by KE Payne
“Can we?” Skye’s footsteps sounded beside Freddie.
Did ignoring a problem make it go away? Or pretending something never happened? She wasn’t being fair on Tag, she knew. Even though the kiss had been everything she knew it would be—more, possibly—Freddie knew it couldn’t happen again. And if that meant ignoring Tag, then so be it.
“Freddie,” Skye pressed.
“From the beginning, yes.” Freddie handed Skye her school rucksack. “And all the hands, yes. Of course.”
“Yes!” Skye took her rucksack and hooked it carefully over each shoulder. “See you later”—she reached up on her toes and kissed Freddie on her cheek—“alligator.”
“In a while”—Freddie kissed her back—“croco—”
“—dile.” Skye giggled and ran to the school door. She yanked it open, sketched a wave, and disappeared.
Freddie stared at the closed door. She always missed Skye the very second she disappeared in through the door. She knew, of course, that Skye didn’t give her a moment’s thought once they’d parted—too busy spinning Bethany Davies a tale, or breathlessly telling her teacher about Paddington’s or Fudge’s latest escapade.
Freddie hitched up her bag. She wondered if Skye had been talking about Tag to anyone at school. She’d already had to explain at least three times why Tag hadn’t been round lately. She sighed. No point in worrying about that now. Freddie turned to go, the day stretching out in front of her until it was time to pick Skye up again. She ambled away from the school gates, already thinking ahead to dinner. Perhaps they’d have pasta. Skye’s favourite. She’d be pleased; Freddie pictured the look on her face when she told her later when she picked her up.
This was Freddie’s life: school run-cafe-school run-home-dinner. Not kissing Tag on the fourth floor of a watermill on a Monday afternoon. She dug her hands into her pockets and screwed up her fists inside, then marched purposefully back to her car. That wasn’t her; she was a mother to a little girl who needed her more than she needed anyone else in the world.
And the sooner Freddie got that into her head, the sooner she could stop hurting.
*
Freddie brooded in the dim light of her lounge. The wildlife programme that was playing on the TV in the background could have been about anything. Occasionally a kaleidoscope of colours from the TV screen caught her eye, or a loud burst of music pulled her attention to it, but other than that, she remained slumped, impassively, and allowed the darkness to surround her.
Skye was in bed, finally. She’d asked about her again just that afternoon. Tag was fun, she’d told her; Tag told her funny stories and gave her presents. She missed Tag because she pulled faces at her when Freddie wasn’t looking, then acted like she hadn’t when she finally succeeded in making Skye dissolve into giggles, so Freddie wondered what was going on. Tag chased her round the garden until Skye got hiccups. She pretended to be a monster, making Skye double over with mock fear. Tag, Skye told Freddie, made her insides go all squishy when she did her special monster growl that Skye pretended she didn’t like, but secretly really loved. Tag was the distraction that made Skye forget Charlotte ever existed—and that’s just what Freddie was afraid of.
Freddie itched with irritation at her own stubborn stupidity. She jabbed at the buttons on the remote. Her pique reached its zenith. She’d not spoken to nor heard from Tag in days. Freddie tossed the remote to one side; she hunkered down further into her sofa and exhaled slow and long. But then, she didn’t blame her. Freddie had made it crystal clear by her actions up at the watermill that kissing her had been a mistake. Despite Skye’s protestations that she wanted to see Tag, invite her over for tea, or go to the park again, Freddie had stayed firm. Skye would thank her one day, she just knew. Skye would understand that Freddie always, without exception, had her interests at heart. And if it meant the pain Freddie was feeling now was worth it eventually, then so be it. The emptiness, the anger at her situation, and the pain—all worth it if it meant Skye was protected.
Freddie rolled her head as she heard the doorbell ring. A light coughing sounded just outside the lounge window, by the front door. Female. Nervous. Freddie knew she wouldn’t have to look outside to see who it was.
She clambered to her feet and made for the front door. Nerves, taut as wires, teased her as she opened the door and faced Tag.
