by Paige Toon
‘How’s this week been at the bakery?’
‘Good. I like the hustle and bustle of it. Being with Mum all day and night could be a bit depressing, if I’m honest.’
He nods, the light diminishing slightly from his eyes.
‘But I’m not exactly going to meet Mr Handsome there and strike up a flirty conversation over a loaf of bread,’ I add merrily.
‘Well, you’re not going to meet him here, either,’ Angus points out, his jovial mood reinstalled.
I sigh. ‘Yeah, I don’t know what I’m going to do about that. You can’t set me up with anyone from work, can you?’
‘Christ no, none of them are good enough for you.’
‘Are any of them attractive, though?’ I ask playfully. ‘To be honest, Gus, I could really just do with a shag.’
He gives me a look of horror. ‘Too much information!’ he cries.
I chuckle and carry on preparing the toasties.
The next day is Saturday, and to my surprise, Angus is up and out of the house before I even wake up. He leaves a note for me saying he’s out for the day, which is particularly cryptic.
I wonder again if he is seeing someone and my chest tightens unpleasantly.
Last night was fun. Too much fun, in fact. I have quite a headache when I wake up at ten a.m. I take a couple of paracetamol and make myself a coffee, and then go and sit on the sofa.
If Angus brought another woman home, I can categorically say that I wouldn’t like it. No, that’s an understatement. I’d hate it. I like that we have this place to ourselves. And I kind of like having him to myself, too.
As soon as I think that thought, I’m filled with horror. I stand up and pace the room, flapping my hand in front of my face.
I’d better get out of here.
The completion date for the house sale is set for Monday, but this weekend it still belongs to our family, and I have a plan.
I’ve heard that the new owners intend to dig up part of the garden so they can build a conservatory. I hate the thought of Mum’s cherished plants ending up in a skip, and if they won’t be missed, why shouldn’t I take some with me? Things are obviously tight for Gavin and his family, so it would save me asking for money for a garden renovation project.
I have to steel myself as I open the door of the house I grew up in. Cool air wafts out and engulfs me with an old familiar smell. A lump springs up in my throat, but I try to focus on the job at hand, heading straight for the back door and avoiding any glances up the stairs to our old bedrooms.
I walk across the recently cut lawn to the garden shed at the bottom. Earlier I realised with irritation that we forgot to ask the moving men to empty it out, but I’m sure the new owners will be able to use whatever we’ve left behind, and I can take some of the tools with me today.
I inhale deeply, listening to the sound of bees buzzing amongst the flowers and birds tweeting in the trees as I come to a stop in front of the old apple tree. My climbing rose is flaming brilliant orange amongst the green apple leaves. I bend forward and sniff at one of the blooms, and then my eyes fill with tears.
Dammit. I don’t want to have any regrets about selling this house. It was the right thing to do, but God, it hurts. I steal a glance up at her bedroom window and swallow the lump in my throat. And then I get to work.
The garden shed smells musty, of damp, dank earth. I grab a fork, a spade and a stack of empty plastic plant pots. There are some old crates here that I can transport everything in, and there’s even a big bag of compost that Mum never got round to using. My eye catches sight of the paint cans in the corner and I’m struck with another idea. I wonder if there’s enough paint left to do the back wall.
A couple of hours later, I’m almost done. My hands are filthy, my dress is streaked with soil and my back is aching, but I feel content. I slump into a chair and put my feet up on the wrought-iron coffee table – yes, the removal men forgot to take the outdoor furniture, too. It was destined for a charity shop, but I’m thinking we’ll keep it for the bakery. There are two single chairs, one two-seater bench and a matching coffee table, all painted duck-egg blue.
My eyes are drawn once more to my flaming rose. It’s such a shame. It’s too big and too entangled with the apple tree to even consider digging it up. I can’t take it with me.
Or can I?
