Easy for you to say. ‘Okay. I’ll do my best.’
‘I’m going to pay for you to go private,’ Eileen said, definitively. ‘Things will move faster then.’
They were outside now, blasted by a cool June wind – a far cry from the cloying artificial heat in the doctor’s surgery. People walked around them tutting as the two women stood in the middle of the pavement trying to make sense of things. Which direction to go in? Left to Mum’s, right to the dance studio? But neither of them seemed capable of making a decision. All that agony of waiting and still no real answer. Just more waiting. More agony.
But it was worth the wait to Charlotte if it meant her mum didn’t spend a fortune on private appointments. ‘You can’t afford it, Mum. Who knows how much all those tests will cost? You don’t have the money.’
Eileen bristled. ‘I have a little put aside for emergencies. I’d say my daughter having a health issue is an emergency, wouldn’t you?’
‘No. You heard the doctor – it can wait. We don’t need to worry.’ Although saying it was a lot easier than believing it. Charlotte ran her palm across her T-shirt, palming her breast. Then remembered she wasn’t supposed to. ‘Let’s just do it the way the doctor suggested.’
But her mum’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I want to do something, for God’s sake. I feel so bloody helpless.’
‘Mum. It’ll be okay.’ Wishing her stupid body wasn’t so defective that she’d caused her mum such anguish, Charlotte looped her arm into Eileen’s. ‘Come on, let’s go get a cuppa or something stronger.’
Once settled in the salad bar opposite the studio, Charlotte broached a subject that had been pricking her mind since the appointment. Because, why worry about one thing when you can worry about so much more? ‘Do you think it might be important, though? My family history?’
‘I just don’t know. I mean, probably not, not really. And even if it is, there’s not a lot you can do about it anyway.’ Eileen shrugged, wrapping her hands around her mug of tea and cradling it to her like a shield. This was territory they’d barely stepped on for almost eighteen years.
For Charlotte, because it had never felt like the right time to ask, or explore. For her mother, Charlotte guessed, because she didn’t want to lose her daughter to a crusade that might leave things on rocky ground for all concerned. There had been that conversation when Charlotte was eight about the fact she was adopted, then another ten years later when her mother had given her the adoption papers and said, You have a legal right now to find out who she is. I won’t stand in your way, but please… please let me know when and what and how, so I can prepare myself.
And in between there had been times, so many times, when Charlotte had desperately wanted to ask more questions, to fill in the gaps of who she was – and always, always that worry that delving deeper would cause a deeper rift between her and her mum. She’d been the lucky one, the chosen one, but how easy was it for that luck to run dry? For her mother to realise she’d made a huge mistake and send her back. Away. Somewhere else.
She’d never wanted to take the risk and find out.
But now she was starting to get the enormity of the issue for herself and, more so, for Eileen. For her mum, it was about being a woman, a fiercely protective lioness, a mother. It was about loving someone so much you didn’t want to share. The same way, Charlotte imagined, she loved Ben, but more so. Deeper. Harder. Stronger.
Which kind of brought up a load of questions in and of themselves… if a mum’s love was so strong, why had her birth mother given her away in the first place? Why would you do that?
Charlotte thought about those mothers picking up their girls from the studio after class. How could you turn your back on that? A lifetime of love? A life? A precious gift?
Maybe she just hadn’t been precious enough.
Charlotte stuffed those questions away. This wasn’t about any of that; it was about genetics and science. Not emotions. ‘The doctor wouldn’t have asked about family history if it wasn’t a part of the jigsaw, though.’
‘Is it something you feel you need to find out? Right now? When there’s so much else going on?’ Eileen’s eyebrows rose. ‘Ask yourself this; will knowing all that help in any way?’
She had a point. ‘You heard what she said, though… information helps. This has been a bit of a wake-up call, to be honest. Over the last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of future I might have. ‘
‘A very long and happy one.’ Eileen’s hand covered Charlotte’s – warm from the tea, but comforting and a gesture filled with love. ‘You really have been thinking too much.’
