by Alice Ross
It was a lady who looked to be around sixty, with blonde curly hair and a kind face.
‘Sorry to bother, but I wondered if you were interested in Yew Tree House,’ she said, when Chrissie had lowered the barrier between them.
‘Yes. I am,’ Chrissie had replied. ‘I was just driving past and thought I’d swing by for a look.’
‘Were you supposed to be meeting Stu, the estate agent? Only I can call him if you like. He’s a very good friend of our family. In fact,’ the woman added with a giggle, ‘he used to go out with our daughter. Not that that’s of any relevance. She’s happily married and living in China now. And… we’ve just found out this morning,’ she clapped her hands together and gave an excited quiver, ‘that she’s expecting her first baby. I can’t tell you how thrilled we are.’
‘Goodness. That’s wonderful news,’ Chrissie had exclaimed, taken aback by just how much information had been imparted a) in such a short time, and b) to a complete stranger. For all the woman knew, she could be casing the street.
‘I’m Gwen Lomax,’ the grandmother-in-waiting rattled on, no casing thoughts apparently entering her head. ‘I live next door with my husband Gerry.’
‘Chrissie Collins,’ Chrissie had replied. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
‘Likewise. And if you’re after a little bit of inside info, I can honestly say, hand on heart, that this really is a lovely place to live. An interesting mix of characters and a great community spirit. Would you be moving here with your family?’
‘Yes. With my two teenage children.’
‘Ooh, they’ll love it. There are three teenagers in the Big House at the end. Although two of them are at university now. Or at least they should be.’
She’d cast her blue eyes skyward, a gesture Chrissie had considered best not to pursue.
‘Anyway, I’m sure everyone would make you most welcome were you to join us.’
‘Thank you,’ a smiling Chrissie had replied, her prospective new neighbour’s amiability adding to her already positive vibe about the place.
‘These are homes for life,’ Gwen had gone on. ‘Ours has been in my husband’s family for two generations. And Maisie, the previous resident of Yew Tree, spent her entire life here – just short of ninety-four years.’
Chrissie hadn’t known what to say to that. She had no doubt that most people who moved to Lovelace Lane would be reluctant to leave, but she deemed it wise not to inform Gwen that she wouldn’t be staying. Yew Tree House could potentially be her largest and most exciting project to date but, as fabulous as it was, it would still be work. And, to keep her livelihood going, she’d have to sell as soon as the renovations were complete.
Nevertheless, undeterred and more geared up than a certain TV motoring programme following her encounter with the lovely Gwen, Chrissie had driven away determined to become part of the Lovelace Lane community – albeit fleetingly. There was, however, one large, but not immovable, spanner in the works: she suspected she’d have to bid way over her maximum budget to secure the property. And, when factoring in the renovation costs, the amount needed would equate to more than all her previously accumulated profit. But it was still possible – if she sold her own home and sank everything into it. It would mean a massive upheaval, but the long-term benefits would be worth it: if she sold the renovated Yew Tree for anywhere near what she’d calculated, the proceeds would allow her to buy a permanent residence much nicer than her existing one, and enable her to leapfrog several rungs of the development ladder. She’d be able to work on far larger, interesting houses in the future; houses which would really allow her to maximise her design skills. Just imagining it made her creative juices flow and her excitement levels soar.
The day Stu had called to advise her that her bid had been accepted, Chrissie had been elated. Informing the kids of her plans, however, hadn’t resulted in quite the same buzz. Her announcement that they were moving out of the city – albeit temporarily – had been met with fully-anticipated scepticism.
‘I’ll never see my friends on weekends,’ Jess had wailed.
‘And it’s going to take us hours to get to school,’ Harry had grumbled.
Chrissie had been prepared for both objections: Jess’s friends would be welcome to stay over at weekends – if they could put up with the mess. And there was a school bus that picked up in the neighbouring village – a fifteen-minute walk away. Nonetheless, her offspring had remained unconvinced, continuing to spout forth a stream of other negatives. Which was why – in an attempt to appease them - Chrissie had agreed to this foreign exchange thing. And, consequently, to Valentina’s visit, having fully expected to have been in the house long before now and to have whipped it into some kind of shape.
