by Alice Ross
Jerking up her head from her laptop, Trish’s suspicions vaulted to attention. Her daughter smiling could only mean one thing: she wanted something. And if that something didn’t similarly enthuse Trish, a battle might ensue – or, at the very least, a minor skirmish.
Grasping for stalling techniques, Trish blurted, ‘I thought I’d make vegetarian fajitas for tea.’
‘Sounds yum. Want me to help?’
Oh God. Trish’s heart rate gathered pace. Whatever her daughter wanted, she evidently wanted it a lot.
‘Er, no. It’s okay.’ Then, bracing herself, ‘So, what have you been up to?’ she all but squeaked, dread crashing over her as her vocal cords chimed out the words. She’d bet it involved an all-night rave. Or a booze cruise to Amsterdam. Or piercings.
Amber began fiddling with the sleeve of her T-shirt, which did nothing to ease Trish’s mounting nerves. ‘Welllll… I wondered if you’d mind if I got a paper round.’
A paper round? Trish’s immediate emotion was one of relief. At least a paper round didn’t involve sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll or piercings. At least with a paper round there’d be no chance of the police knocking on the door at all hours of the day or night.
Or would there?
Hadn’t squillions of kids gone missing when delivering papers? And worse? Heaven only knew what kind of dodgy characters lurked about in the early hours, hiding in bushes, waiting for innocent children to pass by, so they could lasso them away to dingy basements and keep them there for decades. And what about in winter? When it was dark and frosty and foggy. She could be knocked over. Or slide into a ravine. Not that there were any ravines in the Cotswolds. But still. Anything could happen.
‘It’s in Little Biddington,’ Amber went on, blissfully unaware of the terror swarming about her mother.
‘Little Biddington?’ whimpered Trish, head now whirling. ‘How will you get over there every morning?’
Amber twiddled the ends of her chunky plait. ‘It’s the next village, Mum. It’s like a mile away. I’ll go on my bike’
Trish’s eyes almost vacated their sockets. The only time she’d known Amber show the remotest interest in her bike was after some supermodel had declared cycling the only way to rid thighs of cellulite. And even then she’d only ventured out twice – returning with a bad case of nettle rash the second time and declaring she’d rather have cellulite after all. Quite where this sudden urge to slither out of bed at the crack of dawn to furnish Cotswold households with their broadsheets had sprung from, Trish couldn’t fathom. Or could she? Feigning innocence, she asked, ‘Do you, um, know anyone else who’s doing one of these paper rounds?’
‘Er, Jessica from school,’ replied Amber, a slight flush touching her smooth, freckled cheeks. ‘Oh. And a couple of the boys.’
Ah ha. This sounded more like it. ‘Which boys?’ Trish asked, battling the Gestapo-like edge creeping into her tone.
‘Jake Sanders. Tristan Philipps. And… Miguel.’
Ha! Trish resisted the urge to punch the air. There, in all his Mediterranean, handsome, teenage, jeans-swinging-off-narrow-hips way, lay the answer to the mystery; the real reason her daughter wanted to swap leisurely school summer holiday lie-ins for traipsing round the streets at some ungodly hour: Miguel Sanchez – the new boy on the block – and the latest addition to Amber’s class.
Waiting in the car to collect Amber from a friend’s house party to celebrate the end of the academic year, Trish had watched the girl amble down the path with a very tall, exceptionally good-looking young man, who’d remained at the gatepost waving them off until the car had turned out of sight.
Trish had felt slightly sick. And nervous. And old. ‘Who was that?’ she’d casually asked her flushed daughter.
Eyes sparkling and a soppy grin on her face, Amber had unhelpfully replied, ‘No one.’
A few days later Trish had bumped into the mother who had – rather bravely in Trish’s opinion – hosted the party, and had discovered that “no one” was the young Spaniard, whose family had recently – and temporarily – relocated to the UK from Madrid.
‘So? Can I?’ asked Amber, hauling Trish back to the present.
Trish sucked in a cheek, weighing up the safest way to respond. If she said no, the blowing of two – possibly three – gaskets would occur. And at least one item might find its way into the air. On the other hand, if she began reeling off all the possible dangers – which, in her head, were multiplying more rapidly than Ian and Chloe – she’d be accused of being a neurotic loser and the worst mother in the world.
