
He 'argh'-ed, frustrated, and said,
"Vi! You're too nice! She's crazy! With a capital 'C' and I mean really crazy! She's so weird, she hangs her washing on telegraph poles instead of the clothes line! Crazy! Maybe not medically, but realistically! Mental! Round the bend! Bent backwards! You need proof? Once, when I was little, she bought a lettuce from my English teacher, and went to the grocery guy for parents evening! She's... Mad! Totally out of it!"
"Joe!" I scolded, appalled that someone could talk about their own parent like this.
"Fine! Fine. Hopefully, she'll be gone soon anyway."
"Joe."
He kissed me and we headed back to his parents.