Rose had turned up at the cake stall all fired up to feel differently about Francesca. When not watching depressing documentaries on Netflix and replaying what Sky had said to her on a loop, she’d spent most of Friday coming up with reasons to no longer like Francesca. Most of these involved imagining her with Pierre in various scenarios that made her want to puke her guts up. But as soon as she arrived and saw Francesca putting the cakes out on the stall, as soon as she saw her shiny dark hair cascading in curls around her shoulders, as soon as she saw her hour-glass figure squeezed into yet another beautiful dress, as soon as she saw the way Francesca’s face lit up when she saw Rose, all the old feelings came flooding back. And if anything, they felt even more powerful now they were tinged with the tragic air of unrequitedness. Rose wasn’t even sure if unrequitedness was a word, but if it was, she was currently it personified.
“Rose! How is your friend? Is she OK?” Francesca cried.
It took Rose a couple of seconds to remember her excuse for leaving the shop on Monday night.
“Yes, she’s fine now, thanks,” she replied. She couldn’t help feeling a bitter pang as she thought back to Thursday night on the canal and how Leon had rung Sky. How he “liked her back”, as Sky had put it. Much as Rose hated to admit it, it had made her own pain feel less intense when she’d thought that Sky might be a walking, talking, crying-to-the-moon case of unrequited love too. But no, it wasn’t to be. Sky was all loved up and Rose was alone in her pathetic-ness.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Francesca said. “You looked so worried about her.”
“Yes. Yes, I was.” Rose couldn’t help giving a bitter laugh. How times had changed. She might have felt a pang of envy about Leon liking Sky but that didn’t alter the fact that Sky had been bang out of line letting Maali down.
“I need to ask you a favour and if it is not OK then that’s fine, I will totally understand,” Francesca said.
“Of course. What is it?” Rose felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of helping Francesca in some way. It was as if the rest of her body hadn’t got the memo from her brain that this was now an entirely futile cause.
“Catherine has rung in sick, which means I’m one short in the shop today. I know I said I’d work here with you for the whole of today but do you think you would be OK on your own for a while? You did so well last week, I’m sure you can do it. And I would pay you extra too.”
Rose felt a dull thud of disappointment. “Sure. I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Oh, thank you!” Francesca hugged her. Her perfume smelled as delicious as ever but this time it was a little too sweet, like something an evil fairy-tale princess would wear to ensnare her victims.
“No problem.” Rose pulled away. Jet was staring at them from the jewellery stall. The slogan on her t-shirt read DIE ANGRY! A message Rose felt certain Jet would live up to.
“Melvin!” Francesca called over to Mel. “I will need to leave Rose on her own for a while. Will it be OK for you to keep an eye on the stall if she needs to take a break? In case you need a toilet break,” she whispered to Rose.
“Of course, darlin’,” Mel called back. “Anything for you girls, especially if there’s a cake in it for me.”
“But of course!” Francesca cried. She turned back to Rose. “So I will go to the shop now and make sure they’re OK. Then I will be back with you in time for the lunchtime rush.”
“Sure.” Rose wondered if it was actually possible to wilt from disappointment. She felt dangerously close to finding out.
“Cheer up, love, it might never happen,” Mel said, appearing at the stall with his trademark cheeky grin.
“It already has,” Rose replied glumly. She looked past Mel into the market. A small woman wearing an orange hippy-style poncho, baseball cap and huge pair of sunglasses was approaching the stall. Rose put on her best customer service smile. “Hey, can I help you? Oh my God! Mom! Is that you?”
Savannah nodded and glanced around nervously. “Shh.”
“What are you doing here?” Rose’s pulse quickened. The only reason Savannah would come here on her own was if there’d been some kind of emergency. “Is everything OK?”
Mel had gone back to his stall but she could see him looking over at them curiously.
Savannah nodded.
“Then why are you here?”
“I wanted to see where you worked.”
“You did? Why?”
