by Alice Ross
There came no reply. About to walk away, she heard a little whimper.
‘Thanks, Mum. Oh. And Mum?’
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
‘Please can I have some more of those olive-oil biscuits? They were really yum.’
Relief swept through Trish. ‘Of course,’ she said, her mouth stretching into a smile. ‘I’ll bring some up straight away.’
Chapter Six
‘I thought these might cheer her up.’
Trish gawped – first at the beautiful bunch of flowers Miguel had handed her. Then at the boy’s handsome face.
‘Well,’ she puffed. ‘I don’t know what to say. That’s so incredibly kind.’
He shrugged, looking embarrassed. ‘It’s no fun being ill. I sent a text asking how she was, but she didn’t reply.’
‘Really? Well, she has been very ill. Awful flu.’
‘Oh. I thought you said she had a sore throat and a tummy bug.’
‘Ah yes. Those too,’ blustered Trish, kicking herself. ‘But I’m sure she’ll be back at her paper round soon.’
‘I hope so,’ said Miguel, before flashing her a dazzling smile and ambling down the drive.
‘Miguel’s brought you some flowers, darling,’ said Trish. To the door.
A nanosecond later it flung open, to reveal Amber standing there like a manic scarecrow in tartan pyjamas.
‘Miguel? As in Miguel Miguel?’ she demanded, hair sticking out at all angles and smudges of mascara under her bulging eyes.
‘I don’t know any other Miguels,’ replied Trish, trying desperately not to laugh. ‘Apparently he sent you a text but you didn’t reply.’
‘Only because I don’t know what to say. I can’t decide which of these sounds best.’ She scurried over to her desk, returning with three pages of A4 which she thrust at Trish. ‘Which do you think?’
Trish ran a cursory eye down the pages of scrawl. All the lines looked the same to her – with varying degrees of formality: Hi. Thank you for your enquiry. I’m getting better. ‘Um, how about saying something like, Thank you for the lovely flowers,’ Trish suggested.
Amber placed her hands on her narrow hips and pursed her lips. ‘Hmm. With a smiley or a flower emoji?’
Trish pondered the question for a couple of seconds, while simultaneously offering thanks to the person responsible for only recently having invented emojis – thereby saving her adolescent self any such trauma. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it. How about you jump in the shower then come downstairs and we can discuss it.’
‘Okay,’ agreed Amber brightly. ‘But I’ll just finish off those biscuits first.’
Despite Amber’s latest T-shirt defiantly stating Warning: Only Child, Trish couldn’t have been more relieved at having her daughter back in the land of the living. She called Ian to bring him up-to-date with developments.
‘I feel absolutely terrible about all this,’ he said, sounding – much to Trish’s delight – absolutely terrible. ‘Should I come round and talk to her?’
‘No. I think it’s best if you give her some space. I’ll let you know when she’s ready to see you.’
‘Right. Okay. I’ll, er, speak to you later then.’
‘No doubt.’
Trish was about to press the End Call button when he added:
‘And thanks. For everything.’
Completely taken aback by the sincerity in his voice, and not having a clue how to reply, Trish rang off.
‘Miguel’s invited me to his house. He’s going to teach me to play the guitar,’ gushed a very excited Amber the following day.
‘Is he now?’ Trish drew in a deep breath. Under normal circumstances such an invitation – from a boy about whom she knew very little – would have kick-started a stream of worrying scenarios. Ones she would have attempted to relay to her daughter. And which undoubtedly would have involved the blowing of several gaskets by both parties. Circumstances being far from normal, however, and Miguel being such a charming boy, she decided to tread more carefully. ‘Will his parents be there?’ she asked casually.
Amber shrugged. ‘He lives with his dad. His parents are divorced.’
‘Will his dad be there then? I might just pop in and say hi.’
The suggestion was met with a slight puff of lava-infused smoke, a rolling of eyes and a folding of arms. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, how about I take you over there and we can find out?’
‘You’re not going to embarrass me again, are you?’
