July 3rd, 1964
Christine stood, putting the final touches to their exhibition room, watching Indigo direct someone helping her put up her pieces on the huge boards that covered one side of the room. The room was bathed in soft yellow light from the overhead lights, which they'd changed the bulbs to avoid glare from the harsh white lights- and because Indigo told her if she had to spend all day in there, she was going to have a migraine from talking to people, not from the bright light. She'd spent a night complaining about having to talk to people, annoyed at the realisation it would be a huge part of her job.
Christine's parents weren't due until the 6th, but they still hadn't worked out how they would sort out space for them. They couldn't well explain why it was a one-bedroom flat but neither of them slept on the couch, and neither was too keen on giving up their living room-come-art room. If they had extra room, she was sure they could justify them sleeping in the same bedroom as an irregularity, but that wasn't a possibility now. She planned on asking Gary for a favour that night at her shift, knowing they rented out the top two rooms, even though she couldn't pay properly for them and was pretty sure her parents couldn't either. Maybe she'd have to go full time in the summer, take on as many shifts as possible to avoid awkwardness.
Waiting until everyone was gone, Christine gently wrapped an arm around Indigo,
"I'm so proud of you, baby."
"Thank you," she beamed, "I'm proud of you too."
July 6th, 1964
Thankfully, as Christine walked to the station, the weight of where to put up her parents had been lifted already. Gary had promised a room for three nights, which was just the right amount of time, at a discounted rate- it would cut into her wages, but it would be worth it. Indigo was still at the flat, having a nap before Christine brought her parents back for dinner. Even though she had tried to hide it, Christine could tell she was nervous- from the way her hands clenched, knuckles white, on the sink as she brushed her teeth that morning; to the anxious tapping of her foot as she ran through her exhibition list once more; and practiced her introduction speech.
She spotted her parents standing on the other side of the platform and waved, but they didn't seem to notice her. She frowned. By the time she made her way over to them, they were searching frantically for her on the other side until she tapped her father's arm.
"Daddy!"
"Christine!" he smiled, turning to face her, "I didn't recognise you! You've gotten so tall! And you cut your hair!"
She smiled shyly, pushing aside a few loose strands of her fringe.
"It suits you, darling," her mother smiled, hugging her, "How are you doing?"
"Good," Christine led them down the street, towards the bus stop, "How are you, mum?"
"Excited," she said, "I'm so proud of you, my little girl's all grown up- doing so well. Are we going to your flat?"
"Um, yeah," she said, "For dinner, and you can meet Indigo before she gets all busy with preparations for tomorrow, but we just don't have enough space for you to sleep there- but it's okay! My boss rents rooms above his bar, and it's just a few minutes down the street."
"Oh, Christine, darling, are you bartending? Is that the only work you could get?"
"No, mum, I'm their in-house pianist."
Her father looked proudly down at her,
"That's my girl. Blues bar, I suppose?"
"Yeah, I play with the band, and I also have my own set now."
Thankfully, the bus came her, sparing her any more explanations as they watched the countryside roll away into the city.
"Indigo! We're home!"
She threw her keys down on the table, along with her book.
"Kitchen! Dinner's nearly ready."
Understanding why Indigo felt so nervous about meeting her parents now, Christine walked them through to the kitchen. She felt suddenly anxious that it wouldn't be enough- that her mother would find the one spot they hadn't cleaned as thoroughly as they thought they had or that they'd find something wrong with Indigo. Even though they'd decided to tell them they were friends, and not that they were dating, she felt protective over the smaller woman.
"Hi," Indigo turned from the stove, and Christine noticed one hand was squeezing into a fist inside her jeans pocket.
"Mum, dad, this is my flatmate Indigo."
"Nice to meet you," her father nodded politely.
"Nice to meet you too," she said awkwardly, looking to Christine for help.
"Umm, yeah. What's for dinner?"
"Spaghetti and vegetable ragu," she said, turning back to the stove, "Does anyone want tea?"
"Can I just use your bathroom, love?"
"Yeah, it's just down the hallway, second left," Christine pointed, watching her mother walk away.
She wasn't sure how well their first introduction had gone and settled for sitting down with her father. They'd pulled up their art room chairs at the table, and they certainly looked mismatched.
"Nice place you've got here," he said, "I'm so proud of you, Christine, following your vocation. I still wish you'd stuck with classical music, but look at you, doing so well."
She blushed,
"Thanks, dad, but its all down to Indigo. Sculpture isn't usually a part of the exhibitions, but we worked a lot together."
"Then I'm sure you've found a talented young lady as a friend and that's even better."
Indigo smiled appreciatively, and Christine could tell they would get along just fine as she sat down opposite them.
"Thank you for taking care of her," he said, "Christine speaks very highly of you, says you're a wonderful friend and an even better artist, I'm very excited to see your work."
"Thank you, Mr Perfect," she said, sliding a cup of tea across to him.
"Your accent? You're northern too?"
"Newcastle," Indigo nodded.
"Know how to make a good cuppa too," he raised an eyebrow, "Christine, you choose well."
He looked down for a moment and Christine and Indigo shared a frantic, confused look- she hadn't told him they were together. Did he mean as friends? Because it certainly didn't seem like it.
