The Note: An uplifting, life-affirming romance about finding love in an unexpected place

by Zoë Folbigg

  Pip extends a hand to help Maya up. ‘I really am very sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just saw this flash of familiarity and had to know if it was you. I’ve been back in Hazelworth for a week and I hadn’t recognised anyone until I saw you.’

  ‘Hmmm, that’s OK,’ says Maya, letting Pip take her weight in his hands as he pulls her up by the arm. ‘But a word of advice. Never. Ever. Chase a girl in the park if she’s not expecting it. Kiss chase in the silver birches when you’re eleven is one thing, but that was just creepy.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Look, why don’t we run a circuit or two of the park together – if our legs work.’

  Maya looks doubtful.

  ‘I’ll protect you from evil Shredder or Uncle Scar,’ Pip jokes with a bashful smile.

  ‘Well, OK…’ says Maya. Quietly relieved to see a friendly face from the past.

  *

  ‘You made that?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘It’s beautiful. A work of art. You really ought to sell these, Maya, they look as pretty as Pierre’s.’ Nena slides her phone out of her pocket to take a photo of a conical tower covered artfully in pale lilac, pale pink and pale yellow circles of lavender, rose and lemon.

  ‘Hmmm, don’t look too closely, a few cracked as I stuck them on,’ says Maya, downplaying how pleased she is with her first attempt.

  ‘Can I taste one?’

  ‘Of course! I made them for you guys.’

  ‘I know, but it feels criminal to break into something so beautiful.’

  Maya lifts the cone and cautiously moves it along the kitchen counter to place it in front of Nena.

  ‘I think I need to cover the base with some pretty wrapping paper or something, polystyrene doesn’t look that tempting, but I ran out of time,’ Maya shrugs. ‘Google macaron towers and you’ll get the idea…’ Maya motions to her laptop on the little breakfast counter in the corner where Tom is sitting, and he presses a button to wake the machine.

  ‘Oh my god, amazing!’ Nena says with yellow crumbs around her lips and a pale lilac circle of deliciousness in her hand.

  ‘Here, try a rose one too.’ Maya watches Nena’s face, eagerly awaiting feedback, and both girls go quiet as they eat.

  Nena turns to Tom, wondering why her fiancé hasn’t said anything about the beauty beholding them in the kitchen. Tom is leaning against the breakfast bar, shoulders up to his ears and chin resting in his palms while he looks at Maya’s laptop.

  ‘Did you find a picture?’ Maya asks. ‘Some of them are just stunning…’ Maya notices Tom is lost in something other than Pinterest boards, and she feels a rising panic.

  ‘Hang on!’ pounces Maya, embarrassed by what Tom may have read. ‘I need to save something,’ she lies, sharply turning the laptop away from Tom.

  ‘Maya, did you write that?’ Tom asks.

  Maya’s cheeks flush. She’s not sure what to say but feels a little intruded upon by this man she doesn’t really know. She doesn’t want their visit to turn sour, it took so long for Tom and Nena to leave Islington for the depths of the Shire, so she stays quiet so as not to cause upset. Flustered, embarrassed, exposed.

  ‘It’s brilliant! So funny. And shocking. Is that what it’s like to work at FASH?’

  ‘What is it?’ asks Nena, a rose macaron bursting from raspberry lips.

  ‘What about the taste?’ asks Maya, closing the lid of her laptop in order to gloss over its contents. ‘I think the lavender flavours could be stronger, no?’

  ‘I’m sorry Maya, I didn’t mean to look,’ says Tom with a twinkle. ‘It was just there on screen. But I saw the hook and was reeled in. Which is testament to how great a piece of writing it is. You should publish that.’

  ‘Publish WHAT?!’ shouts Nena, little dot of pink landing on Tom’s cream cable-knit jumper.

  Maya rolls her eyes and hands Nena the laptop reluctantly. ‘Don’t judge OK? I don’t mean to be bitchy, it’s just a private little rant. Well it was meant to be private anyway,’ she says, looking at Tom.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mouths with a disarming smile.

  ‘Oh I love Bitchy Maya!’ says Nena, eyes widening with glee as she plonks herself down on Tom’s lap. ‘I see her so rarely but when I do… she’s a tiger!’ Nena giggles and turns to Maya’s words. Tom wraps his arms around Nena’s waist while both of them read.

