by Zoe May
I turn around to look to see none other than Will Brimble. Will. Brimble. The most popular guy from my old school who I haven’t seen since I left to go to London for sixth-form. Will was part of the reason I left my old school. I applied for an arts scholarship at a boarding school in London for sixth form. I didn’t expect to get in, but when they offered me a place, I decided to see it as a fresh start after experiencing heart break for the first time. Will was my first love and I used to absolutely adore him, but he was also the first guy to teach me what complete and utter morons men can be.
‘Oh my God,’ I mutter under my breath, wishing the ground would swallow me up. Will Brimble is the last person I want to run into, especially now, as I’m standing here clutching my baby while covered in sick.
Will sings another lyric and my mum closes her eyes. ‘I forgot how much I like that song,’ she says, swaying a little to Will’s singing, as though she’s at Woodstock festival. Will smiles smugly before continuing his rendition.
‘Can you stop singing, please?’ I snap.
‘So you’re not a Led Zeppelin fan then?’ Will asks wryly. He’s clearly just as much of a smug know-it-all now as he was at school.
My mum smirks.
‘I am a Led Zeppelin fan!’ I huff. ‘How long have you been eavesdropping, Will?’
‘Not long. I just parked my car and then saw you two having some kind of commotion,’ he says, glancing over at a white Audi TT, perfectly parked four or five spaces away, before turning to my mum.
‘How are you doing, Pam?’ he asks.
My mum bats her lashes as she and Will chat away. She’s always thought a lot of Will. Everyone has. He was the kind of boy who was both popular with his peers, and parents and teachers too, because despite his love of skateboarding and partying, he was also really smart and did well at school. He’d have a joke with teachers, but he knew when to knuckle down. He even encouraged his friends to get their heads down ahead of exams – a form of peer pressure teachers and parents were incredibly grateful for. But aside from liking him for just generally being an all-rounder, my mum has a soft spot for Will because she was really fond of his dad, Gary – a retired police officer who was also extremely popular in the village. He bought a black cab and set up a taxi service to keep himself busy; he was known in Chiddingfold as the man to call if you needed to get somewhere. He was always reliable and friendly, a trustworthy bloke you felt comfortable around. But sadly, he died of a stroke around seven or eight years ago. Everyone was distraught. Our hearts went out to Will and his mum, Sharon. I even sent Will a card and emailed him at the time, offering my condolences, but he never got back to me. I guess he was just too overwhelmed. Will loved his dad.
While Will and my mum chat away, I look towards his car. It’s pretty impressive and it looks a little out of place among the old Nissans and Fords of the villagers, but I wouldn’t expect any less from Will. Despite the upset of losing his dad, he’s done alright for himself. He’s a bit of a celebrity on the media scene. He took his gift of the gab, smarts and ability to get on with anyone, and decided to pursue a career in journalism after school. He studied at City University and managed to get a reporter role at a paper in north London when he graduated. Then he moved to another reporter job at a national, which led to a promotion to assistant news editor, another promotion to news editor and then, basically after a few years, he’d achieved the staggering feat of becoming Group Editor for a national newspaper group with three papers by the tender age of 28. I know this because it’s been impossible to escape Will’s meteoric rise to the top. His promotions were always covered in the media news websites I subscribe to for work and Will never turns down the opportunity to commentate on TV if there’s a chance. He’s regularly appeared on Sky and the BBC. He’s remained just as much of a show-off in adulthood as he was at school. But although his rise to the top of the journalistic career ladder has been very impressive, Will’s success story has suffered a bit of a blow lately. The company he was working for had been losing money for years and despite their efforts to boost their revenue, nothing’s worked. They tried staff lay-offs and restructures, they even added pleas to readers at the bottom of each article on their website with details of how to donate. But after years of trying, they realised the business just couldn’t survive and sold their titles to a rival media group. The takeover meant that Will and all of the staff were out of a job. It was a huge story. I read about it at the time and wondered how Will had coped, but I didn’t realise he’d ended up back in Chiddingfold.
