An image of the young teacher backing away from her front door a few weeks ago popped into her head, his jacket tucked under one arm while he carried his shoes in the other hand.
She sat up in the bed, ensuring she was completely covered from the neck down by the duvet, her back to her companion. ‘Sorry about that. I don’t usually… do this.’
‘Me either.’
She chanced a peek at him now. Just a quick one, but long enough to quirk an eyebrow at him. She didn’t believe this wasn’t a regular occurrence for a second. He was young. Wasn’t this what men in their twenties did? Though, admittedly, she imagined they didn’t choose women as past their sell by date as she was.
He laughed. ‘It’s true. I’m not long out of a long-term relationship myself.’
She turned fully this time, her hand clutching at the duvet, and nodded. ‘I remember you telling me last time.’ And yet she couldn’t remember him uttering that teeny, vitally important detail of his name. ‘How long were you together?’
He wriggled into a sitting position, though he didn’t bother to cover himself with the duvet. And why would he? With a body like that, there was no need for modesty.
‘Eight years. She ended it at Christmas. Christmas Day, to be exact.’
‘Ouch.’ But eight years? How was that even possible? Were they Secondary School Sweethearts? ‘How old are you?’
Please don’t say twenty-one. Please don’t say twenty-one.
‘I’m twenty-nine.’
Katie heaved a massive sigh of relief. Twenty-nine was okay. Not great, but it was at the preferred end of the scale under the circumstances.
‘You know I’m not in my twenties, don’t you?’ She wouldn’t even be in her thirties for much longer.
He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t make a difference to me. You’re hot.’
Katie laughed, because surely he was kidding. Hot? She was a mum of two largely independent children! A mum of a teenager. She was about to point this out but found she couldn’t speak as the not-so-young teacher was kissing her. There were lots of reasons to justify her hands on his chest, gently but firmly pushing him away, not least the fact she was quite a bit older than him, she had a teenage son, she wasn’t yet divorced (nor wanted to be divorced) and she suspected she had pretty rank morning breath. But her hands didn’t find his chest. She didn’t push him away at all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Frankie
Frankie’s chest was on fire as she reached the top of the cliffs, and she reduced her pace for the final push along the path worn through the grass and wild flowers, gulping in the salty air as she ambled towards the edge. It was so pretty up here, with the pink and purple petals pushing through the long grass, waving in the breeze to the soundtrack of the crashing waves below. It was blowing a gale now she’d reached the uppermost point of the cliffs, so she kept a safe distance from the brink, afraid the wind would nudge her over the edge and send her falling down onto the rocks below.
She was alone up on the cliffs, but rather than calming her, she found the solitude frightening that afternoon, as her fears crept to the surface, whispering above the roar of the waves and the distant cry of seagulls and, free from any real distraction, Frankie was forced to listen. She pressed a hand to her stomach as images flashed through her mind. Images of Bradley, of the flutter of a kiss she’d felt that final morning as she wavered between sleep and consciousness. Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you see he wasn’t himself? Why didn’t you stop it? She’d mumbled a goodbye, her brain frazzled after a particularly bad night of broken sleep with the twins, before succumbing to the delicious pull of slumber. She’d been safely cocooned under the covers as Bradley hooked his leg over the bridge, as he looked down at the cars and lorries whizzing past. As he took that final decision and pushed himself away from the edge. She’d slept soundly while strangers faced the horror, while the paramedics did their best to save Bradley, to bring him back to her, and the sound of the phone ringing had irritated her as it dragged her back into consciousness. The twins were asleep at the same time for once and someone had woken her, and although it was a perfectly reasonable response under the circumstances and she would have reacted differently had she known the news that was about to be delivered, she would always feel that stab of guilt that her first response to that phone call had been annoyance.
