The Perfect Fit

by Mary Jayne Baker

  Published by Mirror Books,

  an imprint of Trinity Mirror plc,

  1 Canada Square, London E14 5AP, England

  www.mirrorbooks.com

  twitter.com/themirrorbooks

  Mirror Books 2018

  © Mary Jayne Baker

  The rights of Mary Jayne Baker to be identified as

  the author of this book have been asserted, in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ISBN 978-1-9126-2407-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First paperback edition

  Typeset by Danny Lyle

  DanJLyle@gmail.com

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard to reproducing copyright material. The author and publisher will be glad to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.

  For Amy Smith,

  my favourite tiny amdrammer.

  Chapter 1

  ‘Behind you! Peter! Peter, he’s right there!’

  Pip bounced on her seat, waving frantically at Peter Pan, who just couldn’t seem to see the burly pirate lurking by his shoulder.

  Peter cupped a theatrical hand to his – well, her – ear. ‘Did you say something, boys and girls?’

  ‘Can’t you hear me?’ Pip yelled, her voice soaring far above the other children. ‘He’s right behind you! He’s gonna take Tinkerbell!’

  Peter turned around slowly, the pirate mimicking her movements so he was still behind her back.

  ‘Oh no he isn’t!’

  ‘He is! He is!’

  ‘Quiet down a bit, eh, sweetie?’ I whispered.

  ‘But why won’t he listen, Aunty Becky?’ Pip asked. ‘I’ve told him a majillion times, and he won’t look round. And now there!’ She clapped her little hands. ‘I TOLD YOU!’ Pip shouted as Captain Hook’s henchman scampered away with Tinkerbell’s tiny house under his arm.

  I wondered whether I should have another crack at explaining that the panto was just pretend. That Peter wasn’t a little boy who would never grow up but a Hollyoaks actress in her mid-twenties, and ‘the lady with hair like Aunty Yo-yo’s’ playing Mrs Smee, the pirates’ cook, was actually a six-three former Leeds United striker. Except I suspected, underneath her indignation, that Pip was having a great time.

  ‘Serves you right! Serves you flippin’ well right, you big silly!’ she was shouting at Peter now. ‘Doesn’t it, Aunty Becky? He should’ve listened when I told him. I said the bad man would take Tinkerbell. And now she’ll be all on her own and scared, coz of him not listening.’

  ‘Don’t get too upset about it, Pipsqueak. Peter and the Lost Boys’ll save Tink, double-triple aunty promise.’

  I held out my crooked little finger to seal the double-triple promise, but she was too absorbed to notice.

  ‘If I was him, I wouldn’t have let the man get even near a bit. I would’ve – oh my goodness, he’s come back! Peter! PETER!’

  And off she went again, standing up on her chair to get Peter’s attention.

  ‘Can you please calm your little girl?’ a man sitting behind said. ‘My grandson can’t see a thing.’

  I turned to flash him an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry. My niece has never been to a pantomime before. She has a bit of an overactive imagination.’

  ‘If you can’t keep her under control, you really ought to take her home,’ the man grunted as Pip waved her arms at the stage, shrieking her head off.

  I frowned. ‘Ok, no need to get in a lather about it. She’s only five. Audience participation is all part of the fun, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, well,’ he muttered. ‘There’s audience participation and there’s plain disruptive. She’s ruining it for the other children.’ He sent me a pointed look. ‘You know, the well-mannered ones.’

  With a final glare, I tugged Pip’s hand, whispering for her to get back in her seat. She grudgingly sat down, amid dark mutterings that Peter Pan must be either deaf or stupid not to hear her.

  ***

  ‘So, how was it?’ Cameron asked when I’d taken Pip home. She was snuggled between me and her dads on the giant floor beanbag while I gratefully supped a post-panto glass of wine the lads had been considerate enough to have waiting for me. ‘Did you two girls have fun?’

  I mouthed the words ‘never again’ over his daughter’s head before slapping on a bright smile.

