In Just One Day

by Helen Mcginn

  ‘Please don’t expect me to say anything nice. You know how I feel about it.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to say anything nice – I know it’s not good – but this time it was different.’

  Annie’s heart sank. This was the moment Jess was going to announce Rob was leaving his wife and they were going to be together officially. Annie waited for the crashing punch line to what was, so far, one of the worst jokes she’d ever heard from her sister. Jess always had someone in tow, usually impossibly good-looking, mostly a good deal younger. She was surrounded by them at work; her job meant spending long hours in the City, followed by many more hours drinking after work. Having started as an intern in a PR company, Jess now ran a successful business of her own. She worked ridiculous hours, was surgically attached to her phone, owned one of the most envied address books in the City and was both loved and ever so slightly feared by those who worked with her. No doubt about it, Jess was incredibly good at what she did.

  But years of working in such a brutal environment had left Jess with skin so thick she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried in a movie. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d even seen a movie. Unless you counted the soft porn film a lovely young man called Tom (was it Tom?) insisted they watch in a hotel room in-between meetings during a recent conference. But Jess knew that didn’t really count.

  Anyway, back to the punch line. Annie braced herself.

  ‘I realised that Rob is, in fact, a bit of a dick.’

  Annie did a silent air punch.

  ‘Annie, are you there?’ Jess was thrown by the silence.

  ‘Yes, yes. I heard. God, I’m so relieved,’ Annie said. ‘I’m not saying you have to get married or anything, but getting involved with someone like that, who’s capable of doing whatever it is you do behind his wife’s back is just a complete waste of time. Not to mention potentially life-changing for all concerned when the truth comes out. Which it always does,’ she added.

  Jess took a deep breath, determined not to rise to her sister’s predictably pious delivery. ‘It’s not always that simple, Annie. There’s more to it, though I don’t expect you to get it.’ But however much Jess wished otherwise, she knew Annie was right. No matter how good Rob made Jess feel, he was cheating on his wife. This was her first affair with a married man and though she had thought she could do it, she had since realised she just wasn’t able to live a lie.

  It had been the sight of Rob in her flat just a few hours earlier, trying to put on his boxer shorts and tripping in the dark as he’d made his way to the bathroom to make a hushed phone call. At that moment, he had looked ridiculous rather than ravishing, as he’d done in the bar. The shots had become a distant memory, unlike the hangover she’d then nursed as a consequence.

  ‘I’m just so glad you’ve seen him for the slimy grease ball he obviously is. You deserve so much better,’ said Annie.

  ‘Well, just don’t go on about it. Let’s just pretend it never happened. And don’t, whatever you do, tell Mum.’

  ‘’Course not. Have you spoken to Mum?’

  ‘Why, what’s she done?’ It was Jess’s turn to sound weary.

  ‘Nothing. She’s fine, actually. But I know she’ll ask me if I’ve spoken to you in that “she-never-rings-me” kind of way.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll be down in a few weekends’ time. I’ll book a table at The Fox. We’ll go for lunch and have a proper catch-up.’

  Annie knew there was only a very slim chance of this actually happening but the idea that it might cheered her immensely. Despite Jess’s flakiness – and serious lack of moral compass at times – Annie loved her sister deeply. And she desperately missed Jess’s company. Although separated by just a hundred miles of motorway, their worlds seemed so very far apart.

  Annie hadn’t always lived in the country. Once upon a time, she had lived and worked in London, racing to the Tube in trainers, ready to be at her desk by 9 a.m. despite often nursing a considerable hangover. Having taken a temping job covering for a sick friend at an art gallery, Annie had gone on to become the first port of call for all the artists the gallery represented, a role she loved. It might be a great British artist on the phone one minute, followed by a complete unknown who hadn’t sold a painting for years the next. And Annie’s skill – not that she’d realised it – was treating each artist exactly the same. From her quietly spoken, pinstripe-suited boss, who used to tell her jokes and deliver the punch line in Latin, to the extremely beautiful, willowy PA, Caro, with whom she’d shared an office, along with all the wonderful artists she’d dealt with daily, Annie had adored everyone and everything about working there.

