‘Wow! I’ll take them all. They smell wonderful.’
‘And they look wonderful, non?’
Pru laughed. She had taken a risk, employing Guy. He had a reputation for being brilliant but difficult, getting through six employers in as many years. She had learned that all he needed was freedom – freedom to express his creativity and space in which to vent his wide range of emotions; which he did, daily and loudly. They both had a deep respect for the other’s ability and their friendship proved to be the glue that saw them through any turbulence.
She eyed the cooling cookies. ‘Yes, they really do look wonderful.’
Guy’s mouth twitched. He had something on his mind. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how is that little girl today, the one who is enceinte.’ He drew the outline of a bump on his stomach with his cupped palm.
‘Meg? I haven’t seen her yet today. But she’s good, I think. Why?’
‘Oh! I didn’t know if I should mention it, but on Saturday, when you were out all day, she was in the street, crying. In fact, screaming! I felt very sad for her. Milly went off to The Dorchester and I didn’t know what to do for the best. Eventually I coaxed her inside and gave her hot chocolate – there is nothing it won’t cure. But my heart bled at her distress. It bleeds for you all.’ He placed his hand on his breastbone as if to emphasise the point.
‘Well, thank you for looking after her. I don’t know what that was all about, but I’m sure something and nothing.’ She swept her eyes over the counters. ‘Everything seems fine down here, will you excuse me?’
‘But of course!’ He gave an elaborate bow, as he did on occasion.
What on earth had gone on? Pru climbed the stairs to the top floor and knocked on the door of Bobby’s flat. It would always be Bobby’s flat to her. There was no answer. She used her key to let herself in and listened. It was silent. She hesitated at Bobby’s door, resting her face against the cool wood. How she wanted to knock and walk in, like she used to. Sit on the edge of her bed and stroke the blonde hair away from her niece’s forehead; even without make-up and in the middle of the night, she was always so beautiful. ‘How’s my girl?’ she’d ask. ‘I’m okay,’ Bobby would answer drowsily from under her duvet.
Pru felt a sudden pang for Meg, just as she had all those years ago when Bobby had first come into her life – worried and motherly and with a need to check on her. She popped her head into the kitchen, which was immaculate. Further down the hallway, she hesitated at Meg’s door before rapping quietly. She heard the bounce of the mattress springs, then Meg cracked the door a fraction and peered through.
‘Morning, Meg. Can I come in?’ Pru tried to sound bright and cheerful.
Meg nodded and opened the door. The window was thrown wide to allow the morning sunshine and a slight breeze to stir the room. The pillows on her bed were stacked on top of each other and held the imprint of her body. She was wearing sweatpants, part of the haul of clothes that Pru had ordered for her. They would have dwarfed her tiny frame had they not been filled at the front by her ever-expanding bump. Her skin looked almost translucent, her eyes dull. The duvet was pulled back in a neat triangle and the television was on but muted. She was watching a programme about interior design.
Meg sat back down on the bed and looked out of the window. She knew what Pru had come to say. ‘Don’t worry; I’m not staying here, Pru. You’ve obviously realised that it hasn’t worked out.’
‘What do you mean, it hasn’t worked out?’
‘Well, it hasn’t, has it? I shouldn’t be here, I should never have come in the first place.’
‘Of course you should! I want you here. Besides, where will you go?’
Meg took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know, but somewhere, anywhere, that isn’t like a prison!’
Pru cocked her head. ‘Like a prison?’ She couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘But I thought you liked it here?’
Meg let her chin drop as her shoulders shook. Pru had to concentrate to hear the words, muffled through her tears. ‘Milly said I mustn’t go in the kitchen when she’s around, and I know that if I see her, then she’ll just go mental at me again and I can’t cope with it.’
Pru felt a rare flush of anger towards her cousin. She left the room without replying, her jaw set determinedly. Meg stared after her with red-rimmed eyes.
Pru stepped purposefully down the stairs, took a deep breath and knocked gently as she entered Milly’s bedroom.
