The Year of Surprising Acts of Kindness

by Laura Kemp

  And she turned to him and understood. And she threw open the cabin, wishing on every star she’d ever seen she’d be there, this person who’d changed everything – for the better. Ceri was in the lane with a woman and Mel hesitated, uncertain.

  ‘This is Tash,’ Ceri said. ‘My sister.’ The one from a different father who she considered not as a half sibling but equal.

  Would she feel the same about Mel? Would Mel be able to do it too? It made her stop and think about how she’d kept Ffion at arm’s length and how the gap between them had let in mould and decay. Cardiff had changed her: she’d come home and vowed to welcome Ffion into her heart. Would she be able to do it with Ceri? And then Mel realised she’d done that already with Ceri. So she stepped forward and allowed herself to feel the love between them. They hugged and then they began to rock and move in a circle as Mel called her ‘my sister’ over and over again.

  ‘The cabin,’ she said, seeing colours all around as if she was on a merry-go-round, ‘let’s do it. Let’s do it together.’

  36

  Ceri wondered if it was possible to have lockjaw in her cheeks as she prepared to chuck confetti at Jade for the eleventh time. The magazine photographer hadn’t been satisfied with the first ten attempts due to technical problems such as ‘not enough boob’, ‘too much squinting’ and ‘the wrong kind of throwing’. Please God, it’s boiling out here, Ceri thought, as the blushing bride had another touch-up from one assistant while another picked foil-shaped lipsticks and OMGs out of her cleavage. The powder brush attacked Ceri next. While she’d have preferred to go without, she’d agreed to a makeover for Jade’s sake. It was the least she could do for Jade, seeing as she’d kept the business afloat and covered for her for months. It was the strangest thing to have primer and foundation, concealer and highlighter, blusher, shadow, fake eyelashes and lipstick on again, particularly a mask of it. She had been scared she wouldn’t be able to breathe at first, these days she’d get by with a bit of eyeliner and bronzer. But then like a memory, it’d settled down and she’d thought of her mother, who would have been thrilled to get anywhere near a professional make-up artist.

  ‘Big smiles, girls,’ the snapper ordered as he counted down to an AK-47 of flashes. He checked his shots and, finally happy, released them from the steps of the grand country pile. Temporarily blinded, the shriek of Jade’s best pals threw themselves into a group hug of grabbing arms to make sure no one fell off their five-inch heels. Once they’d steadied themselves, they darted off to get back to the terrace for the waiters’ trays of cocktails and some canapés. None of that fussy malarkey but beef in mini Yorkshire puddings, little bacon rolls and egg and cress on crustless white.

  It was a beautiful ceremony but it had been ages ago – the confetti photograph had been recreated because it was to be the front page image and guests had been told to go away and loosen up before they tried again. They’d done the breakfast – a fry-up with black pudding followed by Eccles cakes and custard for afters – and speeches. Now everyone was waiting for the nightclub to open: this was Delamere Manor, once the home of Take That’s Gary Barlow. His old recording studio had been converted complete with a dance floor. It was very swanky here – one of Cheshire’s finest five-star venues boasting its own lake and garden follies. With a price tag to match, it showed how fast Jade’s rise had been for the mag to shell out for it and two hundred and fifty guests in dickie bows and evening gowns. Her face was everywhere – all over social media and TV, on bus stop and train station posters and in Boots and the supermarkets. The punters loved her and rightly so because she was a girl done not just good but better than Ceri had managed.

  ‘Should I go dark, Pricey, after the honeymoon?’ Jade asked as they linked arms and went closer to the stone building for some shade. For a second Ceri was back to Ceri behind the bar of the workingmen’s club with her mate, where they’d discuss hairdos and celebrities. This time, though, it’d be the bosses whom Jade would have to consult.

  ‘You’ll look gorgeous whatever you do. You’ve scrubbed up well,’ Ceri said, wiping her eyes. ‘Like a film star from the 1950s.’ Her platinum bob had been set and styled and her short veil kicked out at her bare shoulders, as if it was wowing at her oyster strapless dress which hugged her figure and pooled at her toes.

  ‘It’s Grace Kelly glamour, cocker,’ she said, winking. ‘That’s what we’re aiming for now, an escape from bad times. I tell you what, though, the corset is as tight as my Aunty Pat. She’s staying at Mum and Dad’s because she didn’t want to shell out for the hotel room. Even though Mum and Dad are staying here! And she’s only asked if I can sub her for a cab home. Despite there being a minibus.’

