Breathe

by Cari Hunter

  The suggestion made Jem’s mouth water. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was until then.

  Sounds fabulous. Save me a seat, and I’ll be as quick as I can.

  Chapter Nine

  The lunchtime rush had long since passed, emptying Northern Soul’s small cafe and giving Rosie a choice of tables. She slid into a corner booth, stowing a bag of second-hand books and a Gabbotts Farm ham shank she’d picked up for her mam. She’d been coming to the cafe for years, in and out of uniform, and the waiter put a latte in front of her without prompting.

  “Kash not with you?” he asked.

  “Not today. I’m waiting for a friend.”

  “Oh aye.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Do you want me to dim the lights?”

  She raised her mug and her middle finger, quickly lowering the latter when Jem walked in and hesitated on the welcome mat. The lights were moody enough already, and she was obviously struggling to pick Rosie out of the gloom. Having tracked Rosie’s gaze, the waiter hurried over and returned with Jem on his arm.

  “Can I get you a drink, love?” he said, his flat Manc accent somewhat undermining his genteel welcome.

  “Tea, please.” Jem shoved her bum into the booth and leaned back against the tatty leather. She looked tuckered out but elated, as if she’d spent the morning having really great sex, which didn’t seem to tally with her being abandoned mid-date. “God, my arse will never be the same again,” she said.

  Rosie almost choked on her latte froth. “Why? What the hell have you been doing?”

  Jem held up a finger, pausing for dramatic effect as the waiter arranged a teapot and related paraphernalia in front of her.

  “Sugar?” he asked, as if sensing Rosie’s impatience.

  “No, thank you.” Jem poured the tea and added milk, prolonging the agony as she took a dainty sip.

  “Jemima Pardon,” Rosie said. “Behave yourself.”

  Jem spluttered over the rim of her cup, no longer able to keep her face straight. “Okay, okay. Sylvie would have given the Amazons a run for their money. She had a passion for protein shakes, her driving was even worse than yours, and she took me climbing. Climbing! Can you imagine? On a huge wall about yo big.” Jem waved a hand in the vague direction of the ceiling and then paused to consider its height. “Only bigger. But this bloke helped me, and I made it to the top, and when I got down again, Sylvie had got fed up of waiting and buggered off for butterbeans or something.”

  “Wow,” Rosie said. “We’ll come back to the slight on my driving. How high was this wall, really?”

  Jem shrugged, but even in the dull light Rosie could see the glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. “About fifteen feet.”

  “And you’d never climbed before?”

  “No. Never. I don’t even like heights. They scare the pants off me.”

  Rosie clinked her mug against Jem’s cup. “This calls for a celebration. Grab a napkin and wipe the grease off that menu. Dinner’s on me.”

  * * *

  Northern Soul might have been a dingy little fleapit, but Jem’s all-day breakfast ticked the right boxes, and judging by the satisfied murmurs coming from Rosie at regular intervals, its meat pie, chips, and mushy peas were also a hit.

  Jem dipped a piece of black pudding in runny yolk, added a dollop of brown sauce, and chased the mouthful with a bite of toast. “I have thighs of steel,” she announced, apropos of nothing, and Rosie dropped all the peas off her fork.

  “Explain,” Rosie said, giving up on the peas and attacking her pie.

  “That’s what Rob, the climbing bloke, told me. I think he was just being nice, though, because every time I lift my leg higher than kerb height now I almost fall over.”

  “They got you to the top of that wall, Jem.” Rosie nibbled her pastry thoughtfully. “How the heck did you end up going climbing, anyway?”

  “Long story short? Ferg mentioned my love of mountains and climbing, but neglected to mention that I only hike in the former and read about the latter. Or Sylvie neglected to take that on board, which I suspect was more the case. Apparently, she has a habit of dragging dates to the climbing centre in the hope that they’ll chicken out and just watch her perform.”

  “You proper pissed on her chips, then,” Rosie said with glee.

  Jem hadn’t thought about it like that. She had wanted to prove something to herself, not push Sylvie’s nose out of joint. “That might explain her buggering off to Hulme without me.”

  “Are you bothered?” Rosie dabbed her lips with a napkin, her expression sombre.

