Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  I could feel myself coming alive like a new leaf unfurling in the sunshine. My creative spirit, which had been supressed for so long, was waking up. Too late to do my career any good, but at least it would come in handy for the Lilac Lane project.

  I swallowed the last mouthful of my lunch and scanned the busy cafeteria for a place to stack my tray. My gaze encountered a familiar profile – thick dark tufty hair, wide forehead and slim glasses. My hand flew up in an automatic wave, but Nick was too engrossed in his companion to notice me. It was the girl from the seminar; I recognised her from the denim jacket and flirty body language. Nick smiled and I felt a spark of jealousy as his dimple appeared. I felt strangely proprietorial about that dimple.

  Am I pouting? Pull yourself together, Sophie.

  I relaxed my face back into neutral and took stock of my reaction. It would have been nice to share my day with another person, that was all. I was bursting with enthusiasm and ideas and wanted someone to talk to, anyone, it didn’t have to be him.

  The girl flicked his tie so that it flapped up in the air. I could hear her giggle as Nick smoothed it back down.

  Well, well, well, you dark horse, Nick Cromwell. And I thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure. Not so strict today, are we?

  nineteen

  Sunlight seeped through a chink in the curtains, waking me up early. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up.

  It was Sunday morning and I had work to do.

  I jumped out of bed and drew back the curtains. The turquoise sky was completely unbroken by cloud. It was a perfect English summer’s day. I planned to take a rug outside and spend the whole day in the communal garden.

  But first, I’d make some tea and call Mum.

  With a mug in hand, I padded back to bed and fired up my laptop.

  My mum had grudgingly resumed contact on Skype, although she couldn’t resist peppering her conversation with digs and sarcastic asides. I was determined to persevere; she was bound to defrost eventually. I would just have to convince her that my accepting the will wouldn’t affect our relationship one bit.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be off somewhere exotic this August? Spain not good enough for you now, I should imagine, with your money.’

  This morning, Mum was wearing a tropical print sarong, huge sunglasses and her hair was pinned up in a neat ballerina-style bun. She sucked her cheeks in and sipped at a glass of water.

  I let the side down somewhat in a Little Miss Sunshine nightshirt and matted curls.

  ‘Course not,’ I soothed, biting my tongue as the lies tripped off it. ‘I’m very busy at work so it might be September this year, before I can make it. When the weather has cooled a little bit.’

  And your ex-husband is safely back on the other side of the pond.

  ‘You had your inheritance yet?’ she sniffed. ‘Taking a long time, isn’t it? That family was always slow to put their hands in their pockets.’

  ‘I’m surprised the old lady didn’t leave her estate to my father,’ I ventured. Over the years, I had learned that I had to pick my moments to ask Mum anything about him. On this occasion, I misjudged it.

  ‘I’m not. The bastard was probably as bad a nephew as he was a husband.’

  Mum tutted. I closed my eyes, counted to three and changed the subject, although the topic was just as controversial.

  ‘I’ve asked an architect to do some work for me in Lilac Lane, Mum.’

  She rolled her eyes in disgust. ‘You’re obsessed with that bungalow. Just sell it! I don’t understand why you would want to be tied down. Where’s your sense of adventure?’

  I saw her shake her head and it took me right back to my childhood. She could never understand my attempts to make my bedroom more homely

  ‘What happened to my doll’s house, Mum, can you remember?’

  I had spent hours lost in a make-believe world inside those tiny rooms. It had been my favourite ever toy.

  Mum shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  Now she was the one being economical with the truth. I could distinctly remember her handing it over to a man at the door in exchange for a handful of notes. I had cried for days.

  ‘You’re too old for make-believe now, Sophie,’ Mum had scolded. ‘Time to grow up.’

  I slurped my tea and considered tackling her about her big fat lie.

  ‘Lost in the move, I expect,’ she added.

