by Hayley Doyle
‘What do you think?’ I’d asked.
‘First impressions. Justin? Fit.’
‘Oh, bloody hell, Kit!’
‘No, sis. Don’t bloody hell me. He’s kind, considerate, eloquent, writes well and for fuck’s sake, Chloe, he’s absolutely gorgeous. You asked what I think. Don’t ask if you don’t wanna hear.’
I’d snatched my phone back, looked at the pictures again, lingered on the one of Justin.
‘What do you think, though?’ Kit had asked, taking my hand in his.
‘I think … I’ll always wonder about the man sat in the shopping trolley.’
‘Even though you said he was just a bit of tourist tat?’
‘I’ve changed me mind.’
‘Thanks to Justin?’
‘Yeah. You see, I’d rather wonder what he’s doing. It’s better than not. Makes him real.’
Kit had squeezed my hand.
‘Do us a favour though, sis. Don’t go gallivanting off to find him again, will you? Okay? Let’s go to Jamaica and drink rum. Or fuck it. Let’s go to Disneyland.’
I’d kissed his cheek.
‘Deal.’
Then I’d replied to Justin.
Hiya Justin! Where in the world are you right now? Look, I could give you a shit load of excuses as to why I didn’t read your messages and reply sooner, but I’d be lying. I saw your name, thought about our kiss and felt like I’d cheated on Jack. I’m sorry. What you’ve done with these pictures is nothing short of gorgeous. I’m so touched, overwhelmed at your kindness. I apologise for taking so long to let you know. In short, I’m okay. I’ve got brilliant people around me. And yes, I do (try to do!) whatever makes me happy. Sometimes that might be watching The Sound of Music with a Meat Feast from Dominos. Don’t judge!! I hope you’re doing the same. And Canada, well, I’ve always wanted to go. It’s actually second on my list after Japan. Love and hugs to you. Chloe x.
Now, in my new bedroom, I look at the man sat in the shopping trolley resting on the carpet against an upcycled chest of drawers, and wonder where to hang him. A horn honks – my taxi is outside. I’ve volunteered to sort the cake – the all-important will-it-be-blue-will-it-be-pink sponge covered in thick white buttercream – and I’ve got to pick it up en route. This is a mammoth responsibility. There’s no way I’m getting on the tube with it, not on a Saturday afternoon. Knowing my luck, it’ll end up on the stairs of an escalator and a load of Spanish tourists will know the gender of the baby before its bloody parents. Currently, the only people who know are the sonographer, the admin who typed the letter and the baker in Sydenham who I hand-delivered the sealed letter to. I don’t know why, but I suddenly think about Nat, the woman from Huddersfield who Justin snapped in the trolley. Will she and her new husband be trying for a baby perhaps? Is that the next part of her story?
I run down the two flights of stairs, slam the front door behind me.
The story of Jack and me has ended. Gone but not forgotten, as they say.
My story, however, will – and must – continue.
*
I arrive outside the redbrick Victorian house as a visitor, no longer a tenant. It’s only been a few hours but already, I feel disconnected from the place, like it could be days, weeks, even months since I lived here. In a material sense, yeah, all my things are no longer in the basement. Not a single joss stick remains. If I’ve forgotten my purse or my red lippy, I can’t nip downstairs to get it any more. The wind feels like it’s blowing gently in a different direction.
Holding the white cake box with both hands, I slowly walk up the steps to the main front door. I’ve made it this far without a cock-up, haven’t even opened the box to see the cake for fear of ripping the lid or sneezing on the icing. But I don’t have a free hand to ring the doorbell. I scuffle around the open porch; attempt to lift my elbow. That’s ridiculous. I rise onto my tiptoes, lightly headbutt the bell. No sound. Shit.
‘Hey, Chlo! Let me get that for you,’ a voice behind me calls out.
I hear the brush of footsteps coming up closer as I turn around. Peering over the top of the cake box, I’m shocked to recognise the man in front of me, although this is the first time I notice golden flecks in his brown eyes. Gasping, my knees jerk and the tense right angles in my arms break loose.
‘Whoa!’
‘WHOA!’
Legs bent, full squat, the man saves the cake box with one swift underarm catch.
‘Layla Birch’s dad!’ is the best I manage.
‘Miss Roscoe,’ he says. ‘That was almost a tragedy!’
‘You literally just saved me life.’
‘Best stick to teaching the drama, rather than creating it, eh?’
In his khaki trench coat and smart striped scarf, he straightens himself up and holds out the box for me to retrieve. Dying inside, I accept.
‘Thank you …’ I say.
‘Ollie,’ he reminds me.
I knew that. ‘I knew that.’
‘You called me “Layla Birch’s dad”. Which I am. But once upon a time, about fifteen and a half years ago, I was – surprisingly – a person with my own identity. I like to think he still comes out of the cupboard now and then.’
I break into a wide smile and then panic that my front teeth are stained with red lippy.