“Hi.” The all-too-familiar butterflies flitted about her as she stared into Tag’s eyes.
“Yeah, hi.” Tag made minimal eye contact back. Was she as nervous as Freddie was? “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” Freddie pulled the door open wider.
“I’m sorry to come round so late.” Tag addressed Freddie over her shoulder. Freddie’s nerves clicked up another notch. Tag was being so formal. So cold. “I thought I’d better come and see you in person, rather than you hearing it from someone else.”
They walked to the lounge in silence. Tag sank down into a chair, her hands clenched in her lap.
“I came to say goodbye.” Tag cleared her throat. “I’m leaving Balfour.”
Nausea hit Freddie’s throat. Goodbye?
An advert on the TV, with loud music and cheering, flared into life. Annoying, but nevertheless a welcome distraction to her queasiness. She stared at it while she formulated a lucid answer to Tag. “Back to Liverpool?” she finally asked.
Tag nodded. “I’ve been offered a contract to work on.”
“At Deveraux’s?”
“Four months. Good money.”
“Too good to turn down, hey?” Freddie’s heart was breaking at the prospect, but she couldn’t let Tag see. Couldn’t let her inside her head. Couldn’t allow her to read her thoughts.
Freddie had had six months of getting used to being single, and then Adam Grainger had died and started something which Freddie couldn’t stop. If Adam was still alive, there would have been no Tag in her life. No Tag to infiltrate her every thought or to make Freddie jump every time her phone sang or the door to the cafe swung open. No Tag to make Freddie wake up each morning, hoping she’d drop by the cafe just because she was passing. And now she was going again, and Freddie knew it was all down to her and her damn morals. Freddie felt wounded, cut up by her own principles, and yet even though Tag was sitting here, telling her she was leaving, she still couldn’t bring herself to tell her how she felt.
“Something like that.” Tag smiled. There was none of her normal light, Freddie noticed, behind the smile.
“So your work here’s done?” Tag had fulfilled her obligations and was heading home. Wasn’t that how it was always going to be?
“No.” Tag shook her head. “I’ve barely even started.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going because I think it’s the right thing to do for everyone.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Balfour and the mill? They’ll never be far from my mind. Everything I’ll do while I’m back in England will be for the business. I’ll plough my way through this contract I have to work on because it’s what’ll pay my wages. Then I’ll work like holy hell each evening on advertising for the mill. Grabbing favours where I can. Ringing contacts. Trying to get grants. Making things happen.”
Freddie stared at her.
“I’ve never wanted anything more,” Tag continued. “I’ve never wanted to work so damned hard in all my life. Because this time it matters. This time it means something. For the first time in my life, my life means something because I have a goal.” Her eyes sought Freddie’s. “Because that goal is you.”
Freddie’s head swam. The room closed in around her. Tag’s words echoed off the walls. That goal is you. Tag wanted her as much as Freddie wanted Tag.
Go to her. Tell her how you feel, before it’s too late.
“When will you go?” Freddie hated herself right at that moment.
“In the morning,” Tag replied. “First train out.”
“It’s a shame you won’t get a chance to say goodbye to Skye.” Freddie spoke robotically. “She’ll miss you.”
�
�I’ll miss her.” Tag’s voice broke. “And you.”
Freddie nodded. Answer her. Tell her.
Silence consumed them.
“I love you,” Tag said simply. “And I know you don’t feel the same way about me, but I’m hoping if I can prove to you that I mean every word I say, you’ll feel the same one day.” She clenched her fists. “If it takes four months, four years, I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes until you can finally trust me and know that I’ll never, ever let you or Skye down.”
The walls squeezed the breath from Freddie. “I…” she began.
“Kissing you in the watermill the other day was everything I dreamed it would be.” Tag gave her entire focus to Freddie, consuming her. “I’m just sorry you didn’t feel the same way.”
Freddie’s throat closed. Why couldn’t she answer?
“Will you at least think about us while I’m away?” Tag pleaded. “Think about how good we could be together? You, me, and Skye?”