  “Not really.” Jem smeared butter on a fresh piece of toast. She took her time, spreading it right to the edges and cutting the piece into triangles. It helped her to qualify her statement with a degree of detachment. “I have form.”

  “Form?” Rosie repeated, and then frowned as she caught the gist. “What? With dates dumping you?”

  Jem chewed her toast. It had gone cold, but she didn’t want to waste it. “Not just a date, a girlfriend of six and a half months. At Milton Keynes, of all bloody places.”

  “Wha—how?” Rosie screwed up her napkin, her meal forgotten. Jem pinched one of her chips.

  “We were on the train, coming back from a weekend in London. Hayley spotted someone on the platform, some random woman she fancied more than me, so she got off and I never saw her again.”

  “Jesus wept. What did you do?”

  “What could I do? The train was leaving. She yelled at me not to follow her and disappeared into the crowd. All I had left of her was half a crap buffet car butty and her copy of Wuthering Heights.” Jem swirled another chip in Rosie’s ketchup and gravy. She hadn’t told this story in years, and she was heartened by how little it was affecting her. At the time, she’d gone home to sob on her dad’s shoulder, and the humiliation had lingered for months.

  “Miserable cow,” Rosie said fiercely. “You’re better off without that one.”

  Right up until this week, Jem had thought she was better off without anyone. Her most enduring relationship since Hayley had been a fling with a Polish paramedic who had fled back to Poland after a month because the damp Manchester climate made her hair too frizzy.

  “Yep,” she said, keeping the latter point to herself. “Ferg got curious and Facebook-stalked her a while back. She got married to a very pale performance poet. In a yurt.” Jem finished her chip and blew her fringe from her eyes, and then snarled and clapped a hand on it. Enough was enough, she decided. She’d succeeded in one new venture today, so why not double or nothing? “Is Thornton’s still open?”

  Rosie checked her watch. “Should be. Why?”

  “Original or treacle toffee, wasn’t it? If you can fit me in for a restyle this evening, I’ll buy you a box of each.”

  * * *

  “Not what you imagined, eh?” Rosie said, unlocking the door of a tiny whitewashed cottage.

  “Not at all,” Jem admitted. “I had you in a city centre flat, all polished laminate and mod cons and service charges.”

  She knew Stanny Brook well. She occasionally went there with the dogs, wandering along the footpaths that zigzagged across the surrounding fields and dipped down to the river, where she’d seen kingfishers and the glint of brown trout in the deeper pools. Wild garlic and bluebells filled the woods in spring, and the town seemed miles away, despite only being a ten-minute drive. The secluded patch of countryside fell within the boundary of Darnton Station, but she was rarely called to emergencies there, and she’d never imagined it as somewhere Rosie might live. She stepped back to admire the cottage’s mullioned windows and original stonework. Tucked away off the main road, with a view out toward Stanny Pike, it seemed like an ideal refuge for someone raised in a large, chaotic family, and Jem could only covet it.

  Rosie kicked her boots off on the step. “It was love at first sight. I’d say ‘come in out of the cold,’ but it’ll be bloody freezing till I put the heating on.”

  Jem stood on the doormat, wrestling with her tr
ainers, while Rosie disappeared to tinker in the kitchen. After the hyperactive stress of the morning, the cottage felt like a haven. The lamps Rosie had switched on in passing cast the living room in mellow amber, and it smelled of fresh baking and woodsmoke.

  “Make yourself at home,” Rosie called over the splash of a tap. “I’ll give you a tour when I’ve put the kettle on.”

  Not quite ready to dispense with her coat, Jem sat on a worn, brown leather sofa and ran her fingers across the multicoloured blanket tossed over its back. The blanket was one of many dashes of brightness scattered about the room; all the cushions on the suite clashed, and what appeared to be an ongoing crocheting project was spread over the arm of the lone chair. A cast iron log burner took centre stage in the fireplace, and a modest television seemed little more than an afterthought, squeezed into the far corner with a basket of wool almost hiding it from view. Keepsakes and family photos lined the mantelpiece: Rosie’s mum and stepdad slicing a three-tier wedding cake, and a boy and two girls at various stages of growing up. Jem stood and picked up a picture that had drawn her eye: a daft-looking dog captured on a faded Polaroid, rolling around on a tatty back lawn with a far younger version of Rosie.

