by Daisy Tate
She gave her head a scrub, trying to clear away yesteryear so that she could focus on the here and now.
School.
Mrs Jones, the head teacher at Luna’s new school, had seemed lovely; an experienced, Welsh earth-mother who’d welcomed Luna with open arms.
‘You can tell the other pupils all about what Hawaii is like. I don’t think we’ve ever had a child who’s lived on an island in the Pacific before, how exciting!’
Izzy had convinced herself that the wonderful Mrs Jones and Luna’s equally nice teacher would make everything all right, while she went about the increasingly urgent task of finding a job.
Izzy swept her daughter’s curls to one side and planted a kiss on her forehead.
‘Sometimes it takes a little while to make friends, Booboo. They’ll love you every bit as much as I do.’ They wouldn’t. ‘Just give it a bit more time.’
‘One of the boys laughed at the way I said tomato at lunch time,’ Luna sniffed, burying her head in Bonzer’s ample fluff.
Song lyrics wafted across Izzy’s brain, ‘You say tom-ay-to, I say tom-ah-to …’
‘He’s probably just jealous. You’re a world traveller and he probably hasn’t even been to Cardiff.’ She resisted the temptation to hurl insults at the little blighter. Mocking her daughter. How very dare he?
‘I don’t wanna go.’ Luna’s bottom lip was still projecting into the room but Izzy could sense her daughter’s resolve waning.
‘Here baby. Why don’t you wear this?’ She handed her a ratty old tutu. Luckily it fitted over the insipid grey uniform.
Luna tugged it on then gave her hand a squeeze. They still held hands. Izzy was already scared for the day when she might not want to any more. ‘Are we poor?’
‘Poor? Us? No. Why do you ask?’ They weren’t actually. They were simply living … thriftily. It was important. She’d been given a couple of unexpected gifts in life – a savings account she hadn’t realized her mother had been keeping for her and, of course, Ash Cottage from the father she’d never met. Izzy tried not to think about how long the money her mother had left her would last, but it wouldn’t be for ever. She’d never been one to think about the future. Other people did that. She was more of an in-the-moment kinda gal, but this time there was no getting away from it: she’d have to get a job.
‘Some of the kids were saying because we moved from Hawaii to here it must mean that we’re poor.’
Izzy looked out of the window and laughed. Today was a rare sunny day. Apart from the insanely beautiful May bank holiday with Charlotte and the gang (chocolate cake would never be the same again), they’d pretty much enjoyed grey, drizzly, British seaside weather every day.
Her daughter was still looking at her expectantly.
‘I can see where they’re coming from, Booboo. Hawaii was pretty amazing, but they’ve got castles here. And … umm … other things. We’re good. Don’t you worry about that.’
‘Then why did we move?’
It was a good question. And one she really didn’t want to answer.
‘To be near friends.’ It wasn’t entirely a lie.
‘But … Auntie Emms lives in London and Freya does too and Charlotte’s getting divorced.’
Izzy squatted down and swept her daughter’s hair away from her eyes. ‘You don’t miss much, do you? Look, just because Charlotte’s getting a divorce doesn’t mean we aren’t going to see her again. In fact we’ll probably see more of her.’
‘Good.’ Izzy grinned. ‘Bonzer likes her.’
‘Loons.’ Izzy held up her hand and showed four fingers. ‘School breaks up in this many. If you finish the rest of the week, how about we jump into the van and drive up to meet Freya and Charlotte on their crazy wild camping trip?’
Luna’s blue eyes lit up instantly. ‘Really? Can we bring Bonzer?’
‘Of course we can!’ Izzy crossed her fingers behind her back, desperately trying to remember if Freya had said he was welcome. His incarceration at Sittingstone Castle had led to meeting Charlotte’s new mentor, Lady Venetia, but losing Looney for the two hours before the dowager countess had discovered both child and dog asleep in the castle kennels had scared the living daylights out of her. No chance she was going through that again. If the worst came to the worst, she’d stick Bonzer in a pair of cargoes and vest and pretend he was her husband.