Our eyes meet for a moment. His are just as striking as I remember them – a jade-green shade flecked through with amber. Exotic eyes that mesmerised my infatuated teenage self. Eyes that inspired forlorn poetry and horrendously self-indulgent angsty diary entries. Suddenly, Will’s gaze drifts down and I’m worried he’s going to notice a splodge of sick I’ve only jut spotted on the sleeve of my jumpsuit but instead, his eyes land on Hera.
‘And who’s this?’ he asks.
‘Oh, this is my daughter, Hera,’ I explain, turning a little so Will can get a better view of Hera’s gorgeous face.
‘Aww, what a pretty girl!’ Will says. I smile and thank him, but I just know the next question he’s going to ask is going to be something to do with Hera’s father and standing here, covered in sick, the last thing I need is to answer questions about Leroy, who hasn’t once tried to get in touch since I had Hera and, as far as I know, is still living in his studio flat painting bookcases and having wild sex with Lydia.
I give Hera to my mum to hold and take the cat jumper, leaving her to show off Hera to Will and deflect the ‘where’s the daddy’ style questions. I pull the jumper over my head. It smells musty and stale, from having been in the charity shop, but also from having been stuffed in the boot of my mum’s car for God knows how long. Combined with the smell of sick, I’m really not my best self tonight. I just hope I don’t run into anyone else from school.
I sweep my hair out from under my collar and take in my bizarre reflection in the car window, before turning to Will and my mum. They’ve moved on from cooing over Hera to talking about my mum’s dress. Will is telling her how ‘sensational’ she looks and she’s lapping it up.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she says, batting her eyelashes like a flirtatious schoolgirl.
‘Oh yes, it’s very flattering. A great cut, very figure-hugging,’ Will remarks. My mum smiles delightedly.
A great cut?! Figure-hugging?
‘Do you mind?’ I sneer, wondering if there’s any low to which Will won’t stoop. Clearly even 60-year-old women aren’t off his radar. He hasn’t changed a bit since school, and don’t even get me started on the nitty gritty of what he was like back then.
‘What? I was just saying how fabulous your mother looks,’ Will comments defensively, before taking in my jumper, his eyes widening in alarm. ‘Hmmm … interesting choice. I heard that you work in fashion. Is that top some kind of ironic statement?’
‘What do you mean, ironic?’
‘Well, surely you don’t mean to look like a crazy cat lady?’ Will remarks.
My mum giggles.
‘Piss off Will,’ I snap. ‘And mum, this is your jumper. So why are you laughing!?’
I turn my back on both of them. I put Hera in her carrier and give her a dummy, which she sucks on contentedly.
‘I need a glass of punch!’ I declare, before picking up Hera’s carrier and marching towards the village hall.
Chapter 3
Martha, a friend of my mum’s, is manning the drinks table. Unlike Will, she has the good manners not to comment on my attire. Okay, so maybe her eyes linger for a beat on the huge tabby cat and the Cat Cuddles logo but she doesn’t feel the need to say anything. She quickly diverts her gaze back to the bowl of ruby red punch. With painstaking care, she dips a ladle into the bowl and decants the liquid into a plastic cup, before adding two ice cubes, half a strawberry and a slice of lime, and finally handing it to me. I take it from
her, thanking her gratefully, before plucking the cherry out of the way and necking it. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, before handing her back the empty cup.
‘Can I have seconds? Thanks Martha.’
Martha takes the cup, looking a little taken aback, before dutifully refilling it. A boozy mum in weird cat clothes with a baby sitting in a carrier at her feet probably isn’t the best look, but I’m beyond caring. Martha doesn’t bother with the fruit garnish this time and simply hands me the glass. I thank her and sip hungrily at it, before wandering over to the buffet. The buffet table, with its striped plastic cups and matching paper plates laden with party food is exactly as I remember it from back when the fundraiser first began so many years ago. Even the hall is the same, with the exact same rainbow bunting and streamers.
