The Missing Letters of Mrs Bright (ARC)

by Beth Miller

  ‘Endeavours’ in Alice’s voice sounded extremely unsavoury, and rather exciting. I shook her hand, and she turned and went into Edward’s old room, where she was currently staying, and closed the door. As I walked downstairs, I wondered how much longer Alice would be living here, and what was happening to her own flat, and whether Richard dating Aileen had put a crimp in Alice’s secret plans to move in permanently. Then I realised, with a marvellous lightening of my mood, that none of that need concern me.

  I took my things out to the car, and went back to say goodbye. I stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, before Richard or Aileen noticed me. She was beating egg yolks in a bowl, and he was sitting at the table, a glass of red in his hand, saying something to her and chewing an apple vigorously at the same time, revealing the food in his mouth. It was a trait I had never much enjoyed. But I shook myself; there was nothing to be gained by finding fault. Everyone had irritating habits, including me. Just ask Rose about the teabags. I needed to remember that I had my freedom, and despite his shock when I left, Richard now seemed eager for us to be on good terms. I needed to give thanks for that miracle every day.

  Aileen was laughing at something he’d said, and I saw that, really, she was perfect for him. She was the right age – a little older than me – and she was funny, and warm, and kind, and really into stationery. Also, she was bosomy. He’d appreciate that. I knew I’d always been a little too flat in that department for his liking.

  ‘Er,’ I said, to alert them to my presence, ‘I’m off now.’ They looked over at me, and I had a very strong sense that I was now the outsider.

  ‘Ah, Kay!’ Richard said. ‘I meant to thank you for the amazing pen from Sydney.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it. I thought it was pretty cool.’

  ‘It’s smashing.’

  ‘I’ve sent you something from Venice, too.’

  ‘I look forward to that.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘It was lovely to see you, Kay,’ Aileen said. ‘I hope everything works out for you.’ She put down the bowl and sat next to Richard.

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’ I knew that was my cue to leave, but it felt a bit abrupt to go without any attempt to let them know all was well between us. ‘So, Aileen…’ I started, but I couldn’t think how to end my sentence. So, Aileen, what do you think of my husband’s sexual technique? Perhaps not. So, Aileen, how quickly are you planning to move in? Come on, Kay! Why not simply be honest but kind?

  ‘So, Aileen, I’m really pleased that you and Richard are happy together.’

  ‘Oh, Kay.’ She looked as if she might cry. ‘That is the nicest thing to say.’

  ‘I mean it,’ I said, truthfully.

  Richard smiled at me. ‘Thank you, Kayla. That means a lot.’ Him using my pet name also meant a lot.

  ‘We’re taking it slowly,’ Aileen said, clearly eager to reassure me. ‘I don’t live here, you know.’

  ‘We’re not in a rush, are we?’ Richard said, and put his hand on hers. This gesture, which had, for almost thirty years, been mine to experience alone, rocked me a little. But only a little. I could almost feel the comforting warm weight of his hand on my own. And then it lifted, and I felt not bereft, but lighter.

  I waved vaguely at both of them, said, ‘See ya!’ and in my head, heard a childhood echo from long ago. See ya! Wouldn’t want to be ya!

  I drove for about twenty minutes, then remembered that in the whole Aileen-swans-Alice-brandy confusion, I’d forgotten my damn camera again. I thought about going back, but even stronger than the desire for the camera, was the desire to not ever go into that house again. I kept driving, my mind pleasantly blank, for a couple of hours.

  * * *

  I was past Birmingham, on the motorway heading towards Wolverhampton, when my phone rang. I glanced at the screen on my dash, in case it was Stella or Edward, but it was a long mobile number unknown to me. I didn’t usually take those calls, having had my fill of being asked if I’d been involved in an accident that wasn’t my fault, but something made me tell the car thing to answer it.

  A man’s voice said, ‘Hello? Is that Kay?’ He had an Australian accent.

  Oh God.

  Even though I knew this was coming, I still felt the cold hollowness of shock in my stomach. World-Class Emergency. My mouth dried up, and I barely managed to squeak, ‘Hello.’

