by Sarah Long
Tessa could hear Matt coming down the stairs.
Got to go now.
She closed her laptop in a mild panic as Matt came in to fill a glass of water from the fridge.
‘Still up, you night owl?’ he said. ‘Stop stalking Lola! I keep telling you, she’s fine, come to bed now.’
Tessa followed him up the stairs.
‘Fancy a shag?’ asked Matt, as he extended a friendly hand towards her when they were beneath the sheets, ‘or do you think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening?’
‘Let’s just digest, shall we,’ said Tessa, giving his hand a dismissive pat. ‘It’s late and you’ve got work in the morning.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
As Matt started to snore, she let her mind wander to another scene, it must have been the October half-term and John had taken her on a spontaneous expedition to pick apples on his uncle’s farm in Somerset, just as a friend. They climbed a ladder and used a stick to knock down the fruits they couldn’t reach, filling several sacks, then drank so much scrumpy that John declared himself incapable of driving home, so they spent the night giggling under a blanket in the eaves, listening to the mice running around in the roof, it was incredible how noisy they were. She must ask him if he remembered next time they spoke, or messaged or Skyped or whatever they were supposed to be doing. Nothing happened between them that night, she made that perfectly clear to her curious friends once they were home. Or at least nothing to challenge her status as virgo intacta, they were all into Latin terminology at the time. She could smell the apples now, and feel the rough, rosy skin, the memory was as sharply defined as if it all happened last week.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Don’t forget to wish your husband good-morning when he sets off to the office. He will feel the lack of your good-bye kiss all day.’
Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives, 1913
‘That cat contributes nothing,’ said Nigel, staring at Leo as he sat curled up on the cashmere jacket he had placed on the chair beside him.
It was the morning after the dinner party and neither he nor Sandra were in the best of moods.
‘He’s a cat, he’s not supposed to contribute.’
‘Except for shedding his coat all over my clothes.’
He pushed Leo off the chair and reclaimed his jacket, then took a lint roller from the drawer, running it over the fabric to remove the offending hairs.
‘This house is a pigsty,’ he said, putting on the jacket. ‘Covered with dust. What’s the point of paying for a cleaner if I end up living in a dust bowl? Look at these skirting boards!’
He crouched down and traced a long, slim finger along the top, with the delicacy he once used on her when they were still on loving terms, and thrust the evidence in her face.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Sandra, ‘I’ll take care of it. A quick flick of the duster and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘You always say that, but nothing ever happens. Anyway, I’ve got to go.’
He walked into the hall. ‘WHAT THE HELL?! Come out here!’
She followed him out to where he was pointing to a small mark on the carpet.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, ‘I can deal with it.’
‘Bring a cloth.’
‘You’ll be late. I told you, I’ll do it.’
But he was already back in the kitchen, returning with a cloth and a bowl of water. He knelt down and started dabbing the offending spot.
‘Nigel, just leave it.’
‘You have to dab, never rub . . . That’s the mistake you make, I’ve seen you do it, you always RUB instead of DAB.’
She watched as he carried on jabbing at the floor, matching his words to the action.
‘Drives. Me. Mad.’
Count to ten, Sandra thought. Don’t react. Be sympathetic, it’s his condition, it’s not him. She waited until he had finished, then took the bowl from him.
‘That’s fine now, off you go.’
Sandra closed the door with the sense of relief that always accompanied his departure and thought how she could really murder a bacon sandwich. Slathered with ketchup, the way she and Nigel used to like them after a heavy night, sitting up in bed, never mind the crumbs, recovering together in happy intimacy. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had breakfast in bed, maybe a thin bowl of muesli, nothing that might stain those premium sheets. Anyway, there was no bacon in the fridge; it gave you cancer so that was off. A Bloody Mary would sort her out, but you couldn’t start drinking in the morning, that was a slippery slope, she’d have to find another way of dealing with her hangover and the ugly morning episode with Nigel. Something to sweeten her day. Of course! She’d make herself feel better by playing the goody-goody mum and baking a batch of cupcakes.
