by Alice Ross
Before Trish could reply, Davey, the delivery man, had bowled in with some cheery chatter and flirty banter. For the third time that morning, she’d found herself smiling. And concluding that this paperround idea of Amber’s – despite her initial reservations – had been an excellent one. One definitely worth getting up at stupid o’clock for. Even if it had resulted in her being a nervous wreck all day. Thank heavens, she mused, as she tugged on the pink dress Amber had instructed her to wear, that she hadn’t had longer to stress over the date. If she had, she might have had to wear a T-shirt saying Warning: Middle-Aged Woman Mid Nervy-Breaker.
‘Wow. You look fantastic,’ gushed Steve, when he picked her up at the appointed time.
Trish blushed. ‘Thanks. Better than this morning, I hope. I’d literally just rolled out of bed.’ A second coat of colour rushed to her cheeks. Damn! Why had she mentioned bed? Thankfully, Steve didn’t seem to notice she was now the colour of double-strength cochineal. Either that, or he was doing a first-class job of pretending he hadn’t noticed.
‘I’ve booked a table at The Pumphouse,’ he said, opening the passenger-side door of his blue Jag for her. ‘I hope that’s okay.’
Oh no. The Pumphouse! Of all the places! Trish had been there with Ian. For his birthday. The last one they’d celebrated together. She could still remember what they’d eaten; the way Ian had almost set his menu alight holding it too close to the candle on the table; the things they’d talked about; the way they’d sniggered over the weird couple at the next table; and how they’d carried on celebrating once they’d arrived home. Her throat tightened just thinking about going there again.
‘If you’d rather go somewhere else…’
Her head reeled. She didn’t want to go anywhere else. In fact, at that precise moment, she didn’t want to go anywhere. Other than back to bed to crawl under the duvet. All at once, though, Amber’s words slammed into her head: You need to get your own life. And she really did. For heaven’s sake, she was only going for dinner with a man. A bit of food and a chat. Nothing more. She could do that. Of course she could. With Steve gazing at her expectantly, she drew in a fortifying breath, pinned on a smile and said, ‘Absolutely not. The Pumphouse is fine.’
Doing her best to ignore the nausea roiling in her stomach, Trish tried to keep the conversation flowing in the car, and tried not to imagine how she might feel when they arrived at the restaurant. After her earlier conclusion that Amber’s paper round had been a great idea, she’d had a complete change of heart. Were it not for her daughter and the paper round, she wouldn’t be in this hideous, and very uncomfortable, position.
As Steve pulled up at a red light, Trish was considering hopping out and legging it – in her beige sandals – when she became distracted by the sight of an increasingly familiar couple: Kate’s husband, Andrew, with who she now knew to be their French au pair, heads close together, deep in conversation as they walked along the street.
Blimey, she mused, as Steve pulled away again. As if she didn’t have enough going on in her head. Now, though, she had no doubt what those loaded looks between Connie and Melody meant: they thought Kate’s husband and the young French woman were having an affair. And after what Trish had just witnessed, she was beginning to think the same.
‘Hungry?’ asked Steve, throwing her a quick glance as they drove down the road.
‘Starving,’ she replied. Feeling completely, utterly and nauseatingly sick.
For all her bewilderment at seeing Andrew and the au pair, Trish realised the sighting had proved a welcome distraction. By the time Steve pulled up outside the restaurant, she felt marginally less wound up than when she’d slithered into the car.
‘You all right?’ he asked, as she slithered out.
‘Fine,’ she squeaked.
‘If you’re not feeling well we could always try another night.’
Trish gaped at him. That offer was more tempting than a fifty per cent off sale at M&S. She could say she had a splitting headache and be back home in twenty minutes, snuggled up in front of the telly, with her PJs and a mug of tea.
But no.
It would be extremely rude after Steve had gone to so much trouble. Which, coupled with the fact that she’d have wimped out, would only make her feel worse. She could do this. Filled with resolve, she forced the corners of her mouth upwards and said, ‘I’m fine.’