‘Ben says I’m a panic merchant. But this has made me wonder what this blood is inside me. I don’t know anything about me really. What or who shaped these genes.’ Charlotte looked at their hands entwined. Eileen’s thin, wrinkled ones and her own, holding on to each other. ‘Is this lump anything to do with family history? Or is it just random chance?’
‘Probably the latter. No rhyme or reason. Some people have lumps, some don’t.’
Is it genetic, though? No one was willing to answer that. Not out loud, at least.
‘Don’t you ever wonder? About who I really am? About her? About her genes inside me?’ All the panic and worry of the last few days was bundled up in those words and she couldn’t stop them coming out, but she regretted them the moment she said them.
The hand was withdrawn and wrapped around the mug again, leaving a fading warmth. Eileen’s eyes darkened as Charlotte had guessed they would and she wished she could take her questions back. ‘I hope she’s happy. I hope she managed to move on, although God knows how you ever get over giving a baby away. She must have been desperate, poor woman. Things were different back then; there was still a lot of stigma about being a single parent. So yes, there isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think about how lucky I was to get you. But other than that, I don’t want to think about her at all. I’m scared to, Charlotte. I’m scared you’ll go looking and it might mean things change between us.’
‘I love you, Mum. You know that.’
‘I do know, love. I wouldn’t stand in your way, you know that, but let’s get this over with. Let’s get the tests done. Let’s get some answers from the doctors. You have so much to look forward to without digging up a load of things from the past that might not be relevant.’
‘You’re right. Yes. Of course.’
That made Eileen’s face brighten a little. ‘Think about the wedding. The future.’
But the years of curiosity had had life blown into them again. Charlotte tried to douse the flames by listening to her real mum. The one who’d given her a lovely and safe twenty-five years and who was here with her as she faced the possibility of a dark challenge.
‘Yes. The wedding.’ Charlotte tried to make light of things. ‘We should probably bring it forward so I can snag him while I’m healthy. He hasn’t actually agreed to look after me in sickness yet.’
Now her mum just shook her head. ‘Oh, Charlotte, stop being so silly. Of course he will.’
‘And… into arabesque… streeeeetch, extend that right arm, a little more…. lovely, ladies. Ruby, keep your foot pointed please. Nice. Turn out more, left leg. Yes. Perfect. And… lower into… Oh!’ There was a huge bunch of flowers walking through the Studio Two door. It had legs encased in grubby jeans and was making a sound something like ‘hmmmfpph…’ Charlotte clapped her hands, switched off the music and called out, ‘Take a break, ladies.’
‘Hmmmpf,’ the bouquet said again. This time a little more loudly.
Charlotte ran over to relieve the bearer of the flowers, but Lissa beat her to it, saying breathlessly, ‘I think you’ll find they’ll be for me. Channing’s obviously got word I’m available and he’s probably trying to woo me. It won’t work. Alas, my heart’s given over to the Cumberbatch now. Hopelessly.’ She grinned, taking the bunch, which was almost as big as her, and tugging out an envelope from deep within the stems and leaves and flou
nces of pink ribbon. ‘Shoot. Fancy that, it’s got your name on.’
‘It says…’ Charlotte ripped open the paper. This was a first. No one ever sent her flowers. ‘Meet me outside in ten minutes. It must be from Ben.’
‘Yep, you’d better hope so, because if there’s any secret admirer lurking around he’s got my name on, not yours. That just wouldn’t be fair.’
It had to be her fiancé, who else would it be? Bless. ‘But flowers? And ten minutes? I’ve got a lesson to teach, he knows that.’
Lissa restarted the music and said, ‘And that is why I’m here. Right? Intermediate is my jam; they can all count to four. Easy peasy. So, go get changed or freshen up or something. Let me know what the big secret is tomorrow. Because we never have secrets. Okay? I know things have been crazy, but I don’t feel like we’ve had a good chat for ages. Sunday doesn’t count, because I had to share you with the rest of the hens. Let’s make some time – okay? We need to catch up properly.’
‘Definitely. Soon.’ And that had the guilt ricocheting across Charlotte’s chest. Because she hadn’t told Lissa anything about the lump, and she was going to need her more than ever if there was going to be treatment involved. But now wasn’t the time.