A few of the older men who I vaguely recognise regard me as I approach. They’re local busybodies that have been active in neighbourhood affairs for years. I think a few of them sit on the board of Chiddingfold Parish Council. They’re always finding something to complain about, from the frequency of the bin collection to the meandering bus routes. One guy, a retired naval officer called Clive who always wears a flat cap even when indoors and has been poking his nose into other people’s business for years, watches me closely as I reach for a bread roll. I pretend to be fascinated by the roll, taking a bite before inspecting the fluffy dough as though it’s the most interesting and engaging thing ever; I really don’t want Clive to speak to me. Once he starts, he doesn’t stop. I last saw him at a Christmas party at the local pub nearly two decades ago and the memory’s still disturbingly fresh. He was wearing the same grey flat cap and bent my 12-year-old ears off about unreasonable parking regulations near my school and blah blah blah. I can feel Clive zoning in on me, so I spear a few olives from a bowl with a toothpick and try to busy myself with the buffet, when I suddenly hear a different male voice over my shoulder.
‘Sorry Natalie, you don’t look like a cat lady,’ Will says, reaching for a cheese and grape stick from a plate on the buffet. He pops the chunks of cheese and grape speared onto the stick into his mouth in one bite.
I ignore him and turn back to the buffet to spear another olive. Will’s hand follows mine to the bowl. His fingers are long and surprisingly well-groomed, his nails and cuticles are incredibly neat and tidy, and his hands look soft and moisturised. Not like the hands of the rough-around-the-edges Will I remember.
‘Okay, maybe you do look a bit like a cat lady, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?’ Will ventures.
‘What?’ I snap, before popping an olive into my mouth and shooting him a look.
‘Well, cat ladies … If you think about it, they’re just animal lovers, aren’t they? And what’s wrong with looking like an animal lover? Cats are lovely animals.’
I turn to look at Will, giving him a deadpan stare as he makes his case for why it’s okay to go around saying how someone you haven’t seen for over a decade looks like a ‘cat lady’. Even though he’s just as annoying as ever, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s still handsome. His young self and his current self are like the difference between a picture with a filter and the original. He’s got a few lines now, his face isn’t quite as smooth and blemish-free as it used to be and his hairline is beginning to recede, but he’s still good-looking. His eyes are as striking as ever and they have a depth to them now that they never had before, even if he’s still chatting total rubbish like he used to back at school. As well as his ability to chat to anyone about anything, he has the same dimples he had all those years ago and the same trademark playful smile.
He smiles at me, waiting for a response, but as usual, Will baffles me. His habit of talking complete crap is strangely beguiling, because even though you know what he’s saying is rubbish, you find yourself engaging with it nonetheless. I consider his statement.
‘Well, while there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with being a cat lady, it’s not exactly style goals, is it?’ I comment.
Will smirks. ‘I suppose not. I forgot you were a fashionista these days,’ he remarks.
‘Fashionista?!’ I echo, smirking. ‘Who even says that?’ I reach for another olive. Will copies me, diving his stick back into the bowl. I have to yank my hand out of the way to avoid being impaled.
‘Do you mind? My hand is not buffet food!’ I huff, reaching back towards the bowl and spearing an olive. Before quickly pulling my hand away.
‘Sorry, just a bit hungry,’ Will says as he takes an olive and pops it in his mouth. ‘Mmmm, delicious.’ I ignore him but he keeps talking. ‘Anyway, you are a fashionista. I’ve seen you online, talking about your outfit or the day – hashtag O-O-T-D. And you say things like “style goals.”’
‘Well, fashion is kind of my job, Will,’ I point out, rolling my eyes indulgently, even though I do feel a little embarrassed about how regularly I used to hashtag my outfits of the day. It wasn’t exactly all relevant to work.
‘Even your baby is a fashionista,’ Will remarks, peering closer at Hera, who’s wearing the cutest red patterned dress that I got on sale at Gap Kids the other day. I managed to find a headband in exactly the same red shade from Accessorize to coordinate with it. Red is kind of her colour. Although she also looks great in pink, and yellow, and blue. And green, for that matter. She basically just suits everything. She certainly looks a hell of a lot more stylish than me right now. Upstaged by a one year old!