But it wasn’t all bad. In the “Positives” column sat the fact that a job could be the making of her daughter. Especially during these seemingly never-ending holidays, when she was doing little more than hanging round the house, moaning. The discipline of work would do her good, make her realise that money didn’t grow on trees, and hopefully instil a sense of responsibility – attributes clearly lacking in the girl’s life of late. Much to Trish’s chagrin. When it had become clear that Amber was to be an only child, Trish had determined she wouldn’t be a spoiled one. However, as much as it pained her to admit it, Amber was now more spoiled than a sunken soufflé. A state exacerbated by Ian’s departure. Both racked with guilt about the split, they’d overindulged their daughter, desperate to keep her happy. The result being that Trish now lugged about the constant feeling of cohabiting with a bubbling volcano. One a “no” could trigger with absolutely zero warning.
‘I tell you what,’ she piped up, a sudden brainwave striking her. ‘How about I pop over to Little Biddington and speak to the owner of the newsagent’s to find out exactly what’s involved.’
‘Hmm.’ Amber pursed her lips.
Trish held her breath, awaiting the first signs of molten lava. Or a puff of smoke. Or a rumbling sound.
‘It’s, like, delivering papers, Mum. What’s there to find out about?’
‘It would make me feel better, that’s all. No biggie,’ she added, employing one of her daughter’s favourite expressions. ‘I’ll drive over there now. And once I’ve spoken to the owner, I’ll let you have my answer.’
Amber puffed out a dramatic sigh, accompanied by a humongous eye-roll – but, thankfully, minus smoke and lava. ‘Oh, all right then. But don’t ask anything stupid.’
Driving the short distance from Cornfield to Little Biddington, the roof of her Mini Cooper down, Trish couldn’t help but smile. She might not have much to celebrate in her life at the moment, but she had her health, and the privilege of living in the wonderful Cotswolds, with its rolling hills, stunning scenery and villages with the cutest names.
She also had a rather nice car. Ian had bought it as a surprise for her fortieth birthday. He’d flung open the curtains that morning with a theatrical flourish. And there it had been, on the drive – a huge pink ribbon and several dollops of bird poo adorning the bonnet. Trish’s immediate reaction had been horror. She’d never been one for ostentation – and she really did like her little old Micra. Ian, though, had insisted one’s forties were for splashing out, for “one last throw of the dice”. Appreciating his efforts, and not wishing to hurt his feelings, Trish had resisted asking if she could take it back. But six months on, she discovered she’d grown rather fond of it. And on a glorious August day like today, roof down, sun on her face, the mingling aromas of the British countryside – some admittedly more pleasant than others – teasing her nostrils, she didn’t miss her Micra one bit.
Reaching Little Biddington, she parked outside the newsagent’s – a gorgeous cream building with a cute bow window, neat thatched roof and a zillion hanging baskets all crammed with colourful trailing blooms.
Stepping inside, the mouth-watering smell of fresh sardines hit her. A smell which instantly transported her back to the holiday she, Ian and Amber had enjoyed in Majorca. It had been the summer BC (Before Chloe). They’d rented a little villa on the beach, with a pool, an abundance of bougainvillea, and a huge barbecue that wouldn’t have loo
ked out of place on the Starship Enterprise. During the day they’d explored the island by car, sampled the local cuisine – Trish developing a penchant for sardines, and Ian for gambas pil pil. In the evening they’d barbecued a veritable feast – meat, fish, vegetables, fruit. And when Amber had staggered off to bed, exhausted from the combination of sun, swimming and snorkelling, Trish and Ian had relaxed on the patio with a jug of sangria, the sweet smell of jasmine, and the song of cicadas. One evening, after too much alcohol, they’d skinny-dipped in the pool and made love on a sunlounger. It had been one of their best holidays ever. Recalling just how happy she’d been then, Trish’s heart squeezed. But, as she’d done many times since Ian’s departure, she immediately banished the useless sentiment, blinked away the threatening tears and focused on the matter in hand: Amber’s proposed paper round. With the slight problem of there being no one to focus the matter on.
