by Alice Ross
‘A cookery club, eh? I’ve never heard of one of those before.’
‘Nor had I. Until Connie invited me to join.’
‘Connie from the newsagent’s?’
‘Yes. She set up the club a few months ago. The members take turns hosting it, make dishes together, then eat them. We’re working on a Spanish theme at the moment.’
‘Wow. That sounds great. Cooking and eating – two of my favourite pastimes. And talking of both…’ He strode over to the fridge again, hauled open the door and began decanting trays of meat in various guises onto the worktop.
Trish’s eyes grew wide. ‘How many people are you expecting?’
‘Just the four of us. Think I’ve overdone it?’
‘Ever so slightly. You could feed the whole of Little Biddington with that lot.’
‘Hmm. Definitely overdone it then.’
‘Let’s see how much we use, then I’ll help you bag up the rest and freeze it.’
His face lit up. ‘Brilliant idea. I’m so glad you stayed.’
‘Because it’s less food to freeze?’
‘No. Because it’s just… nice having you here.’
At the shy smile that followed that declaration, Trish picked up her glass of wine and attempted to hide her own – rather chuffed – grin behind it.
Before a horrific thought struck her.
‘Oh God. I’ve just remembered. Amber’s now vegetarian.’
Steve looked down at the mountain of meat. Then back up at Trish, who could scarcely keep a straight face.
‘I have a nice bit of Stilton.’
At which suggestion, Trish’s face completely crumpled as she dissolved into fits of laughter. Followed, a second later, by Steve.
Trish couldn’t work out what had horrified Amber most. The fact that her mother was still hanging around. Or the fact that she’d been offered a nice bit of Stilton rather than Moroccan chicken sausages, pulled pork, or a beef and red pepper burger. So mortified did she appear by both developments, Trish felt obliged to help her out.
‘I know you feel strongly about animals’ rights, darling,’ she said. ‘But these animals are already dead. And if they aren’t eaten, they’ll have died in vain.’
Amber pursed her lips.
‘Plus, Mr Simpson has gone to a lot of trouble and expense with the food.’
Amber heaved a confused breath.
‘And if you did lapse just this once, none of us would tell anyone.’
Amber awarded the suggestion a few more seconds’ consideration before nodding and saying, ‘Okay. I’ll go back to being vegetarian tomorrow.’
‘Great,’ said Trish, flashing a smile at Steve as her daughter scuttled off. He returned it with a wink, which caused her stomach to perform rather a strange manoeuvre. It must be the hunger, she told herself. It couldn’t possibly be anything else.
Chapter Seven
To Trish’s astonishment, Amber wasn’t spitting tacks on their drive back to Little Biddington later.
‘That was a nice afternoon, wasn’t it?’ she ventured. Because it had been. Very nice indeed. With Miguel and Steve obviously sharing a very close relationship, Amber had shed her prickly armour and been more relaxed than Trish had seen her in a long time. The four of them had eaten together, before the youngsters had scuttled off again. Leaving Trish and Steve alone in the garden. But, unlike their first two encounters, where words had failed her, she’d found herself merrily chatting away about all manner of subjects: her work, his work, his life in Madrid, the cookery club, the Cotswolds, even old pets. The only subject she’d avoided had been that of her failed marriage. Other than fleetingly mentioning she and Ian were separated, she hadn’t uttered her estranged husband’s name at all. Nor had she wanted to. And, after the stressful week she’d endured, that felt very refreshing indeed. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ she asked.
‘Okay,’ muttered Amber.
It wasn’t much, but, as Trish slanted her a glance from the driver’s seat and noted the smile playing about her daughter’s lips, it was more than enough for her.
Much to Trish’s astonishment, Amber not only tootled off to her paper round the next morning – on her bike – without so much as waking Trish, but she seemed in a good mood when she returned.
‘You going up for a little nap?’ asked Trish, as her daughter unclipped her cycle helmet and shook out her mane of curls.
‘Nah. Not tired.’ Amber dumped the helmet on the kitchen table, then wriggled onto a chair. ‘What are you doing today?’
