by Alice Ross
Embracing the cookery club’s Spanish theme, she decided to prepare patatas bravas. Amber had declared the fried potatoes – smothered in spicy tomato sauce or a garlicky aioli – her “favourite food ever” during their holiday in Majorca. Trish decided to go for the tomato-sauce version, with an extra dash of chilli, and rooted out all the ingredients. As she began peeling the potatoes, she wondered if Ian would have the good sense not to break the news in a public place – where Amber might kick off and hurl things at innocent bystanders. She wasn’t sure the house insurance covered them for such incidents. Still, she pondered, slicing her knife through the first patata, her daughter had become so alien of late that, for all Trish knew, she might well find the news exciting; might welcome her new half-sibling with open arms and a new T-shirt saying Welcome To My World (insert name). She might even migrate over to The Other Side, becoming besties with Chloe and infiltrating the new family unit. Although the chances of that happening were slim to none. Amber hadn’t even met her father’s lover. She’d declared, on the day Trish had informed her of Ian’s departure, that she would never meet her. And, despite several pathetic – in Trish’s opinion – attempts by Ian to shoehorn them into the same room, Amber had stuck to her guns. A circumstance which pleased Trish on two counts – first, because it made Ian’s life even more difficult: rather than depositing his daughter in Chloe’s flat on a Saturday, leaving her plugged in to some electronic device, he had to make a real effort to do things with her; to interact properly. And second, because, if Amber had met Chloe and thought her the best thing since tattooed eyebrows, Trish couldn’t have stood it. It was bad enough Amber branding her the reason for the split, without pouring a ton of salt into the wound.
With the potatoes in a bowl of water ready to cook later, and the sauce blended, Trish wondered what else she could do to soothe Amber’s guaranteed foul mood on her return. Although the endeavour wasn’t always greeted favourably, she decided to clean her daughter’s bedroom and bathroom, and, to that end, gathered together a mountain of cleaning products and headed up the stairs.
A sign warning This Room Is Not Suitable For Parental Viewing And Contains Scenes Of A Distressing Nature clung to the door. Pushing it open with notable trepidation, Trish discovered it to be the usual den of female teenagerdom – clothes, shoes, make-up, hair appliances, chargers and piles of celebrity magazines, interspersed with dirty mugs and plates of discarded toast. She heaved a despairing sigh. She continually implored Amber to keep her room tidy. But, like the majority of her requests, this one, too, was blatantly ignored. Of course Trish knew what she should do: absolutely nothing. She should leave her daughter to wallow in her own mess; to reach a stage where she couldn’t find a thing, had no clean clothes, a smelly bed and a lack of crockery. But she couldn’t. Not today. Not when she’d be returning home heartbroken. As much as it went against every one of her instincts, Trish wanted to do everything possible to cheer up her daughter. After today, though, she resolved, picking her way over to the bed to strip it of its One Direction duvet cover, and tripping over a random trainer en route, Amber could sort herself out.
Midway through the detritus, an hour later, while mentally compiling a list of the pros and cons of having children, Trish’s thoughts veered towards Kate and her three. Three! She couldn’t imagine coping with more than one. Not that Kate looked like she coped. She’d looked exhausted. Despite the help of an au pair. Recalling the meaningful – and concerned – look that had passed between Connie and Melody when Kate had mentioned the hired help, Trish couldn’t help but wonder what it had been about. After her own recent experience, and putting two and two together and possibly coming up with sixteen-and-a-half, she wondered if it might have anything to do with the French woman – and Kate’s husband.
After two hours of lingering at the window, nerves mounting with every passing second, Trish didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified when Ian’s Range Rover finally pulled on to the drive.
She expected Amber to rocket out of the car sobbing inconsolably, fling herself into the house and stagger up the stairs, hurling one or two expletives along the way. So prepared was Trish for this eventuality that she’d even placed a new box of tissues on the bedside table. But, to her amazement, it was a beaming Amber, who, after kissing her father goodbye, slid out of the car, slung her bag over her shoulder, and sauntered up to the front door. Ian, who’d recently taken to popping in when he dropped her off, remained in the car.
