One Day In Summer

by Shari Low

  The room service waiter left their teas on the coffee table, and Hope poured them both. ‘How do you take it?’

  Aaron shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. I never drink tea, only coffee. But your mum drank it all day long, and you drink it too, so I’m going with it. I’m a living-on-the-edge kinda guy.’

  Hope found his self-deprecation amusing. ‘Yep, you’re so rock and roll. I feel like this is a major milestone in our relationship.’ She went for milk, no sugar, the same way she took it, then watched as he took a sip.

  ‘Not bad. I can live with it.’

  ‘Yaaasssss! We’re sucking you in to our ways,’ Hope cheered.

  This was the most bizarre day. One minute stressful, one minute sad, then funny, then loving, then easy, then hard… Now she was just hanging with her biological father in a hotel room. Yep, that’s him, lying on one side of the L-shaped sofa and I’ve got my knees pulled up under me, in my comfiest position, on the other side. No biggie.

  ‘She worked in a café.’

  Hope was so deep into her incredulous train of thought that she had to rewind to make sense of it. ‘Who did?’

  ‘Your mum.’

  Bugger. It should have been obvious.

  She sat forward on the sofa, curiosity piqued. ‘A café in Glasgow?’

  His brow furrowed as he tried to nail down a memory. ‘Yeah. Her parents owned it, I think.’

  ‘Do you know what it was called?’

  He rubbed his forehead as it creased in concentration. ‘I don’t think she ever said.’

  Hope’s spirits plummeted. ‘Damn. There are thousands of cafés in Glasgow. And what are the chances of her still being there twenty-three years later? Pretty slim. I’ve just realised that I didn’t ask you her surname.’

  ‘Sanders. Agnetha Sanders.’ He almost exhaled it, such was the sadness in the way he said it. Poor guy. Whatever had happened between him and her mum had obviously left scars.

  Agnetha Sanders. Hope’s right leg began to vibrate, the way it always did when she was getting anxious or excited about something. Agnetha Sanders.

  Stay calm. Don’t get carried away. Take it easy.

  ‘Do you mind if I grab my iPad out of my bag and look it up?’ It was blurted out in one big long urgent jumble of letters with no pauses in between.

  He swung his legs off the sofa and sat forward. ‘Let’s do it.’

  She was up, across the room and back in seconds. She sat next to him, fired up her iPad and went straight on to google.

  Sanders. Café. Glasgow.

  A hit.

  ‘Holy crap!’ she gasped.

  Looking over her shoulder, Aaron was as shocked as she was. ‘No way, it’s there?’

  ‘Yes, it’s… Oh, no, hang on…’ She stopped, her brain catching up with what her eyes were reading. The reference was in an article on West End Glasgow cafés of the past. The past. She read what it said.

  The Sanders – 1955 – 2014. A family-owned business on Hyndland Road, passed down through the generations. Much loved through the decades for its speciality cakes and friendly atmosphere. Last owned by Alex Sanders (1945–2014).

  ‘Yes! That was her dad’s name. Alex.’

  Hope let that sink in. ‘So my… grandad… was this man, Alex Sanders?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Wow. Another something to add to what she’d learned today.

  ‘I wonder why it closed? Maybe there was no one else to pass it on to. Maybe my mum… I mean, do you think she could be… What if…?’ She couldn’t get it out, but the questions were screaming in her head. Was her mum dead? Had she missed her chance to meet her?

  ‘Stop,’ he said, realising exactly what she was thinking and putting his hand on hers to stop the spiral of where her head was going. ‘There could be a hundred reasons that the place closed. Maybe it wasn’t her thing. She was a trained pastry chef, so maybe she went on to do something else.’

  ‘She was a trained pastry chef?’ Another new fact. And how cool was that one.

  Hope stared at the screen for a second, then had another go. Agnetha Sanders. A few hits, but most of them were abroad. There were a couple on Facebook though, so that was the obvious place to try next.

  Beside her, she could hear Aaron’s breathing getting quicker. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, great.’ He shrugged casually. Hope knew a bluff when she saw it.

  ‘I mean, are you okay with me doing this?’