‘Preparing my dessert for the cookery club this evening. As just about everyone has now sampled my little chocolate and hazelnut pies, I’ve decided to make leche frita – otherwise known as custard squares – with black fruit sauce. Want to help?’
As Amber screwed up her nose, Trish braced herself for a no. Her daughter being pleasant two days running would be pushing it. To her surprise, though, the reply bounced back in the affirmative.
‘Okay. What do you want me to do?’
Trish blinked, before rallying at breakneck speed. ‘Well, as the base needs to chill, I thought I’d make that here and prepare the sauce at the club. So, if you wouldn’t mind measuring out the ingredients for the base, that would be a huge help.’
‘I’ll just wash my hands.’ Amber pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet, while Trish allowed herself the smallest of smiles.
Half an hour later, the ingredients had been measured out, and the milk, lemon rind, cinnamon stick and sugar had been brought to the boil then left to infuse for twenty minutes. Amber had beaten a lovely smooth batter of cornflour, egg yolks, milk and flour and was stirring it over a low heat when she said, ‘Mum. Thanks for telling Connie and the guys I was ill. It would have been, like, totally embarrassing if people knew the truth.’
Trish’s heart skipped a beat. Since Ian had broken the news of his “development” to his daughter, she’d purposefully avoided the subject, waiting for Amber to broach it when she felt ready. Was now the time? ‘About your dad and Chloe having a baby?’ she ventured.
Amber nodded, eyes fixed on the pan. ‘It’s totally, like… gross.’
Trish bit her lip. She thought it was totally, like, gross too. But she didn’t think it wise to concur. ‘Well,’ she uttered instead. ‘I suppose it’s just… one of those things.’
Amber jerked up her head, eyes brimming with tears. ‘One of those disgusting things. Dad’s, like, really old. And she’s, well, I don’t know what she is.’
‘Maybe you should meet her and find out. Your dad would like you to.’
Amber didn’t reply. Her gaze shifted back to the pan. ‘Do you think this is thick enough yet?’
Melody’s house, Trish discovered later that evening, was a serious competitor for Steve’s. Although not quite as vast, it could still be classified as a mini-mansion and had been furnished equally as tastefully. Trish had found it difficult to stop ooh-ing and aah-ing, but Melody had briskly brushed all compliments aside and directed them to the matter in hand: the cooking.
‘I must admit,’ said Kate, looking her usual harassed self in a pair of ill-fitting grey shorts and a pink T-shirt with a dubious stain on one shoulder, ‘monkfish is one of my favourite things ever, so I could hardly contain my excitement when I saw it on the menu, Melody.’
Melody pulled a face. ‘Oh God. Don’t say that. I’d planned on having a trial run, but with one thing and another, mainly feeling like a washed-out rag, I haven’t.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll make it together,’ said Connie. ‘Kate and I divided the tapas between us so we can heat them up and munch on them while we cook. I’ve brought smashed chickpeas, mini meatballs and croquettas.’
‘And I’ve made olive and anchovy bites, sweet and salty vegetable crisps – which have seriously diminished in quantity as the kids loved them – and a bit of Manchego cheese. Which I know is cheating but I have sliced it.’
‘It’s not cheating,’ said Melody. ‘I love Mancheg
o cheese. And the best bit is, me and bump are actually allowed it.’
‘That’s what I thought. It’s only the soft ones you have to avoid, isn’t it?’
‘Soft and blue-veined, both of which I love. Still, I’m not complaining. I’d give up anything for this baby.’
‘How lovely.’ Trish beamed at Melody’s glowing face. ‘Your joy is a delight to behold. Unlike my husband’s. He’s only gone and got his twenty-six-year-old lover up the duff.’
‘No,’ gasped Connie.
Trish nodded as she began unpacking her basket with the ingredients for her dessert. ‘To be honest, Connie, that’s the real reason Amber missed her paper round. She was devastated when Ian broke the news to her.’
‘I’m not surprised. It must have come as a massive shock. Do you know if it was planned?’
Trish shook her head. ‘He hasn’t said so, but I doubt it. From what little I know of Chloe, she doesn’t seem the maternal sort. And Ian, well, he’s not exactly bubbling over with enthusiasm. I practically had to twist off his arm before he’d tell Amber.’
