by Poppy Dolan
I put down the ribbons I’m untangling. ‘I’ve been a bit of a crap friend, haven’t I?’
Becks scrunches up her lips and looks at the ceiling.
‘You don’t have to say it and you don’t have to be polite and deny it. I should have been better at staying in touch; I got obsessed with studying and working and promotions and I forgot about the best people in my life.’
Her lips unscrunch into a small smile. ‘’S OK. I used to feel pretty hurt by it, when you went off to your fancy uni and no one heard from you again. But then I realized it wasn’t just me you weren’t in touch with, so I figured it wasn’t massively personal. I was busy too and maybe I could have reached out a bit more. What matters, in the big scheme of life, is that right here, right now, we’re together and we’re mates. And you can make up those lost years with some laughs and the odd nappy change.’
My shoulders shiver. ‘Um, could I choose making a prat out of myself a thousand times over a nappy change? I love Chester but just the colour of that stuff I’ve seen you wipe off him is terrifying. You know, we never wet the baby’s head, did we? Seeing as I missed your baby shower, we should steal the drinking booze ritual from the men and get a bit tipsy in a nice gastro pub or something.’
Becky bites the inside of her cheek. ‘Tipsy is not great a thing when you’re making milk and you haven’t slept for five weeks straight. Besides, I didn’t have a baby shower. Chester turned up before I could have it! Cheeky monkey.’
I lay down a fistful of zips. ‘Well, that won’t do. We have to have one. I will organize it and pay for it, as part of my grand apology for being a dickhead of a friend. Who do you want to invite? Your work mates, new mum mates?’
‘Nah. I’d rather keep it just us, maybe JP too. I like my friends and the other mums I’ve met too, but when I catch up with people and at the baby groups everyone keeps making sympathetic, floppy faces when they hear Chester was premature. I like being with you – you’re just you, you’re not floppy at me.’
I put the pads onto the shoulders of my hoodie and wrap three tape measures around my neck with a flourish, like a feather boa. With a strawberry-shaped pincushion held on my head like a fascinator, I drawl, ‘How dare you! Ah’m the floppiest woman in ahll of Dallas!’
Becky snorts, a little tea coming out of her nose. ‘Still a better look than the white flares.’
‘Oi!’
There’s a knock at the back door. Maybe JP forgot his keys. He went out with Stan this morning, in order to build his confidence at being out and about in his condition. Apparently Stan’s keen he doesn’t rely too much on Mags or me, which is music to my ears at this stage. I’d rather scour his company accounts than scour another scrambled-eggs pan.
I dash to the door, flicking it open while at the same time turning back to Becky. ‘Come in, you arse. I’m busy.’
‘Really?’
The voice makes me stop dead in my tracks, just behind the shop counter. One shoulder pad slips off with the jerky movement and hits the tiled floor noiselessly.
It’s not JP.
I snatch the tapes from my neck as I feel an angry heat rise from my stomach and into my cheeks. But they get tangled and I’m somehow garrotting myself. Ben steps forward in an instant to untie them but I bat his hands away.
‘What…’ I try and spit out, as air enters my lungs again, ‘are… you doing… here?’
Ben’s face is stony and serious. I’ve never seen him in jeans before, and it’s weirdly unnerving. He’s never seen me wearing sewing accessories before but I doubt the effect is anything similar.
He grimaces. ‘I think we have a few things to sort out. Is now a good time?’
‘I’ll… er… get my muslin and go.’ Becky leaps up and gets behind the pram, wheeling it out of the shop door even as I protest.
‘No, no. You stay. Becks! Becks?’
I narrow my eyes at my former colleague; the only good thing about being fired was that I’d never see him again and I’ve been in the same space, with him, twice now in a week. Talk about insult to injury. ‘How did you know where I was?’
He has the good sense to look sheepish and inspect his black trainers. ‘Rumour went round that one of the interns was subletting your flat for a while. I bought him a few beers and he told me what he knew. A quick Web search of your name and the village, and I found this shop.’ He peers around, taking in the landslide of items on the maroon carpet, the bare, faded walls in desperate need of a new paint job. Well, that is next on my To Do list. ‘Not what I expected.’