‘Dad has to shoot off,’ Amber explained, turning to wave to her father as she reached the front door where Trish now hovered, while Ian reversed off the drive.
Trish thought it sounded suspiciously like an avoidance tactic. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Awesome.’
‘Good.’ Then, lifting her brows so high she looked like she’d had a bad facelift, ‘Dad have any news?’
Amber shook her head before spinning around and marching up the hall. ‘Nah. Only boring work stuff. He has some big project coming up or something.’
Hasn’t he just, mused a fuming Trish, brows returning to base. Bloody Ian. He’d obviously completely bottled telling Amber about the baby.
‘Why haven’t you told her?’ she hissed into the phone half an hour later, Amber now languishing in the bath and Ariana Grande blasting down the stairs.
‘There didn’t seem to be a right time. I really do think that…’
‘Don’t you dare say it would sound better coming from me. There is no way I’m telling her.’
‘Okay. Okay. Keep your hair on. I’ll do it next weekend.’
‘You’d better. Because if she hears it from someone else, neither of our lives will be worth living.’
‘Message received and understood,’ he said. His sardonic tone not helping Trish’s furious mood at all.
‘I made patatas bravas for dinner,’ announced Trish a little later, when Amber strolled into the kitchen, all pink and sweet-smelling. A flashback to how gorgeous her daughter had smelt as a newly bathed babe vaulted into Trish’s mind. How long ago those days now seemed.
Amber screwed up her freckled nose. ‘Actually, I’m not hungry. Dad and I grabbed a pizza.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, I cleaned your room.’
‘What? Oh. Yes. I saw. Thanks.’ Heading to the fridge, Amber opened the door, ducked inside, then reappeared with a yogurt in her hand, before swiping up a spoon and tootling off again.
Leaving Trish staring at her patatas bravas and wondering, yet again, why she’d bothered.
At five-thirty on Monday morning, Amber bowled into her mother’s bedroom, giving Trish such a fright she jack-knifed upright.
‘How do I look?’ she asked, executing a twirl in pink leggings and a white linen shirt.
‘Lovely,’ muttered Trish, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘But is there any need to go to such trouble for a paper round?’
‘It was no trouble,’ declared Amber, despite clearly having spent at least an hour getting ready. ‘You, um, couldn’t give me a lift this morning, could you? It being my first day and everything.’
Trish had no idea what difference it being the first day made. And she also knew that if she gave her a lift this time, she’d be setting herself up for giving her a lift every day. Thereby defeating the objective of her daughter taking responsibility for herself for a change.
‘Pleeeeeease, Mum.’
Trish rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, all right then. But just this once.’
‘Just this once. Promise,’ sang Amber, skipping out of the room.
This would definitely be a one-off, resolved Trish, trundling down the country lanes between Cornfield and Little Biddington ten minutes later. Not only was she doing Amber no favours at all running around after her all the time, but she really didn’t want to get up at five-thirty every morning. Still, despite the ungodly hour, she had to admit that the place looked beautiful, everything coated in dew and glistening in the early-morning sunshine.
Entering
Little Biddington and approaching the newsagent’s, she noticed a gaggle of kids with canvas bags on the pavement outside – one of whom she recognised as Miguel. As, evidently, did Amber.
‘Drive further up the road and drop me there,’ she hissed, sliding off her seat and attempting to cram her body into the footwell. ‘I’ll look a total wuss if they see me getting out of the car.’
‘I thought you liked my car.’
From the footwell Amber shot her a look. ‘It’s okay for a young person but you’re like forty-odd. That’s ancient.’
Trish sighed. ‘My, you really do know how to win friends and influence people, don’t you?’
The comment breezed right over Amber’s perfectly coiffed head. ‘Oh. And you’ll have to pick me up later.’
Trish was about to protest at the way in which these instructions had been dispensed, but before she could utter a word, Amber had launched herself out of the Mini, and was strutting down the street, honey-blonde corkscrew curls bouncing off her back.