I grab Mum’s old pocketknife from the pile of tools and stalk with purpose to the garden shed. I swear I saw some rooting hormone in here... Yes, there it is. I fill another empty plant pot with soil and walk back outside to the rose. I’ve seen Mum take cuttings, so I think I know what I’m doing. I cut off a stem at a 45-degree angle, dip the end into the rooting powder and shake off the excess before sticking it into the container of good soil. And then I repeat the process a couple more times. I’ll take the cuttings back to Angus’s with me and water them every day and, you never know, maybe one day they’ll grow to be as beautiful as the rose flourishing in front of me now.
I head straight to Jennifer’s after leaving home, bringing with me as much as I can fit in my car. I’ll have to make another trip and I’ll need Angus or Toby’s help in bringing back the furniture, but we have tomorrow to do that.
It’s Saturday today, and I’m not supposed to be at work, but as I don’t have anything better to do, I decide to make a start on the garden.
I walk in to see a gorgeous young woman behind the counter. Who’s she?
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, her eyes hovering on my cheek. I’m going to assume I’m smeared in dirt.
‘Is Toby here?’
She turns to open the door to the bakery while I rub my cheek against my shoulder. ‘Toby? There’s someone here to see you,’ she calls.
Toby appears a moment later. ‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Who’s that?’ I mouth, glancing at the girl.
‘Vanessa,’ he replies, loud enough for her to hear.
‘I’m Rose,’ I tell her with a smile. ‘I work here during the week.’
‘Oh, right.’ She looks away again, uninterested.
‘What’s up?’ Toby asks.
As I fill him in, it occurs to me to wonder what he must think of me. A twenty-eight-year-old would-be-nurse turned shop-worker who has nothing better to do with her Friday nights or Saturday daytimes than come back to work. I must seem like a right bore.
I am a right bore. No wonder nobody wants me.
‘Okay,’ he says with a shrug, clearly not bothered one way or the other what I choose to do with my free time.
‘Can you give me a hand carrying some stuff in from the car?’
After a while he comes out the back to have a smoke. ‘How’s it going?’ he asks, perching on the planter box and lighting up.
‘I feel like I’m getting RSI in my right hand from using this weed-killer,’ I reply grumpily.
‘Want me to do some squirting for you?’
I give him a wry smile, but hand over the bottle. ‘Thanks. Just do the moss and the crap growing out of the cracks in the pavement.’
‘Yes, Miss.’ He squirts with his right and smokes with his left.
‘So how long has Vanessa worked here?’ I ask as I turn my attention to the planter box and start pulling out weeds.
‘She started today,’ he replies.
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘She’s alright.’ He sounds nonplussed.
I glance over my shoulder at him. ‘Not your type?’
‘I don’t have a type.’
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ I ask with curiosity, struggling to pull up a particularly tenacious weed.
‘Not at the moment.’
‘You didn’t leave anyone behind in London?’
‘Nope. Did you?’
I humph. ‘My boyfriend got his not-quite-ex-wife pregnant, so no.’
He pauses what he’s doing. ‘I didn’t think you’d be the type to hook up with a cheater.’
‘Well, I didn’t know he was cheating on her at the time. He to
ld me they were finished.’
He carries on squirting as I tug really hard at the weed. The leaves come off, but the roots stay intact.
‘Bollocks,’ I say.
‘Want some Weedo?’ He offers up the bottle.
‘It’s called Weedol. And no, what I really need is a fork.’ I look around for Mum’s bag of gardening tools. ‘Damn, I left the tools in the car.’ I stare with annoyance at my filthy hands.
‘I’ll go get them for you.’
‘Er, okay. Thanks. My keys are in my bag. Side pocket,’ I direct as he reaches in and pulls them out. He throws his fag butt to the floor.
‘Can you stop doing that? We’re trying to tidy this place up.’
‘Sorry, Miss,’ he calls, unfazed.
I hope that nickname doesn’t stick. I do feel like his bloody teacher, sometimes.
When he returns I barely glance up, too busy with the next round of weeds, but what I do see of his face is enough to make me do a double take.
He dumps the bag by my side. ‘Are you an identical triplet?’ he asks with astonishment.