  ‘This is Murray, Ursula’s husband. Ex-husband. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.’

  Twenty-Four

  Stella

  ‘Did you see that Gabby is here?’ Piet said.

  ‘God, is she?’ I knew I shouldn’t be surprised; every trendy food stall I’d ever seen in my time on the markets seemed to be here. This was our first festival, and though it felt too soon to be testing our food on such a large crowd, the classic rockers on stage would attract our perfect demographic of older couples and families.

  ‘Is the sign straight?’ Piet asked, stepping back from the stall.

  Nita and I squinted at it. It was our banner’s first outing, and it looked brilliant. Piet had persuaded Theo to design it for free, possibly using mild blackmail. The name of our business, ‘Back to my Roots’, was at the top in large letters, with ‘Traditional, Veggie and Vegan Options’ in smaller letters underneath, and cute artwork of carrots, potatoes and parsnips round the sides. At the bottom, it said, ‘As enjoyed by royalty’ – a piece of artistic license based on Gran serving similar meals to the lesser-known princes and princesses fifty-something years ago. We all thought this very funny.

  ‘Bit higher on the right, Piet,’ Nita said.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ he said, and went back to adjust it.

  ‘Very handy,’ Nita said to me in an undertone, ‘having someone that tall around.’

  Nita was clearly rather taken with Piet. A couple of weeks ago the three of us had moved in together, a mile or so from where Piet and I had lived with Gabby. Things had so far gone abnormally smoothly. Nita referred to our flat as ‘House on Fire’, because that’s how well we all got on.

  We’d been there about a week when I bumped into Theo at the supermarket. I thanked him for the banner and he mumbled something self-deprecating, confirming my done-under-blackmail-conditions hypothesis. He’d been keen to tell me he was no longer seeing Gabby.

  ‘I wish it had all never happened,’ he said. ‘I really regret mucking you about, Stell.’

  ‘Well, that’s good of you to say,’ I said, and we parted with no hard feelings. I could see that if I’d given him any encouragement at all, he would have asked to try again. Which was a nice ego boost. He didn’t inspire any feelings in me any longer – not sad ones, and not angry either. When I looked at his face, all I could see was his weaselly expression the night of Threesome-gate.

  Theo’s duplicity, coming at the same time as Mum leaving, had really shaken my sense of who I could and couldn’t trust. But I was ready now to fling myself back into the murky waters of relationships, ready to hand my heart to someone who might equally treasure or trash it. Not that I could picture Newland hurting me.

  But that was the risk you took, when you let people into your life. How could you ever know what they were going to do? Friends might turn out to be liars, might sleep with your boyfriend; other friends you’d drifted apart from might turn out to be absolute jewels; parents who seemed solidly and unmovably around forever might suddenly up and go; parents who were married for thirty years might fall in love with someone else. Like Mum said, not every situation had a black-and-white answer. The future was unknowable, yet that was starting to feel exciting and tingly, rather than scary and out of control.

  Nita was putting out our recyclable food boxes, while recounting a lurid story about an old boyfriend of hers who’d liked her to walk up and down his spine while wearing stilettos. It was clearly for Piet’s benefit; he was sorting condiments and listening intently, expressions of respect and lust doing battle across his face.

  ‘Right, brace yo
urselves, I’m firing up this oven,’ Nita said.

  With contributions from mine and Nita’s dads, and Gran, we’d bought a second-hand catering oven, a trailer, and a tow bar to attach it to Nita’s car. We intended to pay it all back if we made enough money. I was secretly daring to think that we might, because in ‘Back to my Roots’ trial runs at street and food markets we had done brilliantly, far beyond our expectations. But the potential audience at this festival was on a completely different scale, and we were all nervous. When the site opened to the public in a couple of hours, we’d be in unchartered territory.

  ‘We are one stall amongst dozens of others,’ Nita said, seemingly for her own benefit, as she bustled about getting the oven hooked up and ready. I watched her for a moment, impressed once again at how professional and capable she was. Then I started getting our pre-prepared ingredients together for the toads in the hole. Or was it toad in the holes? Even Gran hadn’t been able to decide on the plural. I smiled, thinking about Gran enunciating ‘toads in the holes’.

