‘No, but in fairness that’s not my fault.’
‘Well you would say that, wouldn’t you?’
He chuckled. ‘It’s like you know me already, but as it happens, in this case I mean it. We went out, had a nice time and then, you know. And I did mean to see her again. I even called the next day to arrange something. She said she’d let me know and never called back …’
‘Maybe you were having an off night,’ she said.
‘Wow, straight in there, thanks, Sarah, for questioning my manhood.’
She shrugged. Sometimes the truth hurt.
‘To be honest, it did bother me,’ he said. ‘Rachel assassinated me in her evaluation. I guess I’ve taken it to heart. As usual she was right about most of it.’
‘I think you just weren’t right for each other.’
He looked stricken.
‘I mean you and the woman you went out with. Not Rachel. It feels weird talking about other dates to each other, don’t you think?’ she asked. ‘It’s like …’ She thought for a moment. ‘It’s like telling your hairdresser that you’ve had a cut somewhere else.’
‘Do you cheat on your hairdresser?’
‘Well, I have once or twice,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve used the same salon for years and sometimes my usual girl goes on holiday or whatnot when I really need a cut. I have used other stylists … always at that salon though! I haven’t gone to others.’
James laughed. ‘The salon’ll be grateful for your loyalty, I’m sure. I go to SuperCuts and couldn’t tell you the name of anyone who’s cut my hair in the past decade. Maybe I should though. I might look better then. What do you think?’
She thought he looked quite cute as he was. But thanks to Rachel she knew he sometimes fished for compliments.
He did seem like a different person than the one Rachel described though. A skinflint wouldn’t have got his round in without a fight, for one thing. And he was listening to her, not waiting till she took a breath so he could interrupt.
‘I feel like we should talk about Rachel,’ she said. ‘Only I feel guilty doing it, like I’m betraying her. I saw her tonight before I left. She didn’t say anything, but that was the worst part. It was really uncomfortable.’
‘I’m sorry about that, but I did talk to her about it today. I told her. She says she’s happy we’re out tonight.’ A shadow briefly crossed his expression.
By the time it was last orders, Sarah was tipsy and happy. ‘Go ’ed, lad, gizza nother,’ she said when James offered more wine.
‘You’ve gone all Scouse,’ said James. ‘You’re not from Liverpool though.’
‘No, me mam was,’ she said, sounding like she’d been born directly into the Mersey. ‘I guess I picked up some of her expressions.’
‘I like it. There’s nothing exotic about my accent, coming from Bucks.’
She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t call Liverpool exotic! It’s not like it’s Marrakesh or Timbuktu or the Outer Hebrides.’
He laughed, then said, ‘You’re intriguing.’
‘Am I?’ That was very nice to hear. No matter the circumstances, it was nice to hear it from James.
‘And you’re not nearly as bad as Rachel makes out,’ she said.
‘Cheers to that. It’s nice to know I’m not horrible.’
No, she thought later as they made their way together to the Tube station, he wasn’t horrible at all.
It wasn’t until the next morning that she realised she hadn’t rung Sissy. She got straight on the phone to her.
‘Hello? Who’s this?’ Sissy asked.
‘It’s Sarah.’
‘Who?’
‘Your sister? Sarah? The one who bakes you bread?’
‘Sorry. I don’t remember you.’
‘Come off it, Sissy, I’m sorry I didn’t ring last night. I was busy.’ She felt like an arse as soon as she said it. ‘I was stupid not to ring. I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Will you let me off if I bring you a nice loaf tomorrow?’
‘You’d bring one anyway. I want muffins.’
The little breadmailer.
* * *
The loaf still held a tiny bit of warmth when she got to Whispering Sands, but Sissy wasn’t waiting as usual at the entrance. She really was mad, Sarah thought.
She found her hunched over her coloured pencils at her desk.
‘Playing hard to get?’ Sarah asked from the doorway.