‘I meant the bell, by the way,’ Ollie says. ‘When I said, “let me get that for you”.’
‘Well, you’ve got good instincts.’
‘One of my few rare talents.’
I grip the edges of the box tight. It cannot drop again.
‘Shall I?’ he asks, pointing his index finger up.
‘Hold on, what are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
He smirks, coy rather than cheeky maybe, like he just answered back to the teacher. I could shoot him my best unimpressed face; give him a warning. But I’m genuinely interested. What the hell is Oliver Birch doing here, where I used to live?
‘I work with Giles,’ Ollie says. ‘He’s a good mate.’
‘Wow! Really? What a small world. I used to live downstairs, in the basement flat.’
Ollie laughs. ‘It’s brilliant news, isn’t it? Giles and Ingrid.’
‘Ah, deffo. They’re gonna be the cutest parents.’
‘With the cutest kid.’
‘Yeah, it’ll be pristine. No snotty nose or food in her hair.’
‘Wait – her? How do you know it’s a girl? Isn’t this a gender reveal party?’
‘Oh! Shit. I dunno. Just rolled off me tongue. I meant his or her hair.’
‘Unless, Chlo, you’ve got good instincts, too.’
I mean to laugh, politely, but I choke a bit, then clear my throat like a sick monster. Ollie rings the doorbell and we wait for Giles or Ingrid to buzz us up. I grip the box tighter. Ollie rocks back and forth. I can’t see his shoes – the box is blinding my vision – but I bet they’re smart Timberlands, or similar.
‘Have you been to a gender reveal party before?’ Ollie asks.
‘Nope, I’m a total virgin.’
‘That’s something else we have in common, then.’
‘Hello?’ Ingrid sings through the intercom.
‘Hey, it’s Ollie and Chlo,’ Ollie sings back.
We’re buzzed in and Ollie pushes the door open wide.
‘After you,’ he says.
I’m being overcautious, taking my time with each step. Ollie’s sniggering behind me.
‘Stop it!’ I snap. ‘If I drop this cake, it’s on you!’
‘Literally.’
We make it to the top of the stairs and just before we go in, Ollie stops, his hand naturally landing upon my elbow as he looks down at the cake box.
‘So, what’s your prediction?’ he asks.
I give a small, careful shrug, then look up.
Our eyes meet.
‘Well, Ollie. I guess we’re about to find out.’
Acknowledgements
This book was written during two challen
ging stretches; the end of my second pregnancy into the newborn phase, and a global pandemic. Without the love and support of the following wonderful people, I could never have achieved what I feared was impossible.
Thank you to the team at Avon, especially Helen Huthwaite. Your understanding for working mums is like receiving the warmest hug and I hope women all over get to experience such care. A huge thank you to my editor, Phoebe Morgan, a publishing rockstar. Your belief in this book has truly meant the world to me. And I’m so lucky to once again thank the wonderful Camilla Bolton, my agent at Darley Anderson.
To Nils Mohl and Deborah Du Preez Taylor, my kindred spirits of the storytelling world. Thank you for the early brainstorming sessions. Now, let’s get that pilot written, eh?
For putting up with endless questions about teaching, a big thank you and tambourine shake goes to my three bezzie mates; Kate Benjamin, Maria Howarth and Michelle Monaghan. I’d thank Aunty Val, too, but she never bothered to get her teaching qualification.
To Kjell and Jack Eldor-Evans, thank you for inviting me to the wedding with so much love in one room. To Rosie and Luca in Two Spoons, Honor Oak Park, thank you for supplying me with cappuccinos and scrambled eggs as I wrote a great chunk of this book with one hand and rocked a baby to sleep with the other. To my mum, for travelling between Liverpool and London to be the most loving Nannie, and to my dad, with your encouraging daily emails; thank you.
To Oli. You took that photo, we survived that typhoon; thank you for the travels before we took on the adventure to become parents. And thanks for listening to me read aloud chapters when what we both needed was trashy telly and sleep. Thank you to my son, Milo, for being the sunshine, never allowing a dull second to make an appearance. And to my daughter, Phoebe, thank you for making an appearance! You’ve been by my side – inside and outside – the whole time I wrote this book.
And for the luxury of sibling love, thank you Cheryl. I dedicate this book to you. My sister, my closest friend, my advisor, my mushroom, my weird person, I mean, the list is endless. I run everything – everything – by you, and rightly so. You’re a goddess. Now, shut up and drink your gin.
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About the Author
Born in Liverpool in 1981, Hayley Doyle trained at the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts, LIPA, and worked as an actress for more than a decade in musical theatre and new writing. She then went on to live and work in Dubai, where she founded Hayley’s Comet: a children’s theatre company specialising in musical theatre, acting and playwriting. During her time in Dubai, she was also a regular talk show host on Dubai Eye 103.8, the UAE’s no.1 English speaking talk radio station. Hayley currently lives in London with her husband and their two children.
By the same author:
Never Saw You Coming
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