Trish opened her mouth to ascertain the meaning of “again”, but quickly closed it again, deeming it too risky. The list spouted forth might last upwards of ten minutes – and that would be the condensed version. ‘I have no intention of embarrassing you,’ she said instead. ‘Miguel seems perfectly nice. But, other than that, I know very little about him. Which is why I’d feel better if I could at least say hello to his dad.’
There followed a faint stirring of volcanic ash as Amber puffed out a breath. ‘Oh. All right then. But I really think you need to get your own life, Mum, instead of interfering in mine all the time.’
‘Whatever you say, darling,’ muttered Trish as Amber flounced from the room, her final observation firmly striking one of Trish’s chords.
Miguel’s house, Trish discovered a short while later, was one of the most spectacular she’d ever seen: a fabulous eighteenth-century, three-storey manor house.
‘Wow,’ she gasped, swinging the car onto the sweep of gravel at the front. ‘What does his dad do for a living?’
Amber began unwrapping the scarf she’d wound round her head in a bid to avoid the windswept look. ‘Something really boring. Banking, I think.’
‘Hmm. It might be boring but it obviously pays well. Have you met him?’
‘Yes. One of the guitarists in the group Miguel sings in was rushed into hospital with appendicitis the night before the end-of-term concert at school, so his dad stood in. He’s an awesome player. In fact, apart from having a boring job, he’s like really cool.’
Trish arched an eyebrow. Miguel’s dad must be something special. “Really cool” was an accolade doled out only sparingly by her daughter – and then only about really, really cool people.
She stopped the car and had only just applied the handbrake when the now scarf-less Amber – in one seemingly seamless move – sprang out, vaulted over the gravel and landed right outside the huge front door. It flew open with equally impressive speed, permitting her a brief glimpse of Miguel, before the youngsters disappeared inside and closed it again. All before Trish had even opened the car door.
Right.
What to do now?
As charming as Miguel seemed – which made her feel all the more neurotic – she really wasn’t comfortable abandoning her daughter at a house – albeit a splendid one – where she knew so little about the family. She’d feel much better if she’d at least seen his dad. But would Amber erupt and launch into all kinds of accusations about parenting crimes if she knocked on the door? Given the fragility of the eggshells Trish negotiated daily, she didn’t dare risk so much as a hairline fracture, never mind a fault on the scale of San Andreas. Maybe, then, she should simply trust her daughter’s judgement; leave her to it, spin the car around and go home. After all, thinking about it rationally, the chances of someone who’d raised such a thoughtful child, helped out at the school concert, played guitar, and held down a career as a successful banker being a locking-girls-in-the-basement-for-years-pervert were probably about .00000000000001 percent. Precisely why she should trust Amber more, appreciate she was growing up and needed space. And that her words just before they’d left the house had oozed truth: Trish really did need to get a life of her own. From where, she had no idea. And the “how” remained equally elusive. But she’d figure it out. At some point. Once all the stuff with Ian settled down. If the stuff with Ian ever settled down. In the meantime, she had the cookery club – which was a good start: something just for her; a brief re
spite from the stresses that now constituted her life. With that thought reviving her flagging spirits, she was on the verge of restarting the car when a gorgeous middle-aged man in cream combat shorts and a black T-shirt, with dripping wet hair, strode from the side of the house.
A gorgeous middle-aged man she recognised – even with the dripping wet hair, and without the lycra and bike helmet.
Steve. From the newsagent’s.
But surely he couldn’t be Miguel’s dad. Could he?
‘Hi, I’m Miguel’s dad,’ he said, mouth stretching into a wide smile as he approached.
More wrongfooted than an Irish dancing centipede, Trish gaped at him. ‘Oh. I didn’t, er... That is I thought—’
‘His dad would be Spanish?’ he asked, coming to a stop at the passenger side of the car.
Trish nodded, mentally awarding herself an almighty kick. Now the man would think her an even bigger airhead than he undoubtedly already did.