‘I’m busy, that’s all,’ she said, pushing back her chair. Then she went to Sarah and wrapped her arms around her big sister. ‘It’s nice to see you.’
Sarah felt herself well up.
They ate their toast in the garden, where the cherry trees were starting to bloom. Sarah didn’t let herself think about where she might be next. Every time she glanced at Sissy she wanted to tell her what was going on. But sometimes change was hard for her, and knowing about it before anything was certain only stressed her out. So instead they sat munching their toast in the sunshine.
‘Look, Ben’s here!’ Sissy announced. ‘Hi Ben, we’re eating Sarah’s toast.’
He came across the garden from the conservatory doors. ‘Can I have some?’ His big brown eyes pleaded with Sissy.
Sissy wavered, then said, ‘Okay, a small piece. Sarah will cut it. She won’t let me.’
‘It’s not that I won’t let you cut it, Sissy. It’s that I can’t leave you alone with it or you’ll eat the whole thing.’
‘Guilty!’ she sang.
Where did she pick up these things? Sarah went inside to make more toast for Ben.
She was just leaving when Kelly caught up with her. ‘Hey, Sarah, I’m glad I saw you. You’re not usually here on a Wednesday?’
‘Special circumstances. I brought Sissy some muffins. The front desk put them away for her for breakfast. What’s up?’ She dared to hope for good news.
They automatically started walking outside.
‘They’re sending out the letters tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Thirty days. Have you had any luck?’
Sarah’s heart sank. Now it was real. ‘Robin’s looking into more places but they’re further away. Will the facility have any recommendations or anything?’
Kelly shook her head. ‘They’re being useless. They even dragged their feet on a reference for me. I have found something though.’ She looked away for a second. ‘I’m going to miss everyone.’
Her heart went out to Kelly. Not only did she have to find another job; she was leaving all her colleagues and patients who probably seemed a bit like family. ‘I’m so sorry that you have to leave, Kelly, but it’s ace that you’ve found another job. Will it be as nice, do you think?’
She nodded. ‘I think so. It’s up near Cambridge though, so it means moving. I’ll put my flat on the market, so hopefully it’ll sell soon. I can’t afford to rent and pay a mortgage for very long.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘This sucks.’
‘It does suck.’ In the back of her mind Sarah had hoped that Kelly would find another home close by, one that was as good as Whispering Sands and had a space for Sissy. But Cambridge was too far. They had a month to find an alternative.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Catherine
Before Catherine could say I don’t want to go, it was the morning of Richard and Magda’s wedding. Richard was being uncharacteristically needy, phoning nearly every day about some minor nuptial detail, as if she’d signed on as his wedding consultant. When she told him to piss off with his questions about which negligee to get Magda as part of his wedding gift to her, he’d whined, ‘But you’re my best friend.’
Was she though? Was she really, when he’d sold off half of her business and stuck her with his fiancée as an officemate?
It was true that they’d been through a lot together, but when she’d left Washington she wasn’t even sure if they’d ever talk again.
They didn’t for many months, at least not directly. There had been a flurry of activity through solicitors over the divorce details. Then it was like Cather
ine-and-Richard had never existed. It had hardly seemed possible.
The guilt had been the hardest to deal with in the months after she’d come back. What kind of person was she, to throw away her marriage for an imaginary relationship? Delusional? Selfish? All of the above.
Not foolish though. No matter how badly she felt, the fact remained: she and Richard weren’t in love with each other. She had just been sorry that they weren’t friends any more, either.
So she’d been shocked when he’d called her for her birthday. That was nearly two years after the divorce. He’d acted like Washington and Jose had never happened. She’d been so grateful to be let in from the cold that she hadn’t mentioned it.
That had set a precedent. She’d rung him up on his birthday. They’d talked at Christmas and eventually they’d stopped using holidays as excuses and just rang whenever they felt like it. By the time he’d moved back to London it had been like they’d never been married at all.
