Ruined Plans

by Tracy Lorraine

  “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” she whispers in my ear as I allow myself to cry for the first time since Valentine’s day.

  “So what now?” Aunt Addy asks once the tears have subsided and we’ve had another cup of tea.

  I think back to the short list I wrote in my diary on the plane. “I’m going to do something for me for a change. What I should have done years ago.”

  Aunt Addy lifts her teacup and encourages me to clink mine against it. “To your new start.” I follow her and lift my cup. “We should probably be doing this with something stronger,” she says, looking down at her tea sadly.

  “This is perfect.”

  “I was just going to make soup for my dinner. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “That’s good with me,” I say, thinking about how something so warming and homely is exactly what I need.

  “I haven’t got any bread though.”

  “Have you got flour? Yeast?”

  “I think so, sweetheart.”

  “Awesome. Then I’ll make some.”

  Twenty minutes later and it’s like we’ve gone back in time. Aunt Addy’s stood to my left chopping up a leek while I knead the bread dough. The only difference from my memory of cooking with her is that I no longer need a stool to be able to reach the worktop, we’ve both got glasses of wine, and the apron I’m wearing now fits and doesn’t need to be folded up around my middle so I don’t trip over it. It’s 1950’s style and I’ve loved it for as long as I can remember. The main fabric of the apron is green and white floral, but it’s trimmed with black and has a green flower on the waistband. It’s looking a little worn these days but no less beautiful. It screams Aunt Addy. It’s how I remember her best: in the kitchen, wearing this apron and covered in flour.

  “I haven’t much in so I’m not sure what we can rustle up for pudding,” she announces as she pours the stock into the soup.

  “This will be fine,” I say, thinking that the bread alone is going to bloat me out after basically being carb free for years to fit the image everyone expected of me in London. Naturally, I’m a size 10, but it was very obvious to me very fast that my lifestyle and diet were going to have to change when I started dating Edward. Every woman he was surrounded by were stick insects, and he often commented on my thighs. I did what I needed to do to fit the person I was trying to be. I dropped carbs and took up Pilates. I hated it but it had the desired effect. Gone are the hips and thighs, replaced by…well…not a lot. The only thing I somehow managed to keep is my boobs. The size of them has hardly changed, even though I’ve dropped two dress sizes—something that pleased Edward immensely.

  I look down at my thick knitted jumper and dark blue skinny jeans and smile. It wasn’t very often that I got to wear comfortable, casual clothes like this. I was expected to be in Gucci dresses, sharp fitted suits, and high heels with everything. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for dressing up, but just not all the fucking time. When I packed up what I wanted to bring, I mostly avoided my main wardrobe and instead raided the one in our spare bedroom that housed all my favourite but hardly ever worn clothes.

  “Ohhh, look what I’ve found,” Aunt Addy says as she leans into the back of the larder cupboard, dragging me from my thoughts. I can’t help but smile when she emerges with a can of pineapple slices. “Are you in the mood for a pineapple upside down cake?” she asks with a knowing wink. Aunt Addy’s well aware it’s my all-time favourite, and there’s no chance of me turning it down.

  “I swear I’m going to be explode,” I complain, holding onto my stomach.

  “You needed a good meal inside you, sweetheart. What have you been eating over there? There’s hardly anything of you.”

  “Vegetables,” I mutter in disgust. “Where’s a good place to get a room for the night?” I would love to stay here but I know Aunt Addy doesn’t have much space, so I don’t want to presume she’ll take me in.

  “Don’t be silly, girl. You’ll stay here. I can’t offer anything fancy, but the sofa pulls out to a bed that’s pretty comfortable. Sinead and I have sleepovers on it,” she says with a smile, referring to her granddaughter.

  “Are you sure? I really don’t want to get in the way.”

  “Of course. Here,” she says, topping up my wine glass again. “We’ve got so much more to talk about.”

  An hour later and we’ve cleaned up the kitchen—which I have to admit was a bit of a novelty because, embarrassingly, I can’t actually remember the last time I washed up or did any actual cleaning—and we are sat back in the living room with our pyjamas on, wine glasses in hand.