Milly was lying on her bed in floral pyjamas and white socks. She was hugging a pillow into her chest and had the irregular breathing pattern of someone who had only just stopped crying.
‘Is it okay if I come in?’ Pru tried to keep the edge from her voice.
‘If you like.’ Milly didn’t look up, sounding like a miffed teen.
‘Actually, I would like. I think we need to have a talk. I know this is a difficult situation, but we need to do the right thing. You know how things operate: we do what’s right, Mills, we always have. There is no room for hatred in this little space, there’s enough of that beyond the door. We’ve always said that, haven’t we?’
An image from Kenway Road flew into Pru’s head just then: the two of them sitting on the wide bed, Pru gingerly patting at her bruised jaw and sobbing, ‘I didn’t see it coming, it took me by surprise.’ And Milly’s voice, soothing, with her arm across her shoulders, ‘It’s okay, Pru, we just need to stick together and make sure that the bad stuff stays on the other side of the door. As long as we stick together, we will always be all right.’
Milly raised her head. ‘Yes we have, but it’s not me that’s forgotten that one golden rule, about keeping the bad things on the other side of the door. It’s not me that’s let that girl come and move in among Bobby’s things, trying to live her life.’
‘Trying to live her life? Are you serious? Is this what that was all about on Saturday?’ Pru was astounded.
‘What has she said?’ Milly sat up.
‘She said that she feels she can’t leave her bedroom. She thought you might have told her to stay in there, which I doubt, because that would be cruel and hateful and I know you are many things, Mills, but not that.’
Milly propped herself up against her pillows. ‘I don’t trust her, Pru! Don’t you think it’s just a little bit odd that she came out of the woodwork when she did? We don’t even know if she is carrying William’s baby, she could be some floozy who’s trying her luck!’
‘Did you really just call her a floozy?’ Pru felt anger bubbling in her throat. ‘Mills, I love you very much and you know that if I could have Bobby back by trading places with her, I would, I’d do it in a heartbeat! But I can’t and neither can you and neither can Meg. All we can do is deal with what is left behind and that means Meg. She is what’s left behind and she’s our guest and she needs some kindness. I am asking you to show it to her. I want you to take a good look at her and without too much imagination you should be able to see that she could be Bobby! If we hadn’t stepped in when Bobby was little and taken her in, who knows? She might have become just like Meg and I for one would have been very grateful that someone was helping her.’
Both of them were silent for a moment, remembering how helpless Bobby had once been, how fierce as she howled, and how Alfie had peeled her skinny little arms from his legs before hugging his sister and kissing his daughter one final time.
‘Do you think I don’t know that? Of course I do!’ Milly banged her palm against the mattress.
The two fell silent, mentally reloading.
‘I blame myself actually.’ Milly looked down, her voice much quieter now. ‘I should have stopped her driving; she was too excitable before she left, distracted. I should have stopped her driving.’
‘Oh, Mills. She wasn’t even driving, William was.’
‘I know that. But she might have distracted him, being fidgety, you know how she got.’
Pru gave a wistful smile at the image of Bobby in her wedding dress on the podium in Spitalfi
elds, jumping all over the place. Yes, she knew how she got.
‘But putting Bobby aside, what I don’t understand is why we have to fix Meg’s problems, why she has to live in our flat. She’s nothing to do with us!’
Pru rubbed her temples. She felt too old for this fight. ‘I’ve done many things I’m not proud of, Mills. We both have.’ She let this linger. ‘But in my whole life, I have never, ever turned anyone away that needed my help and I am not about to start now!’
Pru stamped back up the stairs, intending to go in and comfort Meg, but first she stopped at Bobby’s door. She listened, as she always did, before slowly turning the handle. The first thing that she noticed was the smell. It smelled of her, a heady combination of her perfume, shampoo and the scented candles that she liked to light when William stayed over. The room was neat; she had cleaned and tidied in readiness for her special evening. Pru picked up a water glass that sat on her bedside table and held it up to the window; she could see the faintest smudge of lip balm against the rim. She pressed it to her cheek, like a final kiss. It brought her unimaginable happiness.