  Preparing and planning this business, and testing out the recipes with Nita and Gran, had been the most enjoyable few weeks of my working life.

  * * *

  ‘We should put you on YouTube,’ Nita said to Gran. ‘You’d be a sensation.’

  It was early June, and Gran was teaching us some classic recipes. Nita was as in awe of Gran’s hyper-fast chopping technique as me, the way she reduced helpless onions into thousands of bits of shrapnel in seconds. We applauded each time she did it.

  ‘Thank you, dear gels.’ Gran smiled modestly. ‘But in my own mind I am already all the sensation I need to be.’

  ‘Too right, Mrs B,’ Nita said, tipping the onions into a pan. ‘I’ll never be even half that fast.’

  ‘It’s just practice, Nita dear, and good wrist action.’

  ‘To be fair,’ Nita muttered, so only I could hear, ‘my wrist action has often been complimented.’

  ‘Now how’s that batter coming along? Stella dear, put some elbow grease into it, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly, isn’t it, Mrs B?’ Nita said, grinning.

  ‘Indeed. You young people need that tattooed on your arms, not misspelled Hindi proverbs.’

  ‘Neither of us have tattoos like that, Gran,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a butterfly on my ankle.’

  ‘And I’ve got the moon and stars, but I’m not saying where,’ Nita said.

  ‘Sausages!’ Dad said, bursting into the kitchen, bringing a blast of outside cool air with him. ‘Golly, it’s hot in here.’

  ‘We’ve got all the rings going, and both ovens,’ I said, relieving him of his carrier bag. ‘Thanks, Dad. Gran is very particular about the toad ingredients.’

  ‘That’s why I was so long,’ he said, taking off his coat. ‘I had to go all the way to Waitrose to get organic.’

  ‘We won’t be using posh sausages every time,’ Nita said.

  ‘Quality tells, Nita!’ Gran said.

  ‘Profit margins tell, an’ all,’ Nita said, and winked at me.

  ‘Oh yes, Alan Sugar,’ Gran said, pouring oil into a frying pan. ‘Come back to me when you can’t work out how to spend your second million.’

  After all her years in catering, Nita was a shrewd businesswoman as well as an excellent cook. Gran rated her highly, regularly telling me how much better a business partner she was than Gabby, and throwing in some disparaging remarks about coriander for good measure.

  I always worried that I wasn’t a very good cook, or great at business. But as Gran complimented the smoothness of my batter, and Nita kept raving about how terrific my ideas were, I wondered if Newland was right, and that since my crappy degree I’d been unnecessarily hard on myself. I did love cooking, and people usually liked what I made. Not Dad, to be fair, but most other people. Mum, for instance, always requested my special strawberry cake for her birthday, ever since I was fourteen.

  ‘I’m heading out again,’ Dad said. ‘Got to check on, er, some things, and I’ll be staying late.’

  I noticed a secret smile pass between Dad and Gran, before he kissed me abstractedly on the top of my head, and hurried out.

  ‘Is he off out with Aileen again, Gran?’

  ‘Nita, I think this needs more salt,’ she said.

  ‘Gran, he’s been out with her every evening this week.’ Dad’s sudden relationship with Aileen was very slightly freaking me out. Wasn’t it a bit fast? More than a bit – wasn’t it unbelievably fast?

  ‘Well, Stella, if your mother can go gallivanting round the world, surely your father can go out for a drink without exciting the interest of the national media,’ Gran said. ‘Time for some tasting.’

  ‘The bit I’ve been waiting for,’ Nita said. ‘I’m starving.’

  I decided to put Dad’s weird new love life out of my mind. The food smelled amazing. Gran was right, why shouldn’t Dad have some fun? It hadn’t been his idea to split up with Mum.

  There was silence while we tried the vegetarian shepherd’s pie.

  ‘Delicious!’ Nita said.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ Gran said, her highest form of praise.

