by Rosie Green
I stare at her. ‘But . . . when? How? You’re getting married, aren’t you?’
The sobs get louder.
‘You’re not getting married?’ I rush to her side, drawing over a chair and gently rubbing her back. ‘But why didn’t you say something, for goodness’ sake?’
I rest my head against her arm as she carries on weeping, feeling her despair in the jerky movement of her shoulders. ‘Oh, Isla, I can’t believe it.’
‘Neither could I.’ She raises her blotchy face to me. ‘He met this French girl at the supermarket. They both reached for the last mop at the same time.’
‘Ooh, very romantic. A scrubber in more than one sense of the word,’ I mutter, surprised at how fiercely protective I feel towards my sister.
She swallows. ‘Well, no, actually.’
‘Sorry. That was nasty of me. I just hate this girl for ruining your relationship, that’s all.’
Isla shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t her.’
‘What?’ I frown at her. ‘So who . . . ?’
‘Her mother!’ she wails.
‘Oh, God, Isla, that’s awful. So was the mother shopping with the daughter?’
Isla sniffs loudly. ‘Yes. Monique. That’s Jamie’s new love. Forty-five. She needed one with a longer pole.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I have sudden visions of this mature French woman assessing Jamie’s meat and two veg.
‘The mop.’
‘Ah.’
She hauls herself off the bed.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I need kitchen roll.’
‘So what happened?’ I ask, following her along to the kitchen.
‘Oh, they all went to the hardware store together for a mop with a longer pole, and . . . well, God knows what happened, but a month later, he tells me he’s fallen deeply in love for the first time.’ She gazes at me, stricken. ‘For the first time!’
‘Jeez, that’s harsh.’
She swallows audibly, more tears welling up, and I yank off a few squares of kitchen roll. She blows her nose thoroughly, then she turns to me with a look of despair.
‘He’s a bastard, Jess. A bloody bastard. And I hate him. I really hate him.’
I nod vigorously. ‘So do I. And I always thought he was so lovely, as well.’
Isla grunts.
‘Is that why you flew back here without giving us any warning? Because it all went pear-shaped?’
She nods. ‘I couldn’t bear to stay. He kept saying we needed to talk about it but I couldn’t see any point. It wasn’t like we were going to get back together again. The bastard.’
‘Are you going to give him the ring back?’ I ask, gazing sadly at the rock on Isla’s finger.
‘This?’ She wrenches it off with a contemptuous look, scrapes back her chair and to my horror, hurls the diamond ring in the bin. ‘That’s what I think of Jamie.’ She runs out of the kitchen and I hear the bedroom door slam.
I gaze in horror at the bin, my mind reeling.
She’s going to regret that later. Hopefully the ring is still sitting on the top . . .
I open the bin carefully and sure enough, there it is, lodged between some soggy teabags and a sardine tin with the oil leaking out. The huge diamond is winking at me, but when I try to grab it, the damn thing slips away, disappearing from view into the tangled mess of rubbish.
With a sigh, I grab an old sheet, spread it out on the kitchen floor, then – wincing - I tip out the contents of the almost full bin. Then I comb through the disgusting pile, eventually locating the ring in an empty baked bean can, covered in bean juice.
Feeling slightly sick, I pick it out and dash to the sink.
Hearing Isla stomp out of her room, I jump and the ring slips from my fingers, clattering into the sink.
‘What are you doing?’ Isla appears in the kitchen doorway. ‘You’re not searching for the ring, are you?’
I hold it up triumphantly. ‘Found it!’
‘I wouldn’t bother.’ She slumps down at the table and groans. ‘It’s paste. It cost fifteen quid, if I remember rightly.’
‘What?’ I stare at the ring and the mess on the floor. ‘But why? Why buy a fake ring?’
She shrugs, unable to meet my eye. ‘I didn’t want to come home as a massive failure, that’s all. Everyone believes I have the perfect life and I suppose I didn’t want the shame of people finding out the truth. I bought that stupid ring at the airport, on a whim, so I could pretend things were still hunky dory.’ She looks up at me, her face etched with misery. ‘Pathetic or what?’