That little barb is like a shovelful of coal in my furnace. ‘I didn’t expect to get unfairly canned by Devon, but we can’t have everything we want in life, it seems. Now, is there something you actually wanted to achieve by coming here? If it’s to revel in my downfall then you can piss off.’ I say this very deliberately, maybe a little too loudly. All the while, Ben has his eyebrows knitted in my direction.
‘Why do you always think I’m out to get you, Blackthorn? I’m here to help.’
* * *
Good manners would dictate that I offer Ben a hot beverage in my house but sod that – I can’t even bear the idea of him sipping from one of JP’s chipped Reading Town FC mugs. So Cheeky’s Greasy Spoon it is. I march along the narrow path ahead of him and push open the steamed-up door.
Fenwild might be picture-postcard perfect in lots of ways – we get our fair share of coach tours taking a break from a trip out to the Cotswolds, and warming up their shutter speeds to capture the thatched roofs, hedgerows, and cute little doorways better suited to a Hobbit than a twenty-first-century person. But Cheeky’s didn’t get that memo: it’s a concrete block of a building, built during some rushed development in the ’70s. Along with the laundromat, it’s a throwback to a bygone age, and I doubt the menu has changed much since they first opened. I doubt the vat of tartare sauce has ever been changed since, either. But it does a thick, syrupy hot chocolate and a wicked fry-up, and you are guaranteed to have it to yourself most days, unless the Costa in the next town over has a power cut all of a sudden.
I resist letting the door slam back into Ben’s face. ‘What do you want to drink?’
‘Flat white.’
‘Two white coffees, please, Bob.’ I find a smile for Bob, the owner, at least. Cheeky’s is a traditional kind of place – the only flat and white things come pressed around sandwich fillings.
Bob nods and clinks two mugs together as he grabs them off a high shelf. ‘Right you are. Take a seat, pet.’
I sit down by the floor-to-ceiling window, the tiny table Ben has chosen meaning I have to sit opposite and face him. Or not. I’m looking out of the window, appearing to be fascinated by the post office van pulled up outside. Childish, yes, but effective. Tantrums on the supermarket floor are childish but they get you a Lion bar, right? Sometimes it’s good to go low.
‘Dee—’
I whip my head round and give him a warning look.
‘Delilah. I haven’t come all this way to have a row, OK? I don’t know what you think of me—’ I snort through my nose at this and turn back to examining the window. ‘Right. I’m guessing it’s not good, then. I’m guessing you think I had something to do with Devon… Devon firing you. But I didn’t. And I’ve been trying to get in touch with you and tell you that.’
Bob places two mugs down in front of us. ‘Anything else? Any food for you?’
I shake my head, enjoying the idea of how revolted Ben must feel at being asked to eat in a greasy spoon. He’s all organic soda bread and organic jam, I bet. His public-schoolboy values must be in a right pickle.
‘I could kill a sausage bap. Butter and brown sauce, please.’ Ben rubs his stomach emphatically. ‘Missed breakfast at the B and B.’
‘Oh, up Hollyhock Lane? My mate Bev runs that. Say hello to her when you get back! And for you?’
My brain is too busy trying to de-code what’s going on here and my stomach is too knotted with anger for me to make a decisio
n on food, so I dumbly shake my head.
‘Okey-doke.’
‘So, as I was saying. This whole thing with Devon is just not right. And I don’t know why it happened, why he chose to push you out, but a) I want you to know it’s not me. And b) I want to help.’
I blink, the steam from my coffee tickling my nose.
‘Hang on. Wait a second. Are you staying here, in Fenwild?’
Ben looks perplexed for a second, the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘But why come out here?’
He looks me straight in the eye. ‘Because after that dressing-down in the revolving doors, the penny dropped that you thought I’d been part of the… decisions. Which I wasn’t. The first inkling I got was hearing Clive talk about it in the canteen, then I checked your desk and sure enough you were gone.’