  Which move? For her, our succession of flats and bedsits had never been important. Simply somewhere to leave her stuff. All she cared about was being on stage. She had been like a caged bird, desperate to be free. We had moved countless times while I was growing up. I knew now, that occasionally we had had to move when she couldn’t pay the rent.

  I shuddered. I never wanted to live like that again.

  The flat I shared with the Piper sisters was as close as I’d ever come to putting down any roots. That was what I longed to do.

  Put down roots. Build a home where my friends would gravitate to at weekends, at Christmas, barbeques in the summer and movies and popcorn on dark nights.

  ‘Look, Sophie,’ Mum moved closer to her computer screen and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, ‘why not forget all this architect nonsense and move over here? We could maybe use your money to buy a little bar. We could rent a lovely villa.’

  Good grief, much as I loved her, I couldn’t think of anything worse. Life as her side-kick was bad enough growing up, I certainly didn’t want a repeat performance.

  I shook my head and attempted to keep my voice level. ‘It’s a lovely idea. But I’m a homebird, Mum. Spain isn’t for me.’

  Mum dropped her sunglasses down, but I could still see the displeasure in her pinched lips. ‘Sometimes I wonder whose daughter you are.’

  So do I, I reflected sadly, ending the call.

  What sort of man was Terry Stone, I wondered as I showered and dressed. Was he a homebird like me? I shook my head, irritated by my whimsical thoughts. Of course he wasn’t or he wouldn’t have done a bunk.

  By midday, I had arranged a pile of magazines, a heap of brochures, sheets of card, scissors, glue and pens on a picnic blanket outside.

  I knelt back on my heels happily. This was utter bliss. All those years of drawing fantasy houses with spiral staircases and four-poster beds, walk-in wardrobes and bath tubs the size of swimming pools, and finally I had the chance to do it for real.

  I plucked a magazine off the top of the pile and flicked through it. The blingtastic tasteless pad of a lottery millionaire filled the first ten pages. I dropped it back down with a grin and picked up my sketchpad instead.

  You could keep your palatial mansions; I wasn’t interested in plush and fancy, or trendy and minimalist. I wanted my home to be a haven, like coming in from the cold to a big warm hug.

  I selected a pencil, chewed the end and stared at the blank page. Nick would design the building, all I had to do was to supply the detail, the feel, the heart of the home. All of a sudden, I felt awkward. I was only an enthusiastic amateur compared to him. What if my silly scribblings weren’t good enough?

  Come on, Sophie, you used to love doing this. He’s not the only one with passion. Have some confidence.

  I began to draw, slowly at first, letting my hand move across the page as if it had a mind of its own. A smile spread across my face, this felt good. I felt free and more alive than I had done in years. As my excitement bubbled, the ideas came faster and faster, filling page after page.

  Big, folding glass doors opening out onto the garden, perfect for summer parties. A real log fire with a rustic fireplace. A kitchen big enough to actually cook in. Yep, I might even learn how to cook. A squishy sofa under the window where I could snuggle up and read. An en suite bathroom with a power shower.

  The sun was hot on my neck and I edged into the shade, pausing from my work to drink some water. I didn’t know what I’d been worried about, I was having a brilliant time and some of these drawings were quite good, even to my rusty eye.

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bsp; I was sketching my bedroom now. The drawing showed a room big enough for a double bed. I sighed and pulled up a tuft of grass, letting the cool green blades fall through my fingers.

  Moving out of the flat meant leaving Emma and Jess behind. I’d accepted that. Despite my pleadings, they were adamant that they didn’t want to move to Woodby. But the prospect of living on my own filled me with dread.

  What was the point of having a lovely home if I had no one to share it with? Who would keep me company in that big double bed?

  Marc?

  Whoa, stop right there, Miss Sophie Stone. He dumped me once, who’s to say if I let him back into my heart, he wouldn’t do exactly the same thing again?

  ‘I am an independent, intelligent woman,’ I muttered to myself a few times.

  My stomach flipped, disloyally.

  But imagine waking up every morning to that body! And think how gorgeous our babies would be!