Savannah glared at her over the top of her shades. “You’re my daughter. I care about where you work, OK?”
“OK.” Rose looked her up and down. “Where’d you get the poncho from, Mom? Crusty Hippy dot com?”
“Liam lent it to me. I didn’t want to be recognized.”
“Liam?” This was getting weirder by the minute. “When did you see Liam?”
“Just now. I had something I needed to discuss with him.” Savannah looked at the cakes on the stall. “Did you make these?”
“Some of them.”
Savannah nodded. Her huge glasses made it impossible to read her expression.
“So what’s the deal? Why are you really here?”
“I’d like to buy some cakes.”
Rose could barely keep herself from gaping. “For real?”
Savannah nodded.
“You do realize that they contain sugar and flour and all kinds of fat?”
Savannah pursed her lips. “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Rose. I am aware of what goes into a cake.”
“All righty then, just checking.” Rose picked up the cake tongs. “Which one would you like?”
“I’ll take two dozen. Give me an assortment.”
“Two dozen? But that’s, like, twenty-four!”
“Yes, I am able to count, too.”
Rose put the tongs down on top of the glass cabinet. “Mom, what are you going to do with twenty-four cakes?”
“Do you want my custom or not?”
“Yes, of course – but – OK then.” Rose took two of the biggest boxes from beneath the stall and started filling them with cupcakes. Her mom might have officially lost the plot but at least Francesca would be pleased. They might sell out again by the end of the day. Arrrgh! Rose felt a burst of anger at herself. Why was she still so bothered about making Francesca happy? She put the cake boxes into a bag and handed them to Savannah. “How did you even get here?” Savannah never went out in public unaccompanied any more.
“Margot drove. She’s waiting in a parking bay just outside the market. We’re on our way to a Vagina Vows workshop.”
“Eew, Mom!”
“What? I thought it would be nice to get some cakes for the participants – to have during our break. How much do I owe you?” Savannah got out her platinum credit card and handed it to Rose. “Are you coming home after work?”
“I guess.”
“Good. I have something I need to talk to you about.” Savannah tapped her pin number into the card reader. “You shouldn’t have thrown those cakes out, by the way. They were delicious.”
“You ate one?” Rose stared at her, open-mouthed.
“I ate two. I loved the combination of the chocolate and the chilli.” Savannah stepped back and looked at the stall. “So, this is what all the fuss is about, huh?”
Rose instantly felt defensive. Was she about to make a dig? “Yes.”
Savannah nodded. “OK. Good. I’ll see you at home.”
“Yes, see ya.” Rose watched as Savannah hurried out of the market. The way she walked in public places – head down, shoulders hunched, not wanting to be seen – was the total opposite to her catwalk strut. Rose sat down on the stool behind the stall and tried to take in everything that had just happened. But all she got were unanswered questions. Why had her mom been to see Liam? Why had she come to check out the stall? And what the hell went on at a Vagina Vows workshop?
Chapter Thirty
Amber took a sip of her bitter coffee and gazed along the bustling street. As soon as she’d arrived in Paris sh
e’d come straight to Montmartre, one of Oscar Wilde’s favourite haunts. As she looked up the hill to the stunning white-domed church at the top she could see why. Montmartre was beautiful. Paris was beautiful. The minute Amber had set foot in the Metro system she’d fallen in love. With its art deco station signs and dramatic station names – names like Saint-Augustine and Château Rouge and Notre-Dame-de-Lorette – it was so different from London. She felt like a character in an arty French movie – mysterious and adventurous and so alive. Here, dressed in her plum-coloured suit and black fedora, she didn’t feel like she stood out – she felt like she fitted right in. She loved the way all the cafés had their pavement seats facing outwards so that everyone could people-watch. She loved the lilting voices of the French people sitting around her outside the café. She loved how beautiful and dramatic their conversations sounded. Already she was seeing why writers such as Oscar Wilde had been drawn to Paris – there was so much here to stimulate the imagination. She took out her notepad and began to write.