He’s holding an old photo of Phoebe, Eliza and me that I keep on the dashboard of my car. We’re arm in arm on a beach in Somerset at the age of ten, wearing identical smiles and beaming straight at the camera.
‘Give me that,’ I snap, but a millisecond before snatching it I remember my dirty hands. ‘Put it down. Put it in my bag.’
‘What’s the problem?’ he asks, perplexed.
‘I don’t want the edges bent.’
‘I’m not going to bend the edges, Rose.’ He’s really quite patronising for someone who’s seven years my junior. ‘If you care about it so much, why have you got it on your dash in full sun? The colour’s fading.’
‘I know,’ I say, and to my mortification I’m suddenly fighting back tears. ‘Just put it down.’
‘Okay,’ he says, startled at the look on my face. ‘I’ll put it in your bag.’
I swallow. ‘Thank you. You should get back to work.’
He does as he’s told, leaving me in peace.
Chapter 21
Eliza
‘Well?’ Angus asks, his face expectant as I walk out of Elvis & Joe’s. I give him a sneaky thumbs-up along with a chuffed smile and he throws his arms around me.
‘I was trying to be cool,’ I say with a muffled voice against his shoulder.
‘Bugger that,’ he says, drawing away but keeping his hands on my upper arms. ‘That’s amazing. When?’
‘Wednesday night, the week after next.’
‘Wow! Lunch to celebrate?’
‘Yes, I can actually eat, now.’
Stewart lined up the meeting with his dad after listening to my demo. I was so nervous earlier, I couldn’t even stomach the croissants Angus brought over to my apartment. He came first thing this morning, armed with breakfast and a playlist of what he thought I should sing. It was very sweet of him.
‘What are you up to for the rest of the day?’ I ask as we walk.
He shrugs. ‘I don’t have any plans. I don’t have much of a life these days, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re not alone,’ I reply.
Soon afterwards we’re seated on the pavement outside a pub in the Northern Quarter, not far from Roxy’s. It’s been baking hot all week and it’s sheer bliss being able to have a drink with a friend in the sunshine.
‘You look better,’ I declare. He’s had a haircut, but that’s not it. He seems happier, healthier, a far cry from the ghost of a man who found me busking not even two weeks ago.
‘I feel better,’ he replies, leaning back in his chair and grinning.
‘I can’t believe you let Rose cut your hair last night.’ I noticed he’d had a haircut when he arrived on my doorstep, but I got a sharp shock when he casually admitted that Rose did it when they’d both had a few drinks. ‘I guess she’s responsible for fattening you up, as well.’
He laughs. ‘She’s a good cook,’ he agrees. ‘She was out for most of yesterday evening, though, so I had to make do with a ready-meal.’
‘Oh, poor you,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Where was she?’
‘Hanging out with Toby, the boy she works with at the bakery.’
‘Boy? How old is he?’
‘Barely out of his teens. Rose is worried that he’s having trouble at home.’
‘Is she doing her lame duck routine again?’ Angus doesn’t respond to my snidey comment, but seriously, why did she give up nursing if she cares about looking after people so much?
‘Which bakery does she work at again?’ I ask, trying to sound more pleasant as he tells me.
‘It’s called Jennifer’s. It’s in Sale, around the corner from the Town Hall.’
‘Does she like working there?’
‘You know, you could just ask her these questions yourself.’ He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, regarding me pointedly.
‘Forget it,’ I grumble.
He smiles at me. The sun is bouncing off his pint and onto his face, making his mottled green and brown eyes dance in the light.
I aim for nonchalance with my tone. ‘Well, I’m glad it’s working out for you. If she’s why you’ve perked up—’
‘It’s not just her,’ he interrupts, pausing before adding, ‘I’m glad to have you both in my life again. I wasn’t sure I ever would.’
I can’t hold his gaze for long. I take a sip of my cider and crunch on a chunk of ice.
He smiles a small smile. ‘You seem a bit better, as well.’
If I do, it’s because of him.
‘But you’re still too thin,’ he adds.
‘Maybe I should move in with you and Rose,’ I say acerbically.
