by Lucy Diamond
She smoothed a hand over the newly added paper, as if stroking his beautiful face. She could almost picture the melon as it broke into juicy pieces, outlined against the blue sky. Smell its sweet sticky flesh as it showered everywhere, hear the boys guffawing.
‘Teenagers, eh?’ she murmured to herself with a little smile.
‘Teenagers!’ said Em that night, once she and George were cosily snuggled in bed together. What a day it had been, she thought. One of those when you were glad to see the back of it, frankly.
‘So they got pissed and went on a robbing spree – is that about the size of it?’ George asked, his arm heavy and warm where it was slung across her.
‘No!’ Em spluttered. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ She sighed, nestling a little closer into him. ‘Well, all right, I suppose it was like that, a bit,’ she conceded glumly.
The trip to Falmouth hadn’t been the most successful, all in all. From what Em could gather, Amelia had produced a bottle of tequila and they’d all tucked in (‘It was rank, I only had a sip, I swear,’ Izzie said meekly) and then Amelia – her again! – had suggested that old teenage classic: a game of Truth or Dare. Having glossed hurriedly over what the ‘Truths’ might have been – don’t think she hadn’t noticed, Em thought – Jack then revealed that his dare had been to steal something from the thirteenth shop they had come across. That, of course, had been the little gallery, and he had been stupid enough to pocket a seventy-pound ornament. Even the world’s most bored, lackadaisical shop assistant wouldn’t have allowed him to get away with that, let alone the irate sculptor and gallery co-owner himself.
Perhaps sensing her slight despondency as she replayed the scene in her head, George took her hand and folded it in his. ‘So. It seems I am dating the mother of a shoplifter,’ he teased. ‘And let me tell you, I’m horrified. What other torrid tales are you going to spring on me?’
‘Stop it! He’s not a shoplifter. He’s a fifteen-year-old boy trying to impress a girl and getting it badly wrong.’ She traced a finger along his knuckles. ‘I, meanwhile, am the fool who shelled out two hundred quid on a painting that will always remind me of my mothering nadir. I’m not sure who needs to learn more of a lesson here.’
‘If it makes you feel any better,’ he began, then stopped. ‘No, forget it, I’m not sure I can bear the shame.’
‘What?’
‘My own terrible youthful misdemeanours. My most shocking secret.’ Em could hear the laugh in his voice behind the sombre words and she smiled to herself, feeling a tiny bit better already.
‘You can’t leave it there,’ she scolded ‘Come on. What did you do? What’s this dreadful confession?’
‘I’m worried it will put you off me,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’
‘Yes! Of course I do. Spill!’ She always wanted to know people’s dark, terrible secrets. Didn’t everyone? It made her feel special, as if she was being admitted to a private, exclusive club, welcomed into an inner circle.
‘Well, I was a bit older than Jack’s age. Seventeen, I think. Bunked off college and had a few lunchtime beers with my mates,’ George began. ‘These were the Dark Ages, obviously, when a pub would serve any skinny, acne-ridden little turd.’
‘You’re painting a very attractive picture of yourself here,’ she said, feeling a giggle rise in her throat. ‘Is that the bit that’s going to put me off you?’
‘Oh, Christ no, there’s far worse to come,’ he went on. ‘Far worse. Now brace yourself and picture the scene: four or five lanky lads, can’t handle even the weakest lager, blinking in the daylight as they emerge from the den of vice – that’s the pub, obviously.’
‘Good, I was wondering.’ Her glumness had evaporated and she was enjoying this peek into George’s youth. ‘Carry on.’
‘So the lads emerge, wobbling and a bit giddy. There’s the Friday fruit-and-veg market on in town – this is in Shropshire, where I grew up. And wait, who’s this in front of the lads? It’s only Nicola Hulme, the fittest girl in the sixth form.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Em. ‘Let me guess. The boys feel obliged to show off in front of young, innocent Nicola Hulme.’
‘She wasn’t all that innocent, allegedly, but let’s gloss over that. One particularly stupid boy who shall remain nameless—’
‘You?’
‘Me. Picks up some oranges from a nearby stall and starts juggling.’
Em smirked. ‘Ah, yes. Scientifically proven to be the fastest way to a girl’s heart.’