‘Great,’ he replied, with a lovely smile of his own. ‘In that case, shall we go in?’
‘We shall indeed,’ said Trish, donning her mental armour as she prepared for yet another assault of heart-wrenching memories.
Chapter Ten
Inside, Trish found the restaurant had changed little since her last visit: there were the same round tables covered in gleaming white cloths, the same smattering of large plants, the same polished wooden floor and the same colourful paintings on the walls.
And, to her complete and utter astonishment, she was confronted with another familiar sight.
Ian.
At a table in the corner.
With his ridiculous hair.
And Chloe.
All Trish’s previous pathetic pining was swept away on a wave of furious resentment. There she’d been, weak with memories and on the verge of scrapping her first proper night out for eons, and there was Ian looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Although that wasn’t strictly true. Studying the pair more closely, she noticed they were eating in silence and both looked thoroughly fed up.
The sight awarded her a modicum of pleasure, even though Chloe’s 36DDs – displayed in a low-cut blue top – appeared to have increased in pregnancy. And there was a slight swell to her previously flat-as-a-pancake stomach.
Thankfully, the maitre d’ led her and Steve to the other side of the L-shaped room, from where she couldn’t see the expectant couple.
‘This okay for you?’ asked Steve.
‘Perfect,’ replied Trish. Thinking she could not have conjured up a less perfect scenario if the Masterchef title had been offered as a reward.
‘You’re joking!’ exclaimed Connie the next morning.
Trish shook her head. ‘I’m not. I couldn’t believe it. There they were, the pair of them – and by that I mean Ian and Chloe – not Chloe’s ever-increasing chest.’
‘But they didn’t see you?’
‘No. Thankfully. That would’ve tipped me completely over the edge. Heaven only knows what poor Steve thinks of me. I knocked back far too much wine, ate very little food, and prattled incessantly. Mostly about the cookery club, in a desperate bid to keep the conversation neutral. If me prattling even qualifies as conversation.’
Connie laughed. ‘They do say real life is stranger than fiction. So how did the evening end? Are you going to see Steve again?’
Trish pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. He’s a lovely guy but, by the time he dropped me back at the house, I was so hammered, he had to help me out of the car. He must think I’m a complete lush.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
Trish puffed out a breath. ‘Well, whether he does or doesn’t, I don’t think I could cope with another date. Not only because I’m mortified at my behaviour, but because my head’s all over the place with Ian. There really isn’t space for anyone else.’
‘I can understand that. It does all sound a bit full-on.’
‘Full-on with ten per cent extra added. I hope you don’t mind me spouting off like this but I was desperate to tell someone. And I can’t tell Amber. She’s had a face like thunder ever since I told her about the date. If it even was a date. She forgives her father anything, but I can’t even go on one date-stroke-non-date without her throwing a strop. She didn’t say a word to me this morning.’
‘She’ll come round. And you might see Steve this morning if you hang about. He should be in for his drink soon.’
‘He won’t. I might not remember much after the first half hour in the restaurant, but I do recall him saying something about catching an early
train to Edinburgh for a meeting. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come within five miles of the shop this morning. And how I’m going to cope with seeing Ian tomorrow when he calls to collect Amber, I can’t even begin to imagine.
‘Morning!’
Trish had worked herself into a tizz before Ian’s arrival the next day, compiling all kinds of cutting jibes after seeing him in the restaurant with his lover. But every one of them momentarily fled her head as she now gawped at him. ‘What are you wearing?’
On the doorstep, Ian glanced down at his black skinny jeans. ‘Do you like them? Thought I’d update my image a bit.’
Before she could reply, Amber’s blonde head appeared over her shoulder.
‘Er, just so you know, Dad… there is no way I’m going out with you wearing those.’
Ian looked affronted. ‘Why not? I wanted to show you your dad isn’t past it quite yet.’
‘You are past it. You’re old. And old people don’t wear skinny jeans. You look ridiculous,’ she snorted, before flouncing off.
Ian’s lower lip now trembling, he entered the house and followed Trish up the hall to the kitchen.
