by Fiona Gibson
She beams at me. ‘I do know that feeling.’
‘D’you feel like that, about working here?’
‘I do,’ she says firmly, ‘and I know Isla does too. We all do. But I think we needed an injection of something new.’
‘A Penny Barnett injection,’ I suggest.
‘Well, yes, Penny, of course. But you made it happen, Viv. You ran with the idea, and turned into a real thing, something entirely doable with virtually no budget at all. And look what’s happened.’
‘It’s been brilliant,’ is all I can think of to say. ‘And it’s also been a total pleasure. I wish everything I did felt like this. Work-wise, I mean.’
‘Well, maybe it could,’ Hannah remarks. ‘Erm, would you consider taking on a role here, Viv?’
I blink at her. ‘You mean … an actual job?’
‘I do, yes. Well, a contract actually. A maternity contract …’
I look at her, not quite sure what she means. ‘What kind of role would it be?’ I ask. It’s safer, I decide, than blurting out, Are you pregnant? to be met with a steely gaze, not that Hannah seems remotely steely, but it’s not what an un-pregnant woman wants to hear. I’ve made that mistake in the past.
‘It’s the role of special exhibitions officer,’ she replies, ‘which basically means covering for me. It’s a little while off yet. I’m hoping to work right through until May – but I’d like to have the right person in place well before that.’
I grin at her. ‘You’re going on leave? You mean, you’re …’
‘Yes, I am pregnant,’ she says, laughing. I glance down, now seeing the small, neat bump beneath her loose grey cotton dress. ‘I know it can be a dangerous thing to comment on. But yes, I’m taking a full year’s leave, and the maternity contract will be for that year. And at the end of that …’ She pauses.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say quickly. ‘I know you probably can’t guarantee anything beyond that.’
She nods. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It depends on visitor numbers, budgets – but I have high hopes for a great year ahead …’
‘I’m definitely interested,’ I say firmly, thinking: could I do this? Of course I could. Since the show, I’ve felt as if I can do anything.
Hannah looks delighted. ‘Okay, so I’ll set up a more formal chat – but it really is just that. A formality. After our Girl Friday event,’ she adds, with a big, beaming grin, ‘I think you’ve pretty much passed the test.’
Chapter Forty-One
Saturday, December 14
So Izzy is finally getting to see the eco-lodges up at Loch Fyne, as Andy is taking her away for the weekend. This time, with no Maeve’s caravan trip to entice her, she is delighted to go. As for me, I am going on a jaunt today, with Penny and Nick.
He knows where we are going, but Penny doesn’t. At least, she doesn’t yet; we didn’t want to risk her refusing to come. We’ve just told her we are going on a trip.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she says, rather crossly as the train pulls out of the station. We thought it would be more fun to travel this way; more of a mystery trip. Now I’m not sure it was the right decision. But it’s not far to Lancaster – only two hours – and I’m hoping Penny will soon relax and just enjoy the journey. ‘I don’t like this “being taken” somewhere,’ she says, turning to Nick to her left.
‘Okay,’ he says, catching my eye across the table. ‘I can understand that. I’d probably find it a bit unsettling too.’
‘To put it mildly,’ she huffs.
The three of us fall silent. Penny, who’s sitting at the window seat, gazes out at the fields. Rain trickles diagonally across the glass. Nick is alternately fiddling with his phone and trying, with limited success, to engage his mother in conversation.
‘I’d love a coffee,’ she announces, at which the two of us leap up, eager to escape for a few minutes.
‘I’ll get it,’ I say brightly. ‘Nick, d’you want anything?’
‘Just a coffee for me too, please. Erm, in fact, I’ll come and help.’ He turns to Penny. ‘Won’t be a minute, Mum. Will you be okay?’
‘For God’s sake,’ she exclaims. ‘I’m not going to do anything, you know. I’m not going to get off at – well, whatever the next station is. And I’m not planning to throw myself from the moving train.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he says with a smile.
‘I don’t need watching, you know. I’m not some confused old lady that you can’t leave unattended for a few moments,’ she adds sternly.
‘No, we realise that,’ I murmur. ‘Sorry, Penny. The last thing we want to do is annoy you.’
‘Just get me my coffee, darling,’ she says, a little less crossly as she turns back to watch the rain.
She doesn’t press us anymore, and by the time we return with the coffees, her mood seems to have brightened. Maybe she trusts us now, with surprises – or perhaps she’s just enjoying the view of gentle sloping fields as she gazes out. The sky has brightened, and by the time we pull into Lancaster station the sun is shining brightly.