“You know everything I do is for that little girl upstairs, don’t you?” Finally Freddie’s words would come, even though it wasn’t the answer Tag wanted. “She’s been through so much in her short life.”
“I know.” Tag stood. There was nothing more to say. “I’ll be in regular contact with Blair while I’m away.” Her voice sounded choked. “Anything you want to ask about the rebranding, or whatever, ask him and he can ask me.”
Tag stood awkwardly in the middle of the lounge. She looked so lost, so vulnerable. All Freddie had to do was tell her she loved her too, and that she’d miss her every second of every day, and she could let Tag leave with at least a small pinprick of hope. But Freddie couldn’t even do that for her. The nausea returned.
Instead of telling Tag what she needed to hear, Freddie simply walked her back to the front door.
“I’m doing this for you,” Tag repeated. She sounded distraught. “Giving you space, because I think that’s what you want.”
“I know.” And if Freddie had to force a smile on her face every day Tag was away and pretend she was okay, then that’s what she’d do. Because that’s what she’d always had to do. “And it is what I want.”
Finally, Freddie went to her and enveloped her in her arms. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She buried her head into her hair, breathed in. Savoured her. The feel of her. How good she felt in her arms. Reluctantly, slowly, Freddie stepped away and opened the door.
Then Tag was gone. Just like that.
It was only when her front door was firmly shut and she could hear Tag’s footsteps receding back down the path that Freddie finally gave in to her tears.
Chapter Twenty-seven
How could three months feel like three years? Tag stirred her coffee, her fourth that morning, and stared at the screen of her laptop. It was only the coffee that was keeping her going—certainly not the logos for the Branson project which she’d been working through all morning, seeking inspiring tag lines but finding none. Inspiration for anything Deveraux-based, she figured, had been thin on the ground since her return to Liverpool.
Tag sighed. It was no good though; her concentration wasn’t going to stretch to another photo of Oliver Branson grinning back at her. Certainly not until she’d finished this coffee, anyway. She snapped the lid of her laptop down and flung herself back in her chair, raking her hands through her hair.
She glanced out of the window. Sun-buttered petunias on her balcony—Tag’s attempt at creating some sort of flower garden for her fourth-floor apartment—bobbed their heads in the light May breeze. Tag stared out, breathing in slowly, picturing the changing landscape of Balfour. The lower mountains would be green and lush now, but there would still be snow up on the Ben, she was sure of it. Perhaps not enough for Magnus to snowboard on, though. Just a light smattering on the tops, giving the town one last reminder of winter.
“You’re not back until June?” Magnus had been quiet when Tag had told him. He’d hung back in his room, picking at the corner of his phone cover, avoiding eye contact with her. “It’s going to seem like forever.”
“For me too, bud.” Tag had sat on his bed, hating every second of it. “But we can talk every night. The time will fly by.”
But it hadn’t, for Tag. Hours had turned into days, then into weeks. Tag’s mind never stopped turning, never stopped thinking about the mill, about Blair, about Magnus.
Or about Freddie.
She’d thrown herself into work for the mill in a vain attempt to make her brain stop thinking about Freddie, and while inspiration was nonexistent for Oliver Branson, it was overflowing for the mill. Grants had been secured, an engineer had been employed to overhaul the old threshing machine, adverts and banners had been printed, and the press now knew more about Graingers than they’d known in over a hundred years.
It was working. Her plan was working. Reports from Blair told her that her sacrifice had been worth it. Visitor numbers were up, historians were enthusing about the heritage of the watermill, and the bread-making courses were taking off. In short, the mill was well on its way to being a hive of industry once more. Back to how it had been when Tag had been a child. Sure, there was a long way to go yet, but things were definitely going in the right direction. She should have been delighted; her father, she thought over the weeks, would have been proud of her.
And yet her emptiness remained.
The rap on her door snapped her from her thoughts. Pushing the laptop away from her, Tag stood and went to the door.
“I’m hoping you’re Tag Grainger.” A woman stared back at her, a large brown parcel in her arms.
“You hoped right.”