‘Indeed. His mates are jealous of his skills and start trying to snatch the oranges. Some fruit-throwing ensues. They’re going everywhere. Meanwhile, the owner of the fruit stall is rightfully pissed off and grabs hold of the ringleader.’
‘Not you again?’
‘Me again. Who is hauled off down the nick, for a bollocking from the bored copper on the desk – thus ruining my chances with Nicola Hulme forever and earning me a criminal record.’
Em snorted. ‘You’ve got a criminal record for lobbing a few oranges about? That is the most . . .’ She burst out laughing. ‘That is the most tragic criminal record I’ve ever heard of in my life.’ She poked his leg with her toe. ‘Still, I’ve always loved a rebel. Even one without a cause.’
‘Without a cause? You’re forgetting foxy Nicola Hulme, mate. Not easy to do, believe you me.’
She smiled, feeling a whole lot better. ‘Orange Is the New Black: The George Macleod Diaries,’ she said in a dramatic voice, giggling at her own wit.
‘TV rights are available for the dramatization of my memoir,’ he said. ‘For a very reasonable price.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘But at least now you know that I think your son is a perfectly normal fifteen-year-old boy and I’m not judging him in the slightest.’ His arm tightened around her. ‘Come on, he didn’t even get a criminal record out of the whole experience. He’s a total lightweight, to be honest. Not trying hard enough.’
‘Good point,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She wiggled around so that she was facing him and slid her leg over his. ‘I’m not sure how I feel about dating a delinquent with a criminal record, though,’ she added in a breathy voice. ‘Slightly miffed that you haven’t tried to impress me with your juggling skills, mainly.’
‘All in good time,’ he murmured, laughing.
‘However, I would like to remind you,’ she said huskily into his ear, ‘that oranges are not the only fruit, George.’
She was tipsy enough that she might have begun making lewd remarks about bananas, but thankfully they started kissing at that moment. Slowly at first, both still smiling at one another, but quickly becoming more passionate and intense. Now this was what she needed . . .
‘Daddy!’ came a howl just then, and their door was flung open to reveal Seren rushing towards them. ‘Daddy, I had a bad dream!’
You had to laugh, Em thought, rolling discreetly away. Didn’t you?
Summer of Yes group chat
Izzie – tequila and shoplifting session in Falmouth today . . . banned from art gallery and called a delinquent. How many points??!
Lily – you rebel, Iz. Ten points!
Miko – don’t think we haven’t forgotten about your selfie with the older man, though. Get on with it!!
Tej – she’s chicken. Bwark! Bwark!
Ruby – give her a chance, she’s been on the tequila all day. (But yeah, crack on, Iz. We’re waiting!)
Izzie – GUYS. Doing my best here.
Lily – don’t let us down.
Chapter Eight
The wind was picking up strands of Maggie’s overgrown bob and throwing them into her eyes and mouth as she strode around the headland. It was Sunday, the following day, and she and Amelia had come out to explore Pendennis Castle, Henry VIII’s squat stone fortress up on the cliff. The sky was overcast and sullen, and thin spitty needles of rain fell periodically, as if a storm was swelling above them, ready to let go at a given signal. Maggie’s spirits remained res
olutely sunny, however. She had abandoned geological trips for the day and tried history instead, luring Amelia out with promises of the gift shop and a café lunch. To her great surprise, her daughter had agreed to the excursion without too much of a fuss.
‘According to the leaflet, there was a five-month siege here in 1646, during the English Civil War,’ she said to Amelia, gazing back at the circular fort and mentally conjuring up the shouts and fervour, the smell of gunpowder, the boom and thud of a battering ram. Maybe this could be their new shared hobby, she thought, with a sudden flash of optimism. Cornwall was steeped in history – they could immerse themselves this summer. She might even go the whole hog and join English Heritage on the way out today. ‘Five months! Can you imagine?’
‘Mmm,’ said Amelia, her face blank.
Was she even listening? Maggie thought, deflating again.
