Hunched into a big padded coat, she’s walking along the lake’s edge, staring out across the flat grey water. I run back down to the kitchen and I’m about to knock on the window, but something about the way she’s now standing, shoulders slumped, stops me. Perhaps she’s still not feeling well.
The snow is falling more heavily now and she must be getting wet but she doesn’t appear to notice. She turns at that moment and waves when she sees me standing at the window. Then she crunches quickly back over the snow-crusted grass to the French windows.
I open the door for her. ‘Ooh, you must be freezing. Shall I make you a coffee to warm up?’
‘That would be lovely,’ she says, stamping her welly boots on the mat.
I busy myself with the kettle. ‘How are you feeling today?’
I catch her dejected look when I turn, but she immediately fixes on a smile. ‘Oh, much better, thanks. I’ll just go and take these wet things off.’ And she disappears.
We drink our coffee, chatting about the order for tomorrow, and Poppy, who’s still looking really tired, says, ‘As long as we start baking by twelve, we should get the order done easily between us.’
‘But are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m fine. It wasn’t the kedgeree at all.’ She swallows and gives me an odd look. And then Alex comes into the kitchen at that moment and says he’s going skating if anyone’s interested.
Poppy suppresses a yawn. ‘I’m going back to bed for a while. But Roxy could do with a lesson or two.’
‘Or twenty,’ says Alex, leaning back onto the breakfast bar and folding his arms.
‘Times by a hundred,’ agrees Poppy.
‘What cheek!’ I pretend to be massively insulted. ‘I’ll have you know I’d be a total natural. If I’d been christened Jane Torvill.’
‘Have fun.’ Poppy gives a little wave, collects her cup and heads upstairs. I watch her go, wondering if she needs someone to talk to. But I don’t really feel I can ask. She is my boss, after all.
So instead, I accept Alex’s offer to manoeuvre me around the ice.
It turns out I’m much better at it this time.
Well, when I say ‘much better’, what I really mean is: this time, I’m able to stand on the ice for a full minute before fright makes my knees start to feel as useless as a chocolate fire guard.
Alex makes it fun, though, keeping up a daft running commentary as if we’re skating in the Olympics.
‘So how’s the situation with Jackson?’ he asks.
I jerk backwards a little but he steadies me. ‘We’ve – um – had a chat and we’re fine.’
‘Sophie’s … interesting. She couldn’t be more different to you.’
I laugh. ‘You mean she looks like a stunning supermodel.’
He shoots me a look. ‘I didn’t mean that. Although she is exceptionally beautiful, I’ll grant you.’ There’s a pause, then he says, ‘You don’t have much confidence in yourself, do you?’
An image sails into my head – Billy giving me the devastating news that meant our relationship was over – but I push it away and plaster on a smile. ‘Neither would you if you’d made a plonker of yourself on live TV.’
‘Hey, you don’t have the monopoly on making an arse of yourself, you know.’ He grins. ‘I’ve wished for the floor to swallow me up on many an occasion.’
Afterwards, we grab a hot drink at the coffee stall and Alex gets us two spare seats from separate tables that are spread out over the grass. We sit hunched in our coats, warming our hands on the paper cups, and somehow we end up talking about our first serious relationships. Well, Alex does. I neatly evade the subject of my own disaster with Billy by joking that I come out in a rash at the mere mention of his name.
‘We weren’t right for each other. I can see that now,’ says Alex, obviously quite happy to talk about his own first love, a girl called Judith who he met at uni. ‘She didn’t get my sense of humour at all and she hated stepping out of her comfort zone. I kept wondering if she’d be fun to grow old with.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I mean, what if I wanted to throw caution to the wind and go backpacking in Outer Mongolia at the age of seventy-three?’ He grins. ‘Would Judith throw a wobbly and insist I stay at home to creosote the fence?’
I start to laugh. Then, as we’re getting up to go, I spot who’s heading towards us, and my heart does a leapfrog in my chest.
It’s Jackson and Sophie, arm in arm. She’s smiling up at him, her razor-sharp cheekbones aloft with bliss, as if she’s just been told the wonderful news that eating chocolate counteracts the calories in cake. Jackson cups her face in his hands and tenderly kisses the tip of her nose, and my heart contracts painfully because he used to do that to me too.