  Maya boils the kettle, wanting the ground to swallow her up.

  A few minutes later Nena’s face rises. ‘I thought you were happy there?’

  Maya pours tea into three handless cups with sunbeams on the side.

  ‘I was, but something changed. All the good things about FASH seemed to turn bad. So I just started writing a few notes about it really. Mainly to get it off my chest so I don’t bring anyone else down at work.’

  ‘I really think you should publish it. This is brilliant insider intel that loads of people would enjoy,’ says Tom, pale eyes looking warm.

  ‘If anyone read that then I’d just look like a bitter employee. Someone who isn’t talented enough for promotion. And it’s underhand.’

  ‘It’s very funny,’ counters Tom. ‘And you wouldn’t have to know it was FASH. There must be a few companies like that, I reckon people would love to know what it’s like to work at any of those fashion giants.’

  ‘Come on Maya, this guy is good at sniffing out talent,’ Nena says with a wink. Tom tightens his embrace around Nena’s waist and smiles. Proud, besotted, happy.

  Tom releases one arm so he can rub his bald head as he thinks. ‘I have a friend at the Standard, she’d love to read this, I’m sure. She’s always asking me about new talent for columns, she wanted a newsreader contact of mine to do one…’

  ‘Which newsreader, baby?’ asks Nena, equally proud and besotted and happy.

  Tom carries on. ‘I think you could write a brilliant column about FASH. From what Nena tells me, it’s a crazy place to work. Would you mind if I mentioned you to her?’

  Tom’s eyes pierce Maya and she finds it hard to say no. Maya gets the feeling that if Tom thinks something will work then it probably will.

  ‘But it’s not like anyone has done anything bad – not really bad anyway – it’s just office politics,’ she counters.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s this kind of office politics that fascinates people. A bitchy boss. The fashion vernacular. Models eating fry-ups. It’s the little titbits people like to read about and get lost in on their commute. They pay handsomely at the Standard too.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ ponders Maya, taking the most cracked macaron, a dusty pink one, from the conical tower so no one else has to eat it. ‘See what your friend at the paper thinks – but if she wants to discuss it further I’d need anonymity, Tom. It’s my job. I need to pay the mortgage.’ Maya bites the macaron in her left hand and creates a whirlpool of Earl Grey with the spoon in her right hand. ‘Anyway it’s Sunday. Can we not talk about work today please? I have funny news.’

  *

  ‘Pip Smith?! The kid in the sheepskin bomber?’ Clara’s eyes widen. ‘I totally remember him. He was really cute. Didn’t he draw your face on a Ninja Turtle’s body or something? Bit weird… But he was a sweet kid. I remember he had a little snub nose and tons of freckles.’

  ‘No! It was my face on Wonder Woman’s body.’

  ‘Well either way I think you should go for a drink with him. Now that’s a romantic story. Not a guy you don’t know on the train who could be a serial killer.’

  ‘Aunty Maya, another another!’ says Oscar, Maya’s youngest nephew, tugging at the hem of her tea dress. A scarf hangs around her neck and at each end of it a two-year-old attempts to scale his aunt.

  ‘James Miller is not a serial killer.’

  ‘Aunty Maya! Aunty Maya!’ Oscar hangs, pulling Maya towards him from the sofa to the floor.

  ‘Watch out, young man, or the kiss monster will get you!’ Maya says, diving down on top of Oscar and nestling into his naked pot belly. Wet giggles tumble out from behind milk teeth.


  ‘Biscuit! I want another Aunty Maya biscuit!’ Oscar demands, from the depths of a carpet bundle.

  Clara sits on the sofa curled up with a cup of tea. The first one she’s had all day that wasn’t cold when she started drinking it.

  ‘They’re called macarons, Osky. And that’s up to your mother.’

  Maya popped around to Clara’s house to drop off the leftover lilac, pink and yellow macarons, not realising that 6 p.m. on a Sunday evening is probably the worst time you can bestow sugary treats upon three children aged six, four and two.

  ‘One more and that’s it!’ commands Clara. As soon as the exclamation comes out of her mouth, two slightly larger pairs of feet come pattering into the cosy front room to claim their ‘one more’ too.

  A little blond boy and a slightly bigger brown-haired boy with similar faces stand in front of their mother.

