At that moment, the baby started to wail. Oh no! Sarah cringed and pressed an arm to her chest.
Too late. It was as if she had pulled the toggle on an emergency life vest. She only had to hear a baby cry, even if it wasn’t Zac, and her boobs inflated, ready for action. She felt warmth flood her bra and hardly dared glance down. The sensation was ten times worse than needing a wee. She normally expressed milk at lunchtime if she wasn’t with Zac, but with the funeral service starting at one o’clock, somehow she had got out of sync.
Sarah abandoned her plate and hurried towards the ladies’ toilets, praying that her painful personal problem wasn’t visible.
She barged through the door feeling like she had two live hand grenades stuffed down her bra, but the only cubicle was taken and just as she contemplated expressing over the basin, an elderly lady entered. Sarah panicked and dashed from the toilets. The front of her blouse was definitely wet and the desire to relieve the pressure unbearable. With burning cheeks, she ran from the hall and into the car park. Heavy clouds dulled the sky and the wind took her breath away. She shivered but there was no time to go back for her coat; if she didn’t do something about this in the next five seconds, she was going to explode.
She dived round the corner of the building, out of sight, to a narrow sheltered pathway bordered with shrubs. She yanked up her blouse, ripping off a button in the process, and then in a practised manoeuvre, unhooked the bra cups and squeezed both breasts.
‘Ahhh!’ Thank God. She let her head fall back, closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. Relief as two jets of warm milk squirted over the pyracantha.
It took Sarah a few seconds to detect the smell of cigarette smoke. A prickle of mortification crept across her scalp and down her back. She opened her eyes and looked over her right shoulder. Two women were staring at her, open-mouthed.
Sarah swallowed a groan. Well, that had to be a new personal best of total humiliation. They didn’t tell you about this in the baby manuals. The look on their faces. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but she certainly couldn’t stop yet.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Abi’s blonde friend, taking a long pull on her cigarette.
‘Should I call an ambulance?’ said the other woman, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘No, no, I’m fine, nearly finished.’
That short burst had eased the pressure. It would do until she got home. Sarah swiftly tucked herself back in and turned to face her audience.
Jo flicked ash into the shrubbery. She should probably look away but she was transfixed. She had never really given much thought to the practicalities of motherhood. Does everyone have to do that … that squeezing thing? A moment’s peace to get herself together with a crafty ciggie, that was all she had needed, but she had already been joined by the pretty plump buffet girl with her hands full of chicken drumsticks. And now this – the tiny human milking machine. She wondered where the baby was. Her thoughts flashed briefly to Abi having to bring up little Tom on her own. Poor love. For the second time, Jo’s commitment-free lifestyle looked quite appealing.
The woman tugged the lapels of her green velvet jacket across her chest, folded her arms and smiled. She reminded Jo of a curly-haired Kylie Minogue, only with bigger boobs. For someone who had just performed a full-frontal flash at strangers at a funeral wake, she seemed terribly calm.
‘Any other party tricks?’ said Jo with a grin, blowing smoke sharply out of the side of her mouth.
The woman shrugged. ‘There’s this thing I do with ping-pong balls, but not usually at funerals.’
Jo snorted with laughter. She dropped her cigarette to the floor, ground it out with the pointy toe of her shoe and picked it back up. She scouted round for a bin.
‘Here.’ The buffet girl stepped forward and held out her napkin. Jo dropped the butt on top of a pile of chicken bones.
‘Thanks. I’m Jo, by the way.’
‘Carrie.’ She smiled shyly. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Sarah Hudson,’ said the one with the boobs, grimacing. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about that; I thought I was on my own.’
‘We all did,’ said Carrie, tucking the napkin behind her back.
Even in this light Jo could see how embarrassed Carrie was. She wouldn’t even meet their eyes.
‘Sarah, you’re shivering,’ added Carrie. ‘Let’s go in and have a hot drink.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Good plan.’
‘No milk for me,’ said Jo.