Unlike everyone else in the country, Sandra wasn’t a Bake Off fan. The show reminded her of a damp village fete, Union Jack bunting hanging from the tent, bubbly commentary from that bespectacled school prefect and the hunky sex pest with blue eyes flirting with a woman his mother’s age whose ancient fingernails made her feel quite nauseous, frankly. But the thought of cracking out the butter and sugar was definitely something she could handle.
An hour later, she was looking at a tray of flat little discs sitting despondently in their pleated paper cups. She hoped the butter cream icing would cheer them up. This was supposed to be the fun part, according to the Hummingbird Bakery Cookbook; you could let your creativity and imagination run wild as you spread a thick carpet of calorific nightmare over the dull-brown tops, then add playful decorations to give that personal touch. It said in the introduction that the authors – a couple of Stepford Wives staring out of the photo with their identikit faces – had been round the world, to Australia, America and the Philippines, if you please, in search of suitable bits of coloured sugar for the purpose.
Fairy cakes, that’s what they used to be called when she was growing up. A grudging smear of watery icing if you were lucky, certainly not the thumb-deep layer of coloured butter demanded by modern cupcakes. But then again, nobody went to the gym in those days, nobody felt they had earned it, the way they did now. Me, me, me, work hard, play hard, then stuff your face on a cupcake topped with amusing crystallised flowers. In Sandra’s case, white stars and popping candy which exploded in your mouth, a toned-down Ecstasy for all the family.
It really wasn’t her thing, she thought, scooping up a dollop that had run down the side and pushing it back with her finger. Even as a child, she’d found it a bore, humouring her mother by pretending she enjoyed getting messy with a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl. Her mother used margarine because it was cheaper than butter, and drinking chocolate powder instead of rich dark foil-wrapped tablets. It gave a wartime feel to the results; in retrospect, Sandra fancied she could almost smell the powdered eggs. Then when she was pregnant with Poppy and had given up work to become an earth mother, she decided to go huge on home baking. She drove down to Divertimento on the Fulham Road and stocked up on every cake tin you could imagine, a state-of-the-art food-mixer and some hand-painted rustic Italian bowls so she could become a Tuscan matriarch in the middle of her open kitchen with a scrubbed pine surface the size of a snooker table where she would hand-make pasta ribbons with Tipo 00 flour imported from Italy. It was a passing phase, most of the tins had never been used and she soon realised only a fool would roll out their own sheets of pasta when it was so easy to buy.
She’d got the stuff all down her Zadig and Voltaire jumper; it was a good thing Ivana was coming later to clear up. She just hoped that Poppy would appreciate her efforts to show that she was a proper mum, the sort of mum who expressed her love through baking cakes, even though sugar was now public enemy number one. She’d left it a bit late; when Poppy was little, she always hired professionals to do the food, along with the clown and magician, the party bags and all that nonsense. Thank God those days were over.
Abandoning the cupcakes, she made herself another coffee, pressing the button to
set the machine whirring into action, grinding the beans, reminding her of her extreme good fortune. It was payback time, these quiet mornings, the just reward for a hardworking mother who has seen her child off to school and was now free to face the empty day at her own pace. She lay down on the daybed to count her blessings, Leo sleeping at her feet. He slept for at least twenty hours a day, leaving little time for anything else, but then again his interests were few: eating rubble food and clawing the carpet pretty much summed it up. She could maybe get going on Megan’s project this afternoon, but not before she’d had a little nap to refresh her creative juices.
She was just nodding off when her phone rang.
‘Sandra!’
Here was a tonic she could do with. She sat up.
‘Mariusz, how nice to hear from you!’
‘I am in the Jewson near to your place.’
‘Good for you.’
‘So if you like, I come for small coffee.’
‘Yes, I like. Very much. You can have a cupcake, I’ve just made some.’
‘You make cake!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. I can actually cook, you know.’
‘I believe you, I believe me!’
‘With sparkly sprinkles on top and popping candy.’