Its shape at the moment belonging to the splodge category, she had, nonetheless, done her best to keep the teenagers’ bedrooms in some kind of order – including the room allocated to Valentina. With a lovely sash window overlooking the garden, an original cast-iron fireplace and crisp white bedding, the space was cute and cosy. Two attributes in which their guest didn’t seem remotely interested as she strutted about in her tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, unpacking her belongings. Observing her as she tipped a bagful of what appeared to be very skimpy underwear onto the bed, Chrissie experienced the depressing presentiment that the Brazilian’s stay had the potential to be the longest three weeks of Chrissie’s entire life.
Chapter Two
Just as Chrissie’s reaction to Valentina had been one of astonishment, so, too, was that of her children.
No sooner had the pair bowled through the door from school and come face to face with their guest – at the battered old kitchen table flicking through a magazine – than they screeched to a halt, jaws dropping, eyes bulging.
‘Wow,’ gasped Jess, after what Chrissie estimated to be forty seconds of unprecedented silence. ‘You’re like… even cooler than your Facebook pictures.’
‘And those pictures are awesomely cool,’ gushed Harry, turning a dazzling shade of red. Before adding, to his mother’s dismay, ‘Can I take some photos of you to send to my mates? Then we can put you in our Top Birds list.’
‘Okay,’ sniffed Valentina, with a flick of her lustrous locks.
In a flash, Harry, more excited than the time Chrissie had promised him a ride on Oblivion at Alton Towers, had tossed his school bag into a nearby flexi tub, tugged his mobile from his blazer pocket and sprinted across to the table, tripping over a bag of plaster mix in the process. Vaulting to his feet, he brushed himself down, held out his phone and began merrily snapping their guest.
During this ungainly performance, Chrissie’s instincts had screamed increasingly louder that this really was not one of her son’s better suggestions.
‘Um, we don’t refer to females as “birds”, Harry. And while I’m sure Valentina is very flattered by your attention, I honestly don’t think this is a good idea,’ she pointed out, as the Brazilian – pointing out other things – ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Valentina may not want her pictures touted about to all and sundry.’
Adjusting her cleavage, Valentina shot her host a withering glare that implied ‘don’t be so stupid. Of course I do,’ before resuming her posing.
Chrissie attempted a different tack. ‘Jess wouldn’t want a load of strangers gawping at her pictures, would you, darling?’
Jess’s returning look had a definite ‘I should be so lucky’ about it.
Chrissie, though, was grateful she wasn’t so lucky. Her daughter might not boast sultry South American beauty, but she was still gorgeous – in a pretty, fresh, English, fifteen-year-old way. Indeed, with her long wavy chestnut hair, huge green eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion, she was almost a miniature Chrissie, had she not been as slim as a reed with legs up to her neck. And although Chrissie didn’t agree with all her firstborn’s sartorial choices – like the clumpy shoes she’d insisted on wearing all summer – her wardrobe was, nonetheless, age-appropriate.
Jess w
as evidently making similar comparisons, not arriving at quite the same conclusions.
‘Can I have a T-shirt like Valentina’s?’ she asked, through one of her ‘pleeeeeeease can I?’ smiles.
‘Not on my Aunt Nelly’s nelly,’ Chrissie wanted to reply. But, not having the energy for a squabble, she instead uttered that age-old adage employed to extricate many a parent from a tricky situation: ‘We’ll see.’
Jess pulled a face. ‘That means not on your Aunt Nelly’s nelly, doesn’t it?’
Chrissie didn’t reply, deciding, as Valentina stuck her thumb in her mouth in a pose way too suggestive for Chrissie’s liking, that she needed to bring an end to the impromptu photo shoot.
‘Right!’ she squawked, in a voice several octaves higher than usual. ‘That’s enough. Jess, Harry, it’s time you two changed out of your uniforms and we thought about what to eat tonight.’
