by Zee Monodee
She had cleared her entire backlog?
She sighed with defeat. William was right. The report could wait until Monday, as could the lab. For once, she derived no satisfaction from tackling work piles. Nothing except a pit of darkness that deepened inside her chest. Exactly like when Cora had left with Emma, all those years earlier. What had she done then, except throw herself into her studies, and, a year later, into an ill-advised relationship with her mentor? Thank goodness, David had never been one of her professors. She had idolized the man, worshipped his forays into forensic pathology. When one day, he had sought her opinion on an ongoing case he was working on, she’d thought she’d died and gone to Heaven.
What awaited her farther down the road? A tryst with a handsome and sexy doctor, who lived on the other side of the partition?
She didn’t do trysts, or one-night stands, or even relationships. David and she had lived side by side in the same flat, which didn’t amount to living with someone. They had never connected on a level deeper than ‘colleagues with benefits,’ and that hardly qualified as a relationship.
Jamie wouldn’t be there forever. As a young man, he’d just started his career. At some point, life would call to him, and he’d leave. If they ever had anything going between them, would he ask her to go with him, or would she end up alone?
In that case, brain over heart asked that she heed a rational call, and not get involved.
No, she’d better focus on things within her control, if she could use the word to describe her ties with Emma. With every day that passed, her daughter slipped out of her hands like dry sand falling down an hourglass. She had to grab the little she could still hold on to.
She closed her eyes and gulped down hard. Get lost, you old witch. That’s not what she wanted Emma to tell her on the day she turned eighteen.
Resolution flowed through her, and she pushed away from the desk and out of the seat. After bundling the laptop into her bag and grabbing her coat, she walked out of her office.
Saturday. Family time.
Her family might not look like much, but she had one, as William had pointed out. She had to give it a go. All working mothers sought balance between work and family; time she found out her equilibrium on those scales. Yes, she might fail, but she’d cross that bridge when she reached it. Not before.
***
Emma was over at Jamie’s place, watching a football game live on television, when Margo reached home. She settled into the kitchen with a cup of hot tea, her eyes on Polina, who cooked their dinner at the stove. The young woman, a proponent of homemade food, couldn’t—wouldn’t—tolerate Margo’s frozen fare. So, she also held a cook’s duties, too, in their household. Margo had revised her salary accordingly, even though the Ukrainian hadn’t asked for a raise.
“Emma’s bleeding,” Polina announced when Margo sat down.
She choked on the hot liquid. “What?”
Polina waved a hand, her eyebrows in a furrow. “Period.”
Margo crashed into her chair and heaved a sigh of relief. All sorts of scenarios had started to play in her mind.
“Yes. She’s already started them.”
“I mean, today. Did not know how to use tampon.”
“What did she use, then?”
“Cotton wool.”
“What? Why?”
Edna Milburn, of the very old school set, would never have deigned to use a sanitary pad, let alone a tampon. No wonder Emma had no clue. And with her being so young, not many of her peers would be adequate sounding boards.
Polina hovered over Margo, a wooden spoon in her hand. “You maty. Should tell her.”
The headache building behind her forehead increased double-fold. She hovered an inch away from blowing her top at having to work out the nanny’s meanings behind the stilted English. “I should’ve explained it to her?”
“Ta.”
Margo yearned to hit her fist on the table. If she heard that word again ... Between Polina and Emma, who learned Ukrainian with the nanny, the two of them had turned into the ‘ta-brigade.’ Polina brushed up her English through Emma, but to hear the sprinkling of Ukrainian all the time proved unnerving.
“Polina, if you’re going to berate me, do it using full English sentences.”
Polina huffed and let out a string of muttered words in her mother tongue.
“English!” Margo reminded her. Why did she even tolerate such behaviour from an employee?
“Fine. Emma need her moter. Nanny is friend, not parent.”
And how do I do that?
First William, then Polina. She needed only Jamie to join the fray and tell her how much she sucked at being a good mother. Not that he’d ever said that. In fact, Jamie encouraged her, by telling her she did a great job all the time. But she could—should—do better, and no one would take that certainty from her. Not even Jamie.
Thinking of the way he used to guide her with Emma in the recent past, she grew sombre. She missed him. Since Polina had started work, Margo had hardly been here, barely able to get a glimpse of him.
Just the way it should be.
“Dr. Nolan.”
She glanced up at Polina, who still stood next to her.
“Spend time with Emma. She need it.”
Margo nodded. She couldn’t deny it—she might not be much of a mum, but her daughter shouldn’t be able to say that her mother had never cared. For Emma’s sake, she’d make an effort.
The front door banged open. A bubbly Emma, dressed in jeans and a red Liverpool F.C. jersey, sauntered in.
“We won!” She sang the words in a tuneless litany and jumped all over the kitchen. “Five-nil!”
As she passed by the table, she flung her arms around Margo’s neck and hugged her hard.
Before Margo could hug her back, Emma had released her.
“How come you’re home?” the girl asked.