Amelia had been rather subdued since going out to Falmouth with the other children the day before. (‘How was it? What did you get up to? Did you have a lovely time?’ Maggie had pressed, only to be met with a shrug and a set of abbreviated replies. It was okay. Not much. They were all right.) She’d probably found them a bit intimidating, Maggie imagined, seeing as they were a year or two older than her. Peer pressure could lead vulnerable younger ones into all kinds of trouble, as she’d seen at first hand, working as a secondary-school teacher. She just hoped Amelia had enough resilience to say no to any older teenagers trying to encourage her into bad behaviour.
‘We could wander inside to have a look at the underground magazine next,’ she went on brightly, striding across the tussocky grass. Out at sea, she noticed a cruise liner moving slowly through the water, plus a few sailing boats, and she found herself imagining cargo ships returning from faraway shores, full of gold and pearls and spices. ‘Did you know the word “magazine” has two meanings, by the way?’ she went on, just in case Amelia was confused by her suggestion. ‘In this instance it means . . .’
Amelia didn’t seem very interested in the issue of etymology, though. ‘Um, so, Mum, anyway, I’ve got something to tell you,’ she blurted out just then, interrupting Maggie’s explanation.
‘Oh,’ said Maggie, disconcerted. She pulled her jacket around her a little tighter – that sea breeze was quite something. ‘What is it?’
‘Just that I’ve been in touch with Dad lately,’ Amelia said, the words dropping like – well, like a whole magazine of weapons, frankly, Maggie thought to herself in horror. What? ‘And – yeah. Basically, I want to meet him.’
It suddenly felt like the most enormous effort to breathe. Maggie stared at Amelia’s perfect cupid’s-bow mouth as she said these impossible words, the wind whipping long strands of dark hair around her face, like Medusa’s snakes.
‘Mum,’ prompted Amelia. ‘Now you need to say something.’
‘I . . .’ Maggie cast about wildly, but the words simply weren’t forthcoming. Amelia had been in touch with Will and wanted to meet him, she told herself, incredulous. She glanced over her shoulder as if half-expecting him to come striding over towards them from the gift shop. The trouble with you, Maggie . . .
How could this be happening? She couldn’t take it in. ‘Right,’ she said, her mind reeling. It wasn’t as if she had shut Will out of her or Amelia’s lives – far from it! She had done her best to keep in touch with him, doggedly emailing news and sending Christmas cards to his mum’s address in Newton Abbot at first – PLEASE FORWARD written neatly and hopefully on the envelopes. He had been a poor correspondent in return: the occasional halting phone call, the even more occasional visit where Maggie felt tense the whole time, praying that this time he would fall in love with Amelia; would properly see how wonderful she was and have an about-turn in attitude. His mum, Philippa, did her best to maintain relations, but on the whole Maggie felt cut adrift.
Then, when Amelia was about five, Philippa had died, suddenly and horribly, following a massive stroke and, almost in tandem, Will’s career had gone stratospheric. Suddenly he was off undertaking reportage work in dangerous cities or wildlife series in remote places far from civilization, and contact became even more sporadic. Maggie had sent updates via his photographic agency instead: pictures on birthdays and Amelia’s first day at school, news about piano exams and netball captaincy and great exam results. The edited highlights that said: This is our child. Look how fantastic she is. How can you not want to be part of her life, for heaven’s sake?
It was as if Will had died too, because he hardly ever replied. A birthday present, three months late. An email that seemed to be all about him and how busy he was. A Christmas card with an airmail sticker and exotic-looking stamp, the envelope so battered and creased it was as if the postman had walked it personally to Maggie’s house all the way from Colombia, or wherever Will was these days. (‘Where is my daddy?’ Amelia had said a few times when she was at primary school and discovered that lots of the other children in her class had dads, and brothers and sisters, and pet rabbits and dogs and – oh, all of the things that Maggie hadn’t been able to give her, basically. Good bloody question, she had fumed, trying to cobble together an upbeat response.)
She swallowed hard because Amelia was still looking at her, now with a slight frown as if worried that Maggie was on the verge of collapse. Well, and quite right too, because she was on the verge of collapse all of a sudden, and had to lean against the 600-year-old wall and hope it would stay standing a while longer, at least until she got her breath back. ‘I . . . Gosh,’ she stammered. ‘When did this happen? I mean, how did you even . . . ?’
‘I looked up his website,’ Amelia said, as if this was a given. ‘He’s not exactly hiding away, Mum; his work’s all over the Internet. Then I followed him on Twitter and we just started to chat.’