  Ceri tutted at the money-grabbing, thanking her stars it was a distant memory now. Her bank account was as healthy as ever, mainly because ad revenue had more than recovered thanks to Jade’s status. But it wouldn’t be that way forever. Ceri, who’d been ‘phased out’ by the cosmetic company, aka dropped like a stone, was in the process of giving Jade a majority share in the company – she deserved it all but Jade had refused. Ceri was happy to see Jade had learned from her mistakes – she’d got herself an agent and she was donating a percentage of her earnings to good causes. It was called evolution – Ceri was proud of her. And she couldn’t have been happier. In the fortnight since she’d found her father and a sister, she was well away in the cabin. Her first job had been to get a shiny coffee machine – and by God it was worth it for its rich espressos, milky lattes and chocolatey cappuccinos. Her dad, with all his humble ways, had become partial to a mocchacino. He’d suggested a Love Music festival for October, with bands in a beach marquee, which Ceri had jumped on, mainly to occupy her when Rhodri was gone. Then it’d be fireworks and Christmas and a spring food festival. Mel was loved up with Carlos – she’d been to see him on her days off, and this weekend, when he visited for the first time, they were going to paint a mural of a bursting red heart with arms hugging a blue surfboard and a black coffee on the cabin wall.

  It was all good, apart from Rhodri going. It was sooner not later now, he was off next week. His brother Iolo had sorted out wifi at the cabin and he’d got the webcam working. The sunsets would make Rhodri feel at home. But in reality, a whole thousand and three miles would come between them – yes, she had checked how the crow flew. Gutted wasn’t the word: chopped, fried and dished up to the dog was closer to it. It had been a stick of dynamite to her dreams. But there was no point crying over spilled tears. Besides, it would ruin her make-up. And she had to think of Jade. She gave her a hug just because.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Jade said, leaning into her, smelling divinely expensive while she readjusted her stiletto gel insoles.

  ‘What? Are you kidding? I was always going to be here.’ Even if Dave was in the grounds somewhere stalking a Crewe Alexandra footballer whose bit of stuff was buddies with Jade. ‘That perfume’s nice, what is it?’

  ‘Only my new line! But don’t change the subject. Having to face everyone, it must be hard.’

  It was frigging awful. ‘Not at all. It’s nice to catch up,’ she said, knocking back the last gulp of bubbles in her glass, which instantly disappeared from her hand, the staff were that good.

  ‘Come off it!’ Jade laughed.

  ‘All right, all right. It’s shite. Everyone rubber-necking to see what I look like. Why did you have to invite that cow from the office next door? She said the extra weight suited me!’

  ‘I’d never have heard the last of it if I hadn’t. Anyway I think you look stunning,’ Jade said, holding out her hands like a quiz show hostess presenting Ceri as this week’s special prize.

  ‘I feel weird in this get-up,’ Ceri said, looking down at her sleek Grecian-style emerald floor-length dress she’d picked out from her stash in her Alderley Edge flat this morning. ‘It was the least outrageous thing I had. I’ve got flats on underneath,’ she whispered, ‘my arches have gone since I st
arted wearing wellies. Don’t let that slip, will you?’

  ‘Well, I think you should get them talking about something else, don’t you?’ It was lovely to have this little moment together when so many were queuing up to speak to Jade.

  ‘Anything.’ And then she clocked her friend’s mischievous eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Marcus’s cousin Mason thinks you’re a bit tasty.’

  Ceri groaned.

  ‘No! Wait! He’s not as handsome as our Marcus, granted, he’s got the family nose, but he’s lovely.’

  ‘Jade, please do one. I’m not up for it.’

  ‘Is this to do with that Taffy you liked? Rodney?’

  ‘Rhodri. I’ve more chance of pulling Prince Harry. No. I don’t need some bloke sniffing round me because of what I used to be. Go and see your new husband.’

  ‘He’s been away for a few years, he won’t have a clue who you are.’

  ‘Don’t tell me … he’s an ex-con.’

  ‘No! A charity worker, something to do with engineering. He’s been in Africa on a sanitation project.’

  ‘Why’s he come back?’

  ‘He wants to settle down,’ she said with a suggestive eyebrow.

  Ceri glared. ‘What’s wrong with him then?’

  ‘Nothing. Just been away. Go on, have a bit of fun, let your hair down, although you could do with giving it a brush first.’

  ‘Oi!’ Ceri cried, loving this lady like a sister. ‘Look at you, now you’re all famous!’