‘I do look ridiculous, don’t I?’ he said, slumping down onto a chair at the table.
‘Yep,’ confirmed Trish, flicking on the kettle. For no other reason than she didn’t know what else to do.
He heaved a sigh and attempted to run a hand through his hair. However, due to all the product thereon and all the spikes therein, little progress was made. ‘I told Chloe I was too old, but she thought they looked cute.’
Trish turned to face him. Resting her back against the bench, she folded her arms over her chest, all her previous rancour returning. ‘Actually, I saw you and Chloe the other night. In The Pumphouse.’
Ian’s self-pitying expression morphed into one of shock. ‘Oh.’
‘Enjoy your meal, did you?’
His countenance switched to sheepish. ‘Not really. It was weird. Being there without you.’
Trish arched a sardonic eyebrow, arms still firmly over her chest.
‘I kept thinking about the last time we’d been there,’ he rattled on. ‘For my birthday. When I almost set the place on fire with my menu.’
‘Did you? I really can’t remember.’
‘But as it was Chloe’s birthday and she chose the venue, I didn’t feel right saying anything.’
‘How old was she? Seventeen?’
‘Twenty-seven. And there’s no need to be like that.’
‘Goodness, the age gap really is closing now, isn’t it?’
Ian threw her an unimpressed look. ‘Who were you with? Your mates from the cookery club?’
Crap! She hadn’t prepared for any counter-interrogation. She uncrossed her arms and spun back round to the kettle, which was now bubbling madly. ‘No, actually—’ She stopped as Amber stomped into the room.
‘You can change out of those jeans at your place, Dad. I’ll wait in the car,’ she instructed, swinging a bag over her shoulder.
Ian managed a weak smile. ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’
With Ian and Amber gone, Trish sat at the kitchen table staring at her mug of tea. Replaying the conversation with her husband, she wondered if she’d been too hard on him. If it really had been Chloe’s birthday, and she’d wanted to go to The Pumphouse, then he might have been in as awkward a position as Trish. Particularly if the same memories that had assaulted her had been equally as aggressive with him. Indeed, recalling his and Chloe’s miserable expressions, she’d never have guessed they’d been “celebrating” anything. But then again, she pondered, Ian was an expert at thinking on his feet. Perhaps, knowing Trish as well as he did, he’d have sussed her train of thought immediately this morning and merely told her what she wanted to hear. His side of the story could be one big fat lie. Just like the dozens that had rolled off his tongue when he’d been carrying on with Chloe behind her back.
Unable to settle in the house, Trish drove into Cirencester at lunchtime for a mooch around the shops. Wandering down the high street, a group of girls at a table in the window of a trendy bar caught her eye. A group that included Chloe – with a very revealing top, a glittery Birthday Girl sash, and a huge glass of wine. None of which Trish could imagine being included in the latest recommended government guidelines for pregnant women. Still, she mused, carrying on her walk before the Birthday Girl spotted her, how Chloe chose to spend her pregnancy had absolutely nothing to do with her.
Amber returned home from her day with Ian in a much mellower mood than when she’d left.
‘Dad’s not coming in. He has to pick someone up in town,’ she informed Trish, on her way up the stairs.
Trish assumed “someone” must be Chloe. Which would mean the girl had been in town for six hours. Not that that meant she’d been knocking back large glasses of wine all that time. And not, she reminded herself again, that Chloe’s antics were any concern of hers. All at once, Amber spun round to her, slightly flushed and waving her mobile phone.
‘A text’s just come through from Miguel, even though he sent it, like, hours ago. He’s offered to give me another guitar lesson tonight. You couldn’t take me over there, could you?’
All thoughts of Chloe rocketed from Trish’s mind. Replaced by ones of Steve.
Or, more precisely, her bizarre – and tipsy – behaviour in front of him the other evening at the restaurant. Unable to face him, and on the verge of telling Amber she’d call her a taxi, a blur of honey-blonde curls streaked past her, crashed out the door and landed in the car.
‘Right,’ muttered Trish. ‘I’ll just get my keys then, shall I?’