Running her fingers over the pillows, her hand touched against a piece of paper, a heart-shaped notelet that Bobby had stuck to the pillow with a blob of Sellotape. Pru pulled it from its sticky anchor and held it up to her face, reading slowly.
Welcome home, Captain! I just wanted to tell you that I have never ever ever been as happy as I am right this very moment and it’s cos I’ve got you! B xxx
Pru held the note to her chest and cried. These tears felt different; the sadness was tinged with joy. Bobby had been happy! She left the house happier than she had ever been and that was a wonderful thing. Pru crept down to Milly’s room and placed the note on her pillow, so she would find it that evening.
Late next morning Pru was sitting at her dressing table, applying her blush and spritzing her perfume. Her phone beeped and shuddered against the wooden surface. It was Christopher, a text: Meet me in the park!
Chores and work deadlines flew out of her head. She knew which park and she knew where. Slipping on her pumps, she poked her head into the kitchen. ‘Just popping out, Mills, back in a bit.’ She didn’t wait for a response.
Pru walked as quickly as she could without running, navigating round the amblers and smiling at those ensconced in deckchairs, enjoying this little slice of countryside in the middle of the city. She slowed when she got near, so she wouldn’t appear breathless or too flustered. In her hand was a Plum Patisserie carryout bag, with two large almond croissants nestling in the bottom, individually wrapped in PP monogrammed waxed paper.
Her heart somersaulted when she saw him; she wondered if it always would. Being in close proximity gave her faith that everything would work out. How could it not when there was this strength of feeling? She just hoped it was mutual.
He stood on their blue bridge, dressed in a navy suit and a white shirt, leaning over, staring down into the water with a Styrofoam cup in his hand. Pru gazed beyond him, across the lake, taking in the view towards Buckingham Palace framed by trees. He looked like he was in a painting.
‘There she is.’
She loved the way this sounded as though he had been waiting for her, not just today, but for ever. He handed her a similar cup. She took it and stood next to him. ‘Thank you. I brought these – croissants aux amandes.’
Balancing her coffee on the edge of the bridge, she opened the waxed paper to reveal the plump golden pastries scattered with dark toasted almonds and topped with a syrupy blanket.
‘Oh my, they look delicious. Are you trying to make me fat?’ He patted his generous stomach.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
Christopher held the sweet flaky crescent up to his mouth and bit down, savouring the crunch of the almonds and licking his lips free of the powdery confectioner’s sugar that spilled over his tie.
‘This is heaven! Did you make them?’ He winked.
‘No, I didn’t, but I can.’
‘Really? What’s the secret of something that tastes this good?’
Are you testing me? ‘I think it lies in the crème d’amandes, because let’s face it, a good croissant is just a good croissant without the right enhancement. But for me the trick is getting the filling and almond syrup just right. I add salt to the almond mix and finely grind the nuts before adding generous amounts of butter and then the eggs; then I blend it again until it’s creamy. And for the syrup…’ She checked behind Christopher’s back and then over her own shoulder to make sure no one was listening. ‘I pop in a tot of dark rum.’
‘You clever old stick!’
‘Well, you don’t get to be Chief Whip without a bit of knowhow.’ This time she winked at him.
‘How did you learn how to bake?’
‘Well…’ Pru swallowed her bite of almond croissant and took a deep breath, concentrating on her words. This wasn’t the time or place for too much information. ‘Life in Kenway Road was in many ways one of the happiest times I’d ever known. I loved the freedom of being out from under my mum’s roof and my nan’s disapproving eye. And Trudy’s kitchen was a real cook’s kitchen, full of fancy equipment. We were amazed that we had found somewhere where we could bake every day.’