  ‘Honestly? My heart’s thumping like a train and I could pass out at any minute, but I don’t want you to stop.’

  Hope gave him a cheeky wink. ‘Jet lag again?’

  He chuckled. ‘Definitely gotta be jet lag.’

  Back to the search. On to Facebook.

  Agnetha Sanders.

  Nothing in the UK.

  Argh!

  Next she tried just Agnetha and clicked ‘People’, then handed the iPad over to Aaron. ‘Do you recognise her among that lot?’

  He spent a few minutes scrolling through, Hope holding her breath every time he clicked on a profile, waiting for a positive reaction. It didn’t come.

  ‘Nope. I know she’ll have changed in twenty-odd years, but I don’t think she’s there.’

  Hope groaned. ‘Thing is, she’ll be, what age…?’

  ‘She was two years younger than me so she’ll be forty-five.’

  ‘Exactly. Forty-five – so I’m guessing she’ll be married already so her name will be different and… What? Why are you staring at me like that? What did I say?’

  ‘I’m an idiot. Damn, such an idiot. Why didn’t I think…?’

  ‘What?’ The suspense was making her heartbeat race now.

  ‘Today is the thirtieth, yes? It was an overnight flight so I didn’t catch on, but today is the thirtieth of May.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘It’s her birthday. Her forty-fifth birthday today,’ he exclaimed, his excitement over this realisation making his eyes widen.

  ‘No way!’ Hope squealed as she threw her arms around him and hugged him, although she wasn’t quite sure why. Because they had a lead? Because this would make Agnetha so much easier to find? Because there had to be something special in the fact that today, her biological mum’s birthday, was the day that she met her biological father for the first time? That was just fate, laying it out there for them.

  Right, what were their options? She knew there was a government records website, Scotland’s People, that she could use. She’d seen that on a few of the many family search programmes she’d watched obsessively over the years. Probably start there.

  She was about to click off Facebook when she had a thought.

  She typed in;

  Agnetha’s birthday.

  Nothing. It was always a long shot.

  ‘What about forty-fifth birthday?’ Aaron suggested.

  Hope gave him a raised eyebrow of amusement.

  ‘What? Is that a dumb idea? Look, I told you I don’t do any of this stuff. If I wanna speak to someone, I call them up. I know – crazy, right?’

  ‘It’ll never catch on,’ Hope deadpanned. Her fingers, however, were already at work.

  Agnetha’s 45th birthday.

  If this worked she would…

  One post. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’

  ‘What?’ Aaron was gobsmacked. ‘Did you get something?’

  ‘I don’t know, I…’ She clicked on it, read it, then turned the screen so he had a full view of what it said.

  To all friends, family and regular customers!

  Tonight we’re having a SURPRISE party to celebrate our lovely owner Agnetha’s 45th birthday. If you love her, like her, or if she makes you a cup of tea more than once a week, you’re very welcome! Cake supplied, but bring your own bottle!

  7 p.m. The Ginger Sponge.

  And, remember, it’s a SURPRISE – anyone who spills the beans will be barred for life.

  The two of them stared at the image, both dumbstruck. It was the
same café that had been in the earlier article, the one that had closed down.

  Hope was the first to find her voice. ‘She changed the name of the café to The Ginger Sponge. And you’re never going to believe this…’

  Aaron slumped back on the sofa, put his hands behind his shaking head. ‘Right now I’ll believe anything.’

  ‘I’ve been in there. I didn’t recognise it earlier because it’s been painted and has a different sign. I was in it once, meeting a friend for coffee.’

  Hope forced her brain to flip through her memory bank. She couldn’t pinpoint what day of the week it was, but she’d been served by a young girl and that was the only member of staff she could remember seeing. Definitely not anyone old enough to be her mother.

  Hope scrolled up through the posts on the timeline. There were photos of the café, photos of the dishes they served, lots of them with a young woman in them, a pretty waitress with red hair. Could that be Agnetha’s daughter? Were there more sisters or brothers out there? More scrolling… Stop.

