by Rosie Blake
There were no other pictures of his father, and Joe had been too proud to ask his mum if he could have that one, drawn to it every time he stayed. He traced the man’s face in the photo, other memories rising up unbidden. The day his mum had told him after school that Dad had moved out, she’d made chocolate cornflake cake and it had turned to stodge in his mouth as she spoke. He hadn’t known much about divorce; Jenny in his class was always crying about it, but he didn’t like Jenny so he’d never learnt what it was.
Seeing his father at weekends, watching Rachel get bigger and bigger until one day he was introduced to Harry, his stepbrother, a tiny bundle with eyes squeezed shut and an upturned nose. Waiting on the driveway for his dad to pick him up, hands clutching his school report, wanting to show him the A in maths, the A that he knew would bring a flash of pride to Dad’s eyes. It had started to rain, and he had tucked the report under his jumper, his mother assuming he’d been picked up long ago. Standing under a tree as the rain got heavier, trickled down his back, the card damp, the blue biro splodging, the A indistinguishable from the rest of the grades. Knowing his dad wasn’t coming. Going in when it got dark, being wrapped in a towel by his mother, whose tears on the top of his head felt just like the rain.
The sneers from Pete in his class, who always asked where his dad was, making the rest of the football team look at their shoes. Joe feeling his fists curl tight, the answer frozen somewhere inside him, scanning his eyes along the sideline, waiting for the day he’d be able to turn and wipe the smirk from Pete’s face, only ever seeing wild curls, his mum’s face-splitting grin, always dressed differently to the other mums. Hitting Pete in the jaw; the way his knuckles throbbed for days; getting suspended from school.
He moved through to his bedroom, sat on the bed, chest bare, unbelievably tired but all at the same time not tired. His brain whirring with the day’s events: Clara, his visit, the work calls, the unsent emails, Tom’s snide message asking if he’d disappeared. He knew he should probably be driving back to London right now. He’d get a couple of hours’ sleep, then he’d leave. He reached automatically for the suit jacket he’d flung over the bedstead, the inside pocket. A couple of pills would be enough to knock him out, shift the headache at least.
He felt disorientated when he woke, staring at the lightshade in the middle of the ceiling, hearing the clatter of pans outside the door. He was on his feet and moving out of the room before he’d really woken properly. The kitchen and living room were flooded with light. Clara was standing at the oven in his mother’s cartoon apron, a spatula in one hand.
‘Oh good, you’re back, I didn’t hear you come in, and I didn’t want to burst into your bedroom in case… well, that would be inappropriate…’ She tailed off, the hiss of a frying pan behind her. ‘Pancake?’
‘What time is it?’ he asked, rubbing at his face, still bare-chested, hopping as he stubbed a toe. ‘Fuck,’ he said, sinking into one of the chairs.
‘Nearly nine.’
‘I should have left hours ago,’ he said, his toe throbbing.
‘You look better for having got some sleep,’ she said, placing a plate in front of him. ‘There’s cinnamon and nutmeg in the pancakes, it’s a Danish thing.’
Her hair was glossy in the sunlight; she looked absurdly fresh-faced and raring to go. ‘No time,’ he said, almost putting a hand over the glass as she poured him an orange juice.
‘Everyone has time for pancakes. They are one of life’s essentials. Like oxygen, dogs, children and chocolate. And WINE,’ she added with a yelp that made him jump. ‘I can’t believe I almost left out wine,’ she said, shaking her head and returning to the pan.
Was she always this chipper in the morning? He’d never known anyone so full of joie de vivre before at least two coffees. He absent-mindedly reached for the knife and fork, the air warm with steam, the smell conjuring up images of fresh bread.
‘IS IT RAINING I HADN’T NOTICED.’
Joe stared at Lady CaCa, wondering what kinds of films his mother watched.
The pancake was still warm and he hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he stared down at the empty plate seconds later.
‘Fast work,’ Clara said, scooting across and depositing another pancake in front of him.
‘Thanks. These are good,’ he added, smiling and then worrying he had pancake in his teeth. ‘So…’ He took another mouthful, chewing quickly, not wanting to talk with his mouth full. It seemed to be an age until he could swallow it. She was still looking at him expectantly. ‘Big day planned?’
She shook her head. ‘No, not really. The first few people are returning to pick up their painted toys, and we’ve got a new display to plan.’
‘We?’
‘Not Lauren,’ Clara said quickly. ‘Gavin’s offered to help out. For free. Well, for dinner actually, tonight. He’s getting Clive to run the pub for him.’
‘You’ve invited Gavin for dinner?’ Joe looked at her in surprise, imagining the bulky Gavin next to her, her peach complexion and blonde hair a stark contrast to his tattoos and massive forearms. An unlikely couple, and that was ignoring the twenty-year age gap.
