by Beth Moran
‘Wow.’ Wow. WOW! Information overload… systems in danger of overheating… Mack does not love or even like Sienna…
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I knew this wasn’t about me, or even about us, but, really, had all the jumbled emotions of the past few months – the guilt, the embarrassment, confusion and hurt – been for nothing?
Mack looked down, his face blank.
‘All this time I thought you were back with her. Then you disappear, and I assume you’ve moved in together, and you hate me for blowing your cover. I blamed myself for forcing you away.’
‘Why would you think you forced me away?’
‘Uh, because you didn’t even say goodbye?’ I was nearly shouting now.
Mack looked at me, dark eyes serious. ‘I’m genuinely sorry about that. Really, I should have said goodbye. But right then, I was angry. About a lot of things. Mainly what a total failure I’d become. And I guess some of that got turned on you. I’ve been a lousy friend.’
‘Mack, we aren’t friends! Friends don’t spend all that time with each other and not share the biggest things going on in their life. That whole Ashley thing would never have happened if you’d trusted me enough to tell me who you were. Let alone what you were going through. You didn’t have to tell me, it’s none of my business, but don’t then pretend we’re friends.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He ran one hand over his head, agitated. His hair was shorter. It suited him, drew attention to his eyes. Not that I noticed or cared, of course.
‘I feel like a complete idiot.’ I sounded like one too, raspy and overwrought.
Mack took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t tell you because I needed time. To process, and work through it. To grieve for my marriage. To start to heal.’
‘This is what I’m talking about! Friends help each other through these things. You’ve seen me at my worst, in a dozen different messed-up, humiliating situations. Friends are honest. They don’t hide what’s really going on.’
‘That is not what I was doing.’ Mack’s voice was calm, but his eyes were blazing. ‘I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t trust—’
‘You didn’t trust me!’ I cried. ‘That’s the whole point!’
‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t trust myself!’ He stood up, the chair scraping across the floor with a howl.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ I asked, the words vibrating through the tension in the kitchen.
‘I was a wreck, Jenny. I didn’t want to hurt you. To start something I couldn’t handle. It was easier to hide how I felt, let you think I was married. It gave me time to figure out whether the feelings were real. I care about you too much to risk making you my rebound.’
I was so pathetic that even as my rage swirled my heart skipped at the news that Mack had feelings for me, whatever they might be.
‘Right, and you needed to pretend you’re with her, to prevent us “starting something”? Possibly a tad presumptuous, considering how many times I’ve stated I’m not interested in a relationship right now. Never mind a relationship with you.’
Mack reared back as if I’d slapped him. ‘Right.’ He scowled. ‘I must have imagined it.’
‘I will not have another man make a fool out of me. You did this to avoid hurting me? Well, newsflash: I’ve been hurting since you left.’
I shook my head, the anger leaking out of me like a popped balloon, leaving only a mountain of sadness. I closed my eyes. ‘I think you’d better go now, please.’
When I opened them again, he’d gone.
The following evening, I sprawled on Sarah’s sofa, stuffing crostini into my mouth and waiting to hear her verdict.
‘You need to bake him another cake,’ she pronounced.
I sat up, nearly choking on a chunk of feta cheese. ‘What?’
‘A good one. Maybe dinner, too.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked. ‘He lied about being married, then disappeared without saying goodbye, leaving me thinking he never wanted to speak to me again.’
‘And he admitted he was a total mess. Not thinking straight. And he didn’t know that you’d been harbouring all these lust-ridden, guilty feelings.’
‘Ur, he seemed pretty confident in how I felt.’
‘Maybe when you get used to keeping massive secrets, it kind of becomes a habit. Like his armour. After being hurt and rejected by Sienna, he spent all that time alone, lost in his own thoughts. Yeah, he should have told you, but he thought he was doing the honourable thing by not doing that.’ She pointed a piece of bread at me. ‘The question is, do you want to be friends with Mack again? Or more than friends? In which case you need to firstly forgive him, then secondly tell him how you feel and what you want.’
‘I don’t know what I want.’
‘Well, duck, you’d best figure that out, then, hadn’t you?’
Bones rattling, I stood on the doorstep and racked my brain for a way to apologise. But when he opened the door, Mack jumped straight in with, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorrier.’
That made him smile. ‘Peace-offering?’
‘White chocolate and raspberry brownies.’
‘You’d better come in.’
In the end, we sat outside in the autumn sunshine, watching the squirrels scamper after nuts as we sipped coffee and eased back into each other’s company with neutral topics like the progress on the house. Eventually, emboldened by laughter and the warmth of good conversation, I tested things a little further.
‘If you weren’t with Sienna, where have you been all this time?’
Mack thought for a minute, running a hand over his missing beard. ‘I thought I couldn’t write any more because I’d realised love was a load of crap that brought nothing but pain and disappointment, and that people can’t be trusted. So, I went home.’
‘You went home?’ Goodness, my witty repartee knew no bounds this morning.
‘To my parents. Whom I love. And who have always loved me, unconditionally. And I let them love me, in all the best ways. I watched them love each other. I visited my sisters and their kids, ate chips and threw a Frisbee and had tickle fights. I remembered what love was. And I started writing.’