  Now she sighed, sweeping a look across her kitchen, which, she noted, was once again liberally decorated with small pieces of stray Lego. The white-painted walls looked two-tone, bearing the marks of sticky fingers and the odd felt-tip pen scrawl from about child’s head height downwards. Plates, pots and pans balanced precariously by the sink, evidence of the seemingly endless meals Annie had to dole out every day to people both big and small. A basket of washing sat on a chair, the arms of crumpled shirts hanging out as if making a half-hearted attempt to escape from the mess.

  Standing in the middle of the kitchen was a worn, zinc-topped oak table. It had been found years ago in an antique shop whilst Annie and James were on holiday in Cornwall, and Annie had insisted on tying it to the roof of the car to transport it back to their first flat in London, where it took up most of the main room. Securing it to the roof rack had severely tested her and James’s knowledge of knots but here it stood, as it had done for the last six years since they’d left London for a small cottage in the country. Luckily, the kitchen was the biggest room in the house. To Annie, their table was a rock in a sea of washing, toys and noise. She picked at a piece of stuck-on cereal as she spoke. ‘OK, I will. I’ll ring you later in the week.’

  ‘Sorry for being such a fucking nightmare.’ Jess sounded genuinely contrite.

  ‘Don't be silly. Big kiss.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  Annie glanced at the clock on the oven. ‘Come on, boys, we’ll be late,’ she shouted.

  The boys ran in, mud on their knees and grass stains on their school jumpers. Deciding it was too late to do anything about that, she chucked the dirty plates in the sink, grabbed their lunch boxes and her bag and headed to the car. As the boys piled in, shouting and jostling for position, Annie remembered her phone, left on the side. ‘Seatbelts, boys.’ She ran back into the house to get it, finding it on the side, ringing. Her mother’s name – Julia – flashed up on the screen.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, it’ll have to wait,’ she muttered, stuffing the phone into her back pocket and running back to the car.

  As she went through her usual mental checklist – boys, bags, coats, check, check, check – Annie set off on their school run.

  ‘Haven’t you got your Show and Tell this morning, Rufus?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep, and I’m going to talk about Colin,’ he said, sounding confident. He held up a jam jar stuffed with leaves.

  ‘OK, but make sure people don’t frighten him,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Mum, snails don’t get frightened!’ Rufus said, laughing.

  ‘How do you know? They might. Just make sure you bring him back safely and then we’ll put him back with his friends under the flowerpots later.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Rufus, with a sigh.

  ‘Are snails born with their shells?’ asked Ned, and Annie realised she had absolutely no idea. Just as she was about to embark on a completely made-up answer, her phone pinged in her back pocket. She knew it would be a text from her mother. A missed phone call from Julia was always followed by a text. Too late to read it now; it would have to wait until after the school run.

  As the sun shone and the boys continued to argue as usual, Annie reminded herself to catch Clare at the gates. They’d been friends since meeting at a pregnancy yoga class in a nearby village hall, both carrying second babies. Ann
ie had fallen asleep during the deep breathing exercises. Clare had nudged her and she’d opened her eyes to find Clare’s kind face informing her via stage whisper that the class had, in fact, finished. To this day, she was in Annie’s phone under ‘Yoga Clare’, despite neither of them having been back to a single yoga class since. In the months that followed, Annie and Clare had bonded over a love of strong coffee and, in the later stages of pregnancy, a craving for pastries. In those tough early years, when Annie had found herself stuck at home with very small children, permanently tired and often incapable of finishing a sentence or cup of anything hot without needing to do something for someone small, Clare had been exactly the friend she needed. Funny, warm and definitely more relaxed about the whole parenting thing than Annie, Clare had been a proverbial breath of fresh air when the Armstrongs first left the city.