Now she understood that when you’ve spent years sharing your deepest, darkest, most personal self with someone and then cut them completely out of your life, it calls your judgement into question. The ego liked a gentle transition. Best friend was the cosy B&B just down the road from intimacy. It let them both believe they’d made good decisions when it came to love. Even if they weren’t really best friends any more.
Richard’s wedding day wasn’t the time to say any of that. Let him think what he wanted about her. She felt better for having moved him from one box to the other.
She had more immediate things to worry about anyway. She was about to spend the day with all of Richard’s friends and family.
So what, exactly, were you supposed to wear to your ex-husband’s wedding?
Not white, obviously, though technically the option should still be open, given that the seven-months-pregnant bride wouldn’t be wearing it either.
Blue? No, thanks to that stupid something old, something new tradition. Not black either. She didn’t want to look like she was in mourning. And nothing too ostentatious or they’d think she was trying to compete. Low-key classical risked looking frumpy next to all the summer frocks the other women would wear.
She toyed with the idea of a man’s tuxedo or suit, until Sarah pointed out that that’s what lesbians sometimes wore to get married.
She finally found something that didn’t look disrespectful, dowdy, loud, lesbian or bereaved. It didn’t show her cleavage or too much leg, was neither tight nor billowy, not blingy or brazen.
High-necked and sleeveless with a full skirt to the knee, the pale pink background set off large creamy magnolias. It would have to do. She’d run out of time.
She checked her reflection once more just to be sure her make-up was perfect, then balanced the wide-brimmed cream hat on her head and pinned her favourite frog brooch to her summer coat. She’d pin on the fake smile before she got to the church.
Magda wasn’t letting anything as trivial as mortal sin keep her from having her dream wedding. Pregnant or not, she was walking down the aisle of Catholic St Etheldreda’s near Holborn. The sun shone off the grey stone and dozens of guests were already outside comparing outfits. Catherine tried to quell the butterflies in her tummy, but they flapped like their lives depended on it.
She stood to the side, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. She was looking for only one person. Thankfully he was already there.
‘Hiya, Catherine,’ Paul said. ‘Are ya ready for the show?’
He wore his suit and Paul Smith shirt. She’d have to help him find a few more. ‘I’m ready. Thank you for coming. I think it’ll be instructional in terms of pointers for your dating.’
He waved her words away. ‘Aw, no worries. I wouldn’t want to go to my ex’s wedding alone either.’
‘That’s not—’
‘Let’s get inside before the punters take all the good seats.’ He looped his arm through hers and ran up the steps so fast that she had to hold on to her hat.
At least it meant nobody could stop her to chat.
She headed for an unfamiliar usher, murmuring ‘bride’ when asked which side she was on. If pressed she could always say she wanted to fill out that side since she and Magda did work together and, being from another country, she wouldn’t have as many guests.
It was only when they were seated that she dared to look around.
They seemed to have gatecrashed a models’ casting call. Uniformly slender and blonde, the twenty-something women all around her chattered away in Hungarian or heavily accented English. A few glanced curiously at her but registered no interest. The men in the pews, however, were more appraising and she knew she looked good. Though Paul hadn’t said so. She’d remind him later of the importance of compliments.
Richard looked relaxed at the front of the church. He was smiling and joking with friends and family in the front rows. His brows raised in question when he caught her eye. Not about Paul, since he’d known she was bringing him. But why was she on the bride’s side? Catherine shrugged, waved and grinned in what she hoped passed for immense jubilation and heartfelt congratulations.
Those were nearly her genuine feelings. If his chosen bride hadn’t been Magda, Catherine knew she’d be happy for him. She just hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. Did he really love her as much as he needed to for a lifelong commitment? He’d made that mistake once. She didn’t want to see him make it again.
All eyes swivelled to the back as the bridal procession music started and Magda made her entrance.
She looked angelic, despite the large bump swelling beneath her dove grey empire-waist dress. Catherine felt herself welling up despite her misgivings. Maybe it would be all right.