I shake my head. ‘Not pathetic at all. I totally understand.’
It crosses my mind to ask about the business. What’s going to happen to their joint venture now they’ve gone their separate ways? But I don’t want to upset her even more.
‘What about Christmas?’ I ask softly. ‘Can’t you stay here for it now?’
She purses her lips. ‘Tea?’ She gets up and goes to put the kettle on.
‘Er . . yes, please.’
I watch her getting the mugs and the teabags, and for a moment, I think she’s just going to ignore my question.
‘Isla, we could come to you, if you can’t get away from the shop for long enough. I can’t bear to think of you spending Christmas on your own.’
‘I won’t be alone,’ she says briskly, her back to me as she heaps sugar into both mugs. ‘My friend Celeste, who works at the shop, is single so we’ll probably spend time together. And I’ll have loads to do while we’re closed for the holidays. I’m planning to give the place a thorough spring clean . . . maybe even redecorate a bit.’
She turns and hands me my cup.
I take a sip of the tea and wince. ‘You put sugar in this.’
She sighs, her hand flying to her forehead. ‘Sorry. How stupid. Honestly, my head’s all over the place right now.’
‘Don’t worry. Sugar’s supposed to be good for shock. And you’ve certainly delivered a few of those tonight!’
Her smile is rueful. ‘Sorry, Jess.’
‘What for?’
‘For being such a major pain in the ass.’
‘So what’s new?’ I joke and she actually laughs.
‘Chocolate cake?’ I suggest, but she shakes her head.
‘It’s time I stopped trying to fill the Jamie-shaped hole inside with so much stodge. It’s not making me feel better. And if I don’t desist I’ll be the size of a small bungalow by New Year.’
‘Okay. Do you want to come and watch a movie, then?’
She shakes her head sadly. ‘I just need to be on my own for a bit. Do you mind?’
‘No, of course not.’
She frowns. ‘You should have your bedroom back.’
‘What? No, no. It’s working out fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
I nod. ‘Of course. It’s not as if it’s forever. You’ll be going back to France in a week or so.’
She gulps and looks down at her feet, and for a horrible moment, I think she’s going to start crying again. Maybe she doesn’t actually want to go back to France. I really wouldn’t blame her.
Next second, she murmurs, ‘Thanks, Jess,’ before returning to the bedroom.
‘I’m here if you need me,’ I call, but the door clicks shut without a reply.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Exhausted, I fall into a deep sleep and wake late, still feeling woozy. It’s as if I have a hang-over with none of the pleasure of getting there.
I leave Isla still sleeping and arrive at Moondance Cottage around ten-thirty.
Seb is just emerging as I get there and my heart skips a beat. He’s looking utterly edible in a dark blue suit and tie, and a white shirt, although his face is creased and pale, as if he hasn’t slept much.
‘Interview?’ I smile as I get out of my car.
‘Yup.’
‘Good luck. I . . . hope you get the job. For Bella’s sake.’
‘Thanks, Jess.’ He gives me a wan smi
le, gets in his van and drives off.
I watch him leave with a pang of sorrow. Becoming chief executive of a building company is clearly the last thing he wants. But if that’s what it takes to persuade Aleksandra to remain in the country with Bella, Seb is ready and willing to do it . . .
My heart squeezes at the plight he’s found himself in. Soon, they’ll be living together as a little family unit again – hopefully happier than before, once Seb is back to earning a salary Aleksandra approves of.
A single snowflake drifts down and I glance up at the sky. In spite of my heavy heart, I still feel the surge of delight I always feel when the first snow of winter starts to fall. Maybe that snowflake is a sign that things will turn out okay after all. For Seb and Bella. For Isla and Mum. And for me.
I flick my eyes to the sky, this time at my ridiculous optimism. Only a fool believes in ‘signs’. All you’re doing is raising your hopes when, going on my own bitter experience, they’re more than likely to come crashing down around you . . .
*****
I throw myself into my work in the studio, grateful for the distraction.