I push a lonely toast crumb around the tabletop, avoiding his direct stare. I don’t really believe him, but I want to see if I can catch him out. ‘So you didn’t know about these rumours? That I’d had some sort of inappropriate relationship with a client? That I might be,’ I drop my voice to a whisper, ‘pregnant.’
‘What?!’ he hisses back, his eyes wide with shock. ‘Are you… I mean, is it…?’
‘No! No, I’m not. Not even close. But it’s apparently part of the same rumour mill about me.’
‘Christ. That is extreme. All I’d heard was the same old rumours about you being next for the top job. About how you worked inhuman hours and once floored the operations director in a kick-boxing workshop.’
My leg twitches at the memory of connecting with David Butler’s cheekbone. My defence is that I assumed he was a lot taller than he really was. And he was only out cold for a few minutes, five tops. The sad thing was, it was supposed to be a team-building away day. He would never get into a lift with me after that, let alone an in-depth business discussion.
‘So maybe Devon pushed me out because he thought I was coming for his job?’ I ask it out loud more for myself to mull over than for Ben to answer.
He nods thoughtfully. ‘It’s not unreasonable. You’re bloody well intimidating.’ I snort through my nose at that and he looks incredulous. ‘Don’t even deny it, Blackthorn. You’re scary. You scare me, at least.’
‘Oh, yeah, you were so scared by me in the office that you felt the need to undermine everything I said, smarm up to Devon right in front of me, pressuring me about missing that last meeting to make me look inept…’
I trail off as Ben’s face gets cloudier and cloudier: his eyebrows are lowered, his mouth dropping into a frown and I could swear he’s gone a little bit grey too. ‘I was only ever trying to play up my position to our boss because you had me running for the hills – you clearly outstrip me. And when you had to leg it out of that meeting I was genuinely concerned for you! Why, Blackthorn, why do you think I’m some Machiavellian villain in a Savile Row suit? What have I ever done to offend you so badly? I’m here because the idea that someone is walking around, thinking I got them fired, is pretty upsetting to me. I want to sort that out, but you keep making out I’m the Moriarty to your Sherlock or something.’ The storm on his face has well and truly broken, with an angry flush creeping up his neck.
I feel a rush of panic hit my heart and it beats like a punk-rock drummer. ‘What… er… didn’t you ever get ribbed at Eton? Hit a bit too close to home, have I? Oh dear, better blow off some steam at polo this weekend.’
Ben slams his coffee cup down on the Formica just a bit too forcefully, and a splash of coffee hits the table. ‘Right, let’s just get some things straight, I’m not posh, OK? I went to a public school, yes, but there are things called scholarships, Delilah, especially when you’re in a single-parent family of limited means but you somehow have a weird affinity for trigonometry. But even if I was Lord Fancy Pants McGee, why would that bother you? Why should that matter? And you’re one to talk, with your Oxbridge connections opening doors for you.’
I open my mouth, but there’s no good rebuttal to fill it. Ben rolls on.
‘The thing is, you’ve never given me a chance, right from the minute I joined. You just made all these assumptions. Whereas, I would try and hang around your desk, shadow you on a few projects even, to get to know you.’ The flush has made it all the way to his ears now, and I get the feeling there’s plenty more steam to erupt. ‘But… I don’t… I came here to clear the air but I’m in danger of turning it blue right now. So I’m going to leave you my number,’ he pulls a business card out of his wallet, from his jacket pocket, and spins it across the table at me, ‘and maybe when you’ve had a chance to let the facts filter down into that apparently sharp but stubborn brain of yours, we can talk tomorrow. Yes?’
Without waiting for a response, Ben leaps up and heads for the door.
‘Oh,’ he says from the doorway, a chilly breeze rushing in between his legs, ‘since you now know I’m not rolling in posh-boy cash, you can pay for the coffees.’
* * *
JP is pushing leaves around his postage-stamp garden with his wellies. Stan suggested he find a way to achieve some activity – however small – so he doesn’t lose his sense of self-worth. Tidying up the fallen leaves with his feet is the only thing we could think of.