  A photo from a few weeks ago. It was from the ‘Hyndland Kids and Coffee Club’ and the café had been tagged in it. There was a group of women, all clutching children of various ages, and then another lady with a T-shirt that said ‘The Ginger Sponge’ across the front of it. Hope held her breath as she read the post.

  Thank you to the fabulous Aggs at The Ginger Sponge for always making us so welcome. We love you! (And we love your cakes!)

  Hope felt a little light-headed and she realised that she still wasn’t breathing. She exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled again. Then she held the iPad to out to Aaron again.

  He leaned forward again, took it from her, stared at it for a few moments.

  Hope could barely get the words out. ‘Is that her?’

  He stared for a few seconds more. Then finally, when she couldn’t stand it a moment longer, he raised his eyes. ‘That’s her.’

  There was a stunned silence, which Hope was the first one to break.

  ‘So what will we do now?’

  Aaron’s grey eyes met hers. ‘I guess before we do anything, I need to tell you what happened to us.’

  6 p.m. – 8 p.m

  21

  Agnetha

  Aggs jumped out of the shower and chuckled as she caught her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t find a shower cap, so she’d shoved an Aldi bag on her head and twisted it around her hair to keep it dry. Somehow she didn’t think it was a trend that would catch on. She grabbed one of her new, fluffy thick grey bath towels from her shiny chrome radiator and wrapped it around her body. The novelty of having her very own en suite after all these years would no doubt wear off eventually, but right now she was embracing the joy of it.

  Humming to herself, she opened the door to her bedroom and…

  ‘Aaaaargh! Jesus, what are you two doing here? You gave me a fright!’

  Isla and Skye were both lying on her bed.

  ‘We’ve come to help you get ready. And we’ve brought wine…’ Skye held up a bottle of Prosecco.

  ‘And we’ve brought music…’ Isla wiggled her iPhone.

  ‘And we’ve brought make-up because your make-up bag is like something that’s been excavated from a time capsule,’ Skye added, then gestured to Aggs’ headwear. ‘Do Aldi know you’re endorsing their brand? I think Victoria Beckham wore the same thing last week.’

  Aggs raised her chin and put her hand out, palm forward. ‘If you two don’t recognise fashion innovation when you see it, that’s your problem.’ She sat at the chair in front of her dressing table and slipped the Aldi bag off, still feigning aloofness. It was easy to do. She just channelled Celeste.

  ‘What’s that evil grin about then?’ Isla asked suspiciously as she climbed off the bed.

  Damn. She’d always been rubbish at hiding what she was thinking. ‘Nothing,’ she objected, with as much innocence as she could muster. ‘Nothing at all.’

  To Aggs’ relief, Isla let the interrogation drop, more focused on getting the beautification session underway.

  ‘Right, let’s get started. What tunes do you want, madame?’

  ‘Oooh, give us a bit of Shania.’

  ‘Yaassss!’ Amused by the choice, Isla turned to Skye. ‘Want me to shoot you now?’

  Skye rolled her eyes, disgusted. Isla and Aggs’ love of country music was something that the older twin didn’t share. She was definitely more of an indie rock listener. ‘Please. Make it quick and aim for the ears,’ Skye drolled. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go and get ready and you can get started on Mum. I’ll swap with you as soon as I’m sorted.’

  Aggs peered at her youngest. ‘Get started with what?’

  Isla pressed a button, ‘Man, I Feel Like A Woman’ blasted out, and then she danced over and stood behind her mum. ‘We already said, we’re helping you get ready, so just sit there, enjoy your wine and let the experts get to work.’

  ‘God help me,’ Aggs murmured, but her eyes were twinkling. This was bloody marvellous actually. She was forty-five. She had her girls. She had a lovely man who was about to whisk her off to Paris the following morning. That gave her a little jolt of anxiety, as she contemplated telling the girls and wondered if she should just get it over with and do it now.

  No. She wanted to enjoy this moment for what it was – a fabulous, giggly interlude with her girls. She was being pampered and preened, and she was about to go out for a lovely dinner. Oh, and she didn’t have a worry in the world, other than how to lose the half a stone that was stopping her from getting her skinny jeans on and the fact that she still had to pack for Paris and arrange cover in the café for Monday. Sod it, the new Aggs didn’t care. She could go bootleg denim, she could get up an hour early in the morning and throw a few things in a cabin case, and Isla would be able to rustle up someone to help out on Monday. She had a few mates at uni who were always glad of the extra cash.