Her knees felt weak, as though they could crumble beneath her at any minute, but she turned and ran, forcing her legs to move, to propel her away from those dark days and towards the safety of home. Despite the sharpness in her thighs, she picked up her pace, feet pounding the narrow path until she reached the bottom of the cliffs. She felt calmer as her feet found the promenade, dodging around people going about their business, some tutting as she lumbered past, others apologising as they shuffled aside in that very British way, but still she ran, pushing her body to its limit and beyond until she collapsed against her front door. One palm rested on the frosted pane of glass as she fumbled for her key, her shoulders rising and falling with the effort of filling her lungs. Luckily, the twins were with Isaac, so she didn’t have to explain why her face was flushed and wet with tears (when had she started to cry? When had she stopped?) and there was nothing to prevent her from clawing at her clothes as soon as the door was closed behind her.
The shower was too hot against her cool, clammy skin, but she stepped under its insistent spray, scrubbing away the memories and the pain until her skin was pink.
‘Have you spoken to Mum?’ Isaac handed Frankie a cup of tea and flopped down on the armchair in his living room. The twins were sitting beside Frankie on the sofa, eyes glued to Doc McStuffins on her brother’s massive TV.
‘I spoke to her earlier, before I dropped the twins off here.’ Frankie clutched the handle of her mug too tight, her fingernails meeting the fleshy heel of her hand and leaving moon-shapes on the surface. ‘Why? What’s happened? Has she fallen again?’
‘Chill out, Frankie.’ There were the beginnings of a frown on Isaac’s face as he held his hands up, faint lines rippling across his forehead. ‘Nothing’s happened. I was just asking if you’d spoken to her, that’s all. You know, making conversation.’
‘Sorry.’ Frankie loosened her grip on the mug and blew on the surface of her tea. She’d felt better once she’d stepped out of the shower, the images from the clifftop receding, but it seemed she was still on edge. ‘She says she’s doing okay, but she would say that. We’re going over for tea later, so I can check on her myself.’ If Bradley’s death had taught Frankie anything, it was that she couldn’t take her eye off the ball when it came to her loved ones. ‘Do you want to come with us?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ Isaac watched his sister for a moment while Frankie fixed her gaze on the cartoon, pretending she couldn’t feel his scrutiny. ‘I know you’re worried about her, but Mum’s fiercely independent. She won’t thank you – us – for interfering.’
‘I’m not interfering. I’m keeping an eye on her, making sure she’s safe.’
‘But she is safe.’
Frankie turned from the TV to gape at her brother. ‘She’s fallen, three times, Isaac. What if nobody’s there to help next time?’
‘But the doctor said that was probably down to her low blood pressure, and they’re going to monitor it from now on.’
Frankie shook her head. That wasn’t good enough. ‘She needs us. Just in case.’
Isaac nodded, but Frankie wasn’t sure he was on the same page. He gave her a sad-looking smile and she looked away.
‘Mum will be okay, you know. She’s a tough old bird.’
‘Don’t let her hear you calling her old.’ Frankie kept her eyes fixed on the TV, but there was a flicker of a smile on her face.
‘Do you remember that time Bradley tried to change her lightbulb in the kitchen? Not long after you’d got together?’
Frankie laughed as the memory flashed in front of her. ‘She caught him up the stepladder and made him get down, so she coul
d get up there herself and change it.’
‘She gave him a right ticking off. Told him she was more than capable of changing a lightbulb, that she’d been changing them all her adult life and hadn’t suddenly forgotten how to twist the buggers in.’ Isaac’s eyes crinkled as he grinned at his sister.
‘He didn’t dare try to help out again.’ Frankie’s smile faded. He couldn’t help her out again, even if he’d wanted to.
‘Kayla offered to make Sunday lunch once, so Mum could put her feet up for a change. She regretted it, just from the stony look Mum gave her for daring to help.’ Isaac started to laugh, but the mood had turned sombre and it petered out before vanishing into the air.
With the twins strapped in their car seats later that afternoon, Frankie set off to her mum’s house, picking Isaac up on the way. She’d picked up some brochures for local sheltered accommodation, though she wasn’t confident she’d be able to convince Christina to make the move.
‘Oh, Mum.’ Frankie pulled Christina into a hug when she opened the door to let them into the house. ‘Look at you. Is it sore?’