His silence indicated this was beyond the limits of his vocabulary.
‘I’ll show you when you get here,’ she said. ‘See you later!’
There was no denying he still put a spring in her step. She took three cupcakes from the rack, two for him, one for her, and placed them on a cake stand in the middle of the table. A few more confetti sprinkles and edible stars, and there they were, all ready. Sexy little sweeteners for her and Mariusz, and still plenty left for Poppy when she got home.
It was quite thrilling how the past could now just reach out and claim you. She had to admit she was slightly jealous that Tessa had been tracked down by a long-lost lover, though of course he was bound to have run to fat and she never fancied him anyway. And what was the point of harking back to your school days when you had your strong young admirer here and now, in the flesh?
These were Sandra’s thoughts as she opened the door to Mariusz, and took in the pleasing curves of his body, strong and slim beneath his dusty shirt, his paint-spattered jeans tapering down to the solid workman boots.
‘I need me big coffee today, Sandra,’ he announced, touching her lightly on the shoulder on his way in.
‘Why is that?’ She banged the coffee waste container to release the dregs into the pull-out bin, a miracle of ergonomic design. Mariusz picked up the cat and nuzzled him under his chin and Sandra noticed how Leo threw his head back to stare adoringly into his eyes, the little tart.
‘That cat loves you,’ she said.
‘All animals love me, Sandra. And now I must have big coffee because last night I have me too much vodka and ape juice.’
‘Ape juice?’
‘From apes. Grow on tree.’
‘Ah, apple juice.’
‘Yes! Lucky I have driver. Because I no pass breathalyser test this morning.’
He had told her how every morning, he made his ‘boys’ breathe into the apparatus on their way into the van. If they failed, they didn’t get to work. Sandra imagined them lining up, like the seven dwarves in the Disney film, whistling with their shovels, hey-ho, hey-ho, only to be turned back if they’d overdone the vodka the night before.
‘Me too, Mariusz,’ said Sandra. ‘I also overdid the wine last night. Not feeling too good this morning, and I look like shit.’
‘No, Sandra, always you look beautiful to me.’
He let go of the cat so he could put his arms round her.
‘And I had a horrible scene with my husband this morning,’ she added, relaxing into his warmth. ‘He was having a go at me about the state of the house.’
Mariusz drew her closer.
‘Your house very clean, Sandra. It is your husband who is crazy, but it is not his fault.’
How succinctly he expressed it, he made her feel so much better.
‘You’re right as usual. I love how you’re always so positive.’
She broke away to fetch his double espresso, heavily sweetened the way he liked it.
‘It’s from the machine, I’m afraid, I’ve run out of the ready ground stuff. And here’s a cupcake, tell me what you think of the popping candy.’
She watched him bite into it, enjoying his surprise at the fizzing sensation.
‘Very good cake,’ he said, reaching for another. ‘Tell me, Sandra, my other client in the letterhead, who like my person, she say I look like Huge Grant, what do you think?’
‘Hugh Grant, you mean. But I like Huge.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there is a passing resemblance. Although you’re more handsome. And a much better physique.’
Mariusz beamed with gratitude and flexed his arms in a muscle-man pose.
‘Thank you, Sandra! I am a very lucky man, to be here drinking the coffee with delicious cakes and a beautiful woman, and a big business where I am every day an urgent person.’
Watching him drink his coffee, knocking it back in one powerful gulp, so happy in his skin – bien dans sa peau, what a lovely expression – she wanted to lean over and kiss him on the throat.
‘So, where’s your driver?’ she asked.
‘He go to other job.’
‘Oh.’
‘So you see, we on our own.’
He brushed the cake crumbs from his mouth and opened his arms to her. Why not, she thought, as she slipped on to his lap. My husband thinks only of himself and it’s good to be appreciated. Carpe Diem, before the final curtain falls.
*
‘Thanks, Hayley, very kind of you.’
Matt nodded his appreciation to the temp who had just brought him a cup of coffee. He had made a point of learning her name and being especially courteous, as part of his self re-education. Even though he was still furious with her for complaining about his harmless little joke.
