“Not sure. There is a rumour she has a younger sister whom she helped raise, but I don’t expect it to be true. She never mentions her, at least not to us minions. I did ask her once, years ago when I first started here, whether she had a partner or family and my head was slammed back below the parapet. Wouldn’t dare ask again. You can though, if you like.” She shot Rebecca a mischievous glance from under her long, dark, suspiciously false lashes.
“What do you think of this tiara?” Deb folded back the pages of the ubiquitous wedding glossy. “Is it too bling? I need to decide on my headpiece by next Wednesday, otherwise I won’t have it for October. I still cherish the idea of something more unique, more natural, perhaps intertwined with fresh lilies. I just can’t find the precise design I’m after. Something like this.” Her hand glided across the thick, cream parchment as she sketched a circlet, intertwined with miniature lilies, primroses, and gyp.
“That’s gorgeous, Deb. It’s just you, hovering upon your long, flowing blonde locks like a halo! You’ll be a flower-power bride. Will you float barefoot down the aisle or are we eventually gracing the Jimmy Choo wedding shoe emporium with our presence? I’m really excited. I’m going to try on the most sparklingly bling heels in the store!”
“It’ll happen for you one day, Becky,” said Deb, as she pinned the completed sketch onto her red division-board wall. “You’ll stumble upon your own Prince Fergus if you stop searching and relax. I have every faith in you bumping into the right guy this time. But he could be lurking anywhere, so get out there and search, my girl! Any possibilities lurking in your interior design course?”
“All women, I’m afraid.” Thank goodness. “I’m hooked though. Your stained glass panel is a work of art, even if I do boast my talents. I can’t wait to solder the finishing touches. No details available until I unveil it on your wedding day.”
“Give her a break, Deb. Always banging on about love, marriage, dating. ‘Together Forever and Never to Split’, it’s all Hollywood baloney!” Nathan scowled.
“Hey, Mister Grouchy, if anyone lives in a fantasy world, that would be you, Nath. Where were you hanging out at the weekend? Tell Becky! No? Well, I will. At a Fantasy Fan Con. Attendees decked out as their chosen character from the books and the Hollywood film franchises of the fantasy world! Who did you dress up as, Nath?”
Nathan ducked his head and mumbled, “Snaaammmmm,” as he flicked his biro between his fingers, pretending to concentrate on his computer screen.
“What? That famously grumpy wizard professor? Figures—not much makeup needed there then, Nath, eh?” As if sensing his discomfort, her voice mellowed. “Any more news on your mam?”
“Not long left, Mr McGovern, her consultant oncologist, says. Maybe six weeks, could be sooner. I’m shooting up to Edinburgh next weekend, but won’t be taking Millie. I’ve heard no news from Emma’s solicitors. It’s too late now.”
“What about issuing those court proceedings, Nathan?” Rebecca urged gently. “It may be too late for your mam to see Millie, but it’s not too late for you and Millie to have a relationship. I could draft the documents tonight after work.”
“It’ll be a waste of time, but okay. Yes, please.”
“We’ll issue the application tomorrow. I’ll come with you to the court appointment if I can clear it with Lucinda. It’ll likely be the end of August when I get back from my week in Northumberland.”
“Thanks, Becky.” And he turned away sharply.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The end of July marked the last of the adult and child taster sessions at Try Golf. Max badgered Rebecca to allow him to continue on to the Junior Golf Academy with Ben. She’d had to explain carefully to him that there wasn’t any spare money—it was a lot more expensive than the taster sessions, which had been subsidised by the PGA to get more people into the now-Olympic sport, especially children and women.
She reminded Max they had a week’s holiday in Northumberland coming up in a couple of weeks. She promised she’d treat him to a round of golf at the nine-hole course they were lucky enough to have in their village at Matfen. It was just along a country lane from Rosemary Cottage, where Rebecca had decided they would set up camp for the week as she couldn’t afford a room at a B&B and wouldn’t accept any more of Claudia’s hospitality.
She’d need a machete to tackle the jungle of a garden, at least to improve the cottage’s kerb appeal in the hope that passing summer holidaymakers and Hadrian’s Wall ramblers fell under its spell just as she had.