Harry, fingers now dancing over the keyboard on his phone, mumbled, ‘I thought we were waiting for Dad.’
At the reminder of her ex-husband’s planned visit that evening, relief pulsed through Chrissie. Not only did Paul always exude calm, but it would be good to hear his opinion on their guest. Plus, he might offer some suggestions on how best to handle her. In fact, it was at times like this, that Chrissie questioned their mutual decision to end their marriage.
Just as she’d analysed her career - or rather lack of it - following her father’s death, the next thing subjected to scrutiny had been her and Paul’s relationship. Which had, unfortunately, been found to be equally lacking.
They’d been together since sixth form, Paul being Chrissie’s first serious boyfriend, and she, his first serious girlfriend. At that tender age they’d been brimming with the hopes and dreams that accompany adolescence; believing the world was theirs for the taking; that all they had to do was follow their hearts, pass a few exams and everything else would topple into place. Paul’s heart had been set on becoming a paramedic, and, as well as studying for his A-levels, he’d volunteered at St John Ambulance. Chrissie’s strengths had lain in more creative areas: she’d had a penchant for art, adored fabrics, and possessed a natural flair for throwing together colours. Combined with her love of home makeover programmes, no one had argued with her decision to become an interior designer.
But it hadn’t taken long for the pair to discover that even the best-laid plans of mice, men, Chrissies and Pauls could go awry, as life had taken a turn which hadn’t so much as featured on their satellite navigation system: despite taking the Pill as regularly as clockwork, Chrissie had fallen pregnant.
Their families’ reactions had followed the same well-worn path that thousands of others had trotted down over the decades: shock, horror, incredulity. The usual proclamations had been spouted forth such as ‘You’re ruining your lives’ and ‘There’ll be plenty of time in the future for children’. Pressure had been applied to consider the alternatives. Which they had. Arriving at the conclusion that they were different; that this didn’t have to mean the end of life as they knew it; that they could cope perfectly well; and that they could still forge ahead with their career plans.
Inevitably, with Jess’s arrival, they’d discovered that they weren’t different; that it was the end of life as they knew it; and that they couldn’t forge ahead with their career plans – or at least Chrissie couldn’t. While Paul had been lucky enough to be accepted as a student paramedic, she, with the help of both sets of parents, had juggled childcare and life in general. She’d made a valiant attempt to return to college but the combination – plus the lack of sleep – had proved too much. Something had had to give. Her interior designer dreams had therefore been cut loose and allowed to drift off into the stratosphere, settling in a place far out of reach, a pinpoint on the horizon.
Life, meanwhile, had trundled on. Just after Jess’s first birthday, Chrissie and Paul had made their union official, exchanging vows at the local registry office. The September day had been grey and dull, the event small, quiet and low-key, all of which had conspired to set the tone for their marriage. It hadn’t been bad. It had been grey, dull, quiet and low-key. Even with the addition of Harry one year on.
Of course, in hindsight, their families had been right: they had been far too young to become parents. Chrissie would never regret her decision to have her children – she loved the bones of them. But by procreating at such a tender age, she and Paul had deprived themselves of so many opportunities: to travel, experience new things, meet other people, establish their own place in the world and grow into their own skin. Facts that had walloped into her harder than a marauding rhino following her father’s death. It wasn’t that she’d fallen out of love with Paul; she’d always love him. But as a friend, not a lover. Their relationship – for a host of reasons – had lacked passion, romance, spontaneity and excitement. And, as her fourth decade had begun, Chrissie had determined to make it a good one. Because the mere thought of hitting middle age, lugging with her a boatload of regrets, was a scenario she really couldn’t stomach.
To her amazement, when she’d sat down with Paul to have The Talk, he’d agreed with her, admitting he’d been feeling the same. Their parting had therefore been incredibly amicable. Even the kids had accepted it without too much demurring, both parents taking every possible step to ensure their children’s lives were disrupted as little as possible.