  Aunt Addy gave me a quick tour of the place and I realised why she hasn’t got a guest bedroom. The master bedroom is fitted out as a workshop for her. There’s a huge cutting table in the middle the room, more sewing machines than I’d know what to do with, and fabric, cotton and embellishment stuff everywhere you look. I think it’s about two buttons away from being a haberdashery shop. In comparison to her huge workroom, her bedroom is the box room with a single bed and only a small walkway of space with all the furniture she’s managed to shoehorn into it.

  “What’re your plans now you’re here then?”

  “Finding somewhere to live is my first priority. Then, I want to bake. I’m thinking maybe cakes to start with. I don’t really know; I need to check out what kind of competition there might be around here. I don’t have a huge amount of money to get started because most of it is tied up in investment accounts that Edward organised.”

  Aunt Addy tells me about the local bakery I loved as a kid shutting down a while ago, as well as Nora on the other side of town who does wedding cakes—but she thinks mine would be much better as hers are a little old fashioned. I’m not sure I agree; I haven’t made anything detailed in years. I’m probably well out of practice.

  We chat for hours about this and that as we slowly get tipsier. It the best night I’ve had in a long time, reminiscing on the old days as well as catching up on what we’ve been up to more recently.

  When Aunt Addy leaves the room, I run my eyes over the ornaments and photos. My focus stops on one of her, her daughter, and her granddaughter. The lump that set me off earlier reappears the longer I stare at the three of them.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say when Aunt Addy comes back into the room a few minutes later.

  “Wha—” she starts but cuts herself off when she sees what I’m looking at.

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to her funeral.”

  “You were on your honeymoon, sweetheart. I understand.”

  “I know.” And I do know that Aunt Addy is okay about it, but that doesn’t mean I am. Edward and I were in the Bahamas when Kayleigh suddenly died three years ago. I desperately wanted to be there but he convinced me it was too much to get flights. I couldn’t see his selfishness at the time but it’s something about him I’ve grown to really dislike over the years. Since her death, I’ve only seen Aunt Addy once, and that was for a quick two day visit when Edward went away on a work trip two years ago. I’m ashamed to say that I’ve been too wrapped up in work to make the time. I know I should have, and I feel awful. I wasn’t there for her when her daughter died, or her parents last year. “I should have been here for you.”

  “You were living your life, Addison. No one can blame you for that.”

  “I got so wrapped up in that world that I kind of lost sight of what’s really important. That’s going to change, though.”

  Not long later, Aunt Addy helps me make up the sofa bed and we settle down for the night. I’m pretty drunk by the time my head hits the pillow; the room’s spinning a little but the excitement still bubbles up in my stomach.

  Tomorrow, I’m starting my new life.

  Chapter Two

  “Good morning,” Aunt Addy sings chirpily at some ungodly hour the next morning.

  I groan in response and drag the duvet up over my face when she pulls the curtains back to let the early morning sun in.

  “How a
ren’t you hungover?” I ask from behind the duvet.

  “I’ve had more years of practice, sweetheart. Tea, breakfast?” she asks as she disappears into the kitchen and starts banging around too loudly.

  When the smell of frying bacon floods my nose, I’m up and out of bed. Carbs and fried food…I’m going to be fat by the end of the week at this rate.

  “Sleep well?” Aunt Addy asks when I emerge from the bathroom.

  “I think I drank enough to ensure I’d sleep well pretty much anywhere. How’re you so spritely this morning?” I complain, making her laugh.

  “Here, this should sort you right out,” she says, placing a plate with a giant bacon and egg sandwich under my nose.

  My mouth waters and I waste no time in taking my first bite. I moan in ecstasy as the flavour of the smoked, salty bacon hits my tongue. The sound is almost obscene and I can’t help but blush when Aunt Addy looks up at me with a smirk. I haven’t made that kind of noise in a long time and it makes me wonder if that’s another thing I need—something to relieve the stress and tension I’ve been carrying around with me for…well, years. Maybe I need to find myself a sexy Irish man. Jamie Dornan or Colin Farrell will do the job quite nicely, thank you very much. I lose myself in thoughts of sexy men with sculpted torsos and completely zone out.