‘Yay!’ Luna jumped up and down, her long, coiled hair flying around her head like a whirling dervish.
‘Right, time to get dressed!’
As Luna ran upstairs to her room, Izzy spied the letter she’d tucked behind the fruit bowl, away from little girl eyes. Every time she caught a glimpse of it she shrank a little, knowing the longer she ignored it, the worse things might be. Or better. There was always a possibility.
She looked around her at the cottage, its patches of peeling plaster, its lack of central heating, the damp that seemed to permeate the whole house even though summer had well and truly arrived.
It hadn’t even occurred to her to sell it as, apart from a small savings account, this was all she had left of her mum (and dad), but how on earth could she have known it was going to be like this?
She should’ve sold it the second she found out about it and moved to Bristol instead. Tantalizingly close, just across the mouth of the Severn River, and yet, oh so far.
She’d been so busy the past few months. Packing up what she could afford to bring on the plane. Selling or Craigslisting the rest. Answering the barrage of emails from Emily as best she could. Wishing Nr Cardiff was Nr-er to Bristol, or that Cardiff wasn’t so insanely far away from London. Why couldn’t her parents have had an affair in Brighton? Bloomsbury. Paris, even. They’d both been artistic types. What was the allure of Nr Cardiff?
Who knew? Her mother’s tastes had always eluded her, and too late Izzy had realized the millions of questions she should have asked her before she’d died. At least her father had thought of her in his will. She’d done her best to make the flint stone cottage seem the tiniest bit like their simple but perfect beach house they’d left behind in Hawaii, all the while trying to ignore the growing fear that the mould she smelt (and saw) was toxic.
That. And, of course, The Other Thing. She nudged the letter out from between the bowl and the wall, eyes glued as it fell open, the name of the hospital and the department in bright blue lettering at the top of the page, glowing like a neon sign.
Oncology Department
She could hear Emily’s voice in her head, ‘Deal with it. Now!’
Bonzer batted at her chest. It was like he knew.
Izzy shoved the letter in the pocket of her cut-off jeans. She’d look at it later.
‘Wait. What? Who?’ Emily was properly regretting taking Callum’s call. His love life was definitely not an emergency. The fact he wanted her to move out, however, was.
‘A boy-friend.’ Callum said it really slowly, as if she were a thicko. Then, ‘He’s called Ernesto. He’s Spanish.’ Callum made a trill of his tongue wrapped up with a click of the fingers and an Olé!
‘Bueno,’ she said flatly, then, ‘I thought you were in Vienna today.’
‘Yes indeed. We met at the Regenbogen parade. He’s a musician. That’s why we need your room. So he can set up his studio.’
Puta madre. Trust Callum to have his ‘some enchanted evening’ with Barcelona’s answer to Moby. If she’d gone on his EuroPride Tour with him as requested, she’d very likely not be in this mess.
‘You’ll like him,’ Callum gushed. ‘I can’t wait for you two to meet.’
As he yammered on about the perfect place in Soho to eat because he thought meeting at the flat would be awkward all things considered, she shook the phone, praying something, anything, would magically change the fact that Callum was dumping her by FaceTime. Why couldn’t he have text-dumped her like a normal person? Not that it was really dumping seeing as they were only friends, but … even so …
She stomped down the road to her appointment. Ho
w was she going to find somewhere new to live by the end of the month?
There was always her parents’ place. The basement ‘granny flat’ was kept in pristine condition for her inevitable return to care for them in their dotage like a good little spinster daughter.
‘Soo … you need me out by the end of July? If I’m working and packing, how much time does that leave us for Brighton?’
Callum put on his apology face. It needed work. ‘About Brighton … Ernesto’s never been and with only the one room booked—’
She made a screeching noise. ‘No. Please. I get it.’ Emily didn’t need Callum to spell it out. Boyfriend trumped flatmate. Ex-flatmate. Whatever.
‘You okay, Emms?’
Oh, now he cared.
‘Brilliant. I’m on my way to a meeting. Better go.’
‘Emmzzzz. C’mon, baby. I know there’s some hurt going on in there.’