We make our way to the taxi rank. ‘Beechwood Care Home please,’ I tell the driver, and ten minutes later, we arrive. It’s a well-kept Victorian house with immaculate gardens and benches set out around a lawn. Lynne, the deputy manager, is expecting us, and when she sees us climbing out of the taxi she beckons us over to the decked area.
There are patio heaters, and bunches of winter pansies on the tables, and residents are sitting around, enjoying pots of tea and cakes in the bright winter sunshine.
‘This is Penny, Nick and Viv,’ Lynne says with a smile, introducing us. She is a rounded, homely-looking woman in a smart blue tunic. ‘We’re just having tea. Would you like to join us?’
We hesitate, and I watch as Penny’s gaze skims along the expectant faces of the residents. Someone pats a vacant chair, inviting her to sit down. An elderly man, who must be well into his nineties, brightens in recognition on seeing her face.
He wasn’t too hard to track down, when I started on it. He has always been active in business, in fashion particularly, and the Girl Friday connection helped with my search.
‘Penny?’ he says, his voice catching.
She opens her mouth to speak and her eyes glint with tears as Nick and I step away. ‘I think Penny will stay for tea,’ I tell Lynne quickly, ‘but we’ll leave her for now.’ And so we walk away, across the grounds, and when I glance back Penny and Saul are embracing. Nick takes my hand as the tears flow freely down my face.
Monday, December 16
Hi, how are things? reads Andy’s text. I have just finished lunch in the work canteen. I haven’t resigned yet; that’ll be next week, when I have signed my contract with the museum.
All good, I reply.
Got time for a chat? he wants to know, so I call him. ‘Just taking a break from packing,’ he says. ‘I’m moving tomorrow. So I just thought I’d see how you’re doing.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say. ‘So, where’s the new place?’
This time, he gives me not only the full address, but precise instructions, in case I might have forgotten the numbering system that seems to apply to most flats: ‘Flat 1/2. So that’s first floor on the right.’
‘What’s it like?’ I ask.
‘Small, but nice, you know. Decent shared garden. I’ve just signed up for six months so I’m not committed beyond that.’
‘Right.’ Why is he supplying me with all this information? Last place, he wouldn’t even let his daughter visit.
‘You’re really welcome to come over,’ he adds. ‘For coffee, I mean.’
I smile. ‘Yes, I realise that, Andy. I didn’t think you meant anything else.’
He clears his throat. ‘Okay, well, I’d better carry on packing then …’
‘Good luck,’ I say.
‘Thanks.’ He hesitates. ‘So, are you all ready for Christmas?’
I can’t help smiling at that; it’s the kind of thing someone would say when they’re
serving you in a shop. In fact, I do feel okay about this, our first Christmas apart in all the years we’ve known each other. Andy is heading up north to spend it with his parents, and has already asked, tentatively, if Izzy and I might consider coming too. I knew what he was asking really; if I might consider us getting back together.
I explained, without any feelings of irritation or sadness, that that won’t happen. But I have promised to call them on Christmas Day and I hope, genuinely, that they all enjoy their time together. As for Izzy and me, we are spending it at Jules, Erol and Maeve’s this year. They tend to have a houseful and I know it’ll be fun. Izzy is delighted.
‘Viv,’ Andy says now, ‘if I send you a pic that I think’s funny, you won’t go mental, will you?’
‘What kind of pic?’ I ask.
‘You’ll see,’ he says, and I can tell he’s smiling now. So this is where we are, I realise now: at the sending-funny-pictures stage. Does this mean we can be friends? I’m not entirely against it.
We finish the call, and a few moments later the text pings in. It’s a picture of me, pissed, glancing around furtively whilst stuffing an omelette under his windscreen wiper.
His caption reads: Recognise anyone?
Never seen that woman in my life, I reply with a smile.
Chapter Forty-Two
Tuesday, December 17
I used to make these lists all the time in my head. They helped somehow. One of them went like this:
Things Andy Moaned About
The unbuttered scone situation.
Parking at work.
Decline in loo paper quality.
The (imagined) cheesy smell in the wardrobe in Paris.
Midges.
My sweating.
But I no longer do that because we are okay, Andy and me. We are so proud of our kids, and I often remind myself that Spencer and Izzy are the result of us. And right now I am filled with happiness – not because I’m free of all of Andy’s grumbling, but because it’s a beautiful winter’s day, and Nick is coming soon.
He leaves for Auckland tomorrow, with Penny; he is taking her back with him for her first ever New Zealand Christmas. She is thrilled at the thought of sunshine and warm sand between her toes. She lives in Glasgow, after all.
