I feel my need is great enough to overcome my fears to retrieve it, and scramble for a flashlight in the kitchen drawer that contains all manner of miscellaneous items. I also take out a wedge to place under the bottom of the door to stop it from swinging shut and locking me in hell. I’ve watched enough horror films to worry about that eventuality.
There are only about a dozen steps down, but they are practically vertical, and I am glad when I reach the bottom without slipping on my stockinged feet.
The walls are lined with purpose-made bottle storage racks and arranged on them are approximately fifty bottles of Champagne. I’m currently grasping hold of two, but decide it isn’t a good idea to risk not having a free hand to guide myself safely back up those deathtrap stairs, and leave one behind.
I pause at the top of the stairs to smooth down my tight knee-length skirt and make a mental note not to go back down when I’m inebriated, otherwise I’ll never re-surface.
Back in the kitchen I study the bottle. Even though I have drunk plenty, I’ve never actually opened a bottle of Champagne. Charles always made it look so easy; the cork lifting in his hand with just a little plume of gas rising behind it.
I rip off the foil, untwist the wire cage and then stare at the cork, hoping it will miraculously free itself. I hitch up my skirt and place the bottle between my thighs, clamping onto it while I palm the top of the cork. I writhe about, pulling and twisting, getting more and more frustrated by the second. Eventually it loosens, as does my grip, and the cork shoots up to the ceiling, froth spurting everywhere. I quickly push the bottle up to my lips, sucking ferociously. Bubbles spray up my nose and down my chin. I am drowning in the stuff. Fighting for breath, I slam the bottle down on the counter and steady myself, before opening my eyes and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Oh. My. God.
I plummet down to the floor, like someone has just taken me out in a judo match with a kick to the ankles.
Then start processing what I have just seen and wonder who this ruffian is standing amongst the herb beds right in front of the kitchen window.
Gardener.
The gardener is here today.
But that isn’t the gardener I was expecting, although he definitely looks like a gardener in a green tight-fitting tee, resting his dirt covered hands on a hoe.
My head snaps to the side.
Shit.
He is knocking at the back door. Or someone is anyway and logic would make it him.
I unfurl my legs and leverage myself up the counter top, pausing momentarily to once again smooth down my skirt and to fluff up the waves in my hair.
The unfiltered thoughts that are zooming through my mind seem to get stuck on mass murderer… with a hoe.
Hmm.
I walk with trepidation towards him, examining his frame through the window pane of the upper half of the door. His smile is already evident and has not been plastered on like I feel mine has. His has more than likely been put there by the comedic scene I have just shown him at the kitchen window. Disheveled woman necking a bottle of champagne at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning.
“Hey,” he purrs, in a wonderfully low slow voice, when I open the door to him.
My throat constricts and my lips become instantly drier than the Sahara Desert. Just one word and I’ve come over all peculiar. Is it the lack of male company or have my ovaries suddenly taken over my brain? Or is it simply that this guy stood at my back door is a cross between Poldark, Henry VIII (younger version obvs) and Aragorn all rolled into one delicious wall of muscle and skin.
“Yes?” I croak.
“I’m Kane - Joe’s nephew.”
“Joe?”
He lets out a slightly irritating chuckle, so I reaffirm the look on my face and cock my head to the side as if to say ‘yes that’s what I said.’
Unperturbed he continues, “Joe Crane.”
Hah.
‘Your name’s Kane Crane?”
‘No, now that would be unfortunate.” He chuckles again.
Hmm.
“Yes Joe, I was expecting him today, is he around?”
“He will be when he returns.”
Of course. “So, he’s not here then.”
I don’t know why I am being so difficult with this guy, he doesn’t deserve it and even though I am in a foul mood and have just embarrassed myself in front of him, it seems churlish to become so uppity with him.
“He’s just gone to dispose of the first load of hedge trimmings. He’ll be back soon.”
“Okayyy.”
I’m still hanging onto the door.
He’s still holding onto his hoe.
“Right,” he eventually says, breaking our silence.
“Right,” I repeat.
Simultaneously, he turns on his heels and I shut the door.
Hmm. What was all that about? I’m inclined to re-open the door to him and ask, but not sure if he would have the answer.
My phone starts buzzing on the counter and I skip towards it, before it vibrates off onto the granite stone floor.
“Poppy.”
“Hi Sis. How you doin’ today?”
“Okay I guess, although it hasn’t started too well?”
“Why what’s happened?”
“Meeting with the solicitor.”
“About the divorce?”
“Yeah, unfortunately there’s a few little nasty surprises.”
“Might have known.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you wanna offload now, or can it wait until I get there on Friday?”
“Yeah, it can wait.”
“What’s that noise?”
The gardener has started up the hedge trimmer and is standing on the top of a step ladder cutting away at the boundary to my garden. I switch the camera aspect and zoom in on him.
“It’s the gardener cutting the hedge.”
“Holy moly,” she shrieks. “Where did you get him from? He’s hot as …”
I turn the camera back to me, cutting her off.
“Hmm, he’s rather annoying, actually.”