‘A logical assumption,’ he said, instantly making her feel better. ‘My ex-wife is Spanish. And because Miguel’s grown up over there, and the way Spaniards construct their surnames, we stuck with Sanchez and left out the rather boring English bit of Simpson.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Trish cringed inwardly. Blimey. If she was going to turn all weird and monosyllabic again, she might as well go home now.
‘I had no idea you were Amber’s mum,’ he continued. ‘Nor would I, had I not been at my desk overlooking the drive when you pulled up. As much as it grieves me to say it, I think the youngsters have forgotten about you.’
Exerting every ounce of resolve, Trish pulled herself together. There was absolutely no need to act like a rabbit in headlights, she chided herself. She was simply chatting to a member of the opposite sex. And the fact that he had thighs that could crack a nut and buttocks tighter than a miserly miser was neither here nor there. Plastering a smile onto her face, she flicked back her hair – before remembering there wasn’t any to flick as she’d clipped it up – and said, in her wittiest tone, ‘Ignored me, more like. Not Miguel, of course. He’s far too polite. Amber, on the other hand, would rather have her toes chewed off by rabid piranha than have me in the same county – never mind the same house – as her friends.’
Steve laughed. ‘Ah, the joys of adolescence. I don’t know which is worse: worrying about your spots when you’re fifteen, or worrying about your wrinkles when you’re forty-five. Not that you look anywhere near forty-five.’ He pulled a face. ‘Ugh, that didn’t come out quite as planned. Corny?’
‘As corned beef.’
‘Hmm. In that case, I’m going to seize the opportunity to change the subject to something more appetising. I’m about to fire up the barbecue and make the kids some lunch. Would you like to join us? No pressure. But I should make you aware that, if you don’t, I’ll end up feeling like the geriatric hired help.’
‘Right. Absolutely no pressure then.’
‘None at all. It wouldn’t be fair. And, in addition to Moroccan chicken sausages, and bananas with chocolate, we’re having summer punch – the non-alcoholic version naturally.’
Trish laughed. For the second time in a matter of seconds. Something she hadn’t engaged in much of late. Gazing at Steve’s expectant face, she sucked in a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful scent of roses. It was such a lovely day, it would be a shame to waste it doing… what? Mucking out Amber’s room again? Working on Tilly the Talking Tortoise? Moping about feeling sorry for herself? And after all the cooking she’d done recently, it would be nice leaving it to someone else for a change. It was a very, very tempting offer. But dare she risk a San Andreas fault scenario? ‘I’d really like to…’ she began.
‘I’m sensing a “but” here. Don’t tell me. You’re worried Amber might think you’re cramping her style.’
Trish nodded. ‘Nail on head in one.’
His smile stretched a shade wider. ‘A very understandable fear. But she’ll be fine. Honestly. This house is so big, you probably won’t even see her. Ever again possibly.’
At the wave of horror that washed over Trish’s face, he added, ‘Not that we’re in the habit of losing visitors.’
She grimaced. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘No need to apologise. You’re the mother of a teenager – a child one minute, an adult the next. We’re as confused as they are.’
‘Nail on the head again.’
He laughed. ‘So, you going to join us and prevent me from feeling way over the hill and beyond?’
Her eyes on his, Trish chewed her bottom lip for a couple of seconds. ‘Oh, all right then,’ she puffed, opening the car door and sliding out. ‘I couldn’t live with the guilt otherwise.’
‘Like I said,’ chortled Steve, ‘no pressure. Now, would you like to come in?’
‘Would I? This place looks amazing.’
‘It is. Ridiculously big for just me and Miguel, though. It belongs to the bank I work for. They’ve shipped me over here for two years from my usual stomping ground in Madrid.’
‘Goodness. That sounds glamorous,’ exclaimed Trish as they began walking to the door through which Amber had recently disappeared. ‘And hot.’
‘Unbearably hot. It’s a great place, but I’ve really welcomed the break from both the temperatures and city living. The bank wanted to put me up in a flat in central London, but because I’ve always had a thing for the Cotswolds, I grabbed the chance to spend time here.’
‘And are you enjoying it?’ she asked, as he pushed open the front door and stepped aside to allow her to enter first.