‘What do you want me to say? You’ve met me. I’m not going to cry. I don’t have feelings.’ She had loads of feelings. She just didn’t want to show them.
Maybe she’d go and see Izzy.
Emily thought about their last text exchange.
Emz! Reeeeeeks of mould in here. There’re big, dark stains on the ceilings.
Any chance you could come out with a Petri dish or something sometime? It’d be a shame to die before … you know … it’s time to die. Love to Callum. xx
A shudder ran down Emily’s spine. Euuurgh. Wales. Thank god ‘gay time’ moved at an exponential rate of knots and the standard two-year relationship could be boiled down to a fortnight. She would stay in one of the on-call rooms. Callum’s whole ‘I’ve met the love of my life’ thing would blow over soon enough.
‘Got another call coming in. Have a great time! Kisses to Ernesto!’ No one in their right mind would’ve thought she sounded sincere.
‘Thanks, doll face! Love you!’
‘Yeah.’ Whatever.
Emily rammed her phone into her backpack and stomped to the sky-blue terraced house in the middle of the pastel-painted block. She’d have to build up to ringing her mum about the flat. Right now she had other worries.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail before taking the handful of steps up to the slightly chipped, sunny yellow door. She took a couple of breaths before she triple-thumped the knocker with a bit more reverb than anticipated, stepping back in a ridiculous attempt to make it look as though someone else had pounded it and she’d only just shown up.
Her parents would be mortified if they knew about this. In all honesty, she was mortified. Which is why she’d told precisely no one. She’d only been to two sessions and they’d been so long ago she was pretty sure this one would count as starting again.
‘Emily!’
Noomi held the door open wide and beamed at her. Noomi was a beamer. Something to do with her Icelandic heritage and lots of oily fish, she supposed. That or the fact she made her living by hugging people.
‘Don’t be shy. Come on in.’
It wasn’t shyness that was holding her back.
Noomi beckoned for her to come in. ‘It’s a half-hour session today, right?’
‘Ummm.’ Emily tripped as she entered the doorway. Skillz. ‘I’m pretty sure it was the full hour.’
‘Of course. Sorry.’ Noomi thunked her forehead then ushered Emily through a cloud of mint-and-grapefruit-scented air into the Victorian tiled corridor. ‘I’m such an airhead.’
Yes. She was. Emily was beginning to wonder if she had a thing for airheads. Well. Not airheads exactly. People who were connected to the more … elemental components of being a human. Like feeling comfortable in their own skin. The way Callum was. And Izzy. Was that why she’d looked at the brochure she normally would’ve thrown away and booked an appointment? To one day realize that deep-seeded desire to be hugged and not instantly go rigid with an all-consuming discomfort. Sometimes Emily wondered if she’d been doled out extra helpings of back-off vibes when she was born. Even as a little kid she’d preferred a wide arc between her and the other kids. My space. Your space. And a big fat empty area in between the two.
‘Right, Emily,’ Noomi led her into the room kitted out with an abundance of soft furnishings and natural light. ‘Was it just the cuddling today or was it half cuddling half coffee and connect?’
‘The former.’
‘Good! Excellent. Shall we get down to it?’
Noomi invited her to sit down and said they’d start with a ‘back hug’ to ease into things. She walked behind Emily, knelt down and slowly closed the space between them, touching first one arm, then the other as, cell by cell, Emily felt herself stiffen.
Chapter Twelve
‘You sure you’re all right to drive?’
Charlotte glanced across at Freya just long enough for the car to drift into the next lane and yet another volley of horns to sound.
Freya’s grip on the door handle tightened as Charlotte pulled the car back into the fast lane behind Monty. The choice of lane had been thoughtless of him, given the fact Charlotte was suffering great emotional distress. ‘You can just say, Lotts. I’m happy to take a turn at the wheel.’ Not that she was sure she’d do much better, given her own emotionally charged state.
‘Maybe if we hold fire on the rest of the Oli questions till we get there?’