  As she dropped the boys at the school gate, Annie scanned the playground for her friend’s familiar figure, usually the only one dressed head to toe in faded black among an ocean of blue jeans and stripy tops. As the kids ran across the playground into school, she spotted her across the other side.

  ‘Annie! Coffee!’ yelled Clare.

  ‘Yours or mine?’

  ‘Yours,’ Clare said, as she got closer. ‘Mine looks like it’s been burgled.’

  ‘Done, see you in a mo.’ Annie watched the back of the boys as they disappeared into class and, walking back to the car, remembered the message waiting for her. She took the phone out of her back pocket and waited for it to ping onto the screen.

  DARLING I AM GOING AWAY FOR A FEW DAYS. WILL EXPLAIN. CALL ME ASAP PLS. M XX

  For reasons she’d never really understood, her mother always sent Annie text messages in capital letters. Either she’d never found how to take off the caps lock on the phone, or Julia just liked texting in capitals, but Annie always felt that her mother was shouting at her. Julia going away at short notice didn't worry Annie. She was always going away at short notice. Annie loved that her mother was an active, sociable woman in her seventies with a ton of friends and a seemingly endless number of lunches to attend. What did worry her, though, was that Julia felt it needed explaining. The ‘WILL EXPLAIN’ bit of the message was a concern. She dialled Julia’s number and waited.

  Half an hour later, Annie sat at her kitchen table, a mug of very strong coffee in her hand and the remaining crumbs of a couple of croissants on the plate between her and Clare.

  ‘I mean, what the actual fuck is she thinking?’ Annie shook her head slowly.

  ‘I’m sure she knows what she’s doing,’ said Clare.

  ‘Oh, come on, Clare, you know what she’s like. She really doesn’t! I mean, it’s like she’s decided this is what she’s been waiting for. Prince Charming finally shows up, three marriages too late, and she goes running!’ Annie had thought that nothing her mother could do would surprise her any more. Clearly, she’d underestimated her.

  ‘So, what did she say, exactly?’

  Annie sighed. Julia had answered Annie’s call with her usual, cheery ‘Hello, darling!’ before saying ‘Now’, in a way that made Annie sense that what was coming next was going to be anything but run-of-the-mill.

  ‘Essentially, Mum’s just told me that she’s planning to meet the man she says is her first love. She’s not seen him for more than fifty years. Fifty years! And they’re not meeting in any old place. Oh, no, they’re meeting in Rome. Bloody Rome!’ Annie lifted her eyes to find Clare with a huge smile on her face.

  ‘But that’s so romantic!’ Clare sighed. ‘I mean, she’s a single woman, presumably he’s a single man, what’s so bad about that?’

  ‘Because she’s my mother, Clare. Things are never that straightforward. As you well know.’ Annie raised her eyebrows at her friend.

  When it came to surprises, Julia had form. Over the last few years, Annie and Clare had in turn each filled in the other on various chapters of their lives and the characters in them. One of Clare’s favourites was Annie’s description of her mother’s romantic history to date, including the part where she married Husband Number Two, Simon, whilst on holiday in the West Indies. And according to Annie, Julia was slightly drunk on rum punch at the time and the taxi driver, a man called Winston, was the witness. On returning home, they announced the news to the assembled children on both sides: Annie and Jess, by now both teenagers, and their new twin stepbrothers. Jess had stormed off, Annie had burst into tears and the boys had simply asked if they could go and watch TV. Not a roaring success, really. Just like the marriage, which lasted less than three years. Then there was Husband Number Three, a kind man called Andrew. Ruddy-faced and permanently dressed in a holey green jumper and mustard-coloured cords, he hadn’t lasted long either. Too boring, according to Julia. Annie had once asked why her mother hadn’t realised that before marrying him but Julia’s answer was typically brusque. ‘Darling, he was a fantastic Bridge partner. I just shouldn’t have married him.’ And that was that.