“There’s also a Go Ape in the woodlands near the cottage, Max. You can swing from the trees like a monkey on a zip-wire. Do you want to give that a go? We’ll do lots of fun stuff together. Visit Granddad, hang out with Aunt Claudia, Rowan, Harry, and Daisy, take a trip to the cinema. Maybe go swimming?”
“Yes, yes, yes. But I still want to be Ben’s friend, Mum.”
“I know, Max, but you’ll be starting reception class at St John’s in September. You’ll be busy making new friends there, too.”
“But, Mum, Ben is so cool. I hate nursery. Stanley is still mean to me. He calls me horrid names because he says I haven’t got a dad!”
Rebecca was stunned. “You have got a dad, Max sweetheart. He loves you very much.”
“That’s what I told Stanley, but he says that he never comes to collect me from nursery, or takes me on trips at the weekend like Daniel’s dad does. That’s why Stanley says I’m a bastard. I’m glad I’m not going to nursery anymore.”
The anvil-sized thud to her chest caused Rebecca to bow forward, shocked beyond belief. Because of my non-existent love life, Max has had to endure such callous and—frankly for such a young child—abhorrent name-calling.
No four-year-old should have to be subjected to that. She resolved not to let the incident pass and vowed to raise the issue with Barbara Babcock on Monday when she dropped Max off. She swallowed her anger at the cruelty of children, but the balloon-sized lump of pain lodged in her chest.
“Well, let’s enjoy this last session of golf, and afterwards we’ll treat ourselves to a hot chocolate and a slice of chocolate cake in the clubhouse to celebrate, eh?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“And what about a trip to the seaside tomorrow?” she offered on a whim, galvanised by Max’s dreadful experience at the hands of Stanley. “Shall we invite Ben and his mum to tag along, too?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” And he sprang off like a marionette, his miniature golf club in hand, to find Ben.
“Hi, Becky. How’s things?” asked Sam. “Have you decided whether to enroll Max in the Junior Academy yet? Ben’s keen and it’d be great if they could do the Academy together.”
“I don’t think so, Sam. He’ll be starting school in September. I’m going to see how that goes. Maybe later on.”
Sam was astute and accepting. She knew Rebecca struggled with finances. “Did you clear things with your boss to undertake Exquisite Forest’s legal work? I’m anxious to get the ball rolling on the warehouse in Manchester, need it up and running for the Christmas season. I’d prefer you to handle the majority of the work, if you can.”
“Lucinda is very keen to win your work. I’ll start things off on Monday and, if you are available, I have set up an appointment for you for the day I get back from my week’s holiday in Northumberland, August thirty first at three p.m.”
“That’s great. Thank you, Becky. You did ensure that Lucinda is aware of our company’s ethics on environmental and working practices? It is important to us that we maintain our ethos in all our dealings with suppliers and partners.”
“Lucinda Fleming is an excellent lawyer, an expert in her field and well-respected. I’m confident your legal work will be efficiently and sympathetically managed in accordance with your company’s criteria. Thank you, Sam. It’s good of you to trust your business to Baringer & Co.”
She needed to have a conversation about Exquisite Forest’s ethical standards and policies with Lucinda before Sam attende
d her appointment, but it wouldn’t be the easiest subject to broach.
“Well, we weren’t seeing eye-to-eye with our previous solicitors. Found some of their working practices, especially toward women, contradicted our philosophy. But as I see Baringer & Co has a female partner in Ms Fleming, they must be more progressive than our last law firm.” She grimaced, flicking her short, graduated golden bob out of her eyes. “Fancy a coffee after the session?”
“I’ve already promised Max a hot chocolate and a slab of chocolate cake.” She laughed. “As well as a trip to the seaside tomorrow. Mother’s guilt—never bubbling too far from the surface. He’s just confessed to being bullied by a boy at his nursery. I need to deal with that on Monday. I can’t wait for him to start school. Only three weeks left at Tumble Teds for him. Then a week in Northumberland, camping out at the cottage, pottering in the weed-infested garden, and visiting my dad in his care home.”