  ‘What do you want, boys?’ asks Clara, knowing exactly what they want.

  ‘Aunty Maya’s biscuits,’ they chime.

  ‘They’re macaronnnnnns!’ Maya says through the raspberries she’s blowing on Oscar’s tummy. He laughs so hard Clara is relieved that her baby is still in nappies.

  ‘They’re yummy, Aunty Maya,’ says Henry, the oldest, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Yes, absolutely yummy, Aunty Maya,’ says Jack concurring.

  ‘Thank you,’ they chime, and walk out of the room back upstairs to their bedtime game of lining up all their dinosaurs on one side of their bedroom and all of their superheroes on the other side of the room facing them.

  ‘So, Pip Smith. This is encouraging,’ says Clara, an expert at drifting from parenting to gossip and back again. ‘Is he still cute?’

  ‘Well I only saw him in his running gear, but he looked pretty good. Taller than he was when we were eleven, which is a plus.’ Maya blows more raspberries into Oscar, giggling, adoring, hyperventilating on the rug. She breaks away, hovering teasingly over a shattered boy. ‘But he’s no James Miller.’

  ‘Enough!’ shouts Clara.

  Maya is startled and picks up Oscar.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ says Maya, straightening Oscar’s pyjamas. ‘I didn’t mean to get him overexcited.’

  ‘Not Oscar. Enough with James Miller. It’s a non-starter. He has a girlfriend. You already know that. Gorgeous little Pip Smith is still wanting to play kiss chase with my baby sister and you’re wasting your time thinking about someone you don’t know, who it can’t go anywhere with. Open your eyes, Maya.’

  Maya concentrates on keeping her eyes wide open. If she blinks a tear will fall out. She hugs Oscar, for her comfort more than his.

  ‘I know,’ Maya whispers, still startled. ‘You’re right. I’ve already forgotten about Train Man. I’ll call Pip in a couple of days.’

  ‘Who Train Man?’ asks Oscar, scuttling out of the room and upstairs to his brothers’ bedroom, to see what this new public-transport-based superhero might look like.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Maya walks through the glass double doors and rushes to her desk. Since Cressida became site editor, she has had to ‘have words’ with people about their timekeeping. Not Maya yet, but Maya feels it’s coming. Even though Maya often works through lunch and never leaves before 6.30 p.m., if she arrives a minute later than 9.30 a.m. she sees Cressida look at the clock on the top right-hand corner of her screen and is often met with a snide comment.

  Maya couldn’t even commit to teaching night school at the Hazelworth Collective College this term because of Cressida’s office ethos, and she really misses the characters, the jokes, the Italian still life on the wall. When Maya is still at her desk on a Tuesday evening, she often wonders who might have been in her class this year; whether the new conversational Spanish teacher has made a friend like Velma.

  Sam looks up. He’s on the phone but nods hello as he talks in hushed tones in a now-quiet office. Cressida’s diktat for the stereo to be turned off lives on.

  ‘How can you be creative with tinny noise in the background? It’s not even good music,’ she said with a curl of a full lip, and Maya wondered what type of music Cressida would listen to anyway.

  Maya suggested the team could listen through their computer headphones if they wanted to work to music. Cressida banned that too.

  ‘I’m the editor. I need to be heard at all times.’

  Maya throws her bag under her desk and slides into her seat. The 8.21 pulled into the station at 8.33, giving Maya twelve minutes when she could have walked up the platform to seek out James Miller but didn’t. She waited, halfway down the platform as she has anyway lately, but definitely will do from now on, near where people emerge from running the rattling gauntlet of the underpass. She stood reading her notes from the first of the spring/summer presentations after last month’s New York, London, Milan and Paris Fashion Weeks. She didn’t even look up when James Miller walked past, so lost was she in roomy denim, one-shoulder dresses and Obi belts.

  As she disembarked at the terminal, Maya didn’t look around for that familiar, reassuring back of the head that she loved to see walking with purpose ahead of her. She hotfooted it up Euston Road, across the busy intersection, past the Planetarium and left down Baker Street. One minute late.

  Cressida, sitting at the best desk in the office, the desk next to the huge window that Emma gave up for her, darts her eyes to the top right-hand corner of her monitor. Maya knows she is checking the time.

  9.31. Bite me.

  Maya wishes Cressida hadn’t made her so petty.