They’re so wrapped up in one another, they don’t even notice Alex and me until we practically bump into them.
Sophie’s smile snaps out like a light when she sees me, which makes me wonder if Jackson has told her we used to be an item. Or maybe she’s just the sort of girl who hates any sort of female competition.
In the split second before Jackson and Alex start bantering about who’s better on the ice, his eyes swivel from me to Alex and back again.
Then Sophie is dragging Jackson onto the ice. ‘Come on, darling. Let’s practise our routine for the pairs competition. We need to get it absolutely right.’
I really don’t want to watch them but some masochistic tendency keeps my feet pinned to the ground.
Alex grins appreciatively as Jackson and Sophie skate to opposite ends of the rink, then on Sophie’s signal start skating towards each other, building up speed, until they meet in the middle and perform a spectacular spin, hands gripping each other’s waists. They circle on the spot for so long, I feel quite dizzy just watching them. Then they wrap their arms around each other and skate several times round the rink, performing lots of cute moves and semi-lifts.
‘Not bad,’ laughs Alex when, flushed and smiling, they join us at the side of the rink.
‘Yes. Very good,’ I add hurriedly, while actually experiencing a disturbing urge to get on the ice and ‘accidentally’ collide with Sophie so she lands with a crash on her dinky derrière.
Try as I might, I just can’t help the desire to escape their joy as fast as social etiquette allows. So, leaving Alex chatting, I head off along the path round the lake, not looking back, feeling dangerously close to tears. I would never have signed up for this if I’d known I would have to face Jackson and his new girlfriend at odd hours of every day!
Alex catches me up when I’m almost at the cabin. ‘Sorry. Got held up.’ He grins, slightly out of breath from running after me. ‘Sophie wanted to know what pre-skating “fuel” I’d taken on board.’
In spite of myself, I find myself smiling. ‘Are you an aeroplane? What did you tell her? I doubt she’d approve of a nice big plate of Coco Pops.’
‘Oh God, I didn’t mention them. I just said that, as far as fuel goes, I happen to be a diesel man.’
‘Did she laugh?’ I ask, laughing.
‘No, she just looked at me strangely and suggested I should take my diet seriously if I don’t want to keel over before I’m sixty.’
‘She does have a point.’
‘I know. And I do eat my veg. But man cannot live on liquidised broccoli alone.’
‘Very true. We should be aiming for a balanced diet.’
He grins. ‘A beer in both hands. Absolutely.’
When I open the door, I hear the clanking of saucepans in the kitchen. Poppy must be up and about.
‘Right, I’m off back to the hotel,’ says Alex.
I glance at him in surprise. ‘Did you just walk me home?’
He shrugs and I’m sure I spy a little bit of a blush. ‘No big deal. Just wanted your company for a little longer, that’s all.’ He winks and heads off, back up the road.
‘See you later,’ I call after him, and he raises a hand without interrupting his stride.
>
I strip off my outdoor stuff and pad through to the kitchen in my socks. Poppy is preparing the beef for tonight’s dinner. She turns and says, ‘Hi, I thought I’d make an early start and get dinner prepared ahead of time. I don’t know what you were thinking of making for dessert, but I’ve got the ingredients for a chocolate bombe here if you like?’
I glance at her, startled.
A chocolate bomb?
For one bizarre second, I think the bomb must be intended for Sophie.
‘Have you made a chocolate bombe before?’ Poppy asks.
‘Er, no, actually. But if you give me the recipe, I’ll have a – erm – I’ll get it done no problem at all.’
She thumbs through a cookery book and slides it over. I’m relieved to see that bomb has an ‘e’ on the end. But I’m not relieved to see that a chocolate bombe is a very classy-looking dessert – the glossy kind served in Michelin-starred restaurants by waiters wearing white gloves. The one in the book is decorated with amber-coloured bits of something or other, described as ‘shards’ in the caption.
‘Oh, don’t worry about the sugar work,’ says Poppy, catching my worried look. ‘I know we haven’t really got the time for fancy stuff. Just do the cake.’