“Lucky you. I adore Northumberland—went there for our holidays as a child with my two brothers. We stayed in a caravan park, the one overlooking Bamburgh Castle, five of us in a four-berth caravan. Best holidays I’ve ever had, fishing in rock pools, storing starfish and tiny translucent crabs in bright yellow buckets with turrets, constructing huge sandcastles in the driving wind behind our red and white striped windbreak, burying Edward up to the neck in sand and leaving him there. Loved it!
“We spent the evenings playing board games or sat outside the village pub devouring beef crisps and drinking lemonade. I must persuade Ben and Angus to take a trip up there, rent a caravan, relive the nostalgia. Ben’s travelled to all sorts of exotic places, Disneyworld, Majorca last year, but he’s never experienced a good old British seaside holiday. Hey, could Ben and I come along with you tomorrow to the seaside? Angus is away on business in Thailand at the moment and Ben would love it!”
“Max’d love it, too. We’re learning how to skim stones—a special request of Max. Are you up to the challenge?” She thought of The Little Green Book of Wishes and smiled. Their new weekend bedtime ritual was studying the tips and pointers for the next day’s chosen activity, or discovering that they could make up new challenges themselves, having been inspired by the book to think laterally. She’d never enjoyed reading with Max so much, no disrespect to Thomas and Percy.
* * *
On a blustery but warm August Sunday, Rebecca, Max, Sam, and Ben found themselves chasing each other and the waves on the sandy beach at Southend-on-Sea. They constructed the most artistically ‘grand-designed’ sandcastle, not only with the obligatory moat and drawbridge, but with its own personalised mini-golf course, complete with paper British flags marking the holes. Sam rushed back to her ice-white, four-by-four, producing a putter and four balls and they enjoyed an hour of hilarity. Afterward, they launched onto the red tartan picnic rug scoffing their hastily-assembled, sand-infested picnic, hypnotised by the rhythmic crashing of the waves—nothing tasted better.
Max watched, fascinated, as two skinny teenage boys ambled by, headphones clamped to their ears, scanning the beach with metal detectors, occasionally stooping to investigate a heightened squeal emitted from the machines.
“Can I have a metal detector for Christmas, Mum?”
“We’ll see, Max.” She lovingly messed his hair, sand even ingrained on his scalp.
“You know, we’ve got one in our garage at home. Ben got it for his birthday last March. Rushed out to use the gadget a couple of times and never used it since! Why don’t we lend it to you, Max, try it out, see if you like it, then you can decide if you want to include one on your Christmas wish list?”
Turning to Rebecca, who was valiantly brushing back her tousled hair as it whipped across her face while she finished the last triangle of her ice-cream cornet, Sam whispered, “He’ll get bored with it, just like Ben has. I’ll drop it ’round next week, have to sneak it in the car because as soon as Ben sees it again his interest will be piqued, and I’m never again spending the day trailing in the wake of a wailing metal detector!”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Max bounced straight away before his mum could refuse the kind offer.
“Right, that’s settled. Keep me updated with your treasure quest, Max! Come on, let’s get some of those fabulous fish and chips. I’m still starving. The fresh sea air and the delicious aromas have wormed their way past my willpower. All this castle constructing and crazy golf tournaments is too much for an overworked CEO and aging mother.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rebecca daydreamed while looking through the kitchen window, the blurred and faded monochrome images of London’s cityscape replaced with the countryside’s vivid Technicolor idyll. Black-and-white Friesian cows grazed rhythmically in the lush green meadows, smiling buttercups swayed gently in the soft August breeze, watched over by a clear electric-blue sky.
For the first time in years a blanket of calm descended on her soul, her shoulders dropped two inches lower than her usual uptight stance. She finished rinsing the breakfast dishes, rubbed her soil-ingrained hands on the fluffy tea towel, and sauntered outside to survey the slow progress in the front garden.
The beige gravel path, scalped of encroaching weeds, had lifted the face of the cottage, but its lawns either side, flanked by the sweet-smelling rosemary bushes after which it was christened, were so whiskery she doubted the ancient, rusty lawnmower would win the battle to barber them.
Max was in his element racing around the garden with his new toy, the coveted metal detector, squealing whenever he heard the high-pitched beep. His little face had caught the sun from spending so much time outside in the garden and his skin appeared rosy and healthy, not peaky and pale. Not once had she witnessed his sleeve-chewing affliction, and because he was content, so was Rebecca.