‘Sounds like your typical man,’ chipped in Kate. ‘Sticking his head in the sand. He probably wanted you to tell her.’
‘He did. But there was no way I was risking a black eye. Thankfully, rather than destroy the house, she locked herself in her room for a couple of days.’
‘Aww, the poor mite,’ said Connie. ‘She must feel like her entire world’s been turned on its axis.’
‘I know the feeling.’
Connie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God. Sorry, Trish. It must have hit you hard too. You just seem to take it all in your stride.’
‘That’s what us women do, though, isn’t it?’ chipped in Kate. ‘Appear – at least – to take everything life throws us in our stride, sorting it all out, while men go to the pub or run off with younger women.’
As she then moved on to attack an unsuspecting pepper with a large knife, Trish and the other two members could do nothing but gawp.
‘It’s not fair, is it?’ remarked Trish, once they were sitting around Melody’s kitchen island, enjoying the results of their efforts. ‘The Spanish having all that lovely sunshine and the best grub.’
Kate laughed. ‘Very astute observation. And very true. Eleanor – the owner of the newsagent’s,’ she added for Trish’s benefit – ‘moved over there a couple of months ago with my dad and they’re loving it. So much so, I wouldn’t be surprised if we never saw either of them in Blighty again.’
‘Well, in that case, we’ll just have to go over there,’ said Melody.
‘Ooh, yes,’ agreed Connie. ‘I could cope with that. And with that other lovely Spanish custom: the siesta – of which I have been partaking a little too frequently of late.’
‘And would these siestas include a particular man?’ asked Kate.
‘Actually, I do normally snuggle up to a male,’ confessed Connie. ‘In the form of a greyhound called Eric.’
‘I bet that’s only when Max is flying aeroplanes,’ said Melody.
‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ replied Connie.
‘What do you think I should do about Amber tomorrow?’ asked Ian on the phone on Friday night. ‘She’s ignored all my calls and texts this week. And I haven’t dared come round in case she kicks off.’
At the kitchen table, head propped in one hand, Trish sighed. Kate had summed it up perfectly the other evening when she’d said it was always up to women to sort stuff out. It was certainly always Trish who was there with the sticking tape, patching things up. Was that how it had always been in their marriage? She’d never really thought about it before. ‘She’s needed time to let the news sink in but I think she may have her head around it now. Let me talk to her. See if she’s ready to see you yet.’
He blew out an almighty breath. ‘Thanks, Trish. You’re an angel.’
‘Mug, more like. I should really let you sort your own mess out.’
‘Probably. But you’re far too nice.’
‘Spare me the patter, Ian. I’m way too old.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re…’ He broke off. Paused a moment. Then cleared his throat. ‘Right. Well. I’ll, er, wait to hear from you then.’
He hung up. And Trish remained at the kitchen table for a further five minutes, wondering what he’d been about to say.
Bracing herself for the worst, Trish reluctantly made her way upstairs to Amber’s bedroom and knocked on the door.
‘Enter,’ summoned Amber, in the way Trish could imagine Queen Victoria permitting entry to her privy chamber.
Pushing open the door, she found her daughter looking decidedly un-Queen Victoria like, cross-legged on her emoji duvet cover, wearing Hot Babe pyjamas and painting her nails a strange shade of green. As she gazed across the room at her mother with her gorgeous amber eyes, Trish’s heart contracted. She didn’t want her little girl subjected to all this crap. She wanted to wrap her up in the emoji duvet and protect her from anything remotely unpleasant. But she couldn’t. Because this was real life. And it contained many an unpleasant thing.
‘Dad’s been on the phone,’ she said, doing her best to sound upbeat.
Gaze shifting to the thumbnail she was turning mouldy green, Amber sucked in a cheek.
‘He wondered if you’d like to see him tomorrow.’
Amber sucked in the other cheek.
Trish furrowed her forehead. She didn’t know which was worse – Amber shouting and screaming. Or this unsettlingly quiet version. ‘He feels terrible.’
‘Good.’