‘Sorry,’ gushed a gorgeous brunette, hurtling out of a door, which Trish presumed must lead to the shop’s upstairs. ‘It’s been really quiet the last couple of hours so I nipped upstairs to do a spot of cooking.’
‘Well, whatever you’re making smells delicious,’ said Trish. ‘It reminds me of the sardines in vinegar I frequently enjoyed during a wonderful holiday in Majorca a couple of years ago.’
The girl’s pretty face lit up. ‘That’s exactly what I’m making: sardines en escabeche. The fish have to chill for a day or two once cooked, which is why I’m making it now. In preparation for the cookery club meeting tomorrow night.’
Trish cocked an eyebrow. ‘A cookery club? That sounds intriguing.’
‘I don’t know about intriguing, but it’s great fun. I set it up a few months ago and it’s really taken off. It’s even become a bit competitive. In a nice way.’
Trish laughed, the girl’s bubbling enthusiasm making her wish she had something in her life to be so passionate about. ‘I love cooking but I only have my teenage daughter to try stuff out on now,’ she said. ‘Not the most enthusiastic of audiences.’
The girl chuckled. ‘I can imagine. My only experience of teenagers is with the paper boys and girls. Which is interesting to say the least.’
‘You’re lucky. Living with one is like walking on eggshells – the free-range variety, of course, otherwise I’d suffer a never-ending lecture on the miserable plight of battery hens. Before I run her down too much, though, my daughter is actually the reason I’m here. She’s interested in taking up one of your paper rounds and I have a couple of questions I wondered if you’d mind answering, before I agree to it.’
‘Of course. I’m Connie, by the way. I’m shop-sitting for a few months while the owner is away.’
‘Trish Ford,’ said Trish, accepting the girl’s proffered hand. ‘And I know I’m going to sound completely neurotic, but I suppose I’m just getting used to her growing up.’
Connie laughed. ‘Look, why don’t I make us a nice cup of tea and we can talk over any concerns you have.’
Trish grinned, instantly feeling less neurotic and more like a normal human being. ‘That,’ she said, ‘sounds like a wonderful idea.’
Ten minutes later, a mug of tea in hand, Connie had patiently explained all the details of the paper round.
‘It sounds fine,’ said Trish. ‘And I know I’m being pathetic conjuring up a million and one things that might happen to Amber, but it honestly doesn’t seem two minutes since she was a babe in arms, and now she wants a tattoo on her arm.’
Connie giggled. ‘I don’t have kids myself but I’m sure I’d be the same. I can’t guarantee the absence of any child-snatching psychopaths at six in the morning, but as far as I’m aware, Eleanor – the owner of the shop – has never had any dramas. And she’s been here for eons.’
‘In that case, I give Amber’s idea my full approval,’ said Trish. ‘Although I can’t guarantee how long she’ll stick it. I have an awful feeling that, when the cold, dark mornings kick in, the lure of the duvet might just win out.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure she won’t be the only one. I’m fully expecting a mass exodus come October. But that’s my problem, not yours.’
Trish smiled. ‘Thanks so much for giving her a chance. I had no idea she was even considering it.’
‘That’s because anything resembling communication with parents when you’re a teenager is so not cool. She seems like a really nice kid, though.’
‘She has her moments,’ puffed Trish, trying to recall any in the last few months and failing dismally. ‘But I’m hoping this job might teach her a bit of self-discipline. And show her that money doesn’t grow on trees.’
‘You never know. Does she share your love of cooking?’
Trish shook her head. ‘Not any more. We used to spend many an afternoon baking together when she was younger. But now all she does is whinge about how many calories are in everything. Which is why your cookery club sounds so appealing. It must be lovely to cook for someone who appreciates your efforts. Even when my husband and I were together, he was never overly enthusiastic about anything I served up. Which might, now I come to think of it, have been a reflection on what I served up.’
Connie gave a snort of laughter. ‘I’m sure that’s not the case. But listen, if you really would like to cook for an appreciative audience, why don’t you come along to the cookery club? The next meeting is tomorrow night – which I know is short notice. But as we’ve all been allocated our dishes, you wouldn’t need to bring anything other than yourself.’
