by Alice Ross
Thinking of Ian reminded Trish that she’d better inform him of Amber’s latest venture. The man might have impregnated a girl little more than a decade older than his daughter, but he was still Amber’s father. And as much as Trish hated him for what he’d done to their family, she forced herself to rise above it; to act like a sensible, mature woman. When all she really wanted to do was paint obscenities on his car and squeeze hair-removal cream into his shampoo bottle.
Preferring to have the conversation without Amber earwigging, she swung the car into a layby next to a field of cows and stabbed his number into her phone. He answered on the first ring, sounding surprisingly pleased to hear from her.
‘Trish. Hi. How are you?’
His amiable tone knocked Trish off-guard. The last thing she wanted was a “Fine. How are you?” conversation. Not when there lurked a high chance the reply might include phrases like “ecstatically happy”, or “thrilled to bits”, or “feeling like the luckiest man alive”. And God forbid her good manners should lead her to enquiring after Chloe’s health. As there was a danger of “blooming”, “radiant”, or “her boobs are even bigger” coming back at her in response to that – when all Trish really wanted to hear was “puking up”, “bigger than a beached whale” and “suffering with piles” – she cut out any preamble. ‘Amber wants to get a paper round,’ she announced matter-of-factly.
Down the line rocketed a sharp intake of breath, followed by, ‘A paper round? What on earth for? She’ll have to get up at the crack of dawn.’
‘She’s aware of that.’
‘And she can’t possibly need the money. I gave her another fifty quid at the weekend. In addition to the fifty quid I gave her the weekend before.’
Watching a black and white cow as it lumbered about the field, seemingly without a care in the world, Trish furrowed her forehead. ‘She told me you didn’t give her any money this weekend. Which is why I gave her twenty pounds on Tuesday.’
A long sigh whooshed through the ether. Trish could imagine her still-husband raking a hand through his thick fair hair. It had been his hair that had first caught her attention when she’d toppled onto him on the train that fateful day. The way he always raked his hand through it when considering something always made her smile. Her lips threatening to do just that now, she forced the corners down and elbowed aside all hair-raking images.
‘She’s costing me a fortune,’ Ian grumbled.
‘And who’s fault’s that?’ Through her seriously straight mouth, Trish’s words sounded harsher than intended. To be fair, Ian had never griped about money.
Another sigh ensued, before he ventured, ‘Have you, um, told her about Chloe and the baby yet?’
Despite his sheepish tone, hearing him voice the phrase “Chloe and the baby” made Trish feel sick. Saying the woman was pregnant was one thing. Saying “Chloe and the baby” made it seem much more real; hammered home the realisation that, in a few months, there would be another little person in her husband’s life. One who would have a name. Then it would be “Chloe and the named-little-person” – Ian’s new family. One completely detached from Trish. The thought made vomit rise in her throat.
‘No,’ she replied, sucking in a bolstering breath. She’d been waiting for the right moment to tell Amber. She’d thought, if Ian agreed to the paper round, that she might do it over the veggie fajitas that evening, when her daughter would most likely be in a good mood. But now it struck her that she didn’t want to. That she had no desire to be the one to break her daughter’s high spirits. Or the one to suffer the fallout. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’ve decided I’m not going to. The news should definitely come from you.’
For several seconds a heavy silence clattered down the line.
‘She’s not going to like it,’ Ian eventually puffed.
Trish bit back a snort of ironic laughter. Amber “not liking” the news of her impending half-sibling was akin to saying property prices in the Cotswolds were below the national average. ‘No. She isn’t.’
‘Which is why I think it would be so much better coming from you.’
Trish shook her head. The gall of the man. ‘And why exactly do you think that, Ian?’
‘Well, because… because… you’re her mother.’
This time she didn’t bother holding back her laughter. ‘I am her mother. And you’re her father. And as this development is purely father-related, I see no reason why I should tell her.’
This time his sigh rang with impatience. ‘Right. Fine. I’ll tell her at the weekend.’
‘You do that. And if you bottle out and do it by text, I’ll never forgive you.’