Not having the energy to face her daughter’s wrath a second time, Trish drove further down the road, parked up for ten minutes, then turned around and returned to the shop. Thankfully, there was no sign of Amber or the other kids. She’d call in and pick up some milk, she decided – and a big bar of dark chocolate. In her recent Spanish cuisine browsing, she’d discovered a fantastic recipe for bitter chocolate mousse she wanted to try before the next cookery club meeting.
‘Morning,’ she said, entering the shop and finding Connie behind the counter.
‘Morning! I didn’t expect to see you at this hour. I thought it was only madmen and newsagents who were up with the larks.’
‘Had to drop off Amber. Against my better judgement. I really should’ve made her come on her bike.’
‘Well, it is her first day,’ chuckled Connie. ‘So we’ll permit her a lift just this once. And I have to say, I’ve never seen a prettier paper girl in my life.’
‘That’s because she’s been up since three preening herself. Which makes me think there’s a motive other than keeping the Cotswolds informed of world events for this paper round.’
‘Could it possibly be in the form of the rather gorgeous Miguel? She did blush spectacularly when I asked him to help her with her bag.’
Trish laughed. ‘Ah. Young love. But it now means I have to make another trip to pick her up and take her home. More’s the pity. I did consider changing the locks while she’s out, but I don’t think there’ll be any willing locksmiths around at this time of day.’
‘Doubtful,’ agreed Connie. ‘But don’t bother going home and coming back. Stay and have a cup of tea. She’ll only be an hour or so.’
‘You sure?’
‘Definitely. You’ll have to bear with me because it’s slightly manic in here first thing – commuters on their way to work – but you’re more than welcome to hover.’
‘I could hover with intent and make myself useful.’
‘Ooh, now there’s an offer I can’t refuse. I tell you what would be a huge help. If you could water the hanging baskets outside. I know they look lovely, but they’re a complete pain in the backside.’
‘No problem. Just show me the watering can and I’ll do it now.’
Ten minutes later and Trish understood what Connie had meant about the baskets being a pain. The operation required both a stepladder and some nifty manoeuvring to avoid the water that inevitably seeped out of the bottom. She’d managed to do three when a van pulled up alongside her and out jumped a short man in his mid forties with chubby red cheeks and an anchor tattoo on his arm.
‘Well, good morning,’ he said, running what seemed to be an appreciative eye over her. ‘Want a hand?’
Trish managed a polite smile. ‘No. It’s fine, thanks.’
‘It most certainly is,’ he chortled, before disappearing into the shop.
Trish blinked. Had he just flirted with her? It was so long since she’d had any male attention she no longer recognised the signs. Unlikely, though, she realised, looking down at her uninspiring white T-shirt and denim skirt. But a nice thought all the same.
‘I hope you’re going to make this a regular thing,’ tittered the man, reappearing out of the shop. ‘Cheered me up no end, you have.’ And with that parting comment, he jumped into his van and shot off down the street.
Leaving Trish in no doubt he had been flirting. And with a very large smile on her face.
‘Tea’s ready.’ Connie popped her head through the door. ‘Yours is on the counter. I’m just nipping upstairs with a bit of paperwork. If I leave it down here I’m sure to lose it.’
‘Okay,’ said Trish. ‘Nearly finished.’
‘Fantastic. I can’t tell you how much I hate that job.’
The two remaining baskets watered, Trish collapsed the stepladder, took it through to the storeroom, and had just returned to the shop counter and taken a huge slurp of tea when a drop-dead gorgeous, very distinguished-looking man strolled in – his tall, muscular form encased in red and silver lycra, with a silver bike helmet covering his head.
‘Oh.’ He gawped at her. ‘Where’s Connie?’
‘Up, er, stairs,’ mumbled Trish, swiping away a drop of tea which had inadvertently found its way to her chin. ‘Can I help?’
