by Rosie Blake
She was behind the counter, chatting to a woman with tight curly hair, when he moved inside the shop. He couldn’t help heading straight over to peek into the window. The new display had clearly taken her hours. There was green cloth, mounds of it, creating the illusion of fields, divided by small lines of plastic fences. Animals grazed in the squares. She had found every type of farmyard animal – pigs, cows, horses, chickens and sheep – to scatter in groups. A farmer, a milkmaid, a shiny red tractor, a plough completed the scene. It was rural England, a brilliant glimpse of a summer’s day on a farm. He could almost hear the snuffling of the pigs, the cockerel’s cry, the whickering of the horses in the fields.
‘I opened the shop on a Monday. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s busy?’ She was babbling.
‘Do you like it?’ she added, standing close to him, biting her bottom lip, as if his verdict actually mattered.
He loved it; he should have told her at that moment. Something about it had touched him, reminded him of his childhood, his mum sitting on the floor of his bedroom revving up a huge yellow tractor, determined to give him the toys he’d wanted, to play with him when he was on his own.
‘I —’
‘Clara.’ A woman was beckoning from the other side of the room. Clara was already moving away and he hadn’t said a thing.
He looked back at the farmyard scene, catching the eye of a father outside, holding hands with his son, who was gesturing at the shop. He felt the same flash of envy even now, twenty-five years later, as the man smiled and followed the boy inside. Joe moved back over to the counter, amazed to see yet more people milling around, many clutching brown paper bags holding their own painted toys. Clara really had created a buzz about the place, and he felt a pang that his mother wasn’t here revelling in the atmosphere. She loved noise and people. He suddenly felt desperately lonely despite all the people pushing past him.
‘Joe, Joe, do you mind?’ Clara was calling across to him, snapping him out of his thoughts. He brushed at his face, suddenly worried that he could see inside her head.
‘I just need to pop out into the workshop and get one of the toys.’ She gestured at the till. ‘I won’t be long, a second or two. Well, a few seconds…’ She was babbling, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
‘It’s fine, I’ve got it,’ he said, walking down the aisle to take up her spot at the counter and holding out his hand, accepting the box, Holiday Barbie, from the smiling girl, head only as high as the counter. ‘Take as long as you like,’ he added, a small concession when he knew he needed to say a whole lot more.
‘My birthday,’ the girl announced, stepping back to point to a large badge on her coat with a glittering purple 6 on it.
‘Oh. Happy birthday,’ Joe said in return, feeling his own mouth tug into a smile in response to her wide grin, her button nose wrinkled.
Her mother passed over the money, a hand resting on the top of her daughter’s head. ‘We’re going back to make a cake,’ she said. ‘In the shape of a spaceship.’
‘Enterprising,’ Joe said, giving her her change. He looked back down at the girl. ‘My mum used to make me cakes in different shapes. One year she made an entire pirate ship, with a plank to throw people overboard and everything.’
He wasn’t sure where that had come from, felt gratified to see her mouth form an ‘ooh’ of surprise. Cake-making, six-year-old girls’ birthdays – this was not Joe’s world. He was used to a lot of other men in suits, office banter that bordered on bullying; he shuddered as he thought of his team and what they would say if they saw him now, surrounded by small children, soft toys, dolls and balloons. He straightened up, feeling eyes on him, turning just in time to catch the back of Clara’s head as she whipped back round. Had she been listening?
He stayed in the shop for the rest of the afternoon, helping behind the counter and collecting the toys from the workshop, marvelling at how many people seemed to come in and greet Clara. She appeared to have made more friends in a few weeks there than he had in London over the same number of years. He started to realise why his mother had always described the village as friendly; everyone just talked to you, as if it was normal, even if you were a stranger. In London, if someone spoke to Joe in that way he would assume they wanted money.
The afternoon went quickly, Joe now used to the shouts and excited squeals. He lingered at the end of the day, finding more jobs, rolling the shutters down, sweeping the floor, locking the door behind the last customer. He’d barely thought about work, whether his team cared that he’d left. He just wanted to be in the shop, near Clara.
‘Well,’ he said, the room in semi-darkness, Joe suddenly uncomfortable at it just being the two of them. He opened his mouth to say something about the display, about the shop. Clara was sitting on a stool at the counter, separating piles of notes and coins, her hair falling forward as she worked. Joe had a flashback that made his throat feel tight. His own mother, curls bouncing as she bounded round the counter to show a customer a new toy, Joe himself sitting solemnly on a stool by the counter waiting for the clock to turn five. They would cash up together, Joe marvelling at the piles of coins that his mother would pour into small clear bags, the notes in a wallet that they would then put in his rucksack, walking out of the shop together to drop the day’s takings at the bank in the high street.