‘I’ve invited Lauren and Patrick, her husband, too. Would you like to join us? I’m going to make a Danish beer fondue, I adore it. I’ve ordered all the ingredients online.’
Joe found himself nodding in agreement, moments later wondering just what he was thinking. He really must be tired. He was used to sushi with colleagues or clients, or meals eaten in haste at his desk, not long-drawn-out dinners struggling to make endless conversation with strangers. He never had anything to say. Unless they wanted to discuss the stock market. Invariably, though, he was asked what book he was reading or what his hobbies were. Maybe he could get out of it now, remember a vital weekend engagement? He went to open his mouth, to fabricate some excuse, but Clara was smiling widely at him, a row of straight pearly teeth, her eyes sparkling as she clapped her hands together.
‘Wonderful, I can’t wait to host something. At home we have so many dinners. I’ve missed them…’ Did he imagine the slight fade in her eyes? Her mouth shutting into a thin line? He wanted to see her face light up again.
She scraped her chair back from the table. ‘Right, lots to do.’ She avoided his eyes as she took his plate over to the sink.
‘Yep,’ he said, ‘me too. Leave them,’ he called as she started stacking the plates. ‘I’ll wash up.’
‘YOU COMPLETE ME.’
He ignored Lady CaCa and went to stand just as his phone started to vibrate. Looking down, he saw it was a local number and felt a stirring of unease. That had been quick. He tapped a button and the call was cut off. Was he doing the right thing?
‘You didn’t answer,’ Clara said with a raised eyebrow.
He shifted in his chair. ‘It wasn’t urgent,’ he said, suddenly not wanting to explain what he’d arranged, which was ridiculous. It was his decision, his mother’s shop and future.
Clara was looking at him, her head cocked to one side. He stood up quickly, aware of his mussed-up appearance. ‘Right, well. I’ll finish up here and then head into London.’
‘But it’s the weekend,’ she said.
Joe shrugged. ‘We’re about to close a massive deal.’
‘But…’ He could see her swallowing down her next sentence. ‘Sounds good,’ she trilled, heading to her bedroom.
He bit his lip and watched her go before heading to the sink. Should he tell her? He ran the hot water and started to wash up. Coward, he thought as he plunged a plate into the water.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed dishes, and moments later he was completely absorbed in the task, other things forgotten as he scrubbed and dried. He wished he could stand there all day, lost in thoughts of nothing; put off the moment he had to get back to work. He paused, a plate dripping onto the floor, surprised by this revelation. He loved his job, he reminded himself; it was all he knew how to do.
She was already back in the shop wh
en he headed out into the high street, straightening his tie. He could see her standing behind the counter, laughing at a small girl who was holding up a box to show her. She was wearing a flowered dress, her blonde hair loose. He remembered what Gavin had said, that she was peaceful. Aside from a flicker of something else earlier in the flat, he’d noticed the same. She seemed so relaxed in herself, at ease. He was twitchy, unable to settle, moving from task to phone to activity to sleep, never remaining in one place for very long. She seemed to move at a more languid pace. He thought back to the walk across the fields, her constant stopping to take in the view, to comment on the landscape. She had really taken it in; she was present in the moment and, seemingly, happy.
He thought of the money he’d spent trying to capture that feeling: the physio he’d booked for the office to help with his back and neck trouble, the acupuncturist he didn’t tell anyone about, the pills he took, the online searches for something more powerful than Rescue Remedy, a million corporate stress balls, away days, new cars, new clothes, new girlfriends. What was Clara’s secret, he wondered.
He realised he was loitering on the pavement and she had caught him staring into the shop at her. She waved one hand, frowning slightly, and he started and spun round, pressing on his car key, hearing the familiar bleep as the rear lights flashed as red as he imagined his face to be.
As he started the car, he went to plug his phone into the in-car system but, gripped by a sudden feeling he couldn’t explain, he found his finger reaching for the off button. He turned the radio on and set it to Classic FM, letting the gentle noise fill the car as he pulled away from the kerb, heading back to the capital.
The calm mood that had brought him here seemed to vanish the moment he stepped through the revolving glass doors of his office block. He was met by the grey faces of his team, cartons of empty Chinese food from an excellent restaurant in the City littering the desks, in amongst heaps of paper and trade magazines. It looked like chaos: phones ringing next to scrawled Post-it notes and half-drunk mugs of coffee. The sight seemed to bring on the first headache of the day, his heart racing that little bit faster as he got them to bring him up to speed. No one dared mention the time, but knowing that they would have discussed it made his insides tighter, his voice emerge as more of a bark, needing to reassert authority, show them he was still the boss. He hoped they hadn’t said anything to anyone upstairs. But he knew that if he’d been them, he would have.