She opened her mouth to say that she’d returned home to spend time with her family, and stopped. She’d be lying; at least, not telling the whole truth. If she wanted Emma to be honest with her, she had to return the favour, too. “My boss threw me out. Said I needed to be home with you on a Saturday afternoon.”
Emma cocked her head to the side. “Is he the man who came in while you and I were talking in your office’s lobby?”
Margo nodded.
“He’s got sense, then,” the girl said with a solemn nod.
A smile tugged at Margo’s lips. William Ford was indeed a sensible man, but she doubted Emma referred to that kind of ‘sense’ right then.
I could’ve done worse. At least, her daughter didn’t hate her outright, as some tweens and teens she had read about on parenting websites. High time to show her daughter she cared, though, by getting involved, hands-on, in her life.
“So you’ll stay home this evening? And tonight?” her daughter asked.
“I hope so, yes.”
“Melissa said she’ll be making gingerbread men with her mum today.”
Melissa?
As if she’d heard, Polina whispered, “Emma’s best friend.”
“Can we bake some, too, Mum? Please?”
No! Margo held herself in check. She was a forensic pathologist, not a domestic goddess like Nigella Lawson. Sweat broke along her hairline and down her spine at the prospect of cooking. “I don’t think we have the ingredients at home.”
“Everything in pantry.”
The young woman had just demolished her exit card. Damn you, Polina.
Emma squealed. “I’ll go get changed.”
She jumped up the stairs, taking three steps at a time.
“Oh, and Mum. Jamie said Polina’s food smelled amazing. I invited him over for dinner,” she yelled from the first floor.
Great. Just perfect. She hadn’t seen the man in a week, and he would come over later. She didn’t want to see him. Being near Jamie proved too risky for her. He made her neurons fly up in smoke with his proximity, with that smile of his.
She s
tared up at Polina. At least, they wouldn’t be alone.
The nanny stirred the big pot of beef and mushrooms stew boiling on the stove, and with a flourish, cut the gas. “I’m off,” she said, and hung her apron.
“Where to?”
“You give me night off when you come in, remember?”
Yes, she had. Margo sighed. Not only would she have to contend with only Emma’s presence at the dinner table, she also needed to inform her daughter that she had never baked anything in her life.
Which one presented the most distressing prospect?
She had her work cut out for her. Would she see Monday in one piece?
***
The smell of something sweet—and completely burnt—hung in the air, filtering past the front door of Margo’s house.
Jamie paused on the porch and inhaled. Had they scorched dinner? He couldn’t deny he looked forward to a fresh-cooked meal. Eating from takeout cartons or microwaveable frozen tubs didn’t compare to homemade food. Unfortunately for him, the only things he knew how to make stretched from boiled eggs to baked beans on toast. Hardly a week’s worth menu.
He rang the bell and waited for someone to open the door.
As he expected, Emma welcomed him in. And Margo? He’d seen her Q5 in garage, so she had to be around. Surprising how she was home today. In the past week, Dr. Nolan had proved just what type of unreasonable and edgy life a forensic pathologist lived. True, there seemed to be a crime wave sweeping the capital, but still, she couldn’t be the only pathologist working for the Ministry of Justice, surely. No, something else must keep Margo in her lab, and before the evening ended, he’d find out what.
The burnt smell intensified as they approached the kitchen. “You attempted to cook something here?”
Emma giggled. “We tried to make gingerbread men.”
“And they died a horrible death at your mum’s hands.”
The corners of his mouth twitched when he spied Margo in the big room. She stood next to the baking trays cooling on the counter. Her face grew shuttered, and when her gaze met his, anger flashed in the blue irises.
The charred biscuits must be Margo’s work. Emma had made perfect gingerbread men a few days ago at school, and she’d shared some with him when she’d come home.
“Cheer up.” He ventured to the baking tray closest to Margo, broke off a piece of arm, and popped it into his mouth. “It tastes good,” he affirmed to the still silent Margo.
If one went beyond the acrid, dark brown outer layer, the treat did taste good.
“Mum’s so not a baker.”
“A person can’t be good at everything, Em.” He let his gaze plunge into Margo’s eyes. “Your mum’s one of the best in her field of work. Lots of people look up to her, and she’s a great mum to you.”
The play of emotions on her features proved heartening to watch. She wanted to believe him—evident in the soft, rosy glow tingeing her cheeks. But her eyes darkened, and she looked away. Why?
He caught her wrist when she turned, and tugged her to him. She stumbled in his direction, and he steadied her by releasing her wrist to grasp her elbow.
“It’s not so bad. Not like you committed premeditated first-degree murder on these poor sweet souls.” He kept his voice soft, intended for her ears only.
He earned his reward when a smile touched Margo’s lips and chased away the pinched look from before.
He’d made her smile. Good.
“Emma’s right. I’ve never baked in my whole life,” she said.
“You and I both, so I know how daunting that prospect can be.”
What else have you done, or not done?
The question tickled his mind. He craved to get to know Margo Nolan much better than he already did. The problem remained that the woman knew how to keep her distance. Physically and emotionally.
He might need to shift his tactics a bit to attain his ends.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “What for?”
“Teasing you.”