‘So, you thought he was your nemesis but it turns out you were his. Wow.’
‘Hmm.’ I hold my warm mug closer to my chest. I couldn’t face the rest of my coffee at Cheeky’s and retreated home for a hot chocolate instead, care of JP’s larder. ‘I’m still not sold. OK, so maybe me working round the clock put pressure on others to do the same. I see that, and I’m not exactly proud. I mean, it’s weirdly fun for me to work like a dog but it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’
‘Trust me – you are the weirdo there, sis. All work and no play is very bad for the soul.’
‘Fine. But I still think he had too much to gain from me leaving to be totally innocent. We’ll see. We’ve agreed to meet again tomorrow. I’m prepping my interview for him now.’
‘Always a barrel of laughs,’ JP mutters, pushing three wet leaves into a yellow bucket lying on its side.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. Just… it’s been a laugh, seeing the responses to my last vlog, about the CraftCon meet-up. Loads of people are into it, the mystery. The stall might well get swamped at this rate. Bring a big stick for beating people back with. Or maybe I could.’ He turns on the spot suddenly, swiping his casts from side to side as if cutting in a cornfield. But the weight of the plaster sends him slightly off balance, and he ends up slumped against the already bowed fence with next door.
‘Steady!’ I yell, hearing more of Mum in my tone than I’d like. That reminds me, I owe her an email update, to save her wasting her entire holiday in an angsty panic about her two offspring. ‘Are you sure we’ll be able to manage, then, just the two of us?’
He bites his top lip. ‘It was always pretty mad when it was just me, without trying to create a craft movement at the same time. My advice is wear flat shoes and block off the whole of the next day for sleeping.’
‘Right.’ I can’t say I’m exactly looking forward to this craft expo thing. But if it’s motivating JP and it looks like it will up the shop’s profile, I’ll dig deep.
‘Just wish these guys were loose,’ he wiggles his fingers at the ends of the plaster casts. ‘So I could still do my demo. I had to pull out at such short notice they haven’t been able to fill the slot. That sucks. We need to encourage all the blokes out there to craft, by showing them it’s not totally girly and that men can do it. They just need to pick up their first set of needles and try it. There just aren’t that many willing male guinea pigs to demonstrate it, beyond me.’
The last mouthful of my hot chocolate slips down deliciously, but the warm glow I’m feeling is less to do with sugar rush and all about the crafty idea that’s just hit me. And crafty as in a fox, not a fox-doing-crochet.
Chapter 12
Becky had taken a
little bit of persuading to agree to let me use her conservatory. But in the end, when I pointed out it would be more entertaining than yet more daytime TV, and I’d take Chester out for a long walk afterwards so she could have half an hour to herself, she bit my hand off like it was a cheese toastie.
I just couldn’t face the idea of having Ben back at the flat, or in the shop, not when he still felt half like an enemy and the other half a baffling riddle. OK, so maybe I saw his smooth looks, refined accent and old-school tie and made a few assumptions about him, but no matter what, we were in competition with each other and he can’t honestly say he ‘just wants to get along’. I’m going to get to the bottom of his involvement in me getting the sack – using some pretty basic but crafty techniques.
I’m pulling two wicker chairs to face each other in the small lean-to conservatory, when the doorbell goes. I can hear Becky’s jolly, high-pitched tone and then Ben’s lower, less confident one following her. Ha. He has no idea what’s going on.
‘She’s through here. There you are, Dee. Your guest has arrived.’
Ben nods a hello as he takes in the room. The late September sun is glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass roof, making it eye-wincingly bright as well as sticky hot. Not at all comfortable or relaxing. Perfect.
‘And here’s your referee.’ Becky ducks into the living room and comes back holding a baby bouncing chair. With a sleeping baby inside it. She places it facing away from the windows and the glare, and sets Chester off with a gentle jiggle, just for good measure.
Ben is pulling at the neckline of his T-shirt now and keeping a wary eye on Chester.