  “That was Annabelle,” Rosie said, peeking over Jem’s shoulder. “She was a mutt with a bit of sheepdog in her. Herded everything, and I really do mean everything. We took her to Blackpool once, and she made all the donkeys stand in some poor bugger’s windbreak.”

  “Was he in it at the time?” Jem asked, tickled pink by the idea.

  “No. He’d gone to get himself an ice cream. Had a hell of a surprise when he came back.” Rosie set down a tray of tea and cake on the coffee table and crouched by the burner to stack kindling on screwed-up balls of newspaper. The fire caught slowly, egged on by a lot of creative swearing, and she blew on the stuttering flames to encourage their spread. “Grab a brew. Your toes should start to thaw in about half an hour.”

  “How long have you lived here?” Jem cradled her mug in both hands, stifling a yawn. She wanted to shove her feet beneath her, snuggle under the blanket, and not move again till morning.

  Rosie balanced two larger logs on top of the blaze she’d nurtured. Seeming satisfied with her efforts, she shut the burner’s door and sat beside Jem. “Three years. I’d been renting in Levenshulme, and I just got sick of the noise and the traffic and being broken into every other week. The bastards even nicked my knitting. Can you believe that? What kind of lowlife scrote pinches someone’s half-finished cardigan? Anyway, that was the last straw. I bought this as a fixer-upper. I’ve done bits of it myself, and I’m still chipping away at it.”

  Jem inched her toes toward the fire, craving the warmth it had started to emit. “Crafty and handy, eh? I’m impressed.”

  Rosie took a short bow. “I learned most of it from my mam. She does all the DIY at hers, because my stepdad’s bleedin’ useless at it.”

  “You’re going to tell me you made this cake as well, aren’t you?” Jem said. It was a good cake, coffee and walnut, with a feather-light sponge and rich buttercream.

  Rosie waved a hand, dismissing the compliment, although she looked rather smug. “I’m not one to brag, but I could certainly give you the recipe, should you want it. Bring that with you, and I’ll show you around. We can do your hair in the spare bedroom. The upstairs always warms up first.”

  She led the way into a compact galley kitchen, flicking on an outside light that shone silver over a small sunken garden. Winter had left the beds Spartan, but the light caught blood-red branches of dogwood, wisps of ornamental grass, and the bowed white petals of a hellebore. A stone patio provided an elevated vantage point, and Jem pictured Rosie out there in the height of summer, shaking off the stress of a long day with a glass of wine she’d probably grown the grapes for.

  “It’s beautiful.” Jem went up on her tiptoes to better admire the plot. She had crammed her own backyard with pots and planters, and she occasionally sunbathed on the air raid shelter, but it was a poor substitute for a proper garden.

  Rosie stood shoulder to shoulder with her. “It’s piddly, but it’s big enough for me, and the patio’s a right suntrap. I can get tomatoes and cucumbers to grow there, no problem.” She knocked the back of her hand against the tap dripping persistently over the sink. “As you can see, the kitchen is a work in progress.”

  “I rent with a bloke who conjures up a dozen new pie recipes a month,” Jem said. “It’s a miracle if I can get into our kitchen.”

  Rosie whistled her appreciation, not at all sympathetic to Jem’s plight. “Really? Does he use you as his guinea pig?”

  “All the time, hence—” Jem used both hands to slap her arse. “I was a size eight when I moved in.”

  Rosie belly-laughed and linked Jem’s arm. “Super skinny girls always look bloody miserable, Jemima. No cheese, no chip butties, no chocolate. Ugh.”

  “Two protein shakes a day and a superfood salad, if you please,” Jem said, managing a fair approximation of Sylvie’s infomercial pitch.

  “Bloody hellfire. Was that your muscle-bound date? I’d rather eat my own toenails.” Rosie led Jem up the stairs, pushing open a door and stopping on the threshold. “Welcome to Salon Chez whatever the hell name I made up the other day. Grab that chair and get comfy while I find some towels.”

  Jem did as instructed, parking herself in front of a tall mirror and trying not to let nerves get the better of her. If it all went to shit, as expected, she would go home and give herself a crew cut.