  Babies? I pressed a hand to my forehead. I needed to get out of this heat.

  I picked up my pencil again and quickly drew out a second bedroom. I had nearly completed the whole brief. All I had to do was stick in a few pictures from magazines to give an idea of colours and I was done.

  Finished! I focussed on the design of the spare bedroom. Oh my godfathers, I couldn’t give that to Nick Cromwell. He would think I’d gone barmy. I ripped the page out of my pad and consigned the room I’d entitled ‘nursery’ to the bin.

  twenty

  Was green eyeliner too much with green eyes? I stood back from the mirror and blinked. No, I decided, brushing on some mascara. My eyes looked massive. And shining with happiness.

  Today was going to go down in the History of Me as a particularly good day for three stonking reasons.

  Number one: an email from the Managing Director this morning informed me that I was doing a marvellous job with The Herald’s social media. Feedback from our advertisers was very encouraging, reader engagement was positive and so far I had far exceeded my targets for Facebook likes and Twitter followers.

  This had made me smile. But nowhere near as much as my second reason. My architect also emailed me today. I had read it so often that I knew it off by heart:

  Received your brief today. I am very impressed! This is by far the best brief I have ever had for a project. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?! I know exactly the sort of style you are looking for and I am very much looking forward to working on your project with you.

  Nick

  Mr Serious-Face-Dog-Whisperer approved of my efforts! He had even used exclamation marks! My face had glowed with pride for the rest of the afternoon.

  I was still basking in his glorious words when number three occurred; Marc called, asking me out on a date.

  Me. Marc. A date.

  So I had been right. All I had needed to do was spice up my life a bit, dazzle him with my executive prowess, wow him with my future plans and leave him to stew for a while and as if by magic – ta-da! – he had come back.

  This time around I was determined to get it right.

  A final check in the mirror. In my summer dress and sandals with my dark hair loose around my shoulders, I felt very feminine. Marc would approve. I picked up a cardigan, called my goodbyes to the girls and ran downstairs.

  ‘Get in then!’ Marc beckoned to me impatiently as a car tooted at him for double parking.

  ‘Sorry, I was just giving you a twirl,’ I grinned at him. ‘Do you like my dress?’

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, glancing into his rear view mirror and revving away. ‘Let’s go for a drive into the countryside and stop at a pub for a drink.’

  ‘Great!’ I pressed a hand against my grumbling tummy. Silly me for assuming ‘date’ meant ‘dinner’. It would do me good to go without a meal; Marc didn’t like it when I got too cuddly.

  Marc’s car was very noisy, making conversation difficult. I contented myself with sneaking a peak at his handsome profile. In his Ray Bans, Lacoste polo shirt and Diesel jeans, he certainly looked the part, although knowing Marc and his connections at the market, the brands were likely to be fakes. But who needed designers when you could look that good for less?

  I sniggered to myself; I sounded like an advert for TK Maxx.

  We were soon on the ring road and then the dual carriageway and finally we left the suburbs behind.

  ‘Hey, we’re not far from Woodby,’ I shouted above the throb of the engine, as we sped along winding country lanes.

  ‘Yeah?’ Marc flashed me one of his knee-trembling smiles and a minute later we pulled up outside a quaint little pub.

  As we walked up to the bar, Marc took hold of my hand. I saw our reflection in the mirrored panel behind the optics. We looked like a couple. Perhaps we were a couple? My heart began to pummel my chest at the speed of the William Tell overture and my cheeks flushed, I’d like to think in a pretty way rather than in a rashy-down-to-the-neck way.

  Now what? Do I play hard to get and shrug him off, let him know we’re playing by my rules? Oh, stuff that!

  I squeezed his hand and gave him my best twinkly smile.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  A lie down in a darkened room, preferably with you?

  ‘White wine, please.’

  A barmaid, almost wearing a black vest top, pouted her shiny pink lips at him as she took his order. Her blatant appreciation of Marc’s physique was, quite frankly, nauseating. If she batted those false lashes any harder, she would take off.