I hardly think about Seb at all.
Well, apart from picturing him at the interview a couple of times and then imagining him being offered the job. Oh, and I might have dreamed up a picture in my head of Aleksandra’s delight at his success, which obviously meant he could now be trusted to keep his little family in the style to which she had become accustomed! (Not that I’m bitter or anything.) And then my thoughts may have veered along an altogether darker route - a giggly Aleksandra leading Seb by that blue tie into the bedroom – at which point the bloody glass bauble I was holding somehow cracked into bits. A jagged edge pierced the soft pad of flesh near my thumb and it bled a lot, which was, of course, the only reason I broke down and cried.
I felt sure Seb would come and tell me how the interview went, but when I popped into the cottage around six, I could tell he hadn’t been back. I didn’t want to imagine where he might be, so I drove home hoping Isla was in the mood for a bottle of wine, a take-away and a good movie, because I desperately needed something to take my mind off Seb.
*****
The following week passes in a haze of writing and bauble-making. This means I’ve had to work late into the night every night.
I felt guilty about this because I knew that all Isla was doing was stewing in the bedroom. I really needed to get her to talk to me, but I didn’t have the time. The editor was breathing down my neck and I knew that when she said she’d ‘like it’ by the week before Christmas, the sub-text was that if I didn’t deliver it to their new timetable, there’d be less chance of more work from them in the future.
I’d promised to have lunch with Mum on the Sunday, though, and I wasn’t going to let her down. Not the way she was at the moment. I wanted Isla to join us but she made it clear she wasn’t up to any social engagements, not even with Mum.
‘Are you sure you won’t change your mind?’ I say, rushing round getting ready on the Sunday morning. I’m picking Mum up at twelve.
Isla hesitates, looking as if she might say yes. Then she shakes her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You will be later. Please come, Isla.’
‘No. I don’t want to have to talk about my problems. Mum doesn’t know about any of it and I don’t want her to. It would make her worse, believe me.’
‘No, it wouldn’t. Relationships break up all the time. I’m sure she’d understand.’
‘About Jamie, maybe, but . . . look, I’m just not hungry. Say hello to Mum, though. Have a nice time.’ And she goes back to what I’m now calling ‘her room’.
Wearily, I start getting ready to meet Mum on my own.
I’d gone along to the studio for a while first thing to wrap the latest lot of baubles in tissue paper and then box them up for Jonathan. Deep down, I knew it was an excuse, because I wanted to see Seb – but it turned out he wasn’t even there. I hadn’t seen him for five days and I was going slowly mad, not knowing what had been happening since his interview. Had he got the job? Had Aleksandra decided to stay, with Bella? Were they moving in together?
With just over a week to go now until Christmas Eve, I knew Seb had to be back to the cottage to complete the job. But I also knew that the house was almost finished. There were just a few rooms to paint and then that would be that.
He’d be gone . . .
*****
Mum is in a talkative mood.
As soon as we’re sitting down in the restaurant of The Bookbinder Inn, she starts telling me about her plans to decorate.
‘I’ve decided on a neutral palette. Your dad always hated bright colours on the walls. So I thought maybe a nice cream colour with the odd splash of colour here and there. Cushions, that sort of thing.’
I pass her a menu and take a sip of my lime and soda. ‘Sounds lovely, Mum. Is Martin good at painting?’
She frowns. ‘Martin? Oh, Martin’s gone.’
My drink goes down the wrong way and I start to cough and splutter.
‘Are you okay?’ Mum leans forward, looking anxious.
‘Martin’s gone?’ I gasp when I’m finally able to. ‘What do you mean, he’s gone? When did this happen, Mum?’
‘Oh, last week some time. Tuesday I think it was. Yes, Tuesday. I was busy painting in the studio and he wanted us to go out for a meal together but you know what I’m like when I’m finishing a painting. I can’t drag myself away.’ She shrugs matter-of-factly. ‘So we had an argument and he said he didn’t feel as if I cared about him any more, so he was moving out and going to live at Lisa’s.’