His smile widens.
‘Never again,’ I warn, before he gets any ideas.
We sit and chat for a couple of hours, eventually heading back to my apartment so I can get ready for work. Michelle is hanging out on the sofa, watching TV, but she goes to her room when we appear. I frown after her – she didn’t need to make herself scarce.
‘Coffee?’ I ask.
‘Sure.’ Angus comes and stands in the doorframe, watching me.
‘Do you work every night at Roxy’s?’ he asks.
‘Pretty much. I need the money.’
He nods thoughtfully. ‘Doesn’t leave you much room for a social life, though.’
‘I don’t need one.’
‘When was the last time you went on a date?’ he asks.
‘Oh God, here we go again.’ I stare at the ceiling. ‘I’ve got other things to worry about right now than men.’
‘Rose wants me to set her up with one of the guys from my work,’ he continues, not put off by my tone.
‘Are you going to?’ I ask casually, hoping the answer is yes.
‘I told her I wouldn’t,’ he replies with a grin, and I can picture him hamming it up in his overprotective big brother role. I bet Rose loved it, I think meanly. ‘But there is one guy that I think she might like,’ he surprises me by saying.
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know if she’s serious about meeting someone, though.’
‘Is she alright?’ I find myself asking.
‘I think she’s been lonely,’ he replies honestly. ‘She says it’s nice being around someone her own age again. I think it must’ve been hard at times, being with your mum all the time.’
I nod and change the subject.
The following week drags by. I keep hoping Angus will call, but he doesn’t, so on Thursday I call him myself and ask what he’s up to on Saturday. Saturday is a big busking day for me, but I don’t want to go any longer without seeing him, so I’m willing to jack it in.
I’m crushed when he tells me that he’s going away with his mum at the weekend – they’re visiting old friends in Brighton.
‘But I’m coming to your gig next week,’ he tells me. ‘Obviously.’
‘Okay, that’s good,’ I reply half-heartedly.
On Wed
nesday night, six days later, I’m the most nervous I’ve ever been before a gig. It’s been months since I last played to an audience at a social club and Elvis & Joe’s is a far cry from that sort of venue – it’s easily the nicest place I’ve ever performed. But that’s not why I’m on edge. Nor is it because I’m worried about who will be watching or whether I’ll remember my words. I know my songs inside out and back to front, and it doesn’t matter how many people turn up because I’ll be as comfortable with fifty as I would be with five.
No, what I’m nervous about is seeing Angus again.
I wish I felt as at ease with him as Rose does. She’s always been so relaxed in his company, and no doubt she’s feeling even more so now that they live together.
It still grates on me that she gets to see him every day, not that this is anything new. When they lived in London, Rose hung out with Phoebe and Angus all the time. I used to feel so left out, but I just couldn’t imagine being part of that group, not with how I felt about Angus.
I don’t really understand how Rose can be comfortable with Angus if she has feelings for him. Does she still have feelings for him? Has she ever been in love with him? Knowing Rose, it was just an infatuation, another silly crush. She always was a hopeless romantic.
But what if she does love him? And what if her feelings are one day reciprocated?
The thought makes me want to throw up.
‘You look nervous,’ Michelle says, entering the small backstage area where I’m waiting. I’m due to go on shortly.
‘I’m fine,’ I insist as she passes me a glass of water. ‘Thanks.’ I take a large gulp.
‘There’s a good crowd out there,’ she tells me, impressed. ‘All of the tables are full.’
‘I’m sure they only came in for the food,’ I say. Not that it matters. It’s nicer to play to numbers, despite what I said earlier. ‘Have you seen Angus?’ I ask casually.
‘Yep, he’s here,’ she replies. ‘He’s got a few mates with him.’
‘Aw, really?’ My heart swells and she smiles at me.
Once I’m sitting on a stool on the darkened stage with my guitar plugged into an amp, I scan the room. My eyes find Angus almost immediately. He’s moved forward from the bar and is standing a few metres away with a beer in his hand. He raises it up to me, and as he smiles, my stomach somersaults.