She laughs.
“Are you still okay to pick me up from the airport.”
“Of course, just text me your flight number and I’ll track it. I can’t wait to see you, Poppy.”
“Me too, and you look great by the way.”
“Thanks.” I say it for more than just her uplifting comment, but everything she means to me too.
I hear a vehicle and the clunking of a trailer on the driveway. Mr Crane. I decide to go and change into some jeans and boots, so I can take a look at what he’s got planned for the garden.
Chapter Nine
Rosa
I pull the Jag into the waiting bay and check my watch, after hanging outside the airport perimeter for almost a half hour, I finally get the call that they are in the baggage hall. I’m so excited to have Poppy here and her beautiful daughter, whose pudgy feet I’m longing to squidge. I’ve gone a bit overboard and bought all sorts of unnecessary things to occupy and please her whilst she’s here. The sale of my Wedgewood dining set saw to that. The thought of splitting it with Charles was unbearable and I’m sure he wouldn’t want half a Jemima Puddle Duck or a spinning top with ‘Sing-a-song-a-sixpence” illustrated on it, never mind the cute little Ugg boots that I found irresistible in the baby section.
It feels good to have Poppy finally here and fighting for me in my corner. Even though she is older than me, I have always been the strong one. I would pick her up and help her home when she fell off her tricycle or stand up for her when she got pushed out of the line for lunch at school by a wannabe bully.
The doors slide open to reveal them both and my heart soars. Poppy has Lily held tight in a wraparound sling and she’s pulling a suitcase and folded buggy. I jump out and open the boot before grabbing the luggage from her, stowing it in the boot and giving them both a bear hug.
“How was it?”
“Long,” she sighs. “Would y
ou think I’m a bad mother if I admitted to having three G and T’s to get through it?”
“Not at all,” I laugh. Not just the one little sarcastic laugh that had become an annoying habit of late but a proper joyful hiccup from the belly.
“Oh, I’m so happy that you’re here.”
“Hold that thought Sis. I’m sure you’ll be eating your words before the end of the week. We’ll be fighting like cats and dogs.”
“Yeah probably,” I laugh again.
I open the car door for her and she stops half way into getting in the back.
“Car seat?”
“What?”
“Car seat for Lily?”
“Shit, I didn’t think. There’s not even any seatbelts in the back of this thing.”
“Is it illegal?”
“Don’t think so, it’s pre-whenever the law changed. Just not very safe.”
“Okay, well you’re just gonna have to drive carefully.”
“Of course.”
She gets in the back with Lily and I grip the steering wheel, driving cautiously all the way back to the house.
“It’s looking lovely now you finished it,” she remarks as we pull into the driveway.
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh.
I can see in the rear-view mirror that she is frowning. “S’ppose you’ll have to sell it, won’t you?”
“It’s going on the market next week.”
“So unfair.”
I press my lips together in agreement.
“What do you want to do first?” I ask, pushing the door shut with my foot as I plonk her suitcase down in the hall.
“Eat. I’m starving and I’ll need all the energy I can muster to get through tonight with madam here. She’s bound to wake up, confused by the time difference.”
“Great. I thought you might say that, so I’ve done us lasagna for dinner.”
“Ooh yummy, my fav.”
It was actually both of our favourites. It had taken years to perfect the recipe and recreate the ultimate comfort food that our mother made whenever we were upset. During those teenage years it seemed like it was a regular dish. All those boy troubles we brought home; the first love break-ups that neither of us thought we could possibly live through.
“Have we got wine to go with it?” Her eyes lighting up at the prospect.
“Of course. Chianti.”
“Ooh, good.” She rubs her hands together.
“What shall I do for Lily? I bought some jars of stuff, but wasn’t sure what she’d like.”
“Yep, jars are fine. She’ll try anything at the moment as long as it’s not too lumpy.”
“Good, well are you going to give her here then, so she can have her first proper cuddle with Aunty Rosa?”
“Yes of course. I’ll take a shower if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” I lead her upstairs, showing her the guest room and house bathroom. She wanders into the other rooms and pauses in my office.
“Lovely view, Rosa.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”
We both stand looking over the garden with the cherry blossoms in full bloom and the newly cut hedge revealing the rolling landscape beyond.
“So, what you working on now?” she asks, looking down at my computer and the notepads scattered next to it.
“Nothing interesting,” I eschew, “anyway are you going to get that shower or not?”
“Yep.” She kisses Lily on the forehead and tells her to be good while she freshens up.
Of course, Lily ignores that request and screams her head off at the possibility of her mother leaving her and never returning. I jiggle her up and down on my hip and take her downstairs. When she realises she is far enough away from her mother’s ears, she stops crying and turns to me. Her bottom lip pouting in a comical way.
It feels so natural moving around the kitchen with her on my hip. Every now and then blowing a raspberry on her cheek or hand. I pour two glasses of wine and go to check out the instructions for heating up a jar of baby food. By the time Poppy rejoins us, Lily is chuckling and has all but forgotten her mother exists. Until she sees her that is and nearly launches herself out of my arms to grab hold of her. I pass her over and Poppy sits down at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and puts Lily in the buggy next to her with a rattle.