‘But that’s awful.’ I stare at her, marvelling at how unaffected she looks – on the surface, at any rate.
She shakes her head. ‘We’ve been just friends for a long time. Martin always wanted more of me than I could give. Of course I do care about him. And he says he’s still really fond of me but he feels the relationship has run its course. And I agree with him.’ She sighs. ‘Martin was never able to understand the special place your dad has in my heart.’
‘I’ll bet he didn’t,’ I murmur sadly. Poor Martin. Always second-best to a man who’s gone but lives on in our hearts as vibrantly as if he were still here. No wonder he’s decided to cut and run. Maybe he’ll find happiness with someone else now . . .
‘Anyway, let’s get this food ordered.’ She pushes up her reading glasses. ‘I fancy the roast beef. Cooking for one means I never get to have things like that so I’m going to make the most of it.’
I watch her as she studies the menu, thinking she seems happy enough about Martin leaving. Is she still doing paintings of Dad all the time?
When the main course arrives and we’ve chatted about local village gossip and about how wonderful the Christmas tree in The Treasure Box window is looking, I clear my throat and broach a trickier subject.
‘Mum? When I was clearing out Moondance Cottage, I came across a tiny pair of baby bootees in a paper bag. Did you knit them?’
A shadow falls across her face. Carefully, she lays down her knife and fork. ‘The bootees. Yes, I did. I’d forgotten all about them.’
‘Who did you knit them for?’
She swallows and closes her eyes.
‘Mum? Are you all right?’ I ask, alarmed.
She draws in a big breath and lets it out slowly, staring down at her plate. And when she looks up at me at last, tears are sparkling in her eyes.
‘I knitted those bootees for our baby. Your Dad’s and mine.’ She smiles sadly. ‘You could have had a little brother or sister, Jess. But I lost the baby at twelve weeks.’
I stare at her, trying to take it in.
‘Oh, Mum. But why didn’t you tell us? Isla and me?’
She sighs and takes my hand across the table. ‘I was forty-five and there were all the warnings about older mothers having problems carrying to term. We decided not to tell anyone until the pregnancy was well established.’ She smiles, looking up at the ceili
ng. ‘Oh, Jess, we were so happy. It was completely unplanned but I was absolutely over the moon when I realised I was pregnant. It seemed like a miracle. But then . . .’
‘You lost it.’ My eyes film with tears. ‘That must have been heart-breaking.’
She nods. ‘It happened on the ski trip. The miscarriage.’
I stare at her in shock. ‘I thought you went to the hospital with a sprained ankle?’ I say slowly. ‘Is that just what you told people? Because really, you were losing the baby?’
She nods. ‘I felt so bad about lying to you – to everyone on the trip – but I thought that as no-one had known about the pregnancy in the first place, it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t face people’s sympathy if they found out what had really happened. It would have killed me.’
‘Oh, God, Mum, that’s awful. I knew something was different when we came back from Austria but I’ve never known what it was. Till now.’
‘I felt so down for ages and . . . it turned into actual clinical depression. Even your dad couldn’t help me. I was lost in my anguish and I wouldn’t even let him comfort me. I hated that he was getting on with life while I was still stuck in my grief, mourning our loss.’
‘I remember you arguing a lot in the months before you moved out,’ I murmur. ‘But I didn’t know why.’
She stares into the distance. ‘Your Dad was patient with me for a long time, giving me space to grieve, but then he just gave up on me. Looking back, obviously he was grieving, too, although in a different way. But I was too wrapped up in my own nightmare to realise that and I took my terrible despair out on him. I pushed him away.’
A tear slips down her cheek, unheeded, and her voice is barely above a whisper. ‘I blamed him for everything that happened afterwards. But really, it was just . . . circumstances. Life took us down this horrible path and neither of us were to blame. But I couldn’t see clearly back then. So I turned all my anger onto Max for what he did.’ She shakes her head, lost in the past. It’s as if talking about her miscarriage after all this time has opened a door to the past and she’s reliving all that sadness. She almost seems to have forgotten I’m here.