There were a few funny looks, Jo noticed, as the three women re-entered the hall together. Probably surprised at the sound of their laughter. The other two didn’t seem aware of the attention: Sarah was occupied with preventing her cleavage from making another appearance and Carrie was busy foisting tea and cake on anyone who moved. According to Carrie, Jo needed fattening up a bit, and as Sarah was breastfeeding, she had to keep her strength up. Carrie wasn’t the greatest advertisement for more cake, thought Jo, shaking her head to decline the offer of a slice of Battenberg.
Jo’s gaze did a quick once-over of the room to check if Abi was OK and spotted her deep in conversation with a group of women. She seemed fine, considering. Jo accepted a cup of tea from Carrie and smirked at her blushing face as the rather delicious vicar joined their group.
‘Are you friends of the family?’ he asked, smiling round at them.
Jo watched with amusement as Carrie took his empty cup and, with a shaky hand, poured a fresh one. Jo had heard about this new vicar from Abi. Apparently he held most of the village in thrall. He could only be in his thirties, he drove a Lotus and had brought a whole new congregation into church – predominantly female. He also had the most amazing eyelashes. What was the dating protocol with vicars, she wondered. She’d never had a vicar.
‘Yeah, we’re bosom buddies,’ said Jo.
Sarah smothered a laugh, momentarily releasing the front of her blouse to cover her mouth. Jo noticed the vicar clap an eyeful of bra before looking Sarah in the eye. ‘I’ve seen you in the village, but we haven’t been introduced,’ he said.
‘Vicar, you naughty boy, she’s married,’ said Jo huskily.
Carrie’s eyes widened. Jo wasn’t bothered. A good-looking man was a good-looking man, man of the cloth or not.
The vicar choked on his tea and Carrie handed him a napkin.
‘I’m Sarah Hudson,’ replied Sarah, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘A friend. I live in the village.’
‘Ah yes, you’re Dave’s wife. You’ve got a baby boy, haven’t you? Planning on having him christened?’
Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, you’ve met Dave? Um, we haven’t really discussed it yet.’
‘My favourite thing, christenings — more fun than weddings, even. Are you married?’ he asked Jo.
‘Good God, no!’ Jo leaned in towards him with a wink. ‘I prefer dirty weekends to dirty socks. Much more fun.’
The vicar opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Carrie made a faint high-pitched squeak and tried to refill his cup a second time. ‘More tea?’
He shook his head and with darting eyes managed to make eye contact with someone across the room.
‘I should, er … circulate. By the way, Mrs Radley, delicious food.’
He smiled bravely and moved away. The women watched him and shared a look of appreciation.
‘Delicious bum,’ muttered Jo, whistling under her breath.
‘Did you do all this, then?’ Sarah asked, pointing at the buffet table.
Carrie nodded. ‘It was the least I could do. Poor Abi.’
‘You’re a caterer?’ asked Jo, dragging her eyes away from the vicar’s rear.
Carrie blushed. ‘Goodness, no! I’m just – just a housewife. And it’s only a few sandwiches.’
If Jo had been in charge of the food, it would have been a job lot from Marks & Spencer. This amount of homemade stuff must have taken hours. Jo opened her mouth to object, but Carrie jumped back in.
‘What do you both do?’ sh
e asked.
‘Apart from being wife to Dave and mummy to Zac, I’m an accountant,’ said Sarah. ‘I work in the city centre, corporate mostly. Don’t say it, I know – boring.’
Jo raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘After that floor show outside? I don’t think so.’
‘Not full-time, though, surely?’ said Carrie. ‘With a baby?’
‘Yes, what’s wrong with that?’ Sarah glared at her. ‘My job is very important to me and the company was desperate to have me back. Do you have children?’
Carrie’s face flamed. ‘No, I—’ she stuttered.
‘And I run a small family business,’ said Jo, changing the subject rapidly as Carrie shrank under the force of Sarah’s stare. ‘Badly, most of the time. And I’m married to it; till death do us part.’ She clenched her jaw, cross with herself for saying something so crass at a funeral. ‘How do you both know Abi and Fréd?’
‘We moved to Woodby last year, I didn’t really know Fréd but I thought I should come to support Abi,’ said Sarah.
‘And my husband is the General Manager at Cavendish Hall, where Frédéric was head chef,’ said Carrie.