‘Right.’ I give her an enthusiastic thumbs-up, while at the same time my heart sinks at the list of ingredients, which appears to be almost as long as my arm. Thanks to YouTube, I can make a cake that involves flour, butter, sugar, eggs and possibly cocoa powder. But this concoction is altogether more sophisticated.
‘Enjoy the skating?’ Poppy asks. ‘Alex is good company, isn’t he?’
I smile. ‘Yes, thank you. And yes, he is. He’s very sweet.’
She gives me a knowing look and for a second I panic, wondering if she might be thinking of matchmaking, which is obviously the very last thing on my mind.
To change the subject more than anything, I blurt out, ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ She might be feeling better but she still looks exhausted.
She glances at me in surprise, and for a moment, I think she’s going to nod and say, ‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?’
But instead, she heaves a shaky sigh. Abandoning the ingredients in her bowl, to my horror, she leans over the counter, her face in her hands, shaking her head.
‘What’s wrong?’ I’m by her side, but she just keeps shaking her head, not looking at me.
‘Is it the job? Are you stressed about it?’ I lay my hand gently on her back. ‘Because I’m certain we can handle it between us.’
Tears are leaking out between her fingers.
‘It’s not the job,’ she whispers at last. ‘It’s Jed. I don’t think we’re going to make it.’
I stare at her bent head. ‘What do you mean? Don’t you feel the same about him any more?’
Her voice cracks. ‘That’s the problem. I love him even more than I did at the start. But I’m just not sure he feels the same way about me.’
‘Really?’ My head whirls in confusion. ‘But I’ve seen you together. It seems to me like Jed’s crazy about you.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ she says tightly.
I tear off some kitchen roll and she straightens up and blows her nose hard then dabs at her mascara. She’s stopped crying, as if saying the words that have been weighing her down has released some kind of pressure.
‘We’ve been together for two years,’ she says, her voice still thick with tears. ‘You’d think there would be some talk of the future, but there’s nothing. In fact, it’s worse than nothing because Jed avoids the subject altogether. We haven’t even been away on holiday together – although he says that’s because he’s so busy at work. And we definitely have no plans to move in together. Whenever I so much as hint at it, he starts talking about something else. Every time. It’s as if he doesn’t want to make any commitment at all to me.’
She looks at me, her eyes full of hurt. ‘And the thing is, that would be fine, as long as I thought his feelings on this would change at some point.’ She shakes her head sadly. ‘But I’m starting to think they never will. So what’s the point?’
I stare at her, wanting to say the right thing. ‘Two years isn’t that long to be together. Perhaps Jed just wants to be sure …?’ I grimace a little because it sounds feeble even to my ears.
‘Yes, but I don’t even feel I can leave clothes here. Plus, we haven’t had sex for ages.’
‘Maybe he is just really busy?’
She nods slowly. ‘The architect’s practice he took over from Bob is thriving but it means he has to work late. A lot. He’s taken some time off to help me get prepared for Christmas. But usually, he just comes home, eats and falls asleep. So it sort of makes sense that we don’t see each other during the week. There wouldn’t be any point.’
‘Well, there you are, then. You’re worried over nothing. It’s just life getting in the way – the way it always does.’
‘Yes, but it’s not just that …’ Tears spring to her eyes again and I glimpse a flash of real panic in her face. ‘I understand that you can’t rush things in a relationship and I’d never want to put pressure on Jed to commit too soon. Christ, I’d be happy just going along like this, to be honest. It’s just …’
‘It’s just what?’
The door opens and we both swing round.
It’s Sophie, her shiny blonde hair swinging like a shampoo advert. Dressed in tiny purple shorts and a little white vest top that shows off her perfectly flat, tanned midriff, she jogs daintily into the kitchen.
‘Hi, Poppy! Put this up on your fridge, will you?’ Running on the spot and completely ignoring me, she hands over what looks like a large glossy photo. ‘I’m thinking of signing to a modelling agency so I had some pictures taken, and I thought you could put one up on the fridge. You know, to stop you snacking and putting more weight on.’