‘I thought I would make dinner tonight,’ he said, his voice sounding smaller in the space. He cleared his throat.
Clara had looked up from what she was doing. He noticed violet shadows under her eyes that he didn’t think had been there a couple of days ago. ‘Are you sure? I don’t mind.’
‘I’m very sure.’ He should be thanking her for all the other evenings when she’d cooked and waited on him, but perhaps tonight was his opportunity. He had never been one for words: best to show her.
‘I won’t be long,’ he said in a loud voice, jangling car keys at her.
‘Great,’ she said, doing a pretty awful job of trying not to look surprised.
He could see her watching him through the glass door of the shop as he got into his car, and he felt his hand move into a half-wave. She nodded, her cheeks turning a deeper peach as she returned to the piles on the counter.
Half an hour later, he was wandering down a supermarket aisle, taking an inordinate amount of time before finally settling on two enormous fillet steaks, a bag of Maris Piper potatoes and some sugar snap peas. He was about to head to the checkout when he remembered that Clara had often produced a dessert. Heading to the refrigerated section, he panicked in the face of the enormous selection of pies, crumbles and cakes on offer. What would she like? He thought back over the things she’d produced, hand hovering over an apple pie. Something straightforward, no fuss. Then he spotted a large dark-chocolate cake covered in thick icing. He dallied for another few moments, earning himself a tut from an elderly woman, before deciding to buy both; she was sure to like one of them. He bit his lip, wondering why a pudding had managed to push him into such a spin. His hand reached automatically for his inside pocket, and the packet inside, before stopping halfway there.
His kitchen in London was pretty bare; he normally got takeaways on the rare occasions he was back in his flat in time for dinner. He wasn’t even sure he had anything in his fridge aside from beer and champagne. But he used to cook – his mother had taught him when he was younger – and now he found himself humming as he moved around the kitchen, chopping and testing.
He was heating the steaks in the oven so the insides were warm, the griddle sizzling in preparation. He wanted to wait until the last moment to ensure they were perfect. Clara was still in the bathroom, had been for a good hour, moving through with a book tucked under her arm, a box of matches in one hand, a rolled-up towel in the other.
After another five minutes, he started to worry. He hadn’t heard a sound. She might have drowned, fallen asleep in the water; she had looked tired earlier. He coughed loudly outside the door. No reply. He wavered, knowing she w
as fine really, just enjoying her bath. He strained to listen. No sound. No lap of water, no rustle of pages. He found himself calling in a high-pitched voice, ‘Dinner ready in ten!’
There was a small splash. ‘Lovely. Thank you.’
It startled him. She sounded close, as if she was just on the other side of the door, centimetres away. He sprang back, returning to watching his griddle. ‘Excellent, excellent,’ he called.
‘TAKE ME TO BED OR LOSE ME FOREVER.’
‘What?’ asked Clara through the door.
Joe felt himself die inside, shooting Lady CaCa the filthiest look.
‘Just, um, the parrot,’ he called back, lifting a warning finger at the cage.
Lady CaCa turned on one claw and moved back across the perch. ‘YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH.’
Worried that Clara would find him standing there just waiting for her to be ready, he moved across to the large cupboard and unearthed the hoover. She had tidied the flat but it would be good to make things spotless. The hoover was ancient, still with a rocket sticker on the front from the days when he had hoovered round his mother’s legs as a boy. Switching it on and plugging it in, he ran it across the carpet, nudging Roddy, who gave him a filthy look and simply rolled over onto his other side. He was sweating lightly by the time he had finished and Clara was standing in the kitchen, her wet hair in a high bun, a thick cardigan and knitted socks over leggings.
‘Great, you’re ready,’ he said, moving across to the oven. ‘Do sit,’ he said, pointing to the table, which was laid for two people.
She raised an eyebrow as she took in the sight. ‘You lit candles,’ she said, her hands coming together as if she might clap.
He was glad to be bending down to the oven so the heat was on his face anyway. ‘Well, I knew you were obsessed with them,’ he mumbled, torn between embarrassment and pleasure.
‘YOU HAD ME AT HELLO,’ Lady CaCa shouted to the corner.
Joe dished up the food, pleased with the neat charcoal lines on the steak, the soft red inside as Clara sliced through it.
‘Amazing,’ she said, holding a hand over her mouth as she chewed. ‘Perfect.’
Joe felt a rush of joy, his body finally relaxing. He reached for his glass of red wine, relishing the flavour of the meat, which seemed to taste better because he’d cooked it himself. He felt a peace descend on him for the first time in a long while.
Since the walk on the beach, he hadn’t felt the need to make small talk with Clara, and now they were just enjoying the sound of the wind outside, winter whistling past the window as they sat snug inside in the glow from the candles. The light softened her face so that he felt an urge to reach out and touch her. He stared at her hand, resting next to her fork, for the longest time.