  Rosie came up behind her and caught her eye in the mirror. “Don’t look so worried. Here, Fluffy wanted to say hello.” Without further ceremony, she plonked the bearded dragon onto Jem’s lap. “He likes having his head massaged.”

  Jem cooed and stroked Fluffy on the spot Rosie indicated. He raised each front leg in turn, looking like a kitten kneading a blanket, and Jem was so entertained that she barely noticed the spray of warm water on her hair.

  “Bold pixie, then,” Rosie said. “Still okay with that? And I’ll colour it later, if you don’t react to the patch test.”

  “Yep.” Jem put out a finger for Fluffy to catch hold of. “Yep, that’s fine.” She was still playing pat-a-cake with her new pal when Rosie scooped him up.

  “He’ll get a fur coat if I don’t shift him,” Rosie said, carrying him past Jem and out of the room. Startled, Jem put a hand to the nape of her neck, feeling the draught there.

  “Oh!” She looked in the mirror. Most of her hair was now lying on the floor, and it seemed Rosie was about to start fine-tuning what remained. “How long—did I fall asleep?”

  “No, but you do seem quite easy to distract,” Rosie called back. Her voice quietened as she returned. “Sorry for pulling a Fluffy-assisted fast one, but I didn’t want you legging it after the first snip.”

  “You’re forgiven.” Jem allowed Rosie to gently position her head, soothed by the touch and the rhythmic snick of the scissors. “The nurses would do that to me all the time when I was a kid. Distract me, I mean. I was in and out of the hospital every other month, and all they needed to do was wave a rubber glove balloon at me and I’d let the docs stick their needles wherever they wanted.”

  Rosie hummed, the sound low and contemplative. “Was it an attention thing?”

  Jem started to nod but aborted the gesture in case Rosie took her ear off. “Probably. Foster kids are all starved for it, I suppose. I’d get moved around a lot: a group home for a few months, then maybe a family would want to try me out for size. I had what they called ‘complex needs,’ so my family placements tended to be short-lived. I didn’t find out till years later, but Social Services warned my parents I had developmental delay.”

  Rosie stopped cutting, her scissors poised but unmoving. “Did anyone ever set the record straight?”

  “Yeah, my dad. He played a long game, sent my assigned social worker a copy of my GCSE results. I got fives As, an A star, and two Bs.”

  “Swotty sod,” Rosie said wi
thout malice. “I scraped through mine and had to resit a couple. All that stuff with my stepdad—” She waved the scissors, dismissing the subject. “Anyway, I only knuckled down properly at college, when I turned over the proverbial fresh leaf.”

  Jem smiled at her in the mirror. “My dad would say, ‘it doesn’t matter how you get there as long as you get there.’ Course, he’d usually roll that one out whenever he’d gone the wrong way and was too stubborn to ask for directions, but the sentiment is sound.”

  “I think I’d like your dad.”

  Jem shut her eyes as strands of hair cascaded in front of them. “You would, without a doubt. You’re both as daft as each other.”

  “I take no offence. Now, just keep your eyes closed for ten while I perm what’s left of your fringe.”

  Jem laughed. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, but keep them closed anyway. I do like a big reveal.”

  The big reveal came mere moments before curiosity could bust a hole in Jem’s gut. She heard Rosie put the scissors down and then a triumphant “ta-da!” as Rosie clasped her shoulders. Braced for impact, she squinted through one eye to get the measure of things. She knew Rosie would see through a lie, but she planned to moderate her reaction if she hated the result.

  “Blimey.” Abandoning any attempt at subterfuge, she gaped at her reflection. Rosie hadn’t been kidding when she’d said “bold.” She had cut Jem’s hair shorter than it had ever been, gathering it in close at the back and sweeping it over at the fringe. It was classy yet low maintenance, and it made Jem burst into tears.

  “Shit!” Rosie gave her a handful of tissues from a nearby box. “It’ll grow back, I promise. It won’t take long, and you can wear a hat or something. Maybe a snood. I’ll knit you a snood.”

  Jem blew her nose. “I love it.”

  “Bleedin’ Nora, you almost gave me a heart attack. Do you really like it?”

  “I do. It’s ace. It looks dead swanky.”