The Perfectly Imperfect Woman

by Milly Johnson

  *

  Somehow, in the wee small hours when Marnie was forced to finally shut down and recharge, her brain gave a great sigh, put its hands on its hips and set out to build something from the broken pieces of her life, then attempted to present it to her as a dream. It cobbled old memories of Mrs McMaid with new information about Jessie and her pie-making in Little Raspberries. It pulled in Wychwell and Lilian Dearman and their first meeting in Skipperstone in the Tea Lady tearoom then sat back and waited. It was as worthy a plan as Marnie brought to the corporate table in Laurence’s boardroom.

  Marnie woke up at just after seven a.m. with her head spinning. She sat at the kitchen table with a very strong coffee and raked over the ridiculous notion that was resolutely sitting in her little grey cells. She couldn’t. How could she? It was stupid. Wasn’t she supposed to be an intelligent woman, and here she was having the thoughts of a madwoman. But desperate thoughts came to desperate people.

  She got dressed quickly. She had emergency shopping to do in Tesco.

  Chapter 12

  That afternoon Marnie sat at a corner table in the Tea Lady in Skipperstone trying not to believe that she was about to make the biggest tit of herself imaginable. Then again, how much worse could it get? She tried to concentrate on the menu in front of her because if she started thinking about what she was about to do, she would walk out.

  A young waitress in a liveried black dress and white apron emerged from a door behind the till counter and waved to her. ‘Mrs Abercrombie will see you now,’ she said. Marnie stood up on shaking legs and picked up the large food container she had brought with her. She followed the waitress down a short corridor and knocked on the door at the end.

  ‘Come in,’ boomed a deep, smoky voice.

  The waitress opened the door for Marnie then left her to it. Marnie walked into the small office balancing the plastic box with one hand, the other extended towards Fiona Abercrombie, a large buxom woman with short, cropped white hair and long dangly earrings.

  ‘Mrs Abercrombie, Marnie Salt. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’ Marnie’s own voice was a confident act belying a jelly interior.

  ‘Do sit down.’ Mrs Abercrombie indicated the chair at the other side of her desk.

  Marnie sat and rested the box on her knee.

  ‘Ten out of ten for balls,’ said Mrs Abercrombie. ‘You intrigued me.’

  Marnie had rung her that morning with the opening line: ‘Mrs Abercrombie. I have to say that as much as I love your tearoom in Skipperstone, your cheesecakes are appalling.’ She’d expected the phone to be slammed down. It hadn’t been.

  ‘Are those samples?’ Mrs Abercrombie pointed to the box.

  ‘Yes.’ Marnie peeled the lid from the large square container and lifted out the contents. Squares of cheesecake sat on foil. Marnie took her through the various flavours as every one was different.

  ‘Lime and ginger, white chocolate and raspberry, trillionaire’s shortbread, old English trifle, chocolate rum truffle, prosecco and strawberry, honeycomb and caramel.’

  ‘Goodness. You are inventive,’ said Mrs Abercrombie with a note of surprise in her words.

  ‘I can also do a gin, tonic and lemon one, pina colada, dark chocolate and coconut . . . well, any flavour you like. Even liquorice.’ Marnie handed her a plastic spork from a packet which she’d also brought.

  Mrs Abercrombie dived straight into the trifle cheesecake.

  ‘The fruit didn’t have a lot of time to sit in the sherry so the flavour will be lacking, but I usually soak it overnight,’ Marnie explained, trying to read from Mrs Abercrombie’s expression what she thought. Was that a slight nod of approval?

  Mrs Abercrombie moved on to the trillionaire’s shortbread now. There, a definite ‘mmm’ sound of appreciation.

  ‘Discretion absolutely guaranteed,’ said Marnie, which was obviously the wrong thing to say as Mrs Abercrombie shot her a look.

  ‘Erm . . . I mean that I have no idea what your present set-up is,’ Marnie quickly amended, ‘but, if you bought your cheesecakes from me, no one need think anything other than that they are made in the Tea Lady’s own kitchens.’

  Crisis averted. Mrs Abercrombie moved on to the next sample.