“Oh, that reminds me.” I exclaim and rush off into the living room to retrieve the gifts I had got for Lily.
“Here, I got these for her. Wasn’t sure what you’d have room to bring?”
“Oh, so she gets toys but not the essentials like a car seat.”
I raise one eyebrow at her.
“Joking,” she sings.
I produce the stuffed duck and show it to Lily. Her eyes open wide and she bangs the tray clipped to her buggy with her fists. I hand it over.
“Aw, Jemima Puddle-Duck,” Poppy coos. “That was always my favourite.”
“I know, that’s why I got it for her.”
“Do you remember that time you hid it down the bottom of the garden and wouldn’t tell me where it was all day and in the end Dad had to threaten to take all your toys off you before you would ‘fess up?”
“Yeah.”
“You were horrible to me.” Her bottom lip juts out in false sorrow.
“Huh?” I gasp. “Me horrible to you? What about the time you pinched the love of my life right from under my nose?”
“Rosa, you were eleven,” she says in a dull tone.
“Yes, but I it stuck with me and I wouldn’t introduce you to any of my boyfriends after that.”
“Shame you didn’t introduce me to Charles. I would have had some fun kicking him in to touch.”
“Hmm, Charles.” I sip on my wine to relieve the nasty taste his name leaves on my lips.
“So, what’s the latest, Rosa?”
I blow out a breath that reverberates noisily over my lips.
“Can we eat first? I don’t want the conversation to ruin my appetite.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t look as if you’ve been eating at all. How much weight have you lost?”
“Enough,” I reply cagily. I’ve actually no idea, but I know most of my skirts easily twizzle around my waist and my trousers require a belt.
“Well you do look good. But no more. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
The delicious smell of the herby tomatoes and beef wafting into the room, reminds me the lasagna will be almost done.
“Do you think you can manage some garlic bread with it?”
She gives me a look, which means she can. I slide it onto a tray and into the oven above the bubbling pasta dish.
“How’s Sky?”
“Yeah he’s good. Struggling a bit with the whole nine to five thing. You know how he is.”
“Yeah, I do, but you’ve both got responsibilities now.” Flicking my eyes across to Lily.
“Well there’s always another way, you know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well maybe you need to be enlightened.”
I screw my face up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A fat lot of good it did you getting on the millstone wheel.”
I don’t reply. She doesn’t know the half of it yet.
“We’re thinking about packing it in. Traveling again.”
“What with a baby?” I blurt in a totally unenlightened screech.
“Yeah, with a baby. It’s not unheard of you know, and totally doable.”
“How?” I sit down to make sure the seriousness of this conversation isn’t lost on the distractions of making dinner.
“We’ve done a dry run and…” she pauses and starts at the beginning. “I set up a blog a couple of months ago about how living in today’s society is so unrewarding, spiritually that is, and how we are tricked into conforming to what we think is an acceptable way of living. Possessions, debt, bosses, corporations and how there is an alternative to all that… and it’s really taken off. Like I’ve got a million followers
already.” Her eyes brightening at the revelation of her success.
I’m not really taking all of what she is saying in, but that sounds like a lot of interest.
“A million?” I gasp. “A million people are interested in what you have to say?”
She laughs. “Yeah I know. Crazy, right?”
“So, what does all this mean?”
“We pack up and go to Mexico, and blog from there. Until we want to move on to somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where we do it from and actually we’re at the point where we need to be showing the alternative lifestyle and not just telling everyone about it.”
“But I don’t get how you make a living from it?”
“That’s the easy part. Companies are jumping all over themselves to sponsor bloggers with big followings and Sky has written a book. So, we can self-publish that too. Maybe look at running some courses or do some spin-off related stuff. The possibilities are endless.”
My mouth has fallen open at her zeal. The ludicrous enthusiasm that she is spouting.
“Poppy, it won’t work.”
An expression flashes across her face, a look I remember from when we were little and I told her she couldn’t scale the tree at the bottom of the garden and swing onto next door’s garage roof. Or when she first wanted to move to the U.S. and I said there was no way she would get a green card.
A hurt look, disappointed even, but one that also showed she was determined to prove me wrong.
“Bread!” The smell of burnt garlic hitting my nostrils. I jump up and grab a tea-towel from the drainer and snatch the bread out of the oven.
“Phew.” Relieved that just the edges have caught.
It’s a struggle to eat much of the lasagna, even when the amount I put on my plate is really quite small. It seems my ability to comfort myself with food is still a step too far right now.
Poppy and Lily head off up to bed with their belly’s full. I stop downstairs to wash the pots and finish the bottle of wine.
I wake up after just an hour asleep, thinking about Poppy and her dream lifestyle. I’m tempted to go through to the guest room and rouse her; tell her to go for it and to waste no more time. Reaffirm to her that life is yours, do with it what you will and if that means setting aside the norm and living barefoot with no baggage or expectations, then for goodness sake do it.
Into the Light Page 6