Christina reached up to gently touch the area between her cheekbone and left ear, where the bruising had bloomed after her latest fall. It had started to fade to a yellowish green, but it still made Frankie’s stomach churn.
‘Not really.’ Christina snatched her hand away. ‘I barely notice it’s there.’
‘It looks sore.’ Frankie gave her mum a pointed look before she led the twins into the house.
‘You’re fussing.’ Christina gave a tut before she pulled Isaac into a hug. ‘Tell your sister not to worry. I’m made of stern stuff.’
‘You’re made of the same stuff the rest of us are.’ Frankie crouched down to unzip Finn’s coat. ‘And it’s all breakable.’
Christina turned her hands over, palms-up, and gave a shrug. ‘I haven’t broken a bone yet.’
‘Yet, Mum.’ Frankie wriggled the coat off her son and hung it from one of the free hooks in the hallway. ‘You’ve been lucky so far.’ She helped Skye with her coat and hooked it alongside Finn’s.
‘Come on, you two.’ Completely ignoring Frankie now, Christina held her hands out to the twins. ‘Shall we get you some juice and a biscuit?’
‘It’s a bit close to teatime,’ Frankie said, but Christina wasn’t listening. She turned to her brother and pulled a face. ‘We were never allowed biscuits before meals. I swear, she’s a completely different person with them than she was with us.’
‘She’s their grandma. She’s supposed to spoil them.’ He held out the brochures he’d kept tucked under his arm. ‘Do you want to sneak these onto the table or present them to her?’
Frankie gave a wry smile. ‘I’ll roll them up and bash her over the head with them. It might knock some sense into her.’
Isaac nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed. ‘I think I’ll just pop them on the table and see how it goes.’
It did not go well. Christina took one look at the glossy cover staring up at her from the table and scooped the lot up, ready to toss into the bin.
‘Please, Mum. Just have a look.’ Frankie eased the brochures from Christina’s hands and patted the seat next to her. ‘They’re not nursing homes. You’ll still have full independence.’ She opened the first brochure. ‘This is Daisyfields House. You’ll have your own flat, with your own front door, but there’s a communal lounge where you can meet up with the other residents if you want to. It’s entirely up to you.’
Christina hesitated for a moment before she sat down.
‘This one’s a few streets away from Isaac’s place, and it’s only a couple of minutes’ walk from the harbour, where you can get the best fish and chips.’
Christina raised her eyebrows. ‘Better than Silver Bay on the main road?’
Isaac pressed his lips together and gave a solemn nod of his head. ‘Yes, Mum. Way better than Silver Bay on the main road. The fish is caught fresh every day.’
‘And are the potatoes pulled from the ground to order?’ Christina reached across to flip the brochure closed. ‘I know you mean well, but I’m not interested. I like it here. In my home.’
‘But there’s a scheme manager.’ Frankie opened the brochure and frantically flicked through the pages. ‘And a warden system for during the night and weekends.’
Christina scraped back her chair and headed for the kettle. ‘And that’s supposed to make it more appealing?’
‘It does for me.’ Frankie stood up and joined her mum at the counter, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m worried sick about you, worrying when the next fall is going to be. We both are.’ She turned to Isaac, but he didn’t seem as keen for the move as she was.
‘There isn’t going to be another fall.’ Christina filled the kettle and pushed the switch down with more force than was necessary. ‘I’m a clumsy so-and-so, but I’ll be more careful. And I’ve bought a non-slip bathmat.’ She plucked three mugs from the mug tree. ‘So there’s no need to worry about me. You two have more important things to be thinking of, like those gorgeous grandkids of mine.’ She turned to Isaac and tilted her head to one side. ‘I bumped into Kayla in The Arndale last weekend and she was looking at the engagement rings in the window of that jeweller’s near SpecSavers. She tried to make it look like she was admiring the charms for those bracelets, but it was obvious what she was really up to.’
Frankie turned, her eyes wide when they found her brother’s. ‘Oh my God. Isn’t it a bit soon?’