  ‘Oh, we had a fantabulous time – that’s a panto word, we learned it tonight. Didn’t we, Pipsqueak?’

  Pip’s voice was still hoarse from shouting, but she grinned happily at Cam. ‘It was brilliant, Daddy! I mean, er, it was fantastulous – that’s a special pantomime word. Peter Pan was a total stupid! But I told him right off, didn’t I, Aunty Becky?’

  ‘You certainly did, sweetie,’ I said. ‘For two whole hours.’

  ‘And I learned a new joke,’ Pip said, puffing herself up. ‘Better’n my dinosaur one, even.’

  Tom pulled her onto his knee. ‘Will it make me laugh?’

  ‘Yup!’ She shuffled on his lap to face him, looking sober as she prepared to deliver The Joke (TM). To Pip, comedy was a serious business. ‘Ok. This is my new joke. Ready, Papa?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  Her brow puckered with concentration. ‘Why – right – why are pirates called pirates?’

  ‘Dunno. Why are pirates called pirates?’

  ‘Because they arrrr!’

  Pip looked smug as Tom forced a loud belly laugh, suppressing the groan I could see hiding behind his eyes.

  Cameron leaned round his husband’s back to talk to me. ‘Were they all like that?’ he muttered.

  ‘That was the best one. Two solid hours, Cam. Two. Solid. Hours.’

  ‘Eesh. Sorry.’

  ‘Come on then, Pips,’ Tom said. ‘Time for Lost Girls to fly up to bed.’

  ‘You need fairy dust to fly, Papa.’

  ‘Oh, do you now?’ Tom swung her up onto his shoulders and jumped to his feet. ‘Then what just happened?’

  Pip giggled. ‘Flying?’

  ‘Yep. Dad magic, even stronger than fairy dust. Come on, kiddo, we can make up –’ he paused – ‘two whole stories, I think, before it’s absolutely sleeptime.’

  He shot an enquiring look at Cameron, who nodded slightly to show he was fine with two whole stories. Parenting code. After three years on aunty duty, I was just about starting to get how it worked.

  ‘Yay, stories! Na’night, Daddy. Na’night, Aunty Becky,’ Pip called as Tom flew her to the door and galloped away up the stairs. ‘Don’t let the bedbugs – argh!’ She broke off into giggles when Tom dived her into an unexpected swoop at the top of the landing.

  I sagged into the beanbag and held up my wine glass.

  ‘That bad, eh?’ Cam said, pouring me a refill.

  ‘Worse. That kid of yours’ll be the death of me.’

  ‘Heh, join the club. Thanks for taking her, Becks.’

  ‘My pleasure. And at least 43% of me really means that.’ I smiled. ‘Honestly, though, she was adorable. Couldn’t convince her it was pretend.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done your babysitting stint. Next month she can
go to Aunty Lana and Uncle Stew. They need to be getting some practice in.’

  ‘No news?’

  ‘Nope. I swear Lana’s started physically vibrating with the stress.’

  ‘Think it’ll be much longer?’

  ‘Yeah, could be a while yet. They still have to go through a load of background checks, plus medicals and stuff.’

  ‘How long did you and Tom have to wait till the adoption agency said you could move to the next stage?’

  ‘Two months. Then another four of training before they finally started finding us a match. God, it was hell.’ He smiled at the photo of the three of them hanging over the fireplace. ‘Worth it though.’

  ‘Poor Lana. I’ll pop round on Monday after work, see if I can take her mind off it.’ I sipped my wine with the relish that can only come from hours looking after someone else’s kid. ‘How was date night?’

  ‘Honestly? You want all the gory detail?’

  I shrugged. ‘Might as well live my sex life vicariously through yours, since I’m getting bugger all.’

  ‘Tom’ll kill me for telling you.’

  ‘What? Spanking? Whipped cream? Go on, I can take it.’

  He fell back into the squishy beanbag. ‘Sleep. Sweet, glorious sleep. I was out like a light within half an hour of the girl being gone.’

  I laughed. ‘Poor Tommy.’