‘And you obviously have some French connection,’ said Sarah. ‘That reading you did was amazing.’
Jo shrugged and swallowed her tea. ‘I did French as part of my degree. I spent a year in Paris, got to know Fréd. Abi came out to stay with me for a holiday and I introduced them. Un coup de foudre, as they say.’
Carrie shook her head slowly, her eyes looking moist. ‘Such a lovely couple. So unfair. To have your life cut short like that. And that beautiful little boy.’
Jo’s heart grew heavy again and she felt guilty for enjoying the last half-hour. ‘I don’t know how Abi’s going to cope once the funeral’s over. She’s been focusing on that to get her through so far. I’ll come over when I can, but I’m based in Northampton.’
‘I’ve seen her a couple of times to sort out the arrangements,’ said Carrie. ‘But I haven’t wanted to intrude. I can certainly pop in now and again.’
Jo smiled her thanks.
‘I know it’s a cliché,’ said Sarah, with a sigh, ‘but you’ve got to make each day count. Cherish every moment.’
‘Carpe diem,’ Carrie agreed.
Jo looked round at the hall; some of the mourners had gone now. Someone had brought Abi’s son Tom along and he was sitting on his granddad’s knee, bouncing up and down and giggling. With his dark wavy hair, he was the image of his father. Jo wondered what was going through Henri’s mind. Probably looking at Tom and remembering Frédéric as a boy. It must be heartbreaking to lose a child, at any age, even if he was a grown man. Another good reason not to have kids. If she told herself this often enough, she might even start to believe it. She shuddered and tuned back into the conversation.
‘A bucket list. A list of things you’d like to do before it’s too late, like in that film with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman? The Bucket List,’ Carrie was saying to Sarah.
‘I’ve seen that one,’ said Jo. ‘They’re both terminally ill and decide to do a load of mad things before they die.’
‘Exactly. Perhaps everyone should have a bucket list? So when you go, you’ll at least have done some of the things you always wanted to do,’ said Carrie ruefully.
Jo tried to read Carrie’s expression; there was something behind that shy smile, as if she had a whole list of regrets. Mind you, that probably applied to everyone.
She picked a piece of fluff off her black wool jacket. ‘Fréd’s dream was to open his own restaurant. He was waiting for the right moment. And now …’ She swallowed a lump in her throat.
‘We could … Why don’t we …? Oh, nothing,’ said Carrie, stirring her tea roughly. ‘Ignore me.’
‘Go on,’ said Jo.
Carrie bit her lip. ‘We could perhaps start doing the things we want to do. Make a list together. We can all add stuff to the list and tick them off when we’ve done them!’
‘Together?’ Jo gave a half-laugh. ‘We’ve only just met.’
‘And I’ve got a new baby, I can’t start skydiving or jetting off to Timbuktu,’ Sarah pointed out.
‘It’s probably a stupid idea. You’re both right.’ Carrie blushed and Jo felt sorry for her.
Her heart twisted suddenly. There was something in what Carrie said; perhaps she should start doing things she really wanted to do instead of spending nearly all her waking hours worrying about the business. No one knew how long they’d really got and she had to take something from losing Fréd so young. This could be the push she needed to live a little. She held Carrie’s gaze.
‘I might think this is crazy by tomorrow,’ said Jo, ‘but what the heck?’ She winked at Carrie. ‘I’m in.’
Carrie beamed but Sarah frowned. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit morbid? Thinking about your own death?’
‘What about a wish list, then?’ Carrie suggested, eager to get her on board. ‘If a genie granted you three wishes, what would you wish for? I don’t mean an endless pot of gold, or anything like that. Real things, attainable goals.’
‘Oh God, that’s easy,’ Sarah said immediately, ‘eight hours’ continuous sleep, the ironing pile to have magically disappeared …’ She tugged at her skirt. ‘And my clothes to fit me again.’
The idea of a genie planted a seed of doubt in Jo’s head; why on earth was she going along with this madness?
‘Not a genie,’ she said hurriedly. ‘We have to make our wishes come true by ourselves.’
‘With help from each other,’ added Carrie.