‘That’s so great.’ It was so great I hardly even cared that it was his family who’d reminded him what love was, not the weird woman next door.
‘And once I’d started, well, I couldn’t stop. So, I finally had something worth sending to my publisher. And they liked it. Enough for me to buy out Sienna’s half of the house. Which means I’m back. For the first time in nearly six years. I’m back.’
‘Return of the Mack.’ I toasted him with the dregs of my coffee. ‘Welcome home.’
He smiled so hard, it reached every corner of his face.
‘Right, well. I’ve a deadline to meet. And this time I actually mean it. I’d best get back to work. It’s really good to see you, Jenny.’
‘You too.’
Cue gigantic, enormously awkward pause. You too? Snap out of it, woman and find something to say!
‘Don’t forget to let the rot guy in on Friday. No grumpy “get orf my land, I’m busy writing my next bestseller and the creative flow cannot be disturbed”.’
‘Yeah, yeah. And in the meantime I’ll be listening out for your next disaster.’
43
What with one thing and another, it was soon December, and the book club Christmas party. Although, with the challenges now complete, we would be reverting to being a boring old temper-fizzing, insult hurling, food-throwing book club.
My third Christmas of the year was looking to be the best yet. I had joined the Camerons on their annual trip to fetch a tree straight from the forest, smothering it in gluey, glittery stars and recycled paper chains. I had clapped until my hands were sore at their church nativity, giving an extra cheer for the three mini-warrior angels despite their inability to resist performing an unscripted fight scene. I had helped write dozens of Christmas cards for Maddie’s class p
ostbox, and dropped off a nervous but excited Dawson at his school Christmas disco. I had also joined Ellen in distributing food hampers and gift boxes for vulnerable families and those with no family to speak of whatsoever. It meant more than I could say that, by some miracle, my Christmas would be spent with a family like this one.
Frances was in hospital, due to what she called ‘pesky stomach mischief’, and what we called three days of uncontrollable vomiting. To Edison’s delight, Florence moved into The Common Café, where the attentions of a small boy would hopefully ease the pain of missing her owner.
‘Must be getting a little crowded upstairs,’ Lucille remarked, as we lounged on the café’s sofas, clustered around the crackling fire, red and white Scandi-style bunting hung along the mantelpiece. ‘First Jamie, now a dog.’
Jamie levelled his gaze at her, no less serious even when topped off with a pair of antlers. ‘On the rare occasions I make it upstairs, we all fit in just fine.’
‘You’ve not moved in, then?’
‘Not until we’re married.’
‘You’re getting married?’ Ashley blurted, nearly toppling backwards out of her chair into the bushy tree, which had been covered in baubles made out of miniature Christmas jumpers.
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ Sarah said, standing frozen stiff with a tray of mulled wine.
Jamie shrugged. ‘I told you, I’m not staying over without Edison knowing it’s permanent.’
‘I thought the answer to that was that you didn’t stay over.’ The glasses on the tray rattled. ‘Is this a proposal? Because you could’ve picked a better time, like when I’m not wearing a snowman apron and I’ve had time to get my roots done.’
Jamie calmly took the tray from her and placed it on the table. He’d come a long way since the Tough Muck. ‘I’m not proposing now. But when I do, I won’t give a crap what you’re wearing or what your hair’s like. And I’ll be doing it with your son present, not a load of gawkers. Okay?’
He waited, ever patient, while Sarah summoned up the ability to reply. ‘Okay.’
‘Hurry up, Jamie.’ Ashley took a glass, the ends of her tinsel hairband dangling dangerously close to the winter-spice candle centrepiece. ‘You don’t want to keep a woman waiting too long.’
‘It’s been four months!’ Sarah blustered, fooling no one.
‘Well, moving on from Jamie and Sarah’s personal business,’ Ellen said, ‘we have a book-club timetable to plan.’
‘Here we go.’ Jamie grimaced, grabbing a handful of nuts.
‘And before that,’ Ellen replied, ignoring him, ‘I have a letter to read. From our absent member.’ She unfolded the letter, cleared her throat, and read:
‘“I wanted to say this in person, but the despicable cancer has been up to its tricks again. However, Ellen has promised to write this down and read it to you later, so listen up:
Thank you.
Thank you for what you have done, and how you have done it.
Thank you for not treating me like a doddery old woman but a friend who still has a functioning brain, albeit a little foggier than before.
Thank you for listening as you wiped my face and laughing as you helped me balance on the loo.
Thank you for still telling me your troubles, and your silly little stories while warming my soup and dabbing cream on my sores. The ups and downs of your days may seem small in comparison to mine. But they are not. They are light in a ferociously vast darkness.
You have all been a light to me. Your kindness. Your time. Your respect.
I am not afraid of dying, as you know. But I have at times been terribly afraid of what it may entail.
I am a little less afraid of that now. Because God has sent me an army of angels.
I hope you have all learnt something these past few months. Something important. About yourselves. About each other. About what matters.