  It did taste great. But in order to be ready for festivals, we’d have to scale up so much. There were so many possible difficulties ahead, and so much to do if we were going to literally get this show on the road. I was afraid of dragging Nita down with me if it failed.

  Trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice, I said, ‘Do you think this is going to work, Gran?’

  She looked me straight in the eye. I knew she wouldn’t lie. ‘You know,’ she said, and I held my breath, ‘I think it will. I think it will be hugely successful. Don’t you, Nita?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ Nita banged her fork on the table. ‘There are so many festivals and events with an older crowd. I’m not saying older people aren’t adventurous of course.’ And she smiled at Gran. ‘But they won’t all want chipotle chicken in harissa. Loads of them will love to see the nostalgic food they grew up with. I think it’ll be a big hit.’

  I heard Bettina’s voice. Take a leap of faith, Stella.

  ‘OK. Good.’ I reached across and took Nita’s hand in mine. ‘So we’re doing this?’

  ‘Oh, we’re doing this.’

  * * *

  And now, less than a month later, here we were, doing this. I looked out at the huge field, and the dozens of other stalls setting up, and I had to take a few slow breaths. There is going to be a limit to what I can achieve today.

  Piet caught my eye. ‘It will be fine, Stella,’ he said. ‘We are well-prepared, we have a great team and a superb product, and we have our secret weapon.’

  ‘What’s that, Piet?’

  ‘Madame Nita can walk all over anyone who complains with her fierce shoes.’

  ‘Oh you!’ Nita flicked a tea towel at him, and he giggled. It was going to be a long day in a small enclosed space with these two undressing each other with their eyes any chance they got.

  But once the gates opened and the punters flooded in, there was no time for any eye-undressing. The classic cooler-than-expected British summer weather meant that everyone wanted something warm to eat. The family crowd were very keen to introduce their kids to toad in the hole and bubble and squeak, while the twenty-somethings appreciated the vegan shepherd’s pie. Several times during the day I compared our queue to the one at the taco place next to us, and noted with satisfaction and panic that ours was twice as long. Yet with the unflappable and charming Piet serving at the front, and Nita and I cooking together like we’d done it all our lives, everything went like clockwork. We worked non-stop throughout the entire lunchtime period and for an hour afterwards. But as Billy Bragg stepped up and started strumming his opening number, the lunchtime rush at last seemed to be over, and we were able to breathe out.

  Once the final few customers dispersed, we did a speedy inventory, and realised our stocks wouldn’t be nearly enough for the evening. Nita and Piet volunte
ered to go back to the flat to collect more supplies. I grinned as they rushed off together to the traders’ car park. If they weren’t a couple by the end of the night, I would eat Piet’s daft beanie hat. I closed the front of the stall, put up a ‘back soon’ sign, and checked my phone, which I’d felt buzzing in my pocket a few times. There was a lovely text from Mum.

  Sparkle, good luck at the festival today. I’m so proud of you. Hope it goes brilliantly, I know it will. You are so smart and clever. Can’t wait to try your new food! Hope to see you soon. Love you.

  I replied, thanking her and said ‘love you too’. I put my phone away and began scrubbing down the prep surfaces. I still hadn’t seen Mum, though she’d been back from Venice for a while, and was living permanently in Wales. She’d sent me some lovely messages, but neither of us seemed to have the courage to suggest meeting up. I’d had several awful nights waking up with a gasp, twisting out of a horribly realistic dream in which I yelled at her, ‘You’re fucking selfish!’ Would she really want to hear from me after I’d said such awful things?

  Nonetheless, I felt relieved and happy that we were at least talking via text, sending messages several times a week. I realised that I was whistling as I wrung out my cloth.

  Notice when you’re content, Stella, Bettina used to say. It’s important to notice those moments as much as the difficult ones.

  Out loud, I said, ‘I’m more than content, Bettina. I’m absolutely exhilarated, actually.’

  There was a knock at the back door of the stall. I opened it, expecting to see a member of the friendly festival staff, come to check in. But Gabby stood there, wearing a Yummi Scrummi apron, holding two coffee cups.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ she said. ‘I heard you talking to someone.’