Pru still remembered every inch of that kitchen. The cupboards were of the palest blue and the dappled glass fronts allowed glimpses of blue china, dainty teacups and fancy teapots. French blue and white bistro curtains hung on brass rails halfway up the sash windows and a square table covered with a matching cloth sat in the middle of the room. There was a rack full of knives, and china buckets full of spoons, measurers and pastry crimpers. Large copper pans hung from hooks on the ceiling. A small, open-fronted dresser was crammed with platters and china mixing bowls and a large Kenwood Chef took pride of place on the deep, white Formica worktop.
‘Poor old Trudy was our guinea pig. She’d be trying to watch her weight and we’d present her with plates piled high with French toast, homemade baguettes cut into thin rounds and smothered with butter and jam, or tiny éclairs with piped double cream and slivers of glossy chocolate sitting on top.’
‘She must have loved it! I know I would have.’ Chris laughed.
‘She did.’ She turned to Christopher. ‘We’d always dreamed of owning our very own bakery, which we knew we’d name Plum Patisserie. We studied and practised our skills during the day, paying every penny we earned to Monsieur Gilbert at his École de Patisserie in Knightsbridge. Oh, Chris, it was another world. I was like a fish out of water, sitting there among all the debs.’
Pru wondered, briefly, if those horse-faced debs might have been the sort Christopher socialised with. During their breaks, the girls would gather in cliques and recline on the padded, water-silk-covered benches along the walls of the parlour outside Monsieur Gilbert’s classroom. Ornate china pot stands holding unruly aspidistra stood between them. A hum of conversation – which tended to be about boys, frocks and parties, rather than roux and pastries – would echo off the black and white tiled floor and domed ceiling. She and Milly would always stand slightly apart from the cliques, discussing that day’s lesson. Later, top to toe in bed, wiggling their toes inside their long nighties and with Milly’s giant sketchbook between them, they would try out designs for the entwined Ps that would become their logo. Together they’d chant the French terms they had learned – le façonnage, le pétrissage, nougatine, pâte à choux – almost like a spell, until the unfamiliar words became part of their vocabulary.
‘That must have taken an enormous amount of dedication.’
‘Well, if you want something that badly, Chris, you work hard for it, don’t you? And you don’t let the obstacles block you, you find a way around them.’
‘I guess you do.’ He turned to look at her full in the eyes. ‘You seem a bit different today – perkier, more like the Pru I met at Mountfield, standing on her own, talking to herself.’
‘I am a bit perkier actually. I found a note that Bobby had written Wi
lliam. It said that she was the happiest she had ever been and I take great comfort from that.’
Chris squeezed her hand. ‘You are right to, that’s wonderful. And how is your houseguest?’
Pru’s face fell. ‘I don’t think her and Mills are ever going to be bosom buddies. It makes for a horrible environment, all the squabbling and hiding in darkened rooms. I don’t want to sound insensitive, Chris, but I wish just for a day we could lift the blanket of misery and let joy sweep over the place, like a good breeze in a musty room. The atmosphere is quite depressing.’
‘I remember, after Ginny died, feeling exhausted by the grieving process. It was relentless. I wanted to sleep all the time. I understand the thing about hiding away in a darkened room; I did a lot of that too.’
‘When did it stop? Did it stop? Please tell me it did!’ She sipped her coffee. Black, no sugar – he had remembered.
He laughed. ‘Yes, it did, eventually. I can’t remember why or when exactly, but one day I woke up and she wasn’t the first thing I thought about. I felt instantly guilty of course, but then quite relieved, as if I’d reached a milestone. That day my mourning went from fifth gear into fourth and then slowly it was third, second and before I knew it, I was back in neutral.’
‘It’s good that we can talk about her, isn’t it? I’m sorry about what I said at the funeral – it just bothered me and that’s ridiculous, because we are friends and she was your wife.’
‘Yes, she was and will always be a huge part of my life, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t move on, with friendships or whatever.’
Yes, ‘or whatever’ sounds good. ‘It’s good that we can talk about anything.’ She gave an involuntary shiver.
The two of them sat quietly, one imagining the pain of closing the door on a happy future, the other remembering the pain of losing a wife.
A Little Love Page 13