‘That’s alright,’ said Hayley, watching him pop out a couple of Paracetamols. ‘Heavy night, was it?’
‘You could say that. We had some friends over for dinner. I’m afraid I fall into that new category of problem drinker, middle-aged professionals who binge on wine in the privacy of their own homes.’
She gave him a sympathetic smile and went back to her desk. She was alright really, he thought, it was just the way the young were now, touchy and politically correct. She wasn’t much older than Lola who could be equally spiky, hauling him up for what she called his casual racism, just because he talked about ordering in a ching chong from the local Thai restaurant.
He stared at his screen and tried to focus on the presentation he was putting together for next week’s pitch. It was his great strength; getting up in front of the client and delivering punchy, persuasive arguments. He was a right little show pony, they all loved him. Or at least they used to. He was reordering his bullet points when Tessa rang.
‘Hi, just a quickie to say Lola’s coming home this weekend. Feeling a bit homesick, she said, so thought she’d join us for lunch with my parents on Saturday, isn’t that lovely?’
‘Oh yes!’
His spirits lifted at the prospect. He didn’t miss her the way Tessa did, he had more on his plate to think about. But how great that she was coming, that would cheer up the outing with the in-laws.
‘Is she OK, though? It’s a bit soon to get homesick, isn’t it?’
‘No, she’s fine, loving it all. Just fancied a little dose of home comfort I think.’
‘Well you’re the expert in that department. Brilliant news. Anyway, better get on, see you later.’
He returned to his work with renewed vigour. If it all sometimes seemed a little pointless, he was always able to remind himself that he was a good father, a reliable provider for his family. He loved everything about being a dad. He had friends who confessed they found it a strain, that sometimes they wis
hed it could be a bit less full-on, that they could dip back into their bachelor life on occasion. Not him. The happiest moments of his life had been spent with his children. Kicking a football around in the park, teaching them to ride a bike. He could see it now, Lola wobbling along without her stabilisers for the first time, careering off the path then getting her confidence and steadying into a straight line. You couldn’t beat it. It was fashionable to sneer at the nuclear family, but Tessa, Max and Lola were all that mattered to him, they were all he ever wanted. This weekend they’d be together again, crashed out on the sofa most likely, watching a film. Maybe he’d take a quick look at Netflix now, see if there was something that might appeal to them all. The Bourne Identity, that would do, though not sure if it was up Tessa and Lola’s street, they usually preferred something slow and French, but he really couldn’t be doing with subtitles.
It was unfortunate that Richard stopped by his desk at that very moment.
‘What’s this, a bit of daytime browsing going on? I’ve just read through your latest version and I’m not entirely happy with your approach, can we have a word?’
As he followed Richard into his office, Matt saw Hayley smirking at him, horrid little girl.
*
Tessa shook out Lola’s duvet and plumped up the pillows. Lola’s bedroom was no longer a shrine to a departed child, but a living part of the house. She was so glad Lola was coming home, they would be a family again; a joint sense of purpose as they united for a birthday celebration. Another photo of candles on a cake to add to the archive, evidence of their happy togetherness.
It was a fine day and she decided to walk up through the park to Harriet’s, where they were meeting for afternoon tea. Apparently her mother-in-law was feeling fragile and Harriet didn’t want to leave her alone. Celia wouldn’t join them, she said, but she just needed to know there was someone on hand. ‘Don’t know why you need to waste your money in a cafe, anyway,’ she had said to Harriet, ‘just get your friends to come here.’
Sandra’s bike was already chained to the railings when Tessa arrived. Harriet ushered her in to join them in the unapologetically old-school drawing room. Osborne & Little striped wallpaper, gilt-framed paintings of soothing landscapes and wing-backed armchairs covered in dog hair. Scattered on the sofa were tapestry cushions featuring the Union Jack in muted colours and the sort of plaid blankets that posh people use for picnics. Sandra waved her greeting to Tessa and cast an appreciative arm round the room.