The cottage demanded a colossal amount of work to make it habitable for any length of time, but the summer days were warm and long. Rebecca had declared it the camping holiday she had always promised Max they’d have. They were unable to use the back bedroom and she did pray it wouldn’t rain whilst they were there, but they could always decamp to the lounge and sleep there.
Galvanising herself into action, she’d telephoned Jeremy Goldacre at the estate agency that morning to urge him to push the cottage hard during these essential summer weeks. This was the time when walkers and holiday makers descended on the region to walk Hadrian’s Wall, soak up the history, or cycle the Coast-to-Coast—dipping the wheels of their cycles in the North Sea at one end and the Irish Sea at the other.
Surprised he deigned to speak to her himself, she’d endured the usual sales guff. But she experienced a spurt of assertiveness, reminding him the cottage had been on the market for over a year now, that when he had sold the property to her he’d promised buyers were queuing to snap up a piece of rural charm on the edge of the famous Roman Wall.
“Work harder,” she snapped, “or I’ll instruct another agent.” When she replaced the receiver, the inevitable growl of guilt rumbled through her chest. It wasn’t Jeremy Goldacre’s fault she was in the position of being desperate for a sale. That had her own expertise written all over it.
Max and Rebecca resumed their mammoth gardening task. They concentrated their best efforts on the front garden and the all-important ‘first impressions’. Digging together, each with an old wicker basket to collect the mounting weeds, each with an ancient trowel they’d found in the dilapidated shed at the bottom of the garden—an Aladdin’s cave of rusting old garden implements, some of which Rebecca didn’t recognize—abandoned by the previous owner.
Max had the stamina of a marathon runner, but Rebecca’s neck ached, even her buttocks throbbed from the Pilates-like positions she assumed in reaching for recalcitrant weeds.
Rebecca had lost all sense of time as they dug for victory in the War of the Weeds, when a sharp insistent barking erupted from the little white garden gate and a black-and-white collie pushed it open with its nose, making a beeline for a terrified Max, frozen to the spot, eyes wide, trowel fallen fr
om his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” came an apologetic male voice. “Poppy, come back! Poppy!”
Poppy slunk reluctantly back to her owner, obediently parking her rear at her owner’s feet, her soft brown eyes resting on Max.
“Are you staying here?” enquired the handsome stranger with disheveled flaxen hair. “I’m sorry about Poppy. She’s a trainee sheepdog, so she’s very trustworthy, never bites unless commanded!” assured her owner.
Max lurked behind Rebecca, eyeing Poppy suspiciously, chewing on the end of his t-shirt sleeve. Rebecca rose to her feet, brushing off the soil from her hands.
“Hi. I’m Rebecca Mathews and this is my son, Max.” She draped her arm around Max’s shaking shoulders. “Yes, we’re staying here. Well, we’re camping, to be more precise.” She gestured to the roof.
“I’m Joshua Charlton, and, as you’ll have gathered, this is Poppy.” He offered his large, calloused hand to give Rebecca’s soil-encrusted one a firm, confident squeeze, meeting her green eyes with his clear, blue smiling ones. His tousled hair stuck up at irregular angles, unintentionally trendy, a la surf dude! Tall, broad, rugby-player shoulders, he towered over Rebecca, but he carried his strong physique with the easy charm of someone comfortable in his own skin—all was well in his world.
“I’m sorry about Poppy, but she’s used to a free run of this cottage and its once pristine gardens. The property belonged to High Matfen Farm until you bought it last summer. It’s named after my mother, Rosemary Charlton.” He bent down and grabbed Poppy’s red collar to prevent her from dashing back into the garden, his worn green wax jacket, falling open to reveal a broad, muscular chest.
“Oh, I thought it was named that because of the profusion of rosemary plants!” Rebecca swung her palm toward the weed-choked garden.
“Mum loved this cottage. We rented it out in the summer to hikers and ramblers walking the Roman Wall, as well as golf enthusiasts—there’re some fabulous courses around here, one on the doorstep at Matfen, but also two championship-standard courses, one at Slaley Hall and one at Close House.
The Wish List Addiction Page 10