‘Right.’
‘Oh. And one more thing. She’s gone vegetarian.’
‘Bloody hell. That’s all we need.’
‘All I need, you mean,’ retorted Trish. Before jabbing the End Call button.
Reclining against the soft leather seat of the car, Trish watched the cow lift its tail and swiftly turned her head away. She’d had quite enough of the stuff it was about to evacuate during the conversation with Ian. She had, however, dealt with it well, she thought. She had no idea what had inspired that bout of assertiveness – very possibly the chat with the self-assured Connie – but it was the first time she’d stood up for herself since the split; the first time she hadn’t allowed Ian to treat her like a doormat just to keep Amber happy. But, based on how good it felt, she resolved there and then that it certainly wouldn’t be the last time.
Arriving home, Trish found Amber waiting for her, throwing open the front door with great aplomb.
‘Well?’ she demanded, huge amber eyes sparkling. The very eyes responsible for her name. Minutes after entering the world, with Trish and Ian gazing at her in stupefied awe, she’d opened those eyes and gazed back.
‘They’re amber,’ Ian had gasped.
‘That’s what we should call her then,’ Trish had decided.
‘What did Connie say?’ pressed the quasi-adult version now, not nearly as placid as the newborn Trish had just pictured.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she confirmed. ‘Connie has explained exactly how it works and what’s expected of you. I told her you’ll start on Monday.’
‘Brilliant! Thanks, Mum.’ She planted a kiss on Trish’s cheek. Then, horror washing over her face, ‘Crap. I have nothing to wear.’
Trish wrinkled her nose. ‘You’re delivering papers at six in the morning. I don’t think anyone will give a monkey’s what you wear.’
Amber tossed her an admonishing look. ‘Honestly, Mum. You have no idea,’ she chided, before sticking her nose in the air and waltzing off down the hall.
Several hours later – at two-fifty-three in the morning – Trish discovered Amber wasn’t the only one in the house with sartorial matters on her mind. She’d woken in a cold sweat stressing about the cookery club – worrying her skills weren’t up to it; concerned the other members wouldn’t like her; and wondering what to wear. At two-fifty-seven, after a furious rummage through her wardrobe, she’d settled on black linen trousers and a cream, V-necked top. And, after several changes of mind during the day, had reverted to her original – and ridiculously early – choice.
‘How do I look?’ she’d asked Amber, as she prepared to leave for Connie’s cottage.
Amber had tilted her head to one side, run appraising eyes over her and made a strange grunting sound.
Trish hadn’t known if it was a good grunting sound or a bad one. And she’d lacked the courage to ask.
The moment Connie opened the door to her, though, all her concerns evaporated on a puff of garlic-infused smoke. The younger woman, while still looking gorgeous, was wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt. Making Trish breathe a sigh of relief she hadn’t opted for anything more formal.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ her host gushed. ‘I had a horrible feeling you might back out at the last minute.’
Trish pulled a face. ‘Between me and you, I almost did. Not because I didn’t wan
t to come, but because I’m so nervous. It’s been ages since I’ve met any new people.’
Connie laughed. ‘Honestly, I felt exactly the same when I set up the club. The evening of the first meeting, I was so nervous I almost threw up.’
‘Yep, that sounds familiar,’ chuckled Trish, entering the cottage and following her host up the hall. ‘Goodness. This house is gorgeous.’
‘I know. Unfortunately, it isn’t mine. I’m house- and dog-sitting – for a friend for six months while she and her husband are in Australia. Eric – the dog in question – is behind the sofa, but he should pluck up the courage to poke his head out in approximately twenty minutes.’
Trish laughed. ‘Bit on the nervy side then?’
‘Just a tad. An old rescue greyhound, who, despite having tons of love and attention heaped on him, still hasn’t conquered his nerves. He’s getting better, though.’
‘That’s good,’ said Trish. ‘But I thought you were looking after the newsagent’s while the owner was in Spain.’