  “Addison? Adds? Woohoo…”

  I come back to see Aunt Addy laughing at me, waving her arm around.

  “Go somewhere nice?” she asks.

  “Hmmm…”

  “Anyway, I was saying that I’m sorry but I’ve got appointments all morning, then I’m meeting the ladies this afternoon, so I’m not going to be about. It does mean you have the house to yourself though, so you can make yourself at home, get used to the kitchen or whatever.”

  “Is that your way of saying ‘make dinner’?”

  “Of course not,” she says with a wink. “I was merely thinking about what you were saying last night about baking again. If you want to start a business, you’re going to need to get back in the swing of it.”

  “You’re right,” I agree as images of all the things I’ve seen recently that I’ve wanted to cook replace the images of the men floating around my head. “I need to start looking for somewhere to live as well.”

  “Addison, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. No rush.”

  “I know, and I’m really grateful, but I don’t want to get in your way.”

  “Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart,” she says, getting up to clear the plates. She pauses a couple of feet from the sink.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, damn vertigo,” she complains after a second or two. I had no idea there was anything wrong with her and the knowledge only makes me feel guiltier about my absence from her life.

  “Leave those; I’ll sort them,” I offer when she starts filling the sink ready to wash up.

  “Thank you. I’m going to go and put my face on, then I’ll be out of your hair,” she says as she sashays from the room, reminding me of her lack of a hangover while mine is gently thumping away inside my head.

  While she’s getting ready to go out, I head back to my makeshift bed, rummage around in my handbag until I find a box of painkillers, and take a couple in the hope it’ll sort my head out. Digging down underneath the clothes I packed, I grab onto what I want and pull it out. I sit myself back against my pillows and begin to flick through the pages of my scrapbook/recipe book. It is filled with everything I’ve found over the years that has caught my eye but been unable to cook.

  I’m busy writing down a shopping list when Aunt Addy appears with dress bags hanging from her arms.

  “I should be back by five at the latest. I’ve laid out some fresh towels in the bathroom for you. Use whatever you need,” she says, trying to wrestle the front door open. Getting up, I help her out and wave her off. I shut the door quickly behind her because, although it might look like a lovely spring morning with the sun out, it’s bloody freezing. I wrap my arms around myself to try to warm back up as I head for my suitcase. I think a nice warm bath’s in order to sort me out for the day. That’ll give the painkillers time to kick in.

  I take my wash bag with all my essentials into the bathroom and begin running the bath. Just like the rest of Aunt Addy’s bungalow, it’s in serious need of restoration. The tiles are cream and floral and the suite is a light grey colour. It’s a million years away from what I had in my London flat. Weirdly though, I think I love it more. Steam showers and his and her basins aren’t really a necessity, but just like everything else in the Chapman-Webb bubble I was living in, it was all about showing off.

  I find some bubble bath in the cabinet and pour a generous amount in before setting up a relaxing playlist on my phone and placing it on the windowsill, far away from my butter fingers and the tub full of water.

  As I wait for the bath to fill, I head back to my scrapbook and continue flicking. Once I think it’ll be ready, I shut myself in the bathroom and strip down.

  “Ah, fuck!” I squeal when I dip my toe into what I was expecting to be nice warm water. “What the fuck?” The temperature was perfect when I started running it, what the fuck happened? In a huff, I shove my arm into the freezing water to pull the plug before watching all my soothing bubbles disappear down the drain. Once it’s all but empty, I lean in and turn the shower on instead, as that now seems to be the only choice.

  Once it’s hot, I jump under and let the spray hit the back of my neck and shoulders. It’s not exactly the power shower I’m used to but it does the job. I’m just about to rinse the bubbles out of my hair when the water suddenly cuts off and the lights go out. “Well, this is fucking great,” I mutter to myself as I flick the switch back and forth on the shower, praying it’ll come back on but knowing it won’t.