  Marc dropped my hand to get his wallet out. I ran my fingers up his arm, feeling bold and naughty. The barmaid flicked her hair over her shoulder and managed to look down her nose at me at the same time. Marc hitched his shoulder up as if I was tickling him and I saw her smirk.

  ‘And one for yourself.’ He winked at her.

  ‘Shall we go outside?’ I said brightly as Marc handed me my wine. It wasn’t chilled and I was sure bat face had given me warm wine on purpose.

  The pub had a large patio festooned with hanging baskets and planters stuffed with brash summery flowers. It was really pretty but packed! Marc steered us over to the only free picnic bench. It was a bit rickety. We both sat down on the same side and I yelped as it threatened to tip over. A bloke at the next table with a wet patch down his shirt, possibly the previous occupant of our table, caught my eye and chuckled.

  Marc took a long drink from his pint and gave an appreciative sigh.

  ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’

  I clutched the edge of the table and tried to relax. ‘Yes, lovely.’

  It was nice: summer’s evening, country pub, handsome, attentive man at my side. Perhaps I was just out of practice with the whole romantic date thing, but my insides were churning with nerves.

  Were we back together? I needed to know where I stood, but was too scared to ask. Hardly a good advertisement for women’s lib, was I? If a relationship takes two, surely I had some say in the matter?

  Go on then, say something!

  I will. When I’ve finished this drink.

  I cast my eye around the patio in search of something to talk about. In front of us was couple with a sleeping toddler in a pushchair. The woman, roughly my age, had her blonde hair swept up into a perfect bun. Lucky cow, I couldn’t even manage a pony tail without it going all lumpy. She was wearing white linen trousers, a black strappy top and flip-flops. On me that sort of outfit would look scruffy, but she looked elegant and sexy.

  Her man obviously thought so too; he pulled her towards him and gave her a long and sexy kiss. Wow! I averted my eyes. I was a bit prudish about snogging in public. This couple certainly weren’t though. Their little boy woke up and started to cry. They both smiled and rolled their eyes at the interruption.

  ‘So what’s new then?’ asked Marc, dragging his eyes away from a table of raucous women in the corner.

  I turned towards him with a proud smile. ‘Well, I got an email from the MD today–’

  ‘Jesus wept, Sophie!’ cried Marc.

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nbsp; I followed the direction of his pointing finger and horrified stare towards my lap. The full skirt of my dress had ridden up over my waist and was ballooning up and out over my belly. I looked about eight months pregnant. With twins.

  I leapt up, yanked my dress down by the hem and sucked my stomach in.

  ‘It’s all fabric,’ I laughed gaily. He didn’t look convinced. ‘And I had a big dinner.’ My empty stomach growled long and low like an approaching freight train.

  ‘You’ve got to get that under control.’ He shook his head and I quivered at the sight of his curled lip. ‘Cut down on the carbs. You’re no spring chicken. It’s harder to lose weight when you get older.’

  Oh bless him! He was thinking of my health. That was so considerate of him. I’d missed this; having someone to care about me, keep me on the straight and narrow.

  ‘I’ll start tomorrow, I promise.’ I leant forward and gave him a swift kiss on his nose.

  He scratched his nose and his cheek and then his chin. I was just about to make a joke and ask him if he’d got fleas, when he stopped and laid an arm across my shoulders.

  That was better. I shifted towards him so that I was leaning against his chest. This time he didn’t brush me away or scratch at his skin.

  I sighed. This was heaven. I was in his arms, where I’d wanted to be for the last five months. I wondered briefly who else had been here since February. I tossed the thoughts aside. No point looking back, I had to look forward. To the future, scary though that was.

  Don’t forget to dazzle him! Show off a bit!

  What could I say to show him how busy I’d been since we’d split up? I couldn’t very well mention the email from my MD again.

  ‘Oh! Did I tell you I’ve employed an architect to design me a house?’