Nine minutes later, Charlotte stepped out of the studio with her arms full of fragrant blossoms, blinking into the early-evening light. Ben was leaning against his trusty old red Astra. ‘Hey, pretty lady, fancy a ride in my car?’
‘My mother always told me not to get into cars with strange men.’ She threw him a look, over the blooms, that said get over yourself, gorgeous. ‘Thanks for the flowers, they’re stunning. But…’
‘But what?’ His eyes narrowed.
They were supposed to be saving up. He’d made a spreadsheet. In fact, he had a lot of spreadsheets detailing their five-year plan – mortgage repayments, career-advancement plans, and finally… when they could afford it, a family. Breast cancer was not factored in. Or flowers, for any occasion other than their wedding. Frivolous and Ben were never mentioned in the same sentence, so this was more than a surprise; it was a personality transplant.
Which meant he loved her. Or felt sorry for her. Or both. ‘Thank you. They’re stunning. And just a huge surprise, that’s all.’
‘Can’t a man surprise his woman every now and then?’
‘Yes. Yes. Always.’ She leaned sideways and gave him a leaf-filled kiss. ‘So, what’s the occasion? Why am I leaving work early?’
Taking the bouquet, he opened the car door and gestured for her to get in. Then he tucked the flowers in through the rear door, filling the vehicle with delicious fragrance. ‘It’s a magical mystery tour.’
‘Oooh… to where?’
‘If I told you it wouldn’t be a mystery, would it?’ After he started the engine he took a left onto Westbourne Grove, then a couple of twists and turns, across Notting Hill Gate and down to Kensington High Street, before pulling into a tiny side street and parking a few feet away from The Cake Fairy. It was close to six-thirty on a Thursday evening.
‘The cake shop? Won’t it be closed?’
‘Nah.’ He grinned. ‘I booked us a late-night slot. Thought it might take your mind off… you know.’ His eyes dipped to her cleavage and then his expression turned sad and he didn’t even try to hide it. ‘We need to make a decision about our wedding cake and have some fun. Because, I love cake. And I want to eat all the samples. Feed me.’ He beat his chest in a poor attempt at a caveman impression, which had her laughing, but not quite taking her mind off… you know.
Even so, it reminded her of all the reasons she’d fallen for him in the first place. ‘Well, you’re just revelation after revelation.’
‘Indeed. I aim to please.’
‘You do. Very much.’ She’d been planning on looking up wedding cakes on Pinterest but hadn’t quite got round to it, and so now she could do this and cross something else off her list. She leaned over and gave his unshaven cheek a kiss and told herself to be happy regardless of everything pulling her down. And to be grateful. All the websites said that; be grateful for things, even if you didn’t feel like being anything other than pissed off and angry. And be happy for cake too, because there were very few circumstances where cake couldn’t be enjoyed. ‘Thank you, Benjamin Niall Murphy. Now, let’s go in. I’m starving.’
Margaret Taylor, purveyor of exquisite baking and chief cake fairy, certainly knew her stuff. Dressed in vintage fifties clothes complete with a little frilly pinny tied round her waist, and with a whiff of a Liverpudlian accent, she introduced them to such important issues as whether the cake should be naked – that was without any icing at all – or semi-naked with a thin spread of buttercream, in pastels or bolds, showing some of the cake layers through. Which Charlotte thought was lovely and rustic-looking but not quite appropriate for the semi-formal affair they’d been planning. Ben came from a huge family who, he said, did things right. So it was going to be a big church wedding with lots of relatives coming over from Ireland and a three-layered, fully-clothed cake, and speeches and all the trimmings.
Which would make her side of the proceedings – her mum and a smattering of friends – look a little lopsided. But she couldn’t whip up relatives she didn’t have, or uncles and aunts that didn’t exist, given both her parents were singletons. As was she.
What about the possibility of other relatives, though? Birth ones?
She shut that thought down immediately, having promised her mum she wouldn’t even think about her family history until after the tests and the wedding. She had enough to focus on right now. Namely… cake.