  Reluctantly, I step out of the bath and pull the towel around me. It’s small and rough to the touch. I think I’ve discovered what her thank you for allowing me to stay present is going to be: giant, thick, fluffy towels.

  I do the best I can at wrapping it around myself. It just about covers all my essentials and I head out in search of the problem—not that I’ll have any clue how to fix it. Remembering that when I was younger and our power used to go out, Mum used to go to the garage and do something with the fuse board, I decide to head in that direction. Thankfully, there’s a door leading to the garage from the kitchen so it means I don’t have to venture outside still wet, with bubbles starting to slide down my neck and my arse barely covered.

  I pull the door open and step inside. It’s dark, apart from a glow coming from my left. When I look up, I lock eyes with a man on a ladder. Wait…no…not just a man on a ladder. A sexy as fuck man on a ladder.

  “What the fuck?” I ask, like the total lady I am.

  “Mornin’,” he purrs. Seriously, his voice is so fucking deep and smooth it’s unreal. There’s a hit of an Irish accent but also something else that I can’t make out with just that one word.

  His eyes break from mine and slowly travel down my almost naked body. I swear flames lick my skin as his gaze moves. It burns, sending tingles to every corner of my body. Well fuck me, this is new.

  When his head comes back up, he’s got the smuggest smirk on his face and it ignites my anger.

  “Have you just about finished?” I snap. “What the fuck’s going on with the electric? I was in the middle of a shower.”

  “I can see that. I promised Addy I’d change her fuse board,” he says, like it should be something I know all about.

  “So you thought you’d just turn up unannounced and let yourself in?” I huff.

  “Pretty much. She didn’t tell me she had company, which I’m glad of, because this little meeting has really improved my morning.”

  “Stop that.”

  “What?” he asks innocently, like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

  “Stop with the smirk on your face, and stop looking at me like that,” I warn as I pull the towel tighter. I
’m embarrassed by my body’s reaction to this cocky stranger. The longer he looks at me, the more my body sings. Those tingles I felt earlier have made a beeline for my clit and I can feel it pulsing so hard I swear he must be able to hear it somehow.

  I watch as he slowly steps down from the ladder so he’s right in front of me. His hand comes up and as much as my brain is screaming at me to step away, I stay frozen to the spot as he gets closer. I instinctively close my eyes moments before he touches me. The second our skin connects, they spring back open in shock. When I find his eyes, I discover they’re wide, too.

  He pulls his hand back and his thumb’s covered in bubbles. “It was about to go in your eye,” he says quietly as he wipes it on his worn, ripped jeans.

  “Oh,” I say, because all words have escaped me. One touch is all it took to render me useless.

  “You’ve got ten minutes,” he says as he climbs back up the ladder like he’s totally unaffected by what just happened between us. “Then I’ve really got to get this off the wall. Is that going to be enough, princess?”

  “Princess?” I ask, totally affronted by his nickname for me.

  His eyes run the length of me again and I fight the feelings that try to reappear. “Yeah, princess.”

  We stand locked in our stare.

  “Ten minutes. Clock’s ticking, princess.”

  I rip my eyes from him and turn to leave. I’m just about to step up into the kitchen when my body takes on a mind of its own and I turn back at the last second. His gaze is locked on my legs, which causes my throb to pick up pace. I take one last look before stepping through the door and letting it slam behind me.

  I don’t waste any time in being stood back under the shower. I have no doubt that he was serious about his ten-minute warning. I quickly rinse the shampoo out of my hair and replace it with conditioner before running the razor over as much as I dare in this short amount of time, and lather myself up with shower gel. All the while, the image of him stood on the ladder plays on repeat in my mind. His almost to his shoulders dark blonde hair, his deep blue eyes, the stretched cotton of his white t-shirt straining to cover his wide shoulders and chest, and his light blue, old, ripped jeans hugging his thighs. Fuck Jamie Dornan and Colin Farrell; I’ll have myself a piece of that, I think to myself as I once again attempt to wrap myself up in the small towel. I’m not out of the shower ten seconds when the lights go out.