‘That too. Well, me and the owner’s cousin. So, I suppose you could say I’m an all-round sitter. Which suits me fine at the minute. I’ll spare you the gory details but I ended up living back with my parents in London a short while ago. So, when my friend Anna offered me this house for six months, I snatched her hand off. She’s due back in November, at which point I would’ve had to move back to London. But in the meantime, Eleanor – the owner of the newsagent’s – decided to flit off to Spain, and asked me to look after the shop. I’m staying here for now, but in November I’ll move into the flat above the shop.’
‘Goodness. It all sounds very exciting.’
Connie shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. And I certainly hadn’t planned any of it. It’s all just happened. But I absolutely love Little Biddington, and looking after the shop gives me more time here. Until I sort out what I really want to do.’
‘Sounds ideal. And what about you and, um…?’
‘Max?’
Trish noticed the way Connie’s eyes sparkled at the mention of his name.
‘It’s early days,’ she replied, smiling coyly.
‘Aah. They’re the best ones. If my memory serves me right.’
‘Oh, it most definitely does,’ giggled her host.
The doorbell chimed, causing Eric to fleetingly appear as he leapt several feet in the air.
‘Heavens. Does he do that every time the bell rings?’
‘Without fail,’ replied Connie.
The other two members of the cookery club arrived together and, to Trish’s astonishment, couldn’t have been more different. Kate – the village vet, who apparently had a brood of young children – seemed flustered, with a streak of ketchup on her creased blue top and a small tear in the back of her mismatched Indian print skirt. The younger woman, Melody, conversely, was stunning – in pristine white jeans and a pink blouse. Within minutes of their arrival, however, Trish concluded they were both lovely.
‘Well, it’s great you’ve joined us,’ said Melody. ‘Although I should warn you, you have to watch what you say here. I bet Connie hasn’t told you about her blog.’
Trish quirked a curious eyebrow.
‘I knew she wouldn’t have,’ Melody exclaimed, shaking her head in mock despair at their host. ‘She set up a blog about the club when we first started and it’s so popular that the Galloping Gourmet magazine contacted her to write a column. The first one is in this month’s edition.’
‘The Galloping Gourmet?’ Trish gaped at Connie. ‘That’s amazing. I love that magazine.’
‘So do I,’ said Connie. ‘And I’m still in shock about the whole thing, to be honest. I started the blog on a complete whim after something Kate said one day, and it just took off.’
‘Well, well, well.’ Trish shook her head in disbelief. ‘If I’d known I’d be spending the evening with a celebrity, I’d have put my lippy on.’
‘No lippy required here. It would only come off when we’re troughing all the food. And talking of food, let’s knuckle down to some cooking. I’ve already prepared the main course of sardines en escabeche, and I was going to make an ensaladilla salad to go with it. There’s all sorts in that – potatoes, carrots, green beans, gherkins, olives…’
‘Sounds gorgeous,’ said Kate. ‘I’m going to make pimiento tartlets for the starter. They should take about forty minutes, including cooking time.’
‘And I’m having a go at pestinos for dessert,’ said Melody. ‘They’re sweet bites, apparently invented by the Arabs. I could deep fry them, but I’m opting for the healthier version and will bake them instead, before dunking them in honey. They’ll need about half an hour in the oven so maybe we should start with those.’
‘Wow. It all sounds gorgeous,’ said Trish, feeling suddenly shy. ‘And I know you said I didn’t have to bring anything, but because you mentioned the Spanish theme, I made some authentic bread – pan de cebada. It’s quite heavy, but very tasty. I thought it would go with Connie’s sardines.’
Connie clapped her hands. ‘See!’ she exclaimed to the other two members. ‘Didn’t I tell you she’d fit in perfectly.’
Trish couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun – especially when helping Melody make the pestinos. It had taken several hilarious attempts with the piping bag to produce the required shapes, but they’d eventually succeeded, more amusement ensuing when they’d dunked the tiny cooked pastries into the honey before serving. The end result had been delicious crunchy golden fritters flavoured with cinnamon and sprinkled with sesame seeds.