Tell me you enjoyed it. Right—dream on, old boy.
“I can’t help but feel—” she paused, ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, “—that you enjoy being a jokester.”
Jamie swallowed hard. Margo might be dressed in linen trousers and a cashmere twin set that screamed ‘proper lady;’ still, that little gesture of hers had made his jeans suddenly tight.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” she asked.
He forced his mind onto her words. “There’s a time to be serious, and a time for lighter stuff.”
“You seem to have gotten that balance down to an art.”
Had he? Around Margo, he felt free, and that’s all he knew. He had no constraints upon him, no perfect paragon he had to live up to, no stifling and ridiculous standards to judge if he had become a success or not.
Unlike at his parents’ place.
He didn’t even call the big, half-empty mausoleum in Kent home. The house he’d grown up in, yes; never his home. Home was where the heart rested, and hearts got wrung dry in George Gillespie’s dwelling.
If he’d admit it, the little Surrey village, with its quiet pace, represented the place where he wanted his heart to be. He enjoyed the crafty ways and oft-funny rapport busybodies like Guy Hawkes and Maggie May entertained with everyone. The married mums of teens and toddlers alike treated him like a younger brother, to be spoiled and indulged, and with the men, he became one of the lads who met for a pint of beer over a football game on the big-screen TV at the local pub.
What he had here amounted to a sense of family, something he hadn’t experienced before.
When he added Emma into the mix, he had the feeling of doing something worthy with the girl, to help bring her up into a young woman he’d be proud to call his daughter.
He gave himself a mental shake. He had only eighteen years on Emma. Technically, he could be her father, but at his age, most men would be bringing a baby home as their child. Not a grown tween.
When Mr. Hawkes had questioned him about that very matter the other day, he’d had to give it a lot of thought. He enjoyed getting involved in Emma’s life. Margo didn’t know how the girl would often sneak next door, with Polina’s blessing, to sit down and talk with him. The topics they touched upon ranged as wide and far between as football and the proper way to conduct oneself in life. Emma proved no airhead, and the maturity in her startled him at times. He wanted to be there for that girl, see her become a radiant and beautiful, confident young woman.
He also wanted to be there for Emma’s mum. No denying it—the two females came together. A ready-made family. He just needed to add a dose of masculine grounding, be serious when the moment called for it, and teasing and light when life got hard for the other two.
He’d say the three of them would be pretty set, then.
Soon. Not the right time, yet. He’d have to wait for the perfect moment, take things as they came and try to steer any developments in his favour.
Speaking of developments, he hadn’t failed to notice the distance Margo had put between them. While he’d stood there pondering his thoughts, she’d walked up to the table, and its wide pine surface separated them.
What was wrong? Something he’d done? Margo had been opening up to him, not so long ago. He’d breached through the ice shell around her. Tonight, it seemed all her protective guards had been pushed up again, even higher and more reinforced than before.
Blimey. Couldn’t he go without an attack on that fortress for more than a couple of days?
“If you two are done staring off in la-la-land,” Emma said with a roll of her eyes, “would you mind settling down to eat? I’m starving.”
Jamie caught Margo’s eye. She smiled, and so did he.
He would win her over. Provided he could find out what bothered her.
“It’s good to see you home.” He took the seat across from her and, to give himself time, scooped some stew into his bowl.
“Her
boss threw her out of the office.”
“Did he?” He glanced up; Margo had blushed. “Good thing, I’d have to say. None of us would see you, otherwise.”
“Yes, well,” she said in a soft, mumbled tone, her gaze lowered. “There’s always work to do.”
“And there’s something called ‘leave,’ too.”
No bite hung in Emma’s words, though. Just an observation she’d shared with them.
“When was the last time you took a day off?” he asked.
“I never have.”
His spoon clattered in his stew, splattering brown sauce all over the dish and the placemat on the table. “Did I hear that right?”
Margo released her spoon, too. “Well, what if there’s no one to do the work if you leave?” What happens if, tomorrow, you take the day off, but someone falls sick and needs you?”
“For an emergency, I’d head over. Else, there are other doctors in the neighbouring areas. The same goes for a hospital. There are others who can do the work.”
“It’s not the same,” she said softly.
Suddenly, he figured out her problem—too much of a perfectionist. A control freak who needed to be sure of everything, at every step of the way.
Loosen up, Margo.
If she wouldn’t—or couldn’t, maybe—then perhaps he should make it his job to ensure she learned to live a little.
“How’s your uncle?” she asked, taking him by surprise.
“Who?”
“The one you’re filling in for. Do you know when he’s returning?”
Was it him, or had he heard her swift intake of air before she’d asked that last question? Did it matter to her whether he stayed or left?
He took a deep breath to fortify his resolve. He’d made the right decision when he’d decided to remain in Surrey. He could have a fulfilling life here, and he could also have a family he hadn’t known he already craved, if he played his cards right.
“Gordon’s not coming back. He’s settling in the south of France with Grace, the woman who sold you the house.”
Her eyes grew big, and her hand froze in mid-air. The spoonful of stew never made it to her mouth. Instead, she returned it to her bowl.