Which was definitely not a hardship. Whether to have thick, jelly-like drips down the layers – that were made on purpose instead of just because of a wobbly hand and too-runny icing, like something Charlotte would have made. Or with metallic icing. Metallic. Who knew? Gold or rose-gold or bronze or copper or silver… Or a tower made of blush-coloured, chocolate-dipped strawberries flecked with gilt. Or… So many choices that Charlotte almost did forget about the lump and start to enjoy herself. And it felt so nice to play for a change and not have to take things seriously.
Finally, they were down to the nitty-gritty choices of ganache, salted caramel, red velvet, white royal icing, carrot, double-chocolate and traditional rich fruit. Every time Charlotte said something was a possibility, Margaret added two morsels of it to a huge silver tray covered in baking paper. Once they’d decided on all possibles, she showed them to a little silver-metal bench in front of an ornate matching coffee table and told them to sit. Then Margaret offered them tea to go with the cake samples and asked whether they wanted milk and sugar.
‘Yes please,’ said Ben, as he squeezed Charlotte’s hand and settled next to her on the overstuffed cushions. So big and broad, and dressed in casual jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked utterly out of place in the twee, nineteen-fifties-decorated shop, surrounded by dainty teacups, tiny vases of single-stemmed purple flowers and white tablecloths covering tables holding myriad cake toppers and cake stands. ‘This is amazing. I thought it was going to be just dry old fruit cake or, what is it my mum makes, Victoria sponge?’
‘I know. My mouth’s watering.’ Charlotte reached out her fork and stabbed the double-chocolate sample first, because… well, it was chocolate, just as Margaret bustled back in with a tray of teacups and sugar bowls and milk. ‘One lump or two?’ she asked Ben.
It was a harmless question. A stupid, simple word. Lump. She meant sugar but, judging by the dark eyes and fixed jaw, Ben had a completely different perspective.
‘Oh… er…’ His gaze flicked between the two women and he looked suddenly out of his depth, which took a lot for a big, strong policeman.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and fixed a smile. A pretend-everything’s-okay kind of smile, and Charlotte realised then that the lump thing was really affecting him too.
Why she hadn’t thought about that before she didn’t know. But of course he’d be reeling – about to marr
y a woman he might have to look after and then, possibly, lose. Or go through a lot of painful extraordinary stuff when he’d signed up for just plain ordinary. The happy atmosphere seemed to shatter, brittle as it had been. Brittle as everything felt at the moment. He nodded at Margaret. ‘Just one, please.’
‘Excellent. I’ll just leave you two to try them all and have a chat, maybe make some decisions. Here are some files with photographs, and of course we can do any variation on a theme, match the colour of your dress or flowers, etcetera. And this here…’ She heaved another file over, oblivious to the shattered mood. ‘…Is the file of toppers, anything from fun to downright romantic. I know it’s a bit overwhelming, so take your time. No hurry.’ She bustled off into the back room, from which came lovely smells and the strains of easy-listening music, no doubt to stop the growling stomachs and oohs and ahhhs at the deliciousness from filtering through and disturbing Margaret’s cake-decorating prowess.
Charlotte’s fork was still stabbed into the double-chocolate sample, at an acute angle that didn’t look as if it would stay upright for long, but she didn’t feel particularly hungry any more. Did Ben still want to marry her? Was he scared like she was? Scared about what the future held?
She looked at him and saw the dark edges under his eyes. The way his jaw twitched as his teeth ground together. The last week had taken its toll on both of them; lying in bed not touching, just staring up at the half-painted ceiling, not speaking. Sleepless, and listless. He turned to look at her. ‘You haven’t eaten anything yet. Are you okay, baby?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her stomach was feeling weird. This whole experience was getting harder and harder to deal with, raising more and more questions amid the malingering presence of panic.
‘Have some cake, you’ll feel better.’
‘I don’t feel hungry.’ It was better just to get it out in the open, wasn’t it? ‘Do you still love me, Ben?’
He twisted on the cushion to face her, his expression incredulous. ‘What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’
The Other Life of Charlotte Evans Page 4