‘Just after my isotonic drink.’ He flashed her a smile before turning round and taking the four steps necessary to reach the chiller. As he leaned over to select a drink, Trish’s eyes were drawn to a pair of very firm toned buttocks, attached to thighs she’d previously only imagined belonging to world-class athletes.
Slightly breathless, she ran a finger under the rim of her T-shirt as he whipped back round and retraced his steps to the counter, grinning at her.
‘Right,’ she spluttered, doing her utmost to return the smile, while desperately hoping he had no inkling of the images his buttocks had inspired in her head. ‘I’ll, er, just check the price before I—’
‘That’s the correct money,’ he said, handing over a handful of coins.
‘Oh. Okay,’ managed Trish, feeling incredibly disorientated and as much use as a trapdoor in a lifeboat. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, still grinning. Then, as Connie reappeared, ‘Morning, Connie. You okay?’
‘Fine, thanks, Steve. You?’
‘Never better. Running a bit late so I’d better dash. See you tomorrow.’
‘You will. Have a good one in between.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he chuckled, before scooting off.
Watching his retreating back, and the subsequent flash of red and silver on wheels past the open door, Trish held her breath, hoping some elaboration as to “Steve’s” identity might follow. To her unfathomable disappointment it didn’t.
‘So, I hope you really did enjoy the cookery club last week,’ said Connie, completely changing the subject as she picked up the steaming mug next to Trish’s. ‘Melody should be sending out the menu for the next one soon.’
Doing her best to haul her thoughts away from hunky, lycra-clad men, Trish said, ‘I honestly can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it. And I can’t wait to see the next menu and contribute properly.’
‘You made a pretty good contribution at the last one, as I recall. That bread you brought along was to die for. I can’t believe we almost polished off the entire loaf.’
‘Me neither. It was all delicious stuff, though. And just to keep my hand in, don’t let me leave here today without buying some chocolate. I thought I’d try making a Spanish chocolate mousse later.’
‘Ooh, I love chocolate mousse – whatever the origin. If you want a second opinion, you know where I am.’
‘I shall bear that in—’
She broke off as another man entered the establishment – tall, with black, slicked-back hair, wearing an expensive-looking suit and a thunderous expression.
‘Just these.’ He swiped up a packet of mints from the display and slapped some coins on the counter.
‘Th
ank you, Andrew,’ said Connie. ‘You well this morning?’
He glowered at her. ‘What? Oh, yes. Fine, thanks. Bye.’ And off he strode.
‘Blimey. He seems a barrel of laughs,’ puffed Trish.
‘Doesn’t he just,’ agreed Connie. ‘Which is surprising really, because he’s the very lovely Kate’s husband.’
‘Mum, you really shouldn’t have come into the shop,’ chuntered Amber, arms clutched against her chest, as Trish drove them back to Cornfield a short while later. ‘That was like the most embarrassing thing ever.’
Trish swallowed down a bubble of laughter. The look on her daughter’s face when she’d returned to the newsagent’s – with Miguel – after finishing her paper round, to discover her mother sipping tea and reading Connie’s first column in The Galloping Gourmet, had been priceless.
‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you, darling,’ she said, as levelly as she could. ‘But I didn’t know where I was supposed to wait for you.’
‘Duh! How about where you dropped me off. That is never happening again. I’m going on my bike from now on.’
‘Of course, sweetheart,’ said Trish, thinking there was more chance of Cotswold residents pebble-dashing their golden stone cottages.
Chapter Five
Amber headed straight to bed the moment they arrived home from Little Biddington. Trish, though, despite the unplanned and initially unwelcome early start, remained on too much of a high to go back to sleep. Although it had been the last thing she’d expected at six in the morning, she’d thoroughly enjoyed herself at the newsagent’s. It had made a refreshing change to feel useful, and – more specifically – appreciated. Except by Amber, of course, who’d maintained a stream of grumbling that, in summary, had boiled down to Trish being the world’s worst mother, who shouldn’t be allowed within a two-mile radius of anyone remotely acquainted with her daughter.