  ‘Who else do you supply?’ she asked, after swallowing a mouthful of the chocolate rum truffle.

  ‘No one. I was taught by the best cheesecake maker in the world, who trained under Gaston Lenôtre in Paris,’ Marnie lied. ‘Family circumstances prevented me from pursuing my chosen career as a patisserie chef, but I have finally decided that I can no longer deny the reason I believe I was put on earth for. I have no interest in opening up a café or a shop, I don’t want to deal with the general public, only business to business.’

  Lies came so easily when you half-believed them yourself, thought Marnie. No wonder Justin was so seasoned at them.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mrs Abercrombie, studying the taste. ‘I detect something quite unusual. Too subtle to interfere, but a definite presence. What is it?’

  Mrs McMaid’s secret ingredient, that’s what it was.

  ‘Ah, a pinch of something Lenôtre passed down to my mentor, and she to me. I would be breaking a solemn vow if I revealed it.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ mused Mrs Abercrombie. ‘They are excellent. What are your hygiene standards like?’

  Marnie forced an affronted look. ‘Exemplary,’ she said. ‘You could do operations on my kitchen table. I have the highest standards.’

  ‘I would insist on a contract being drawn up, of absolute discretion. I would insist on a visit to your kitchens and the possibility of spot-checks. All cakes must be boxed at your end in my packaging which vans will collect and distribute. I have fifteen outlets. Have you time to sit down now and discuss full terms and conditions?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marnie said with a dry throat, so she coughed and repeated the word. ‘Yes.’

  Mrs Abercrombie pressed a buzzer down on an old-fashioned intercom system on her desk. A crackly voice answered, ‘Yes, Mrs Abercrombie.’

  ‘Janet, have two teas sent through, please.’

  Mrs Abercrombie drove a ridiculously hard bargain, but the profits would give Marnie a living wage – just. Nothing like what she earned at Café Caramba, but enough so that she didn’t have to survive on Cup-a-Soups and tins of tomatoes as she had for a spell in her first bedsit.

  She sat in the car and took lots of calming deep breaths before setting off back home. Her mother’s voice was shouting in her inner ear, even more furious than usual: ‘What are you thinking, you stupid girl?’ She wasn’t thinking, was the honest answer. She was going with the flow, albeit a very strange flow.

  That was step one. For step two, she picked up her phone and scrolled to ‘recent contacts’. Lilian Dearman picked up immediately.

  ‘Marnie, my dear girl. What a lovely surprise, how are you?’

  ‘Lilian, did you mean what you said about Little Raspberries? Could I rent it from you? Could I—’

  Marnie was cut off by an exhilarated Lilian.

  ‘Of course, of course. I’ll ask Herv to cut the lawn and we will have it ready for you. When are you thinking of coming?’

  ‘Tomorrow, is that too soon?’

  ‘It’s not soon enough. I’m delighted. I’m absolutely delighted.’

  As soon as Marnie got home, she set up a mail redirection service and informed the estate agent of her new address so they might forward anything that came for her until it kicked in. There was no point in changing all her documentation because she didn’t know how long she was going to be staying in Wychwell: a few weeks at most, she figured. Then – who knows?

  She’d sold nearly all of her furniture to move in with Aaron, so she reckoned she could get most of what she owned into her trusty Renault. She called in at the local Quality Road bargain store because they always had a bank of boxes for people to take and then she emptied her kitchen cupboards into them. Books filled another two boxes, her clothes went into her thre
e suitcases and her laptop, printer and stationery went in another. She filtered the items before packing and put plenty of things into black bin liners for the charity shop. For instance, she would never again wear the suit she had on when Suranna Fox was trying to scalp her. She would drop off some surplus bedding at the animal shelter. Amongst them the sheets that she and Justin had rolled around on when he visited that one time. And the towel he’d used when he came out of her shower – when he’d washed off their sex-odour and her perfume to make himself neutral for his wife.