‘I am. Although I’d expected them to find me a little cottage somewhere, not a whopping great mansion. I would’ve insisted on moving somewhere smaller, but I fell in love with Little Biddington on first sight. After being away for so long, every day I’m here gives me a huge fix of Englishness.’
‘I bet. I don’t think there’s anywhere quite like the Cotswolds for English charm. And talking of charm,’ she continued, her gaze bouncing around the wainscoted walls decorated in cool shades of grey, ‘this hall has bags of it. And it’s huge.’
‘That’s what I mean. Even the entrance is like a ballroom.’
‘Don’t tell me it has a ballroom?’
‘It’s about the only room it doesn’t have. Thank God. It’s bad enough that I’m expected to host corporate dinner parties and the like here, never mind balls as well. That would be pushing things a bit too far.’
Trish turned to him just as a drip of water from his hair snaked its way down his tanned temple. She fought the urge to reach up and brush it away, following him as he began walking down one of the half-dozen corridors leading off from the entrance.
‘Give me a good book and a cheese and pickle sandwich over a six-course schmoozy dinner any day of the week,’ he continued. Then, coming to an abrupt halt, he swung round to her. ‘Does that make me sound like a grumpy old man?’
Trish laughed and shook her head. ‘No. It makes you sound like someone who works very hard and needs a break now and then.’
‘Now you’ve hit the nail on the head. That’s why I enjoy cycling so much. I can switch off from the daily grind. No people. No hassle. No problems to solve. Other than how to fix a puncture when you’ve forgotten your kit. And absolutely no decisions to make, other than which way to turn at a junction.’
‘Sounds heavenly. I should try it. Although, knowing my luck, I’d be flattened by a lorry in the first ten minutes.’
Steve roared with laughter. ‘In that case, might be best sticking to the car.’
‘Definitely. For the sake of all lorries and their unsuspecting drivers.’
Some thirty minutes later, Trish had discovered Steve hadn’t been exaggerating in his description of the house. It really was enormous. And it had been exquisitely decorated and furnished with the most modern of cons, and a tasteful mix of old and new furniture. He hadn’t elaborated on what he did at the bank, but he was obviously way up there if they’d put him in a house l
ike this. She’d caught a brief glimpse of Amber – what seemed like half a mile down one of the upstairs landings. She and Miguel had been messing about with an amp. Noting her daughter’s flushed cheeks and the shy smile she’d shot her young host had made Trish all warm inside.
‘I think Miguel’s quite smitten,’ Steve had whispered, as they’d scurried off without the teenagers even noticing them.
‘He’s not the only one,’ whispered back Trish. ‘Somehow I don’t think partaking of the early-morning air is the reason my daughter has recently developed an all-consuming urge to deliver newspapers.’
‘I must admit, I didn’t think Miguel would stick it for long,’ confessed Steve. ‘But the last week or so, he’s been buzzing. And I’m sure that hasn’t anything to do with the air either.’
‘What are they like?’ sniggered Trish.
‘A couple of teenagers,’ they snorted together.
They finished the tour in the kitchen, where Steve pulled out a bottle of Prosecco from a fridge almost as big as Trish’s entire kitchen. ‘Just the one?’
She pulled a face. She really shouldn’t. Not only because she had to drive home, but because, now they’d come to a stop, she was cringingly aware that it was just the two of them. In one room – albeit an enormous one. She might go all weird again. Clam up like a… clam. Then again, a drop of alcohol might relax her. And she had enjoyed Steve’s company immensely so far. ‘Oh, go on then. Just the one,’ she replied.
‘Promise not to tempt you with more,’ he said, cracking open the bottle. ‘I’ll make some punch for the kids in a minute.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Trish slipped onto a stool at a marble-topped island, easily the size of one housing a lesser-known tribe in the South Pacific.
‘I enjoy it.’ He tipped the wine into two glasses. ‘In fact, since moving here, I’ve begun dabbling a bit with cooking. It relaxes me.’
She accepted the glass he handed her. ‘Goodness. You sound like a perfect candidate for my cookery club.’