Blood was roaring around Maggie’s brain, shock beating through her that this had all been going on without her having the slightest idea. Why hadn’t Amelia said anything earlier? Why hadn’t she confided in Maggie that she might approach him, asked her opinion? She could have warned Amelia off, braced her to expect disappointment – and gone to Will herself, to threaten him, Don’t you dare break her heart. Because he would. You bet he would.
She found herself thinking about the chunky silver bracelet he had bought her one birthday. It was heavy and made her wrist ache, and privately it reminded her of a manacle, but she’d told him she loved it and wore it nonetheless. She even went on wearing it for years after he’d left, just in case he came back unexpectedly and noticed it there on her arm, recognized the symbolism of her having waited loyally all this time. But he hadn’t come back and eventually she had taken it off and shoved it in her jewellery box, where it had lain ever since. It was going a bit green now, as she hadn’t taken care of it, and smelled musty, of old metal. Something had stopped her from getting rid of it, but right now she felt like driving home and throwing it straight into the nearest river. There! What do you think of that for symbolism?
‘I see,’ she said in a strangled voice. Stay neutral, she reminded herself. Don’t antagonize her. The quickest way to ensure Amelia’s shutters came rattling down was to argue. ‘And . . . how’s that going?’
‘He’s really cool,’ Amelia said, and it was as if a sixteenth-century battering ram had punched Maggie’s heart right out of her body. It was all she could do not to whimper in pain.
‘Great,’ she said weakly. ‘Good.’
The man who had used her up and tossed her away, the man who had washed his hands of them both and walked out, with barely a backward glance at his ex-wife and infant child. This man was cool? No, he was not. He really was not. But now he was back in her head, looking at her with that curled lip. The trouble with you, Maggie, is that you’re too bloody intense. You’re needy. And I can’t live like this.
Her mouth trembled, remembering. I’m not the problem here, mate, she wished she’d shouted. Better intense than not caring!
‘So I was thinking, maybe I could go and meet him,’ Amelia was sa
ying, not seeming to have noticed that her mother was visibly crumbling, just like the ancient fortress wall currently propping her up.
‘Right,’ Maggie managed to say, thinking fast. Obviously she couldn’t deny Amelia this meeting, but she could smooth the way for her, make it as easy as possible, she supposed, because Amelia was sure to be shy when it came to the crunch. And who wouldn’t be? She could invite Will over for Sunday lunch or something, back when they were in Reading, she thought grudgingly. Lay on some cordial conversation along with the food, take tentative steps towards a new relationship. If that wasn’t too ‘intense’ for Will of course, she thought, bristling. If that wasn’t too ‘needy’ of Amelia too, for wanting to see her own dad for the first time in years. ‘Okay,’ she said, trying to sound supportive. ‘Perhaps we could—’
‘I was thinking, maybe tomorrow?’
Maggie gulped. ‘Tomorrow?’ Her voice was almost a shriek. ‘Well, I don’t think—’
‘Yeah, if you don’t mind dropping me at Falmouth train station and sorting out the ticket,’ Amelia went on doggedly. ‘He said I could stay over anyway, meet his family . . .’
This was all happening way too fast, the conversation streaking from her grasp as if it were greased. Maggie couldn’t keep up. Meet his family? Amelia was his family – or was there some other wife and kids she didn’t even know about? Did Amelia have a half-brother or sister? Oh God. She wasn’t ready for this. All these years she’d waited for Will to reach out to his daughter and yet she wasn’t remotely prepared for the actuality.
‘Hold on a minute,’ she said, her hands flying up into stop signs. Or the symbol of surrender, whichever way you chose to look at it. ‘What do you mean, “stay over”? I thought he was living in London.’
‘He’s in Devon now, though. He inherited his mum’s house or something. My gran, I guess.’
Maggie’s throat was tightening with every new insult. Amelia’s gran was Maggie’s own mum, thank you very much – the woman who had shown her granddaughter boundless love over the years, in the form of knitted garments, a massive collection of charity-shop and eBay Lego sets, bedtime stories, extra sneaked pocket money, babysitting and, more recently, a shared love of Strictly, book recommendations and baking sessions. That was Amelia’s gran.