  She did, however, have a quick work question. ‘Are you sure Nasim and Sandra are fine with closing up on their own downstairs?’

  Isla broke off from using a brush to apply Aggs’ foundation, to practically shout over the sound of Shania. ‘Absolutely! It’s just the Menopausal Jogging Gang who are in…’ she said, referring to a self-titled group of women who told their families they went out running every week, when they actually just strolled down to the café and drank tea and had a right old natter for a couple of hours. They usually came on a Saturday afternoon, but for some reason they’d asked Aggs if they could come later today. She was happy to accommodate them – even if it did mean keeping the café open a little bit later and an extra hour of wages for Nasim and Sandra. They’d promised they’d be out by seven, so Aggs could nip down and lock up on the way out to dinner.

  Isla had been working away for a while when Aggs had a thought. ‘Do not make me look like an explosion in a cosmetics factory, Isla,’ she warned, her eyes closed now while Isla applied eyeshadow. ‘I’m too old to wear too much make-up.’

  ‘Mum! Gwen Stefani is older than you and she rocks a glam look.’

  Aggs opened her eyes and looked up at her daughter. ‘She also sleeps with Blake Shelton and I don’t think I’ll be doing that any time soon either.’

  ‘Close your eyes!’ Isla ordered, giggling. ‘I’m nearly done.’

  Aggs managed to blindly lift her glass to her lips. The wine was going down a treat.

  ‘Okay, open them. Just the lips to do.’

  Aggs did as she was told, loving every minute of this. She was desperate to look in the mirror, but Isla had draped a towel over it so she couldn’t peek.

  ‘Wine down,’ Isla ordered, brandishing a lip pencil.

  At that, Skye came through the door, closing it behind her. Aggs’ newly mascara’d eyes took in the sight of her. ‘Wow, you look gorgeous, darling! Even if there’s a good chance you’ll flash your knickers.’ It was great to see Skye dressed up and not with her head stuck in a book. Maybe after her finals, she’d start going out more. Aggs didn’t want her to get to f
orty-five and look back and see nothing but work. She wanted her girls to learn from her life, not copy it.

  ‘They’re nice knickers though, so I don’t care,’ her daughter retorted, swirling around in a body hugging pink dress that ended right below her bum.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Aggs chirped, loving Skye’s attitude. Her daughters could wear what they wanted, when they wanted, and Aggs would cheer them on.

  ‘You ready to swap?’ Skye asked Isla.

  Isla finished applying a last coat of lip gloss and stood back, surveying her work. ‘Frigging gorgeous,’ she decided, taking a bow. ‘Right, your turn,’ she told Skye. ‘Don’t mess up my masterpiece.’

  Skye tutted and attempted a playful swipe, but Isla dodged it and dived out of the room. ‘I’d never tell her, but she did a great job. You look fab, Mum.’ Skye picked up a set of hair tongs that Aggs didn’t recognise – one of them must have brought them – and a comb.

  ‘Let’s see if we can improve on Hair by Aldi,’ she quipped, making Aggs choke on her bubbles.

  By the time Isla reappeared, in a gorgeous emerald green halter neck jumpsuit, Skye was spraying hairspray and shaking Aggs’ hair in at the roots, going back and forth like a consummate professional. Typical Skye. Always the perfectionist.

  Isla tapped her watch. ‘Right, Vidal Sassoon, let’s get going. Table is booked for seven and it’s five past already.’

  Skye stood back, finally satisfied. ‘Ready to see?’

  Aggs felt ridiculously giddy. Must be the wine. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  With a dramatic flourish, Isla swept the towel away from the mirror. ‘Ta da!’

  Aggs froze. Couldn’t move. Full system shutdown. She stared. Stared some more. Stared again. That wasn’t her who was looking back, it was someone else, someone she vaguely remembered. A bit older for sure, but her eyes were bright, her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a fiery mane of glossy red waves.