This is what I have learnt: my adventures were fun. Exciting. But fun and excitement is fleeting. What lasts, what matters, are the people you get to share your adventures with, talk and laugh about them with. The people who will remind you of the beautiful moments when your bones are screaming and your throat is raw and you are so tired and frustrated and blooming well peed-off you can’t bear another second in your own body. The people who can turn the light on. It is the people we love – and, if you haven’t figured it out, I love you all like the children I never had.
I hope you keep sharing your stories, and learning from them. I hope you remember this year, and your batty old friend, when you are eighty-five and life can seem more of a burden than a gift. This is nearly the end of my story – this chapter at least. Thank you for being part of it. Now, you can get on with arguing which book you’ll be reading next. What a relief Hillary West has writer’s block so you won’t have to listen to Ashley whinging on about reading his for a good long while. And please don’t forget to give Florence a piece of cake. Two pieces – she can have mine.
May all your days be merry and bright,
Frances.”’
Florence poked her nose above the tablecloth at the mention of her name, tongue out expectantly.
‘Cinnamon or pumpkin spice?’ Sarah rubbed her silken ears. ‘One of each? Go on, then, if your mistress says so.’
We opened our cheap, cheerful and downright cheesy secret Santa gifts, ate and talked, laughed and sang along to ‘White Christmas’, hoping our old friend wasn’t too uncomfortable or lonely, even as we went through our diaries and promised to do what we could to help her last days be merry and bright, too.
Around nine o’clock, Ellen made another attempt to get us back onto books.
‘Ashley, are you quite all right?’ she asked, a snippet of irritation creeping in as Ashley, increasingly fidgety and distracted, twisted to peer out of the bunting-covered window for the tenth time in a minute.
‘Yes. I just thought… I’m… no. Actually, I wanted to… no. No. It’s nothing. Please, carry on.’ She shuffled her chair back, and stuck on an expectant smile.
‘Right. If everybody’s ready, I’ve no idea where we are with the rota, so—’
‘Yes!’ Ashley shouted, having been unable to resist one last peek. ‘Yes. Thank goodness. I thought he’d stood me up.’
‘You have a date?’ Lucille sniggered. ‘And you invited him here?’
That had better not be her date, I thought in a rush of startling aggressiveness, as he opened the café door with a blast of icy air and stepped in, stomping his boots on the mat.
Ashley let out a stream of high-pitched giggles, her Santa earrings swinging. ‘Of course it’s not a date.’ She pressed a hand to her flushing chest. ‘It’s the completion of my challenge. Finding Hillary West was only the first bit. If you remember, getting her – him – along to the book club was the end goal.’
‘How could we forget?’ Lucille muttered, but she winked at Ashley as she did.
Kiko got up and dragged a chair over as our guest author joined us, greeted by Ashley flapping about as he unwrapped his scarf and tugged off a chunky bobble hat.
‘I’m so glad you came!’ she squawked.
‘Glad to be here.’ He didn’t especially look it. ‘Sorry I’m late. I tend to get submerged when I’m reaching the end of a book and lose all track of time.’
I’d seen him a few more times since his return, but so fleetingly it was nearly as bad as him not being here. When our paths had crossed – in the café morning-coffee queue, my advance apologies for noisy workmen, another bonfire, and one evening when he’d ended up staying for a curry – Mack had been friendly, but definitely nice-neighbourly, not I-think-about-you-all-the-time friendly. We’d talked about the cottage, Dawson’s comics, family, the whole Fisher situation. But then he would check his watch and make his excuses, too soon. Way too soon. I’d begun to hate that book and its stupid deadline, his greedy, selfish publisher. I was more jealous of that book than I had been about Sienna.
There had been a couple of moments, when the
conversation had fallen silent, or our eyes had met across the picnic table in the twilight. Ending up squashed together in the crowd watching the Christmas lights being turned on at the village green. The morning someone had knocked into me in the café and he’d flung one arm around my waist, grabbing the coffee-cup.
Okay, there had been quite a few moments. On my side. But I kept remembering Richard, and how I’d scooped up every smouldering glance, fallen for every last-minute request, been so utterly, completely wrong when it had come to love, lust and plain old lechery. The messages Mack and I exchanged every few days felt intimate to me, like the kind of conversation a couple would have. But they weren’t that different from the texts I exchanged with Kiko, or Sarah. I had no idea where the lines were drawn. And I wasn’t about to risk losing my friend again.
So, when Mack took a seat, nodded a hello to everyone, then crinkled his eyes at me, I hadn’t the foggiest what that meant, beyond it making my heart sprout wings and do a loop around the Christmas tree. I hoped nobody had noticed, but, from the smirks and the raised eyebrows, I might have been kidding myself.
Ashley rambled a welcome. I didn’t hear a word of it. Glancing at Mack, I found him looking straight at me. Embarrassed to be caught glancing, even though he was the one staring, I gulped down some water, praying I wasn’t getting sweat patches on my top. Despite the freezing temperatures outside, it seemed to be growing hotter and hotter by the fire.
There was a subdued round of applause, and Mack cleared his throat.
‘Ashley asked if I’d tell you about my new book. I don’t want to give too much away, and at this point anything’s liable to change, but I can tell you it’s my favourite yet.’
‘Is it set in Sherwood Forest?’ Ashley asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