  ‘Stupid, isn’t it? I’d have been just as chuffed to get wed in the club, if truth be told. Pork pies and pickles. But you can’t turn down this, can you? It’ll last for a year or so, then it’ll be gone. We’re just enjoying ourselves. Marcus is loving it, bringing in lots of business at the car showroom. We’re going to save every penny and invest it, so we’ve got a nicer house and a garden for when we have a family. Which reminds me, do you know if Tash has got the keys yet? She messaged her congrats when I was having my manicure.’

  ‘Yes! Lunchtime. I’m popping in on her tomorrow on my way home. Shame she couldn’t make it.’

  ‘I know. But she’s got her priorities right, hasn’t she?’

  Yep, she had. And Jade. How come it had taken Ceri so long – and to the brink – to get hers sorted?

  ‘Right, I need to mingle,’ Jade said, cooling herself with a flap of her hands. Ceri got a nice close-up of her elegant white gold wedding band although the diamond of her engagement ring, upgraded since Marcus’s proposal a year ago due to their financial good fortune, almost took her eye out. ‘Marcus is waving me over for the cake-cutting photo. Catch you later for a boogie, all right?’

  They kissed and then she was alone. Jade would be all right, had her head screwed on properly, she did. Ceri decided to go inside to inspect the lie of that land – and ended up heading straight into the path of Dave. With a pregnant woman in a tiara. Bloody hell, this baby bump was news.

  ‘All right, Cez?’ he said, his spiky gelled blond hair and honest blue eyes so familiar yet so foreign to her now. Like most of the men, his dickie bow was untied so he could get a proper gulp on his pint.

  ‘This is my fiancée, Becky,’ he said with pride. ‘Becky, this is Ceri.’ He had his arm around her and he looked at his pretty wife-to-be with a face as gooey as a melted marshmallow.

  ‘Hi, Ceri, nice to meet you,’ she said sweetly. ‘I used to watch your videos all the time back in the day before this …’ Becky nodded to her bump and gave it a smooth. ‘Now it’s all baby blogs for me.’

  She seemed nice. Ceri was pleased for Dave. He’d be a good dad.

  ‘When are you due?’

  ‘Three months. We can’t wait, can we, Dave?’

  Ceri did a quick calculation. She’d have been pregnant in November. Dave had only started going out with her in October. But they looked very together. ‘Aw!’ she said, touched by their glow.

  ‘Dave’s already done up the nursery, haven’t you, Dave? And he’s not renewed his season ticket for the football. He wants to be home with me.’ He nodded enthusiastically and then bent in for a peck on Ceri’s cheek.

  ‘Anyway, good to see you looking so well,’ he said. ‘We’re off to the toilets, aren’t we, Becky?’

  ‘Yeah. I need to go all the time with this sprog on my bladder, don’t I, Dave?’

  Ceri gave them a massive smile – he’d got what he’d always wanted and she would never have been able to make him happy. She wouldn’t have held hands on the way to the bog for all the sand in Dwynwen. As the boom of the baseline came from the direction of the nightclub, it was decision time. She was knackered – she could go for it, knowing another drink would give her a second wind, or she could head for home. The apartment still had gas, electric and wifi so she could get a takeaway, have a bath and go online to find an estate agent to put it on the market. But it was strange being there – the echoes of Ceri’s old life were in the fabric of the place even though most of it was still in boxes marked ‘shoes’, ‘bags’ and ‘walk-in wardrobe’.

  There were hairdryers and straighteners, curlers and tit tape in her dressing room, a king size the area of Wales in her bedroom, a temporary metal rail sagging in the middle from all of her clothes, many still labelled and unworn plus a pile of post in the hall to look through. The only thing properly set up was a desk with her computer. She’d sat there with a cuppa earlier, bemused by her bookmarked sites – rival bloggers, Vogue and a load of dementia pages, which had made her fill up. And of course her own, and she’d clicked on it, just to see, tempted but fighting the urge to watch herself back … of course, she had. It’d been like getting sucked into a rabbit hole, her first few videos where she was creating her own make-up, sort of natural and chatty because she’d had no audience. Then a few nervy ones as she became better known. The later vlogs were slick, properly lit and self-aware. On her last, recorded the day she’d walked out on her life, she’d looked weary, gaunt and lukewarm. She was far from tempted to go back there sober: it was a show home with no soul.