  By suppertime, her life was all packed up. She had a few boxes that she couldn’t fit in the car and rang her mother to see if she could store them in her cavernous garage. Her mother sighed and said that she supposed so. Everything Marnie said to her seemed to exasperate her. Marnie said she’d call round in the morning.

  For once, she had no trouble at all going to sleep that night. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well or so deeply.

  Chapter 13

  The family home – Salty Towers II – was a substantial terraced town villa just outside Penistone. It had high ceilings, period features and large square rooms. Despite the chunky central heating radiators, Marnie’s principal memory of the house was that it was always cold. Judith had never liked the house; she had preferred the one they had before in Wakefield. The one they’d had to move from. Because of Marnie, as she was so often reminded.

  Marnie hadn’t seen her mother since she’d dropped off her present before Christmas. She rang once a fortnight – never the other way around – and sometimes her mother picked up, sometimes the answering machine did. The conversations were always short and dutiful: was her mother all right, did she need anything? Her mother always replied that she was perfectly fine and if she wanted anything, she would ask. There was little more to the interchange than that. Marnie had long since learned that any attempt at telling her mother what was going on in her life was met with indifference, although she sometimes still tried, ever hopeful of a breakthrough.

  Marnie carried her boxes into the garage, storing them neatly at the back, then went into the house. Her mother hadn’t put the kettle on, she wouldn’t have even thought to. Marnie thought she’d lost weight that she didn’t have to lose; the skin at her neck looked more sunken in than usual and gave the impression that her head was being supported by tent poles. She was huddled in a thin cardigan, a step away from teeth-chattering.

  ‘It’s cold in here, Mum,’ said Marnie.

  ‘I’m not putting the central heating on in May,’ said Judith. ‘Besides, I’m not sure it would make any difference.’

  ‘Well it would,’ argued Marnie. ‘You’d be warm for a start, you look frozen.’

  Judith walked over to the mantelpiece and took a card from it which was propped up against a clock. ‘I’ve never liked this house,’ she said and Marnie knew what was coming next. ‘I never wanted to leave the lovely one we had in Wakefield. Here.’ She handed the card to Marnie. ‘I didn’t have a chance to post it.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Marnie thinking that all roads led to the lovely house in Wakefield, and the wonderful rose-tinted life they’d all led there until she ruined it. She could have started a conversation about Charles Manson and in three steps, her mother would have bent it around to the lovely house in Wakefield.

  ‘So where are you going?’ asked Judith.

  ‘I’m staying in the Dales for a while.’

  ‘The Dales? Whatever for? How are you going to get to Leeds every morning from the Dales.’

  She imbued the word with all the disapproval that she might have saved for a sewerage leak.

  Marnie braced herself for the onslaught that would surely come. ‘I’m not working in Leeds any more. I’ve got a new job, for now anyway.’

  She really hoped her mother wouldn’t ask what that new job was.

  ‘Gabrielle has a new job too,’ said Judith, nibbling a rough edge from one of her short, neat nails. ‘It involves a lot of travelling to New York.’

  ‘Oh, good for her,’ said Marnie, fearing that it had come out sounding sarcastic.

  ‘Business class too. She doesn’t travel anywhere these days unless it’s first class, she says.’

  Marnie did her best not to react. Her job would sound extra shit at the side of Miss Bloody Perfect Gabrielle’s international career. She would have to lie if asked. She couldn’t tell her mother the truth.

  ‘How long are you intending to leave that stuff here?’ asked Judith.

  ‘A few weeks. Is that all right?’ Surely it would be, considering that her boxes and a chest freezer were the only things in the garage. Her mother didn’t drive; she took taxis when she needed to go anywhere, or someone from her bridge club gave her a lift.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Judith; her stock, weary phrase. ‘What sort of job are you doing now, then?’

  International envoy for Yorkshire, Marnie was tempted to say. It involves lots of travelling to the space station – beat that, Gabrielle.

  Then Judith said under her breath, ‘I don’t suppose it’ll be an upward move,’ and Marnie felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise.

  ‘I’ve opened up a cheesecake factory,’ she heard herself saying as her mouth broke loose from the straps tethering it to the sensible part of her brain.