At the wobble in her daughter’s voice, Trish crossed the room, picking her way carefully among the items sprawled on the floor, and plumped down on the bed beside her. ‘He never meant to upset you. I don’t even think he and Chloe really planned to have a baby. It’s just kind of happened.’
Amber eyes met hers again. ‘It wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t done that thing you have to do to make a baby.’
‘True. But sometimes life takes the strangest twists and turns, and you have little choice but to follow them.’
Amber stuck out her bottom lip, gaze dropping to a face with gritted teeth on the cover. ‘Don’t you even care?’
Trish blinked. How could she even ask that? But, of course, she could. Because, so intent had she been on protecting her daughter, on pretending the split was “no biggie”, on making out it was “just one of those things”, a minor blip in their everyday routine, her child had no idea how devastated she’d been. No idea of the days she’d spent battling tears, banking them up against reinforced floodgates, only to release the torrent once Amber had gone to bed. No idea about the unfamiliar feelings of fear, vulnerability and abandonment that engulfed her like a thick fog – one she had no idea how to escape. No idea of the gut-wrenching hopelessness she’d experienced witnessing the lovely life they’d built together being dissected brick by agonising brick. And absolutely zero idea of how, every time she saw Ian, her heart would shatter into a million pieces, which she’d then haphazardly glue together – until the next time, when it would shatter all over again. Each time, a tiny piece missing. Amber had no idea of any of this because Trish had hidden it all.
‘Of course I care,’ she soothed, noting the tear rolling down the girl’s smooth cheek. ‘You have no idea how much. But my priority has been you. And I would hate to see you and your dad fall out. You’ve always got on so well. And you have a great time with him on Saturdays, don’t you?’
Amber swiped away the tear with a green-tipped hand. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, then,’ continued Trish, tears now pricking her own eyes. ‘Should I tell him you’ll see him tomorrow?’
Amber sucked in a wavering breath and lifted her gaze again. ‘Will you come too?’
Trish’s jaw dropped down to meet that of a winking face. Spend the day with Ian? The three of them? Like a proper family? The proper family they used to be? She couldn’t. It would haul back a shoal of painful memories. But if she r
efused, then so, too, might Amber. And as much as Trish could happily strangle Ian for the torment he was subjecting their daughter to, she really did want to do everything possible to preserve their relationship. Like a faithful old car, it had always worked well. And although now in need of some remedial repair work, it was far too good to consign to the scrapheap. She rubbed a hand over her face as a sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over her. ‘How about,’ she heard herself saying, ‘we invite Dad over for dinner tomorrow evening?’
Amber narrowed her eyes. ‘What? Like eat together and stuff? Like we used to?’
‘Well, yes,’ replied Trish, doubts already niggling as to the wisdom of the suggestion. ‘Although, obviously, it won’t be quite like it used to be.’
Amber snagged her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘All right then. But I think I’ll go to Jenny’s in the afternoon. He can come over when I’m back.’
‘Great,’ said Trish, in a tone that wouldn’t have sounded out of place had she discovered she held that week’s winning lottery ticket. Thereby shielding her daughter, once again, from her true feelings of Crap! What have I done?
Chapter Eight
Despite Trish’s increasing niggles, Ian leapt on the idea of dinner at the house on Saturday night with all the fervour of a trampolining kangaroo. Having been informed of Amber’s plans to visit her friend, and subsequently been issued with instructions not to arrive before six o’clock, he nevertheless bowled up at quarter past five.
‘Hi,’ he breezed as Trish opened the door.
She didn’t reply. She was too busy gawping. ‘Your… hair,’ she stuttered.
‘Like it?’ he asked, beaming at her. ‘Thought it was time for something different.’
Trish foraged about in her brain for the right words to communicate her opinion. She’d always loved his hair; had always considered it vastly unfair that – even in middle age – it remained thick and healthy without the myriad products she tipped onto hers in an attempt to create a similar effect. During the years they’d been together, Ian had probably sported half a dozen different styles, but each one had suited him and they’d all been age-appropriate. Now, brushed back from his face, interspersed with strange little spikes, it looked ridiculous. Failing to settle on a suitable adjective, she heard herself uttering, ‘It certainly is different.’