‘So, do you think you’ll come back?’ asked Kate, when every morsel of their efforts had been devoured.
‘Absolutely. If you’ll have me.’
‘Of course we will,’ said Connie. ‘Apart from on the telly, I’ve never seen anyone chop an onion so expertly.’
‘And without shedding a tear,’ piped up Melody. ‘I’m going to have to squeeze in some practice before this baby arrives.’
‘When’s it due?’
‘March. Part of me is so excited I think I might burst. And the other part thinks goodness, it’ll soon be here and I’m nowhere near prepared.’
‘The next few months will fly by,’ said Kate. ‘And then you’ll wonder what you did before. I have no idea how I filled my time before having my three. But that’s because I can’t remember anything that happened more than two hours ago.’
Trish laughed. ‘I take my hat off to you having three. I can’t cope with one. Although, I have to say, up until her dad left last year, Amber was no trouble at all. Since then, she’s been like a bear with a sore everything.’
‘Ugh. Don’t tell me. I’m already dreading the teens and the twins are still at the terrible twos stage. It must be hard on your own, though.’
Trish shrugged. She’d been enjoying herself so much she’d hardly given Ian a thought all evening. And she didn’t particularly want to now. ‘You just have to get on with it.’
‘Total respect,’ replied Kate. ‘And just so you know, I don’t cope at all. Thankfully, we have a very competent French au pair who helps me out.’
About to tell Kate how lucky she was, Trish stopped. Had she imagined it, or had Connie and Melody exchanged A Look at that statement?
‘How much longer is Domenique with you?’ asked Connie, avoiding eye contact with the vet and beginning to clear the empty dishes.
‘Well, she originally signed up for a year, but as that’s nearly at an end, we’ve persuaded her to stay another six months. Which is fantastic news.’
This time Trish was definitely not mistaken. The Look which passed between Connie and Melody at that remark left her in no doubt that they viewed this news as anything but fantastic.
Chapter Four
‘You’re looking well,’ remarked Ian when he came to collect Amber on Saturday morning. ‘What’ve you been up to?’
Trish blinked at him. Was that a compliment? Or an attempt to butter her up, hoping she’d g
ive in and agree to tell Amber his news after all? Resisting the urge to say something along the lines of finding a toy-boy lover on the internet and abandoning all household duties in favour of rampant sex, she said, ‘I’ve joined a cookery club.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Oh. Right. What’s one of those?’
‘Well, believe it or not, it’s a club where we cook,’ replied Trish, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone.
‘Where is it?’
‘We take turns hosting it.’
He gave a curt nod, regarding her with an undecipherable look in his eye. ‘How many people are in it?’
‘Four. At the moment.’
‘Right.’ He pursed his lips and shuffled his feet. ‘Any… men?’
Trish’s brows snapped together. What sort of question was that? ‘No. Why? You thinking about signing up? Looking for some new rusk-based recipes? Or things to liquidise?’
He stuck out his bottom lip.
‘You are going to tell Amber about the baby today, aren’t you?’ she pressed.
Ian opened his mouth to reply, but clamped it shut again as Amber sailed into the room.
‘Hi, Dad.’ Making a beeline for her father, she lifted herself onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
‘Hello, Princess,’ said Ian, all signs of petulance wiped away with a disarming smile. ‘You look lovely. Ready to go?’
‘Yep. What are we doing today?’
‘I thought we could hire a boat.’
‘Cool.’ She tossed Trish a look that implied thank God one of my parents isn’t a complete loser.
‘Have a good time,’ instructed Trish, as the two of them made to leave.
‘We will,’ sang Amber, skipping off like – Trish couldn’t help but compare – an innocent lamb to the slaughter.
Trepidation mounting just imagining her daughter’s return – having been informed of The Baby News – Trish wondered what to do with herself once the house was empty. She briefly considered a trip to Cirencester, but decided against it. She didn’t need anything, parking would be a nightmare, and she couldn’t face swarms of people. No. She’d much rather stay home and do what she always did when stressed: cook!