The priest went on, sending Catherine’s mind spiralling back to her own ceremony, which had been short and sweet, in her parents’ garden. ‘The quickest route to the party,’ Richard had joked. Now there he was, kneeling through religious readings that he didn’t believe in and a speech by the priest that seemed to take hours.
Finally they exchanged their vows and Richard officially became a husband again. Catherine expected to feel some kind of tug, some wobble at watching him marry another woman, but she felt strangely subdued. Only the concern that he was making a mistake stuck with her.
They all followed the couple back up the aisle and into the sunshine. It didn’t take long before the first of Richard’s side approached Catherine.
‘Kate, old girl, Richard said you’d be here today. I have to say I’m surprised, but then you never did know when to quit.’
Richard’s cousin hadn’t improved with age. As ginger as his relative but with none of the charm, he’d disliked Catherine since Richard took her to Ibiza with them in their last year at uni. ‘Alfie, always a pleasure.’ She wasn’t about to rise to his bait. ‘May I introduce my friend Paul? Paul, this is Richard’s cousin, Alfie.’
Paul put his hand out to shake Alfie’s. ‘I figured all the gingers here were related,’ Paul said, smiling.
‘It’s Titian, actually,’ Alfie sniffed.
‘Sorry?’
‘My hair is Titian. It is not ginger.’
‘Looks ranga to me, mate, but whatever makes you feel better.’
‘Bloody criminal,’ Alfie muttered, moving away.
‘Fanta pants,’ came Paul’s reply.
She should be cross with him for the social gaffe, but she could have kissed him as they made their way to the reception.
Magda’s parents were throwing the party at the Dorchester Hotel. The ballroom looked like Swarovski had vomited all over the tables. Every surface sparkled. Even the chairs looked made of crystal. The only things that weren’t snow-white or crystal were those bloody blue napkins. They looked like the first ones she’d chosen.
Most of Richard’s other friends kept their distance. They probably weren’t sure what to say. His mother wasn’t tongue-tied though.
‘Catherine, I always wanted it to work out with you two,’ she said after a few too many glas
ses of champagne. Catherine’s heart went out to her. In some ways she’d taken the break-up harder than either of them had.
‘But you’re going to have a grandchild soon,’ she said by way of compensation.
Joy swept over her former mother-in-law’s face. ‘That will be wonderful,’ she said. ‘And one day I hope you’ll be a mum too.’
Catherine smiled tightly. ‘Thank you. We’ll see what the future has in store.’
She knew she’d have to talk to the bride eventually, but she didn’t expect the conversation when it came. Magda slipped into Paul’s chair when he went to the loo.
She was literally glowing. Her face sparkled with the glitter powder that only a twenty-three-year-old can get away with. ‘Catherine, thank you for coming,’ she said.
They kissed on the cheek. ‘You look beautiful, Magda. And the napkins are perfect.’
Magda puffed with pride. ‘Thank you. And I am glad to see you with Paul,’ she said.
‘Oh, we’re not … I’m not with him, Magda. I told you, he’s here in a professional capacity.’
But Magda smiled. ‘You do not fool me, Catherine. I’ve read his file.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know what you are doing. Teaching him about wine? And art? Hogarth? The Paul Smith shirt? The haircut and having him read Adrian Mole?’
‘I’m just giving him some pointers to round him out and help with his dating, Magda.’ She felt cross that this woman had gone into his file. Paul was her client.
‘You are making him into Richard.’
‘What?! Magda, your pregnancy hormones are getting the better of you.’
But she only nodded, more certain of her discovery. ‘It’s obvious, Catherine. You are moulding your perfect man. He happens to also be my perfect man, but since Richard has married me, I don’t mind you making another one. Ah, Paul,’ she said when she saw him approaching. ‘We were just talking about you. Thank you for coming. Be sure to have the cake. It’s my mother’s recipe from Hungary.’
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