‘You’re not going to, like, come in or anything, are you?’ enquired Amber en route, evidently terrified at the prospect.
Trish knew how she felt. ‘No. I’m not,’ she replied, a tad more vehemently than intended.
Amber swivelled round to her. ‘You didn’t make a show of yourself when you went out with Miguel’s dad, did you?’
Keeping her eyes firmly on the road ahead, heat rushed to Trish’s cheeks. ‘Of course I didn’t. I… might have had a weeny bit too much to drink, that’s all.’
Amber wriggled around again and flopped back against the seat. ‘I don’t believe it. This is like the most embarrassing thing ever.’
‘It could have been worse,’ countered Trish. ‘I could have been wearing those culottes you hate so much.’
Amber shot her another scathing look, sending Trish’s thoughts veering once again to the pencil in the console.
Trish didn’t know who was the most eager when they arrived at Miguel’s house: Amber to get out of the car, or Trish in wanting her out. Not that much time was wasted on either desire. Amber practically somersaulted out of the vehicle, while Trish executed the world’s fastest three-point turn. She was about to press hard on the accelerator and swiftly vacate the vicinity, when, to her horror, Steve shot out of the front door and sprinted over to her.
Trish’s pre-heated cheeks flew scarlet. After her cringeworthy behaviour in the restaurant, she didn’t have a clue what to say to him. Other than to apologise. Which she should do immediately. Steve, though, appeared to have other matters on his mind.
‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ he gabbled. ‘Just tell me if this sounds completely absurd, but you know that cookery club of yours…?’
Trish nodded.
‘Well, I wondered if you’d mind helping me out. It’s a huge ask. And really short notice, so I’ll understand if you don’t want to. But the thing is…’
Trish held her breath.
‘… I’m supposed to be hosting a corporate buffet here tomorrow afternoon but the bloody caterers have let me down. I have thirty mouths to feed and, other than the frozen remains of our barbecue, I have no food and even less idea. I’ve spent three hours on the phone trying to find another company but they’re all booked. So…’ He pulled a hopeful face. ‘…You are my last hope. And I promise, if you can help, the bank will reward you
handsomely.’
‘Seriously?’ gasped Connie on the phone five minutes later.
‘Honestly,’ replied Trish, sitting at the table in Steve’s garden and explaining his predicament to her friend. ‘It’s tomorrow, so it’s really short notice. Because I’m a complete saddo and have nothing in my diary other than the next cookery club, I can do it. But the rest of you probably have plans.’
‘I don’t. Eleanor’s cousin’s looking after the shop and Max is away. So, other than catching up with the laundry, I’m free. It’ll take all four of us, though, to cater for that many people. Let me call the others and see what they say. I’ll ring you back in a few minutes.’
‘We’re halfway there,’ Trish informed Steve, as she stepped back into his vast kitchen. ‘Connie can make it. She’s phoning the others now and ringing me straight back.’
At the island, Steve flipped down the lid of his laptop. ‘Thank you so much. Even if they can’t do it, I really appreciate all the trouble you and Connie are going to. Would you like a drink while you’re waiting?’
At the mention of “drink”, the memory of their evening in the restaurant crashed into Trish’s head. ‘A, er, juice would be lovely, thanks,’ she replied, psyching herself up for her apology.
As he slipped off his stool and strode over to the fridge, she tried to stop her eyes wandering to his delectable buttocks, and assemble some appropriate words. She was mid assembly when her phone beeped with a text. Expecting an answer from Connie, she was surprised to see it was from Amber:
Why are you still here? Go home!
Accompanied by a finger-pointing emoji.
Turning to the enormous garden, Trish could just make out her daughter in the distance, hands on hips, glaring at her through her aviators.
‘Cranberry and apple,’ announced Steve, sliding a glass in front of her.
‘Perfect,’ squeaked Trish, whipping back round to him and hoping Amber wasn’t videoing her every move; noting things down; preparing to regurgitate it all when they were alone later. She really must remember to remove that pencil from the car.