Trish gawped, the invitation completely knocking her for six. The only other invite she’d received that year had been to a smear test. It was hugely flattering to be asked but she couldn’t possibly join the club. For one thing, she wouldn’t know anyone. And for another, she wasn’t sure her cooking would be up to the required standard.
‘I’m hosting it at my friend Anna’s house,’ Connie went on, obviously sensing her reticence. ‘It’s a small group – just me, Kate the village vet, and Melody, who’s now pregnant. Eleanor – the owner of the newsagent’s – was also a member, but she’s moved to Spain. We’ve been talking about looking for someone to replace her for a while now, and I think you’d fit in beautifully.’
Trish’s already widened eyes widened a shade further. The way she currently felt about herself, she couldn’t imagine fitting into a made-to-measure dress.
‘You could come along and see what you think. And if you decide it’s not for you, you need never see any of us ever again.’
Trish was on the verge of saying thanks, but no thanks, when it struck her that the club sounded perfect. A small group of – if Connie was any indication – friendly, welcoming women, all sharing a love of food. Why shouldn’t she join them? Or at least try it? It wasn’t like she had a million other social engagements to work around. Indeed, other than putting out the bins on a Tuesday night, all her diary contained was blank pages.
‘Hey, sexy.’
Trish started as a hunky guy strode into the shop. He was about to embrace Connie when the object of his desires gave a meaningful cough. ‘Max, this is Trish. Trish, this is my boyfriend, Max.’
The man turned sparkling hazel eyes to Trish. ‘Woops. Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’
Trish laughed. ‘No need to apologise. I was just going. And yes, Connie,’ she said, with a sudden surge of assertiveness, ‘I’d love to come along tomorrow, if you’re sure that’s okay.’
‘It’s more than okay. It’s brilliant.’ Connie turned to Max. ‘I’ve persuaded Trish to give the cookery club a go. I think she’ll fit in perfectly.’
‘I have no doubt she will,’ agreed Max. Then, winking at Trish, ‘Although between you and me, it’s a bit sexist. I think it needs a couple of men in there to liven things up.’
Connie shook her head in mock despair. ‘Take no notice, Trish. Men would only cause a stack more washing-up. By the way, I should tell you that we’re working our way around world cuisine – we’ve exhausted Italy and have now moved on to Spain. Fr
ance is next but we’ve banned frogs’ legs in any shape or form. We’ll be meeting at seven o’clock tomorrow evening at Primrose Cottage, just along the road. Look forward to seeing you then.’
Trish said her goodbyes and left the shop with a fizzle of something unfamiliar in her stomach. Something she subsequently recognised as excitement. A sudden urge to phone Ian and tell him about the cookery club overtook her. Followed by the crushing realisation that she couldn’t. Because he was no longer her Significant Other. He was Chloe’s. Were the two of them as in love as Connie and Max obviously were, she wondered? Did they share the same playful banter and loving looks, just as she and Ian had when they’d first teamed up? It seemed a million light years ago, firmly lodged in the past. A past there was absolutely no point dwelling on. She had the future to get on with now. And although it would include a distinct lack of loving looks and playful banter – especially between her and Amber – it did include a cookery club – which, at the moment, was quite enough excitement.
Chapter Three
It was a different Trish that drove back to Cornfield. A much happier, optimistic one. All thanks to the lovely Connie, with whom she’d felt an immediate connection. Although she had no idea why. Connie seemed like a woman in control; one who knew what she wanted and wouldn’t dwell on the past, or pine for lost loves. Unlike Trish, who’d made a hobby out of dwelling and pining. That Connie had obviously liked her enough to invite her to the cookery club, however, had massively boosted her confidence, despite the fact that she’d probably only extended the invitation out of pity. Being slighter looser of tongue than she’d intended, Trish imagined she’d come across as Mrs Sad of Sadsville – moaning about Amber, then bleating about how her and Ian were no more. Honestly, she really should get over it and get a life. Including a social one. Since the split, her socialising had dropped to pitiful levels. She and Ian had never been party animals, but they had gone out a couple of times a month. With other couples – couples who obviously weren’t comfortable with her newfound single status. Evidently, they didn’t want an odd number messing up their seating plans. Either that, or her place was now occupied by Chloe’s toned buttocks.