Sarah shook her head in despair and her red curls bounced. ‘I think you’re both barmy, but go on then.’ She caught sight of the village hall clock and gasped. ‘Blimey, it’s Zac’s teatime. I need to get home.’
‘Oh,’ said Carrie, her face falling, ‘we haven’t chosen our wishes yet.’
‘I need to get back too,’ said Jo, checking her watch. ‘Let’s exchange email addresses and we can arrange to meet up again soon.’
‘Um.’ Carrie blushed. ‘I don’t do email.’
Sarah and Jo stared at her.
‘How do you shop?’
‘Or communicate with anyone?’
‘Or do anything?’
Carrie shrugged and gave a small smile. ‘Something for my wish list, I guess.’
Jo opened her slim black clutch bag. Nestled between her keys, iPhone and lipstick was a silver business card holder.
‘Here’s my card with my email and mobile number on it. Let’s organize a date over the phone.’
Sarah tipped out the contents of her Mary Poppins-style handbag to reveal baby wipes, nappy sacks, two large cotton wool circles and a packet of baby breadsticks. She finally handed over a couple of rather dog-eared cards. ‘Sorry, I’m normally really organized.’
Jo took in the gaping blouse, the crusty white stain on her jacket and the patch of matted hair at the back of Sarah’s head and said nothing.
‘I don’t have a card or even a pen,’ said Carrie, ‘so I’ll phone you both. And thank you.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I hate social occasions like this, and meeting you two has made it infinitely more bearable.’
An awkward moment followed as Carrie leaned forward to hug Sarah and Sarah jabbed a hand out for her to shake.
‘Sorry,’ stammered Carrie, pumping Sarah’s hand.
Jo strode over to say her goodbyes to Abi, wondering just what she had let herself in for.
Chapter 2
Jo slammed the car door against the wind with relief, fastened her seat belt and plugged her phone into the in-car charger. It was four o’clock and already dark. If the traffic was kind, she should be back in Northampton in ninety minutes. She manoeuvred the car out of the car park and headed out of the village, tooting the horn as she passed Sarah trotting down the road. A mile or so further along, her foot instinctively touched the brake.
‘Shit! I should have given her a lift home,’ Jo muttered under her breath, cross with herself. Sh
e was crap at this female solidarity thing. If it had been that divine vicar, she’d have screeched to a halt and gone out of her way to drop him off. Too late now. The idea of helping the other two women make their wishes come true already seemed faintly ludicrous; Jo had all the empathy of her mobile phone, which was currently refusing to pick up a signal.
As soon as she was able, she dialled the office.
‘How did it go?’ Her secretary Liz had been full of admiration for Jo when she’d heard the reading for the funeral was to be in French.
‘Hellish. As expected.’
‘Tragic,’ sighed Liz.
‘I’m on my way back now, so should be there for five thirty. If I miss you, can you leave any messages on my desk?’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Liz. ‘There’s nothing here that needs your urgent attention. You did have an email from Edward Shaw asking for more samples, but I’ve passed that on to Patrick to deal with.’
Jo tutted. ‘More samples? He’ll have more of our sample stock than us soon! What about the ShooStore order, has that gone out?’
There was a small hesitation on the line and Jo thought she’d lost the signal. ‘Liz?’
‘It did go out, but they called late morning and reduced the order by twenty-five per cent.’
‘What?’ Jo’s fingers clenched the steering wheel and she frowned as she turned off the country lane on to the dual carriageway. The engine purred as it picked up speed.
‘They’ve got Christmas stock left over, apparently, and so they’re still in sale. The buyer was apologetic but her hands were tied, she said, she couldn’t exceed maximum stock levels.’
Neither can we, thought Jo. The warehouse was already crammed with unsold stock and the summer range would be arriving soon. Only two weeks until Valentine’s Day; she’d have to come up with a promotion to clear the decks.
‘I can hear your brain whirring from here.’ Liz laughed down the phone. ‘Patrick’s working on it now. Says he’ll have something to show you in the morning. As in tomorrow. As in don’t you dare show your face here again today.’
Jo grinned and shook her head. Thank God for Patrick. ‘All right, boss.’
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