Poppy glances at me then looks away quickly. ‘Gosh, thanks, Sophie, how thoughtful of you,’ she says.
Sophie shrugs modestly. ‘Well, what’s the point of being editor-in-chief of a popular woman’s lifestyle magazine if you can’t spread your knowledge and help people to improve themselves?’
I glance over Poppy’s shoulder at the photo.
Sophie looks stunning. She’s staring out to sea, reclining on a lounger on a sunny tropical beach, which is presumably a fake background in a photographer’s studio. The bikini she’s wearing is practically non-existent and shows off her magnificent body to perfection.
‘You look great,’ says Poppy, discreetly wiping her hands over her tear-tracked cheeks. ‘But won’t being a model clash with your job on the magazine? Being editor of such a popular publication must be fairly full-on, I imagine.’
An odd look comes over Sophie’s face. ‘Editor-in-chief. Yes, it is. But I can handle it, no problem at all. As a matter of fact, my staff think I’m amazing. I heard my deputy telling someone I’m like Wonder Woman and Margaret Thatcher, rolled into one!’
‘The Iron Lady,’ murmurs Poppy, staring at her.
‘What do you mean?’ snaps Sophie, leaping straight on the defensive.
Poppy frowns. ‘Margaret Thatcher’s nickname was The Iron Lady?’
‘Oh. Right. Well, anyway, if you could pin that up.’
I watch as Poppy obediently uses a fridge magnet to stick the photo in place.
It’s impossible not to stare at it in awe. ‘How on earth do you stay so slim?’ I ask in wonder.
‘It takes effort.’ She assesses my figure. ‘You’d never make a model because you’re too top-heavy. You’re tall enough, I suppose, but your legs are out of proportion to your body. They’re too short.’
‘Right.’ I catch Poppy’s eye and she pulls a cross-eyed face behind Sophie’s back.
Sophie swings round. ‘And you’ll always have a tendency to put on weight, Poppy, especially if you carry on baking for a living.’
Poppy’s smile freezes.
‘But hey, cheer up!’ Sophie stops jogging on the spot and do
es a few impromptu leg stretches. ‘Even ordinary people can make a difference to the way they look by starting a health regime.’ Her eyes light up. ‘Actually I’ve decided I’m going to write a book called The Way to a Heavenly Face and Body. I’ve been planning a little presentation on it, so I could practise it on you all after dinner one night. How about that? You’ll pick up loads of tips.’
‘Well, I …’ Poppy glances at me, looking about as enthusiastic as I’m feeling at this suggestion for post-dinner entertainment.
‘Great! That’s settled, then.’ Sophie beams at her. ‘You’ll enjoy it. The book’s going to be all about tackling those really troublesome areas.’ Sophie’s eyes flick across to me. Her eyes travel downwards, hover on my top-heaviness before landing on my pitifully short legs.
‘Are you and Jackson looking forward to the pairs skating contest on Tuesday night?’ Poppy asks.
‘What? Oh, that. Yes, we’ve practised a little routine that’s quite dramatic, actually. Jackson says I’ll be the star of the show in my crystal-encrusted skating dress.’ She gives a smug little smile. ‘The beauty of being editor-in-chief is you get access to lots of lovely clothes! Right, going for my run. Toodles!’ With a little wave, she jogs off.
Poppy looks thoroughly depressed. ‘Bloody crystal-encrusted skating dress! Oh God, and a lecture on “The Way to a Heavenly Face and Body”?’ She sighs. ‘I just can’t wait.’
I’m not feeling much perkier. ‘I really could have done without that run-down of my physical failings. Especially by her!’
Poppy nods in sympathy. ‘A tendency to plumpness, indeed! I mean, she’s absolutely right, of course, but still …’
‘It must be really hard work, though, staying that “perfect”.’ I use my fingers for quotes. ‘At least we enjoy our food.’
‘So you’re saying I am plump?’ demands Poppy, putting her hands on her hips. ‘Well, I guess this is my watershed moment where I decide enough is enough and I need to go on a starvation diet so I can meet society’s stringent but hugely debatable ideas on what female physical beauty actually is!’
Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin Page 8