‘Of course. Whatever you want.’ Freya swallowed down a lump of guilt. Not launching into Monty between London and the Oxford services had taken near enough all the willpower she possessed. She had long ago vowed to follow her parents’ lead to never, ever, have a free-for-all in front of the children. As such, once she’d ensured everyone had had a wee, had unearthed the children’s reusable drinks bottles from the cool box (un-aired and smelling of bleach) and waved Monty and the kids off before finally jumping into Charlotte’s car, she had an almost biological need to tear apart someone else’s husband in a vain attempt not to feel so alone.
Charlotte, on the flipside, appeared to be experiencing an entirely different breed of shell shock. The kind that didn’t involve fielding ‘how low did he go?’ questions from Freya.
Another lump of guilt followed the first. Rather than shredding husbands to bits, Freya had wanted to be the friend who offered that jewel of advice. The one that would provide a beacon of hope to Charlotte in this, her darkest hour. Proof that Freya still had the capacity for insight and compassion when all she really wanted to do was paper-cut her husband to death with the year’s worth of unpaid council tax bills she’d just discovered. She fretted at a hangnail. Who tidily stuffed overdue notices under the cutlery tray anyhow?
Someone with something to hide.
The betrayal she was feeling was on a par to discovering he’d slept with someone else. Courtesy of the unpaid bills, their own home could now be beyond their financial reach.
‘Did you see the piece about the Sittingstone Larder in Waitrose Weekend? I thought the photographer really captured the place brilliantly. Lady Venetia was such a natural,’ Charlotte said after a few moments’ silence.
‘Yes!’ Yes, Freya had. She’d become a loyalty cardholder so that the magazine came free along with a café latte. She’d bought an 80p cabbage as well, so hadn’t felt a complete freeloader. ‘Wonderful. I absolutely loved it.’ And she had also been tooth-grindingly jealous that she didn’t have a dowager countess swooping into her life in her time of need. ‘You looked brilliant. I can’t believe how many products you’ve got in the shop now.’
Charlotte flushed and waved her off. Freya nodded back to the heavy traffic. It was as if the whole of Britain were heading to Wales today. The whole of Britain minus Emily and Izzy, who still had yet to say whether or not they were going to come. They had to. If she fell to bits, who would look after Charlotte?
‘It was silly really.’ Charlotte, despite the protestation, sounded proud. ‘Lady Venetia insisted I be in the photo as well, but it should’ve just been her.’
‘What? Why? You did all the work.’
‘S
ure, but—’
‘But nothing, Charlotte. It was your brain, your creativity and your hard work that turned that scruffy little shed into something the Waitrose crowd would flock to, not her. I’m sure she’s absolutely fab, but don’t you go thinking just because Oli tore your self-confidence to bits that you need to give Lady Venetia the credit for the Larder. That’s all you.’
Charlotte gave Freya’s knee a pat. ‘Let’s talk about you for a bit, hey?’
‘Me? What for?’ Freya sat up straighter. Had she been too obvious about not wanting to be within screeching distance of Monty? Or was it that Charlotte genuinely wasn’t up for talking about herself right now? Crumbs. She wasn’t doing a very good job of pushing her own troubles to the side. If only she hadn’t lifted up the cutlery tray to find that special spatula she used for pancakes. She’d found it all right. Along with the damning evidence that Monty hadn’t paid the council tax in a year. This, despite knowing they were behind on the mortgage to a gut-churning level. She’d have to sell at least an extra two grands’ worth of T-shirts if they wanted to pay the big red number at the bottom of the bill. She pictured the requisite number of T-shirts flying out the door with Camden’s monied weekend crowd. Positive imagery had been another suggestion from her grief counsellor. As if picturing a vase filled with tulips on Valentine’s Day or a shop stuffed with customers could make up for the fact that the one thing she wanted she couldn’t have. Her mother back, alive, at the end of the phone, offering her some advice on what to do. Shouting at Monty wouldn’t change the fact her designer dream was becoming a nightmare.
‘Everything all right with you two?’
‘Course. Absolutely fine. Ticking away nicely.’
‘Liar.’ Charlotte poked her knee then immediately began apologizing. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I was just trying to be – well, sticking my foot in it really. I should never try to be funny. I’m not funny.’