But the irony was that while it had been Chrissie who’d been brave enough to suggest they separate, it was Paul who, six months later, had found a new partner – a lovely midwife named Meg, whom the kids adored; who even Chrissie could tell, made her ex two hundred times happier than she ever had; and who hadn’t upset her and Paul’s congenial relationship at all. Chrissie continued to regard her ex-husband as her best friend, and could scarcely think of a time she’d been more relieved to see him than she was that afternoon.
‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she puffed, opening the door to him.
‘Why? What’s the matter?’ he asked, concern sweeping over his still-boyish features. Indeed, apart from more pronounced laughter lines and a slightly receding hairline, the years had scarcely affected him at all.
‘Come into the kitchen and you’ll see,’ she whispered.
‘You mean you actually have a kitchen?’
Chrissie pulled a face. ‘This is no time to be sarky about my living arrangements, thank you very much.’
‘Spoilsport,’ he chuckled.
Jess and Harry were sniggering over something on the laptop when Paul and Chrissie entered the room. ‘Hi Dad,’ they chorused.
Paul didn’t reply. Following the familial trend, he, too, came to an abrupt halt, gawping at Valentina as she sat at the table, filing a fingernail.
‘This is Valentina,’ Harry informed him excitedly. ‘She’s from Brazil. I’ve sent pictures of her to all my mates and put them on Facebook.’
‘Riiiiiiiiight.’ Paul cast a questioning look at Chrissie.
‘Are we going to get a takeaway, Dad?’ asked Jess. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Er, yes, if you want to,’ stammered Paul. ‘I just… need to have a word with your mum first.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he snorted, the moment he and Chrissie were alone in the space that would eventually become the living room across the hall. ‘How old is she?’
‘Sixteen, apparently. Although if she’d said twenty-six, I’d have been less surprised.’
‘God. That is… scary.’
‘I know. And I am scared. Very scared. I have the horrible feeling the entire three weeks of her stay are going to be a nightmare.’
Paul contorted his features into a rueful expression. ‘You know I’d normally help but—’
Chrissie wrinkled her nose, wondering what might be about to follow this statement.
‘— I won’t be able to. The, um, thing is…’ He shuffled his feet on the bare, dusty floorboards. ‘Me and Meg… we’re… we’re getting married.’
Chrissie’s heart skipped a beat, her sto
mach turned over and panic began swirling in her chest. Paul. Getting married again. Crikey.
‘It’s all a bit rushed,’ he continued, embarrassment oozing from every one of his pores. ‘But there was a great ten-day deal to Antigua, which was too good to miss. It includes the special licence, the ceremony and everything. We leave tomorrow night. I feel terrible about the short notice, but it’s such a bargain, and we didn’t want to wait, and—'
Pulling herself together, Chrissie shook her head. This wasn’t right. Paul shouldn’t be apologising. He should be happy and excited. Pinning a smile to her face, she said, ‘It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about a thing. You go and have a wonderful wedding. I’m delighted for you.’ Then, clueless as to what to do next, she closed the gap between them, wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder, drinking in the familiar scent of his aftershave and savouring the reassuring warmth of his body.
‘You are okay about it, aren’t you?’ he asked, holding her to him.
She took a step back and met his gaze. ‘Of course. I’m thrilled. You and Meg are made for each other.’
He blew out a long breath. ‘Thanks. I have to admit I was a bit nervous about telling you.’
Chrissie choked out something resembling a laugh. ‘Well, I have to admit I was slightly floored for a moment there. But I hope you’ll be very happy together. Although I don’t know why I’m even saying that, because I know you will.’
‘I know so, too,’ he said. Then, screwing up his nose, ‘How do you think the kids will take it?’
‘They’ll be over the moon. Come on. Let’s tell them.’
As expected, Jess and Harry were over the moon at this momentous development.
And even more over the moon at the Chinese banquet Paul ordered up by way of celebration, washed down with the two bottles of champagne he brought in from his car. The kids were allowed one glass each – including Valentina, whose blatant attempt at sneaking a second was deftly nipped in the bud by Chrissie.