  She slips her fluffy pink cocoon coat onto the back of her chair. Maya doesn’t love the coat any more, she knows it’s time to retire it since it’s been hanging on the back of a lot of chairs at FASH HQ, but Maya is proud to have coined the term ‘cocoon coat’ the summer before last. The shape ended up everywhere, and no one knew what to call it until Maya had named it the Cocoon at FASH. Below the knee and wide around the middle like a big fluffy cuddle, it was obvious to Maya.

  Sam finishes his phone call, and Maya swings her chair around to see him, tap, click, restarting at his desk.

  ‘Sam,’ Maya whispers. ‘You going to Emma’s lunch today?’

  Sam swings around and Maya notices a hole on the shoulder of his Metallica T-shirt.

  He nods but doesn’t speak.

  ‘I’ve got a card for everyone to sign. And some vouchers towards a pram. Oh and some macarons from a tower I made yesterday…’ Which reminds Maya to find a photo of it to show Sam, so she starts to scroll through her phone. ‘Look, I made this!’

  ‘Very nice,’ Sam says flatly, giving Maya’s phone a cursory glance.

  Maya withdraws with sloping shoulders.

  ‘Conference!’ barks Cressida. And seven pairs of hesitant feet stand and shuffle listlessly into the meeting room, notebooks and laptops in hand.

  ‘I’ll just nip to the loo,’ says Emma, taking her enormous low bump through the double doors and across the canteen for what will be the first of many times today.

  ‘Right, quickly before she comes back, does anyone who hasn’t yet put in for Emma’s collection want to?’ asks Maya, looking around the room but deliberately not at Cressida.

  ‘Oh I haven’t signed the card yet,’ says Alex, looking down the table for it through horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘May I?’

  Maya hands it over and Alex gets the giggles.

  ‘Oh Chloe, that’s brilliant!’ he says, looking at the sixteen Photoshopped images of Emma’s head on pregnant celebs’ bodies.

  Cressida makes no attempt to even look at the card, let alone sign it.

  So mean.

  Maya knows Cressida is the only person who didn’t tuck a five or ten-pound note into the collection envelope, and as Emma’s line manager, she ought to have given the most.

  She gave you her all, she gave you her desk!

  ‘Right, we don’t have to wait for Emma’s little social media update and she doesn’t need to hear about FASHmas as she’s buggering off anyway, so I’ll get us started.’ Cre
ssida rubs statuesque hands together. ‘Just a quick FASHmas update before we talk about today’s celeb pics. But I’m taking over because it means so much to Lucy and the exec team, and I’ve had some brilliant ideas for this year. I’m presenting them to Lucy at 3 p.m.’ She turns to Olivia. ‘I want you working on it solidly until then, so Holly, you’ll need to do pictures after conference.’

  Olivia frowns. ‘You’re putting me back on FASHmas? You took me off it on Friday.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry but I didn’t take that art degree over the weekend, I need a picture editor.’

  Olivia tugs on her jumper and breathes a heavy sigh. ‘Well I’m going to Emma’s leaving lunch, but I can work on it until 1 p.m.’

  ‘Nope, not going to happen I’m afraid. I need you to source new images for the mood board. I can get lunch in, if eating is that important to you, but I’m sure you of all people can hold on until 3 p.m.’

  Olivia is dumbstruck. Papers stop shuffling. Alex stops writing in the card and looks up.

  ‘Me of all people?’

  The door clicks open, Emma walks in and Alex tucks the card back under the envelope it was hidden in.

  ‘Me of all people?’ says Olivia matter-of-factly. ‘You mean because I’m so fat I can rely on my reserves to get me through to 3 p.m., Cressida? Or because I could do with skipping a meal? What did you mean, Cressida?’

  Cressida blushes, she’s not used to being challenged. ‘Just a joke, Olivia. Deal with it!’ she says defensively, dismissively.

  Emma looks at Maya to gauge what just happened. Maya shakes her head softly.

  ‘That is so not on, on so many levels, Cressida,’ says Olivia, pointing a glossy royal blue talon towards their boss. ‘I will work on the mood board, as I have been for the past few weeks with Maya. But at 1 p.m. I’ll go to lunch. Not because I’m greedy, but because I want to be sisterly and to wish Emma well and see her off in style.’