A few hours later and he was on the phone to the client, the pitch book open in front of him and the figures rolling off his tongue as he tried to keep the sale on track. He got up to pee and realised that at this rate he wouldn’t be going back to Suffolk before midnight, if at all. At that moment, the sleepy village felt completely removed from this world. On his way back to his desk, he went to fetch his fifth coffee of the day and ran through the latest details he needed to be on top of as he stood by the machine, his mind full of clients and mergers and dollar signs.
A workshop! How heavenly, what a wonderful idea. It’s an enormous room, so how clever to make it useful. She’s being so enterprising there’ll never be a need for me to come home.
To be honest, at the moment I’m not sure I’ll ever want to. I’ve discovered a French patisserie (in Spain! I know!) around the corner from my new flat and am now living almost entirely on chocolate eclairs. They are melt-in-the-mouth delicious. I’ve become best friends with one of the women behind the counter after giving her a collection of my books. She’s learning English and was delighted to be given Lee Child and Jilly Cooper to read.
I’m heading to Corralejo soon, on the other side of the island. There’s a fancy hotel where we are going to play tennis and have spa treatments. I’m planning to be entirely wrapped in seaweed. I’ll lose so much weight, despite the eclair consumption, you won’t recognise me. I’ll come back into the pub and you’ll ask Clive, who is that GORGEOUSLY THIN woman and I will say TA-DA and reveal that it is me, but after seaweed.
Right, you must send me some photos of the workshop and do tell Clara she’s doing a fabulous job, what a revelation. I’m so pleased it’s bringing some joy back to the place. And what do you mean, Joe is staying there? He never stays at home; last time he did, the Rachel cut was in fashion, do you remember? Those layers never suited me, although Paula the mobile hairdresser admitted afterwards that she’d never even watched Friends. Goodness knows who she modelled me on. And imagine not watching Friends. It’s like admitting you’ve never masturbated. Still, I am pleased if he’s there to help with things. I just assumed we’d lost him to his London life forever.
Chapter 20
Gavin was sitting in the corner of the workshop, serving coffees and chatting with customers. He’d insisted he’d wanted to and Clara beamed at him as she moved back through to the shop and the counter. He’d given her a thumbs-up, his sleeves rolled up today so that Clara could make out the seagull on his forearm.
There’d been a steady trickle of people shopping for Christmas presents. Clara was helping them choose gifts, pointing out some of the games she’d put on display, asking them questions about their children’s interests, laughing at anecdotes. She felt a familiar fondness for the shop wash over her; you couldn’t be miserable in a toyshop. It was wonderful to be surrounded by children, faces lit up as they roamed the aisles or chose wooden toys to accessorise in the workshop. She felt a frisson of excitement as she looked across at the locked cupboard, where the pieces for her next display sat in boxes on the shelves. The countdown was back and lots of children were trying to guess what might be featured next.
‘GIANTS!’
‘NOT GIANTS, FAIRIES.’
‘PIRATES.’
Clara grinned at them all, refusing to be drawn.
A man with gelled hair and a paunch was standing at the counter as she turned around. He was clutching a thick folder and held out his hand as she walked over.
‘Mrs Alden, I presume. Your husband came in to see us earlier this week with a view to us heading down here to take some photos, measurements and the rest.’
Clara looked at him, lost at the word husband and not understanding the rest. ‘Sorry, I’m not… Louisa Alden is away at the moment, abroad.’
The man with the gelled hair looked down at his folder, a frown on his face. ‘Ah, the owner. No, we spoke with a Mr Joseph Alden.’
‘Joe…’
‘Yes, Mr Alden was keen for us to get things moving as quickly as possible, Mrs…?’
‘I’m Miss… I’m… I’m no one,’ Clara said, realising she had no right to do anything, say anything, a nasty feeling creeping over her.
‘Well, we’re here from Strutt and Sons to see if we can’t get this place valued and on the market as soon as possible.’ He smiled, one front tooth overlapping the other. Clara found herself staring at it. ‘We called Mr Alden this morning but he didn’t answer. We were booked for later in the week but an opening came up and he seemed in a hurry to have it valued, so here I am. I thought I’d get ahead of the curve.’
‘Valued…’ she said, suddenly realising what he meant. That Joe really was thinking of selling the shop. She looked around, a coldness sweeping through her. All this. Everything Louisa had started, worked on for years, would be gone.
The man started to look a bit unsure, shuffling some pieces of paper in his folder as he spoke. ‘He did say number fourteen, the high street. Alden Toys.’ He produced a single sheet with the words confirmed in scrawled pen.
‘I’m sure,’ Clara said in a quiet voice. What could she do? Send him away? Refuse to let him in, with his nasty tape measure and the camera looped around his neck?
‘There’s a flat above?’ he said, eyebrows shooting up as he jerked his head.
Clara nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