  There was an obvious silence after that, broken only by Judith Salt’s jaw hitting the floor. Then her mother said:

  ‘CHEESECAKE? CHEESE. CAKE?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, cheesecake.’

  ‘You are not telling me that you are leaving your job to—’ The sentence was severed and Judith’s face formed that mask of disappointment that Marnie had seen so many times and Gabrielle had seen just the once, when she had failed her Grade 8 flute for playing some bum notes.

  ‘Yes, I’m telling you exactly that.’ I’m thirty-two, I’m not asking for your permission, Marnie added to herself before continuing. ‘Look, I know what you’re thinking but I’m a big girl now and I—’

  ‘HUH.’ Judith’s single hard note of acerbic laughter held a library’s-worth of words.

  Marnie sighed. She wouldn’t get through to her mother. She never had and probably never would. She might not have needed her permission but, however much she tried not to, she really, really would have liked her approval. If this had been Gabrielle, she might have been praised for her derring-do and enterprise (despite embarking on a sinful relationship with sugar and fats), but this was Marnie and the old adage of blood being thicker than water always held true in the Salt family.

  ‘Well, it’s your own life, I suppose,’ supposed Judith Salt yet again. ‘Yours to make a hash of if that’s what you want to do. As you say, you’re a very big girl now.’

  Marnie wanted to point out that the ‘very’ hadn’t been there when she said it. But she knew that was another sly dig. A size fourteen wasn’t big, but it was when you came from a family of willowy saplings. Her BMI wasn’t pulsing out danger lights, she was healthy, could put her socks on without turning a dark shade of aubergine and went in and out in all the right places. She certainly looked healthier than her mother did at the moment: pale and brittle, more so than usual.

  Her mother was talking under her breath now, quiet words that weren’t meant to be overheard, apart from one that was: disappointment.

  Tears rushed to Marnie’s eyes. Despite all those years of hearing that word levelled at her, she had never quite hardened herself to it. It hit the bullseye of her heart every time. And though she had always swallowed it in the past, this time she couldn’t.

  ‘Yes, Mum, I know I am,’ she said, struggling to keep the wobble out of her voice. ‘You’ve always made that perfectly clear.’

  ‘Can you blame me? After all the trouble you’ve caused.’ Judith Salt flew back at her sharply, eyes narrowed and glittering with anger.

  ‘All the trouble I . . .’

  But Judith hadn’t finished.

  ‘I wonder about your sanity sometime
s, Marnie. I really do.’

  ‘What?’ That was one she hadn’t heard before and made her mouth curve with disbelief, a smile with no humour in it that further infuriated Judith.

  ‘Yes, you would find it funny. Who throws away a career to go and make . . . buns?’

  ‘I’m not exact—’

  But Judith was on a rant now.

  ‘You were awkward from the off. You wouldn’t sleep, such high maintenance.’ She shook her head disapprovingly. It took Marnie a few seconds to realise her mother was talking about her as a baby.

  ‘You mean when you adopted me? When I was one?’

  ‘You were manipulative even at that age.’

  Marnie did laugh then. A high-pitched bark of incredulity.

  ‘I was one year old, Mum.’

  Marnie thought there was nothing new left to hear from her mother but she was wrong. The word cheesecake had taken the stopper off a bottle and it wouldn’t go back in. Things that Judith Salt had been holding back for years started frothing up inside her.

  ‘He would never have left me if it wasn’t for you. I thought you’d glue us back together, but you didn’t you drove us apart.’

  ‘I drove . . . ? Glue? What do you mean?’

  ‘They told me I couldn’t have children. He agreed to adopt, to save us, but he couldn’t take to you. He wanted his own child. He wanted a son. When he found out I was carrying another daughter, he left. Don’t you see?’

  Marnie swallowed. Dad. The father that wasn’t really hers and that she couldn’t even remember. The one who had to pay maintenance for her and had resented every penny of it.

  ‘I see that he was a real catch.’

  Judith screamed at her. ‘She was our little miracle. She would have kept us together. He would have loved her if you hadn’t put him off having a daughter.’