  ‘I know, he’d got massage oil and everything. Still, think he appreciated the peace and quiet. That’s the ultimate aphrodisiac for us these days.’

  ‘Come on. Don’t pretend you’re not loving this.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I’m knackered, but I know Pip’s the best thing we ever did.’

  ‘No arguments here.’ I gave his arm a squeeze. ‘And I’m trying not to be jealous, honestly. Even if my baby brother is ahead of me in the real-life Game of Life.’

  ‘You know, they actually just call that life.’

  I sighed. ‘Wish I knew when my turn would come. Over two years now me and Cole have been talking about getting married and starting a family.’ I held up the finger that bore my engagement ring and watched as the light danced from the heart of the diamond. ‘I never thought we’d still be at the pre-planning stage by the time we reached our mid-thirties.’

  ‘Pre-planning? God, you make your life sound like a PowerPoint presentation.’ Cam leaned on his elbow to look at me. ‘It’ll happen, Becks. You’re home, aren’t you? Moving to Egglethwaite was supposed to be the first step.’

  ‘It is nice to be back where there’s wide open spaces,’ I admitted. ‘We wouldn’t have been able to keep a hamster in that Finsbury Park matchbox, let alone a baby.’

  ‘Exactly. And now all the other life goals can follow.’

  ‘Ugh. Life goals. Have you been watching Loose Women again?’

  ‘I find it empowering,’ he said, tossing his head. ‘I’m right though, aren’t I? Step one: The Big Move. Step two: The Big Wedding. Step three: The Big Bouncing Baby. Or the other way round, if your biological clock’s giving you gyp.’

  ‘Hmm. You seem to be forgetting I haven’t actually got the necessary equipment to hand for bouncing babies, since Cole and all his attached baby-making apparatus is still down in London.’

  ‘You want to borrow Tommy for the night?’

  ‘Will he bring his massage oil?’

  Cam shrugged. ‘Yeah, if you want. We’re not having a fry-up tomorrow.’

  I laughed. ‘Best not, eh? I don’t fancy explaining that one to Dad and Cynthia, keen as they are for another grandkid.’ I put my wine down. ‘Right, I’d better go.’

  ‘Why, have you got plans?’

  ‘Yep. PJs, pinot, early night. Bliss.’

  Cam shook his head. ‘Can you stop being so bloody old? It’s half-eight on a Friday night. Stay and have a few drinks with us.’

  I hesitated. It did sound tempting.

  ‘Well… half a glass,’ I said. ‘But then I really have to go. Cole’s due to ring at nine.’

  ‘It’s not healthy, you know,’ Cameron said as he topped up my wine.

  ‘Cam, you’re doing that voice again.’

  ‘Well, honestly, you can’t keep this up. You here, fiancé at the other end of the country. Shutting yourself up like a nun every night while you wait for him to call. I thought the pair of you were moving here to build a new life. You know, get out and be part of things?’

  ‘We have to talk, don’t we?’ I said, trying not to sound defensive.

  ‘Every night though?’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t mind seeing you for an evening now and again. How about quiz night at the Fox on Thursday with Stew and Lana? Come on, we could use another brain.’

  ‘Well… maybe. If Cole doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Seriously, you have to get permission before you’re allowed to play out?’

  ‘No. I just don’t want to hurt his feelings.’ I sighed. ‘Look, I was the one who convinced him moving here was a good idea. I can hardly complain if his job means he has to stay in London a while, can I? We can’t afford for either of us to be out of work if we’re hoping for a wedding next year.’

  ‘But how long can you live like that?’

  ‘It won’t be for long. Just until there’s a job opening within commuting distance.’

  ‘And when’s that likely to happen? This isn’t London, there aren’t just art lecturer jobs for the asking.’

  ‘We need to be patient, that’s all.’ I downed the last of my wine. ‘Right, I really have to go. Tell Tommy I said bye.’

  Chapter 2

  I frowned at the door handle of the old Victorian terrace I rented at the bottom of Egglethwaite’s cobbled main street. Something wasn’t right.