Sky looked at the pile of books on her cabin floor and sighed. She was supposed to be spending the weekend getting on top of her homework but it was so hard to concentrate. Every time she looked around the cabin she’d get a flashback to Thursday night – Rose had looked so angry and hurt. At the time it had seemed obvious to Sky that Rose was jealous; but now she wasn’t so sure. The more time that passed, the more doubtful she became. What if Rose had genuinely been angry out of her loyalty to Maali? Why couldn’t Sky have told her the truth about her fear of hospitals instead of letting things get so out of hand? What if Rose never wanted to see her again? What would happen to the Moonlight Dreamers then? Sky looked back at her text books. How could she concentrate on homework when everything had gone so wrong? The alert went off on her phone and she grabbed it, hoping it was Rose. But it was a text from Leon.
Really looking forward to seeing you later Sky-Blue. xx
Sky felt a burst of warmth. Leon had invited her to a spoken word event in Vauxhall that night. Really looking forward to seeing you too xx, she typed back. And she was. Right now, being with Leon was the only place she felt free from stress. He didn’t know the Moonlight Dreamers. He didn’t know about Sky’s fear of hospitals. He didn’t know what she was going through at school. He didn’t know any of it. When she was with him she could pretend she was happy and strong. When she was with him she could escape into a dream-like world of poetry and kisses. Sky looked at her battered notebook next to her bunk. She could escape into that world right now, through her pen. She shoved her homework books into the corner and began to write.
Amber climbed the last of the steps up Montmartre hill. All the way up she’d stopped herself from turning round. She’d wanted to save the view for when she got to the top. It was well worth the wait. As Amber slowly turned around she couldn’t help gasping. The whole of Paris lay spread out beneath her, its white buildings glowing pale gold in the winter sun. A crowd had gathered around a busker on the plateau below. He had long dark hair and olive skin and was holding a battered guitar covered in stickers.
“Welcome to Paris!” he cried in a heavy French accent. “The city that can change your life for ever.”
As she drank in the stunning landscape, Amber could definitely believe him. When she’d come to Paris last year her sole focus had been to see Oscar Wilde’s grave. She’d felt like a tourist, like an outsider looking in. But coming here on her own was a completely different experience. This time she felt the heady Parisian atmosphere – the dramatic place names, the passionate people, the smells of freshly baked bread and cigarette smoke and coffee and wine – soaking into her. This time she felt part of it – an insider, looking out.
“This is a song I think you all will know,” the busker said.
A ripple of applause broke out, Amber looked back at Sacré-Coeur. Even though she didn’t believe in God and had never once gone to church, she couldn’t help feeling awestruck. With its white turrets and domes it looked like the palace from a fairy tale. She turned to look back down the hill and pictured Oscar Wilde standing in this exact same spot all those years before. She hoped he had moments of happiness just like the one she was experiencing before he died. She hoped his final years weren’t all sorrow-filled.
The busker started to sing “Let It Be”, and a shiver ran up Amber’s spine as the crowd joined in.
As Amber hummed along, she pictured all the things she’d been worrying about drifting away like notes on the breeze.
Rose trudged up the hill towards home feeling laden down with gloom. Her day at work had ended spectacularly badly when Francesca had returned to the stall with Pierre in tow to help her pack away. They didn’t need his help. They’d done just fine the previous week. It was so cringey seeing them giggling and flirting together. It was the kind of behaviour that would normally make Rose tell them to “get a room”. But she didn’t want Francesca to get a room with Pierre. She didn’t want her doing anything in private with him. The mere thought made her skin crawl. It was weird how everything she’d loved about Francesca – her smile, her accent, her laugh – seemed repellent now it was being directed towards Pierre. All Rose wanted was to get home, take a long bath with one of her mom’s smelliest bath bombs and soak all of the stress away.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The first unexpected thing she noticed was her mom’s suitcase by the foot of the stairs. The second was the smell. Instead of the usual aroma of Savannah’s favourite bergamot and lime-scented candles, Rose was sure she could smell something baking. She sniffed the air. It smelled fruity and spicy and sweet. Maybe Savannah was burning one of the American candles they always had at Thanksgiving. Pumpkin Pie or Cinnamon Spice or whatever. But as Rose crossed the hall she realized the smell was definitely coming from the kitchen.