What was happening to him? He hadn’t thought of work all night, and even stranger, when he did think about it there was no panic, no tightening in his chest, no urge to discover what was happening. They would already be looking for new business, another merger was always around the corner. The markets might be up, might be down, deals would come and deals would go, and tonight he just couldn’t care less.
Clara had a slice of apple pie, had laughed as he’d produced both puddings.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Joe said, scraping back his chair and getting up. Dragging the chair across the room, he popped open a trapdoor in the ceiling and pulled down the ladder folded up inside. ‘Local knowledge,’ he smiled, turning to her. ‘Want to see?’
Clara nodded at him, standing up and reaching for her wine glass.
‘Hold on, I’ll go up first and you pass me these,’ he said, walking round the flat and collecting up as many throws and blankets as he could find before clambering up the ladder, feeling the nip in the air as he stepped out onto the flat roof. Arranging the blankets on the ground, he turned to see Clara appearing through the hole, thrusting a bottle of wine in his direction before straightening up. She produced some tea lights from the pockets of her cardigan and proceeded to light them.
‘You’re like a boy scout,’ he said, laughing as she looked at him in confusion.
They sat side by side, blankets around their shoulders as they stared up at the night sky. Aside from a wisp of cloud, the midnight-blue expanse was filled with stars, clusters spattered all around them. The high street was silent, a few squares of window lit up from the inside, a few chimneypots smoking, leaving the lingering smell of woodsmoke in the air. The flames around them flickered, marking their own spot away from everything else.
‘Perfect,’ Clara breathed.
Joe felt the same, finding it hard to remember what he’d normally be doing at this time, not caring that he’d left his mobile in the flat below, suddenly not caring if he never saw it again. He swigged from the wine bottle. ‘I feel like I’m fourteen again. I used to sneak up here with friends to drink and smoke. We thought we were so subtle until Mum left us ashtrays up here and we realised she’d known all along.’
‘Your mum is brilliant,’ Clara smiled, feeling a familiar stab of pain but pushing it away, not wanting to ruin things.
Joe nodded. ‘She is,’ he said, picturing her now somewhere in Europe. For the first time since she’d left, he felt a desperate urge to see her, to give her a hug, tell her to have an amazing trip. Why hadn’t he done those things? Why did he have to hold everything in all the time?
‘My mum was brilliant too,’ Clara said, her voice whisper-quiet. ‘I should have told her more.’ She bit her lip and looked up at the sky again.
Joe stared down at his hands, imagining how he would feel. ‘She would have known,’ he said, placing his hand over hers.
Clara stared at it for the longest time. He felt the whole evening freeze as they sat there. Electricity shooting up through his arm, aware of her body inches from his. When he turned to say something to her, she was already looking at him, with an expression that made him cup her face in his hands, draw her slowly towards him.
Everything else faded away as they kissed. There was no nip in the air, no sounds from the high street, no wind at all. Just them, their lips together, her breath on his face.
‘Darlings!’ came a voice, a loud voice, a familiar voice. Joe squeezed his eyes tight; the kiss faltered. ‘Cooeeee!’
He pulled away. He was imagining it; they’d been talking about her, he’d conjured her. This was definitely not the time. He begged his mum to get out of his head. Clara’s lips, her pale-pink lipstick kissed away, were achingly close. Her expression matched his own confusion, and she drew back as they both looked towards the trapdoor.
Louisa’s face appeared at the top of the ladder. ‘Surprise!’ she called, bustling out onto the rooftop. ‘Oh,’ she said, taking in the blankets, the candles. ‘Have I interrupted something?’
Chapter 30
Louisa hadn’t given either of them time to react. Caught on the rooftop snogging the face off her landlady’s son, Clara thought she might die of embarrassment. She peered over the edge to see if she could make a leap for it. They were high up, but perhaps a broken leg might be worth it if it removed her from this awkwardness.
Joe had dived backwards as if she’d rubbed arsenic on her lips, and was running a hand through his hair as they both watched his mother emerge onto the roof, holding her arms out wide and staring up at the stars: ‘How magical, this is just gorgeous.’ His mouth was moving soundlessly. The whole scene seemed utterly surreal, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened, the kiss erased by the shock of the arrival. ‘Clara, you are clever.’
‘It was Joe,’ Clara whispered.
Louisa barely seemed to notice, hustling them over to the blanket surrounded by tea lights and making herself at home. ‘Amazing, come and sit here – and you, darling.’ She waved at Joe, who was still doing an impression of a guppy. ‘Clara, you’ve made it look so wonderful, my dear. I feel like the whole flat should feature in some winter chalet brochure, it’s so Nordic-chic.’