“Found this in the lobby addressed to you.” The woman bundled the parcel towards Tag. “Thought I’d bring it up, considering I’m only down the corridor from you.”
Tag took the parcel and frowned.
“Number forty-two?” The woman jerked her head to her left.
“Right. Okay.” Tag looked at her. Nope, still didn’t recognize her. “Well, thanks. Appreciate it.”
Tag closed the door. She turned the parcel over and grinned when she saw the return address. Ripping the parcel open, Oliver Branson now well and truly forgotten, Tag caught the contents before they tumbled to the floor. In amongst the photos, flyers, complimentary letters from both past customers and new about the new-look cafe, and offers from coach companies for tours, was a small pile of the previous week’s newspapers.
Tag sank to her knees and spread the papers out on the floor in front of her. There were Balfour’s local paper, three from the adjoining towns, plus a few from much further afield, stretching from Glasgow to Aberdeen. There were the county’s weekly paper, plus three magazines, all from the local area too. Tag picked up Balfour’s local newspaper, flicking through until she found what she was looking for. Page five. Tag nodded in approval. Not bad. The headline jumped out at Tag:
Local Flour Mill Tells Customers:
We’re Still Open for Business!
She read on:
Balfour’s last remaining working watermill wants to let their customers know they’re very much still open for business, despite the recent opening of the Lyster bypass. Graingers’ Watermill and Bakery, run by the brother-and-sister team, Blair and Tag Grainger, have been milling flour for over 150 years.
Tag’s eye ran over the words. Brother and sister team? Tag smiled. Nice.
And now they’re proud to shout it out. Their banner, advertising the mill’s cafe, gift shop, plus historic watermill, went up on the bypass yesterday, and Blair Grainger, thirty-two, said he couldn’t be happier.
Tag looked at the photo. There was Blair, standing next to a huge, bright banner at the side of the road, looking lean and tanned, with a teapot in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. “A teapot?” Tag groaned. “Lame, Blair.” She chuckled under her breath and reached for her mobile. Blair answered after two rings.
“So what’s with the teapot, bro?” she asked.
&nbs
p; Blair groaned. “Photographer’s idea. Trust me, not mine.”
“Looking good, though.” Tag flicked through the next paper in her pile. The same picture, slightly different headline, faced her.
“It’s been mad.” Tag could hear Blair moving about. “The banner went up a week ago and we’ve been inundated since.”
“Awesome.” Tag was delighted. “So it really is all working, then? Everything you’ve been telling me is true?”
“Everything,” Blair confirmed. “The ads you’ve been working on, the coach tours, the bread courses.” He paused. “Freddie’s been amazing with those, by the way.”
Tag’s heart squeezed. “Has she?” Her voice was quiet.
“Kind of thrown herself into everything,” Blair said slowly.
“Good, good.” Tag nodded, afraid to say any more.
“There’s a photo in one of the magazines I think you’ll like,” Blair said. “Of Freddie. Of us all. Just wish you could have been there too.” Tag heard him breathing quietly down the phone. “After all, without your input, none of this would have been possible.”
“It’s all about teamwork, Blair,” Tag said, her voice breaking. “Always has been.”
Her mind was racing. There was a picture of Freddie? Her eyes fell to the magazines.
She wanted to see her.
She didn’t want to see her.
“Just look at the photo of Freddie, Tag,” Blair said gently. “You’ll like it.”
He got it. He so got it.
Tag smiled.
“We’ll Skype later, yeah?” Blair said. “Magnus wants to see you.”
“Sure. Look forward to it.”
The call ended. Tag looked back to the magazines, knowing that inside one, she’d be able to do what she hadn’t done for nearly four months: look into Freddie’s eyes. She swallowed. How could the prospect of looking at a photo make her heart pound so ferociously? Her hands feeling strangely clammy, Tag picked up one of the magazines, briskly thumbing through until she found the right page. As she opened up the double-page spread, her breath caught. In colour, staring back at the camera, was Freddie. She was standing with Blair, Ellen, and Tom, outside the heavy oak doors to the watermill.