“Mom! What’s going on?”
Savannah was standing in the middle of the kitchen. In what appeared to be some kind of flour-induced apocalypse. The counter, the floor and Savannah herself were all covered in a white, powdery dust. “I’m baking,” she said with a grin.
Rose activated her alcohol sensor. But Savannah didn’t appear to be swaying and her speech didn’t seem to be slurred. “OK. And what are you baking?”
“A pie.” Savannah looked and sounded totally sober. Maybe she’d OD-ed on green juice. Maybe she was experiencing some kind of weird kale-induced high.
“What kind of pie?”
“Apple. I think I might have put in a little too much cinnamon, though.” Savannah frowned at the oven. “I was trying to remember my grandma’s recipe. Does half a cup sound about right to you?”
“Half a cup of cinnamon? In one pie?!”
“Uh-huh.”
Rose sat down at the breakfast bar. “That might be a little on the spicy side.”
Savannah sighed. “It’s been so long since I baked anything. I used to love it when I was a kid.”
“You did?”
“I used to help my grandma all the time. She was such a great baker – must be where you get it from.” Savannah sat down opposite Rose and lit a cigarette. “Do you want a coffee?”
“Please.”
Savannah rested her cigarette in the ashtray and fetched the jug of coffee and two mugs. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since our – since we spoke about…”
“Me coming out?” Rose offered.
“Yes.” Savannah poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “I feel like I’ve really let you down. Again.”
Rose instinctively wanted to lie and tell her that she hadn’t, but she bit her tongue. It was so rare that her mom apologized, she wanted to hear what else she had to say.
Savannah poured herself a cup. “I was so hurt when your dad told me you’d told him first – I just did what I always do and I lashed out. I’m really sorry. And I want to make some changes, some serious changes.”
“Like what?” Rose took a sip of coffee and braced herself.
“I want to be a real mo
m. I want to do real mom things, like be there for you and bake you pies.” Savannah leapt to her feet. “Shit! The pie!” She grabbed the hand towel and opened the oven. “Oh no! It’s burnt.” She plonked the pie on the counter. The crust was black and there was steam coming from a crack in the lid. Savannah looked like she might be about to cry.
“It’s OK,” Rose said quickly. “We can eat around the black bits.”
The smoke alarm began to beep and they burst out laughing.
When they finally got the alarm to stop, they sat down at the breakfast bar and Savannah took a drag on her cigarette.
“So, you’re gay.”
“Yes.” Rose looked at her anxiously. She got that her mom was pissed at her for telling Jason first but was she OK about the actual sexuality bit?
“I love you. You know that, right?”
Rose nodded, even though there’d been times lately when she hadn’t been so sure.
“And I’m so proud of you.” She place her hand over Rose’s. “Seeing you today on that stall, looking so grown-up, I felt as if my heart was going to burst with pride.”
“For real?”
“For real. So I want you to know that your sexuality makes no difference to me. If anything it just makes me love you more.”
Rose felt a lump growing in her throat. “How?”
“Because it’s another example of how fearless you are. I love that about you.”
“I’m not fearless, Mom. I get frightened a lot.”
Savannah squeezed her hand. “Well, then I love how you overcome your fear and don’t let it dictate what you do. Not like me.” She looked so sad it made Rose’s heart ache.
“What are you afraid of, Mom?”
Savannah sighed. “So many things. Growing old, getting fat, losing my career. But I don’t want to be like that any more. I want to be more like you.”
Tell It to the Moon Page 19