‘Doesn’t she look cute, though?’ I say.
‘Yeah, she does.’ Will peers at Hera with a soppy, charmed look. ‘She’s very cute.’
I smile proudly at her. She’s starting to fall asleep now, but I can tell she’s trying to stay alert so she doesn’t miss anything. She’s dropping off, blinking a few times, trying not to fall asleep and then dropping off again.
‘She’s sleepy. She’s my little angel,’ I say with a sincerity that surprises me. But it’s true. Hera is my angel. Even though it wasn’t easy having her while being heartbroken over Leroy cheating and then learning how to be a single mum while trying to let go of all the bitterness I felt towards him, I got there in the end. Hera saved me with her lovely cuddles, her cute little smile and her unbridled enthusiasm over the little things, from eating her favourite food (chocolate yoghurt) to playing with Mr Bear.
‘Aww!’ Will reaches for Hera’s cheek and gives it an awkward little stroke. It’s abundantly clear that he doesn’t interact with children very often.
‘Will, you just left a streak of olive juice over Hera’s face,’ I grumble, spotting a greasy smear where his hand has been.
‘Oh sorry,’ Will replies, looking a little embarrassed.
He grabs a napkin from a nearby stack and quickly reaches down to wipe off the streak. Hera blinks up at him, wide-eyed, as he wipes the olive grease away. It’s actually quite cute how flustered he seems to be over having got Hera the slightest bit dirty. Little does he know that some of her favourite hobbies include smearing mud from the garden over her face, giving a new twist to the idea of a mudpack. And if that doesn’t hit the spot, she also likes to grab bottles of shower gel, washing up liquid, bubble bath – whatever’s in reach, really – and just drizzle them over her head.
Will discards the napkin. ‘Sorry about that,’ he repeats.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Hera’s already forgotten all about it and she’s now properly dozing off.
‘So anyway, how do you know about my OOTDs?’ I ask, casting my eye over the vol-au-vents in the buffet.
‘Oh, I know all about your agency. You used to send us press releases all the time. If I recall correctly, the last one was for a vajazzle.’
I avoid his gaze and crunch through a few crisps. They’re sweet chilli and they’re delicious. I try not to look too awkward at the mention of the vajazzle campaign I worked on. Representing a company that specialised in adorning women’s vaginas with glitter wasn’t my finest hour, but they paid well and sometimes money has to come before taste in business
.
‘My mum mentioned you were back. I think she heard about it from someone in town. I was wondering if I’d run into you,’ Will comments.
‘Oh right …’ I murmur a little uneasily.
I can’t help wondering what Will’s heard. He must know something about the whole Leroy thing or otherwise he wouldn’t have tactfully not mentioned it. I’ve certainly heard about his divorce. He surprised everyone by settling down in his mid-twenties, marrying an heiress called Elsa Millington-Brown. It came as a bit of a shock to the village, especially since Will seemed to have been playing the field when he was first making a name for himself on the media scene. I’d see articles from time to time on the Daily Mail site with him falling out of nightclubs looking cosy with other minor celebrities. He was pictured quite a few times with a candidate from The Apprentice. Then those articles dried up and all of a sudden, word got around that he’d found love and settled down. Except apparently, the couple split a few years ago – I have no idea why. And I had no idea Will was back in Chiddingfold either. I wish I’d had a heads up that he was in town. My mum is usually a pretty reliable source of village gossip, but she’s probably been too busy with Hera to stay on top of her game. If I’d known Will was back, I might have actually made an effort with my appearance – not because I still fancy him after all these years, but just for my own sense of pride.
‘So, do you still paint?’ Will asks.
I used to paint at school. I used to spend all my time in the art room, and it was my artistic ability that helped me get a scholarship for sixth-form but I haven’t painted for years. Even before I had Hera. I just kind of lost interest in it.
‘No, not really,’ I admit.
‘But you were so into it,’ Will says, sounding almost disappointed.
I shrug.
‘You were Natalie, the arty girl.’ Will has a wry smile on his face.