  There was, of course, another husband. Number One was Annie and Jess’s father. His name was David and Annie had just turned eight when he left. Jess was six. Annie didn’t remember it as a particularly traumatic event in her life. There were no arguments. She didn’t remember either parent staging a dramatic exit. Rather, she mostly remembered them being what she assumed was a normal, happy family. Until one day, he just wasn’t there any more. Over the years that followed, as she’d grown up and come to understand what her parents were like as people, the idea that they had been together long enough to have two children amazed her. They were so incredibly different. As much as her father was calm and straightforward, her mother was flamboyant and unpredictable. Their wedding photo, one of Annie’s favourite pictures, showed Julia standing in a very short miniskirt, David in a sober suit, proud-looking parents on either side. Both bride and groom wore shy smiles. They’d met in a pub in London, when the town was in full sixties swing. Julia worked behind the bar; David was there by mistake.

  When Annie thought about her parents as a couple, she didn’t really have many memories to go on. Even when she really concentrated, she couldn’t picture her parents together, other than in that one wedding photo.

  Anyway, now there was another man in the picture, according to Julia.

  ‘Apparently, he’s called Patrick. They met as teenagers and Mum says he was her first love,’ said Annie.

  ‘So, why Rome?’ asked Clare.

  ‘God, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. What I don’t understand is why he’s got in touch now, after so many years. And why Mum thinks it’s such a good idea to go. I mean, she’s got no idea what he’s like now, where he’s been all this time. Who knows what he’s after?’ cried Annie.

  ‘But that’s the thing. She obviously does know what he’s like, if they were in love once,’ said Clare, encouragingly.

  ‘It’s just so… so…’ Annie’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Julia!’ replied Clare. ‘It is just so Julia.’ Annie had to smile at that. Her friend was spot on. ‘So, how did he get in touch?’

  ‘He wrote a letter.’

  ‘Oh, that’s too gorgeous!’ Clare clasped her hands together in delight.

  ‘Yes, maybe, but it creeps me out that he knew where to find her. I mean, he might be stalking her.’

  ‘Hardly. You don't stalk someone by asking them to meet you in Rome. How did he know where to find her?’

  ‘God knows. I didn’t think to ask her that either. I’m still getting over the fact that she’s going to meet him.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Try not to worry; she’s a grown woman. She’ll be fine. And she’ll have a wonderful time. I mean, it’s Rome…’ said Clare.

  ‘I know, I know. But to be honest, I’m just not sure I can face meeting Husband Number Four.’ Annie picked at the last of the crumbs on the plate and drained her mug of coffee. ‘Talking of which, it’s our wedding anniversary tomorrow. Ten years!’

  ‘Oh, wow!’ Claire cried. ‘That’s a big deal. Are you going to do so
mething to celebrate?’

  ‘Not sure. James usually plans something. Not that he’s mentioned it yet.’ Annie smiled.

  Clare hoped he hadn’t forgotten, not least for his sake. Given that Annie had seemingly already decided that another stepfather was on the horizon, Clare thought she might just need something to take her mind off that.

  About the Author

  Helen McGinn is a much-loved wine expert on TV and in print and an international wine judge. She spent ten years as a supermarket buyer sourcing wines around the world before setting up her award-winning blog (and best-selling wine book) The Knackered Mother’s Wine Club. She is the drinks writer for the Daily Mail and regularly appears on TV’s Saturday Kitchen and This Morning. Helen lives in the New Forest.

  Visit Helen’s website: www.knackeredmotherswineclub.com

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  About Boldwood Books

  Boldwood Books is a fiction publishing company seeking out the best stories from around the world.

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  First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Helen McGinn, 2021

  Cover Design: Alice Moore Design

  Cover Photography: Shutterstock

  The moral right of Helen McGinn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.