We are having Bobby to stay for the duration of their trip. Or rather, Jules and I are; we have figured out a walking schedule. As I don’t finish at Flaxico until Christmas, Jules will take him during the day. Izzy is delighted.
Then, in mid-January, Nick and Penny will come back, because he is moving home. Where will it lead? I have no idea. But right now my heart feels as light as candy floss as I answer the door.
I study Nick’s lovely face for a moment, wanting to kiss him. And then I do, on the lips. I’d anticipated a quick peck but it’s much, much more. My head spins as his arms wind around my waist. We are kissing, here on my doorstep, where anyone could walk by and see. Chrissie or Tim might arrive home with groceries, or their Christmas tree – I think they planned to fetch theirs today. Or Izzy could wander through and see us. But, for those minutes everything else melts away as we kiss, and it just feels so right.
We pull apart and he smiles. ‘Well, is she ready?’ he asks.
‘Just about,’ I say. ‘She’s very excited.’ I run a hand over my hair and turn to the stairs, still feeling his kiss on my lips. ‘Izzy?’ I call out. ‘Nick’s here!’
‘I’ll get set up straight away then,’ he says as we step inside.
So here we go.
Izzy Cooks! – Episode One
‘Welcome,’ my daughter says, ‘to a new episode of Izzy Cooks!’ She beams at Nick, who’s behind the camera, and at me. I keep glancing at him; I can’t help it.
‘Mum, are you watching?’ Izzy says.
‘Yes! Yes, of course I’m watching, love.’
Her gaze meets mine, and there’s a flicker of what can only be her first eye-roll. Surely, those adolescent hormones aren’t kicking in at eight years old?
‘So, today,’ she says, quickly regaining her focus, ‘we are cracking the eggs into this bowl here. You can use three but for a really big one I like to use four eggs.’
She cracks them deftly into the glass dish. Nick catches my eye and we smile.
‘And now we beat them lightly, not too much. You want them just mixed really, not frothy.’ She grins. ‘We already have our grated cheese here. Just ordinary, basic cheese.’ I look at Nick again, who looks terribly handsome in his white T-shirt, freshly shaved. He has the sort of face you want to touch. I never thought I would ever want to do that again – touch a man’s face, I mean, in that way.
But I do, and I know that when he and Penny catch their flight tomorrow, it’s not the end. It’s the start of something, for all of us.
Right now, I am a little edgy as Izzy heats the butter in the pan – ‘Not too much!’ she says with a smile – but we are close by and she has seen me doing this plenty of times. She has even done it herself. Not on camera, though; not being filmed, making a real cookery show.
‘In go the eggs,’ she announces. ‘Now, as soon as they start to set, you need to get your spatula ready and drag the mixture to the middle of the pan, whirling it around. You want it to cook quickly. In with the cheese now …’ She carries on, utterly unselfconscious, and tips it from the pan to the plate.
‘And that,’ she says, grinning right to camera now, another milk tooth gone, ‘is how you make the best omelette in the world.’
The End
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to Tilda McDonald, Molly Walker-Sharp, Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, Sabah Khan and the entire fabulous Avon team. Thanks as ever to my wonderful agent, Caroline Sheldon, and to Wendy Rigg for the Seventies fashion angle and all-round David Essex-loving brilliance. A big shout-out to Tania Cheston for reading, checking and geeing me along, to Mary Fine (and Penelope) for schnoodle inspiration and to Jenny Tucker, Kath Brown, Susan Walker, Marie O’Riordan, Cathy Gilligan and all my wonderfully supportive buddies. Extra special thanks to Lisa Woolley-Band and Fiona Miller for the life coaching info (especially the standing-on-chair bit) and to all at Elise Allan’s creativity coaching group (thank you Anne, Annie, Christobel, Mif and Helen!). Finally, all my love to Jimmy, Sam, Dexter and Erin, my fantastic family who somehow manage to put up with me.
Follow me on Instagram @fiona_gib
www.fionagibson.com
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About the Author
Fiona was born in a youth hostel in Yorkshire. She started working on teen magazine Jackie at age 17, then went on to join Just Seventeen and More! where she invented the infamous ‘Position of the Fortnight.’ Fiona now lives in Scotland with her husband Jimmy, their three children and a wayward rescue collie cross called Jack.
For more info, visit www.fionagibson.com. You can follow Fiona on Twitter @fionagibson.
By the same author:
Mum On The Run
The Great Escape
Pedigree Mum
Take Mum Out
How the In-Laws Wrecked Christmas: a short story
As Good As It Gets?
The Woman Who Upped and Left
The Woman Who Met Her
Match
The Mum Who’d Had Enough
The Mum Who Got Her Life Back
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