  In the three months I’d lived there I’d become accustomed to the handle’s severe case of brewer’s droop, and after locking up I’d got into the habit of pushing it upwards until it stuck in a jauntier position. Well, it looked so pathetic, sagging about. Life was depressing enough without suicidal door handles.

  I always pushed it up. Always. Yet there it was, flopping miserably. Who’d been fiddling with it?

  I waggled it, in a momentary panic about burglars with stripy jumpers and swag bags, but the door was still locked.

  Hmm. Joggled by the postie, maybe.

  ‘Hello?’ I called as I went in, just in case my dad and stepmum, the only other people with a key, had called round.

  No answer. I flicked on the living room light and breathed a sigh of relief to see everything as it had been that morning – TV, laptop, furniture, all right where I’d left them. Just a minor attack of paranoia.

  I jogged upstairs to my room and chucked on a clingy black top and pyjama bottoms – not much point tarting myself up from the waist down for FaceTiming – then did a rush job on my make-up. Lippy, eyeliner, mascara…

  I wanted to look like I’d made an effort. Our daily phone calls were the closest we got to dates these days, apart from the rare occasions Cole came up for a weekend visit. We tried to limit those though. Train tickets from London weren’t cheap, and we had a wedding to save for – a family soon too, if everything went to plan. A lot of what had been in the pot had been reallocated to the move up to Yorkshire, so there was a bit of catching up to do.

  I popped my phone in its dock and sat staring at the screen. As usual, it lit up with an incoming video call at nine on the dot. I beamed at it. He never forgot and he was never late, which showed that no matter how far apart we were, Cole was thinking about me.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ a gentle, cut-glass voice said when I’d swiped to answer the call.

  ‘Hiya,’ I said, waving manically at the boyish face with its rumpled blonde hair and slightly bewildered-by-life expression smiling back at me. ‘Bang on time, as always.’

  ‘A date’s a date.’ He stared out of the glass at me for
a second, taking in my appearance. ‘You look pretty. Have you been out?’

  ‘Yep. To the theatre, no less. Get me, eh?’

  He blinked. ‘The theatre? You?’

  ‘All right, no need to sound so surprised. I’m cultured. I do culture.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Hey. Like five times I’ve watched The Sound of Music.’

  He laughed. ‘Ok, so you’re cultured. What was the play?’

  ‘Peter Pan.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I smiled at his puzzled expression. ‘Go on then, I’ll come clean. It was a pantomime. I went with our Pip while her dads grabbed a bit of couple time.’

  ‘Did you have fun, darling?’

  I shrugged. ‘Bit naff, to be honest. I mean, even for a panto it was naff – not a patch on the ones we used to have in Egglethwaite when me and Cam were kids. But Pip enjoyed herself.’

  ‘You have them in the village?’

  ‘We did, at the temperance hall. Amateur productions, but they were pretty awesome. Didn’t you?’

  ‘Not where I grew up. The masters used to put one on at school every once in a while.’

  ‘Really? Wouldn’t have thought they’d have anything as frivolous as a pantomime at Posh School.’

  ‘Oh, even we were allowed to take the frock coats off and let our hair down at Christmas,’ Cole said. ‘Mind you, it always seemed rather foolish to a studious little scholarship boy like me. I thought I’d die of embarrassment the day I first saw our Latin master in his big flouncy dress and Marilyn Monroe wig.’

  ‘Well, that’s public school for you. Taking prep, was he?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘No, he was the dame.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, smiling. ‘Joke, Cole.’

  ‘Oh. Ok. I knew that.’ He wiped a palm over his eyes. ‘Tired, that’s all. Sorry, Becky.’

  ‘Rough day at college?’ I asked gently.

  Cole was a landscape painter, but like many a talented young artist, he’d discovered that while flogging canvases was good for pocket money, it was no way to pay the bills. On weekdays he lectured in art history at an adult education college.

  ‘No worse than usual,’ he said. ‘It’s getting ready for this exhibition that’s really taking it out of me. There’s still so much to finish.’