  A man across the room caught her eye and he held up a glass of champagne to her. She didn’t recognise him but she could tell it was that Mason because he was the only one here with a non-fake tan. Tall, sandy-haired and handsome, with a bit of a hooter but distinguished, he had a lovely warm smile. She mulled it over: it was Friday night and she wasn’t dead yet; Mel was full of beans with Carlos; and Rhodri was about to go all Abba, destined to lay his love on a Swedish bird. Perhaps what Ceri needed was a man after midnight. So she nodded and they walked towards each other just as the DJ started playing ‘Take A Chance On Me’.

  Ceri counts her blessings

  Morning, Mum, it’s me. I’m in Crewe, parked up outside our house. Except it’s not ours anymore. The new people moved in last week. Tash told me not to come, it’d only upset me. My heart was going like the clappers when I turned into Junction Road; I don’t know what I expected to find … maybe number thirty-three would have gone to pot, looking grotty and sad, without you there. I imagined the door would be peeling and the brass pair of threes would be dull and grimy – but I had the nicest surprise because it’d been given a lick of paint, the same cheerful red, and the numbers were gleaming from polish. The nets have gone, they’ve got posh shutters in the front room and the bedroom. It shows the owners are house-proud and that makes me happy because you’d approve. That’s not to say it doesn’t feel weird, knowing the layout of the place and the bumps in the walls, the radiator that always needs bleeding and the creak of the third stair. I thought about knocking and telling them I used to live there and could I have a look round but they’d think I was a nutter. I’d think I was a nutter because I’d be looking for ghosts and I’d probably cry at the new kitchen. But I didn’t and that’s a blessing, to accept I can let the place go.

  Tash heard they were a couple with a baby, a hairdresser and an electr
ician. There’s a car I don’t recognise in front of me with one of those shades in the back passenger window plus a number on the rear advertising a salon. There’s a van too, marked Spark of Genius, so Tash must be right. It’s their first home so at least it’ll mean something to them. Like it did to me. But I can see now it’s okay to start a new chapter. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you or love you any less.

  Tash taught me that, which is another blessing. Just because she didn’t wear her grief like a face mask didn’t mean she wasn’t going through it too. Pushing forward was just her way of coping. And you’re still with her. I saw it earlier when I popped in at her new house, a new build in a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by fields, and she was buzzing with what you’d think of it. It’s all mod cons, built-in appliances plumbed in, and plastered with carpets and an airing cupboard the size of a wardrobe! There’s enough room in the garden for a slide and a swing, the girls have got their own bedrooms and Tash is made up because she’s got an en suite with a walk-in shower and a fancy loo with a heated seat. Kev’s got a garage and he’s going to turn part of it over into a bar with a dart board.

  She invited me to stop over, I was tempted because her guest room was very inviting and I didn’t get much sleep last night after Jade’s wedding. She looked beautiful, Mum, like Hollywood royalty, but she was still the same Jade. I met someone too, a nice bloke called Mason. Nothing happened, we just had a laugh on the dance floor and then swapped numbers. He was funny, works for a charity which runs engineering projects in developing countries, late thirties, no ties. We’ll see what comes of it.

  That’s my third blessing, having been able to put Rhodri out of my mind for a bit. To see that some time soon I’ll have got over him, because I fell hard and I’ve left it too late to tell him. He’s leaving in a few days and the moment, if there ever had been one, has gone. But even though it’ll kill me to say goodbye, I have to see him because whatever I wanted him to be he is my friend and a really good one. Maybe it’ll all turn out to have been part of my grief – that I felt so many things when you’d died that they needed a focus and I transferred them on to him, like a phantom love. That would make sense because we’re Venus and Mars: him, the middle class, uni-educated, rugby, recycling romantic, and me, the working-class lass with more cash and attitude than qualifications. Anyway, I’ve spent too long hooked on him. At least when he’s gone, I can get on with my next blessing: a new business idea, arranging bespoke acts of kindness. No job too small, whether it’s a bouquet to say thank you, to no job too large, working with companies to give something back to the community. I’ll find out what makes that person or place tick and then project-manage it all. Like a consultancy of kindness. If I ever make a profit, I’ll do good not just think about it; perhaps pay for benches in parks or turn blank school and hospital walls into murals or living walls of plants and flowers. The rest of the time, I’ll throw myself into living – there’s my sisters and my dad, the cabin, I might get a dog, go to Welsh classes even. What I’m trying to say, Mum, is I think I’m ready to count my blessings by myself from now on, that’ll be my last one for today.