‘Ignore her.’ He dragged the brochures towards him and tapped the one at the top of the pile. ‘Mum’s just trying to distract you. Look at her.’ He pointed at Christina, who’d adopted a satisfied grin as she poured boiling water into the mugs. ‘Talk about the cat that got the cream! She’s played you.’
‘Mum!’ Frankie’s mouth was a gaping hole of outrage. She grabbed the brochures. ‘Come and sit down and have a proper look at these brochures. Look.’ She opened the Daisyfields brochure again and turned it outwards to face her mum. ‘This one has its own on-site café.’
‘Why would I need a café if I can get the best fish and chips in the world from the harbour?’
She was being flippant, but Frankie took a deep breath to remain cool. ‘And they have Zumba, bingo, a quiz night. You love quizzes!’
‘I love this house.’ Christina placed a hand on Frankie’s shoulder as she passed on her way to the fridge. ‘And I love you, even if you are blummin’ annoying me right now.’
‘You won’t even consider it?’ Frankie asked.
Christina shook her head. ‘Not even for a minute.’
Frankie sighed as she dropped the brochures into her handbag. She’d been thwarted, but she wouldn’t give up.
Chapter Twenty-Three
George
George was stuck with Benjamin’s mum (Veronica, George had discovered since their first chat) again in the school playground as they waited for their sons to finish for the day. She’d tried to avoid the woman, even taking a fake call on her mobile, flashing an apologetic smile as she held it up to her ear. Veronica had been undeterred, however, and had hovered nearby until George had run out of things to say to herself. Locking down a sigh, George had bid a cheery goodbye into the lifeless mobile and awaited the inevitable ambush. But instead of bragging about her young son’s precocious achievements, Veronica was all a flutter about the PTA’s latest project.
‘We’re knitting little chicks to hold chocolate eggs, so we can sell them at the Easter fair. Our aim is to make at least five hundred. Do you know how to knit? Because we could use all the help we can get. It’s really social too – we’re meeting twice a week after school for coffee, cake and chicks!’
George could knit – how could she not when she’d been surrounded by every bit of kit you could imagine at the haberdashery? – but she couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck in a room with this woman for any length of time, especially while armed with two very tempting sharp objects.
‘The thing
is, I have Thomas and no available childcare after school.’ Was it bad that George was almost giddy at being able to use her son as a get out of jail free card? She could simply say no, but Veronica didn’t strike her as the kind of woman who accepted negative responses to her requests.
‘But you don’t need childcare.’ Veronica threaded her arm through George’s, as though they were now the best of buddies. ‘Miss Baxter is going to take all the children into her classroom for an hour. Well, almost all the children. Benjamin will still be going to his violin and French lessons, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’ George attempted to subtly remove herself from Veronica’s grip, but the woman was like a vice.
‘So? Do you knit?’
George considered telling a fib. Just a little one; it was one single word, with just two letters. But the word stuck in her throat. Veronica was studying her so closely, George was sure she’d pick up on the slightest tell.
‘Because it doesn’t matter if you don’t,’ Veronica said, patting her on the arm. ‘You can still get involved. We’ll find a job for you.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘You could stuff the chicks with their eggs!’
‘I, erm…’ She willed the doors to the classroom to fly open and spill out two dozen children, all chatting about their days at once and wafting school letters and art projects in the air so George and Thomas could stealthily slip away.
‘And you could serve the tea and coffees.’ Veronica tinkled out a laugh. ‘That’s probably the most important job of all.’
‘Well then.’ George shook her head with an air of sadness. ‘I wouldn’t want to take the job away from you.’
‘Don’t you worry about me.’ Veronica patted her arm again. ‘I’ll be kept busy enough. I’m determined to knit the most chicks out of the group.’ Veronica leaned in close and lowered her voice. ‘Ellis Richardson’s mum thinks she’s the queen of the knitted chick, but she’s got a stiff competition on her hands, believe me.’
The Single Mums' Picnic Club Page 16
