‘Home, then.’
‘Thank you for the trip.’
‘I – suppose I’ll see you around?’ From his look of defeat he obviously held out little hope for this.
‘Yes.’ Her answer was necessary to facilitate her escape, but Anna was too tired and emotionally drained to be able to give a definite reply. Taking her bag, she fled from the camper-van across the pale-grey concrete of the car park and ran up the stairs to Walton Tower’s lobby. Not wanting to take the lift, she carried on ascending the steps to hurry into the blessed peace of her flat, slamming the door and locking it.
It was only when she was alone, in the middle of her darkened home, that she realised she was still wearing Jonah’s hoodie. She struggled out of it, tossed the oversized garment into a heap and burst into tears.
Forty-Six
Nothing was turning out the way Anna had expected. Work had become tarnished by the unwanted articles; her relationship with her mother had died a spectacular death; Ben had been revealed as a plotting cheat; and now she had lost Jonah – whom she’d considered her closest friend. Even her parcels, which had started as kind, anonymous gifts but had become something entirely dearer, had been tainted. Twenty-four hours ago she’d thought she was turning a corner in understanding who she was and where she could be going. Today, as she stared into the depths of her black coffee, she felt lost.
When her phone began to buzz beside her, Anna was tempted not to answer. She peered at the display and saw Sheniece’s name. Relieved the caller wasn’t a grovelling journalist or a mortified cameraman, she answered the call.
‘Anna! How are you? More importantly, where have you been? I kept getting your answerphone.’
‘I had a couple of days away.’ Please don’t ask me for details.
‘But you’re back now, yeah? Good. I need to see you – are you free for brunch?’
They arranged to meet at a chain restaurant in Kensington High Street, where Sheniece was enjoying her day off from work, ‘spending money while it’s there’ on the new credit card her latest flame had given her.
‘We’ve missed you at work,’ she said, hauling a handful of shopping bags onto the leather bench seat and sitting next to them. ‘It’s been so boring, you wouldn’t believe.’
‘No armies of rival hacks camping outside the building? No more Ben McAra exclusives?’ It felt good to be able to joke about recent events, Anna being confident that Sheniece was the best audience for it.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, sweet, but you’re old news now.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’ Anna remembered Juliet’s PA assuring her of the same, before Senara’s story broke.
‘Ah, but this time they’ve run out of things to say. Rea reckons Ben’s refused to write any more about you, but I think the Dragon’s got what she wanted with this buyout deal – and taking the Post down a peg or two into the bargain.’ She buffed her nails with a linen napkin. ‘So you’re surplus to requirements.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. So, what else did I miss?’
With a conspiratorial smile, Sheniece reached into her pink leather bag. ‘Only this,’ she said, lifting out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. ‘It arrived yesterday morning, but I signed for it before anyone else saw. Nobody knows, apart from Narinder, me – and now you.’
Anna accepted the parcel, inspecting it carefully. The corners of the wrapping had been folded with precision, the sender’s details absent once more. Knowing the seventh parcel had been from Jonah, this had to be from the original sender. It was the last thing she’d expected to happen – but she was surprisingly happy to see it.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy opening it here?’ Sheniece ventured. ‘Seeing as I kept it a secret for you.’
‘Thank you. For not telling anyone else.’
Her colleague’s shoulders drooped. ‘So that’s a no, then?’
Anna considered the parcel in her hands. It represented a new adventure after the confusion and disappointment she’d experienced recently. And, really, what did it matter who witnessed its opening? She appreciated Sheniece’s thoughtfulness: without it, she could have faced more scrutiny over the delivery when she returned to work. This way she could enjoy whatever she’d been sent, away from the glare of Messenger interest; involving Sheniece would ensure it remained that way.
‘Okay, I’ll open it here.’
Sheniece clapped her hands, causing diners to peer over. ‘Result!’
‘But on one condition: whatever is inside remains a secret between us. Agreed?’
‘Yes, of course. Open it, open it!’
Enjoying her friend’s excitement, Anna lifted the two perfectly creased corners of the wrapping paper. Sheniece leaned over the table for a better view as Anna pulled out a purple box tied with a black bow.
‘This is like a fairy tale!’ Sheniece squeaked, unable to contain herself.
Anna smiled and untied the black satin ribbon, lifting the lid to reveal pale-lilac tissue paper. Within the folds she found a beautiful hardback book, its edges gilded and its title embossed in swirling silver and gold.
Her companion was a little disappointed. ‘A book?’
‘It’s a lovely book.’
‘Yeah, but . . . don’t get me wrong, An, I like to read sometimes, but a book isn’t a patch on expensive clothes or jewellery. Which book is it?’
‘I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith.’ A memory of her Aunt Zelda gifting her a dog-eared copy of the famous coming-of-age story warmed Anna’s heart. ‘I read this when I was thirteen. It was my aunt’s favourite book and she gave it to me like a rite of passage. It’s a beautiful story.’ As she flicked through the pages, a square of white card fell onto the tablecloth. ‘Oh.’
‘Is that a message? What does it say?’
Printed on the card were words Anna immediately recognised:
. . . because life is too exciting to sit still for long
‘I don’t get it.’ Sheniece frowned at the card. ‘Sounds like a strap-line from a shampoo advert.’
Anna laughed. ‘It’s a quote from the book.’
Sheniece shrugged. ‘I still don’t get it.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I’m glad this means something to you. If I got this through the post I’d be demanding a name, or a phone number at least. Especially after the wringer whoever sent the parcels has put you through. Cryptic messages would annoy the hell out of me.’
Anna hugged the book as she read the note again. ‘I wanted to be Cassandra Mortmain for a year after reading this. She expects the best out of life, all the time, even though the circumstances she finds herself in aren’t what she’d hoped.’ The protagonist’s irrepressible optimism had struck a chord with the young Anna, who was just beginning to understand how far from perfect life as Senara Browne’s daughter was.
‘Right.’ Sheniece was observing her as if Anna was attempting to explain string theory. ‘Well, as long as you’re happy . . .’
To her surprise, Anna was. Happier than she had been for a while, and certainly happier than she thought she would be after the ill-fated trip with Jonah. The book had reminded her of a time when she’d believed the best was possible: it was that belief that had led her to dream of a better life in London. It had been a long and difficult journey, in reality only ending when she’d finally stood up to her mother. But she had made it, had never stopped believing her freedom was attainable; and now – who could say what was possible?
On her journey back across the city, Anna felt a welcome calm returning, as if the book she carried was a long-lost friend, returned from too many years away. She changed Underground lines at Green Park, dodging packs of foreign tourists heading for Buckingham Palace, and as she waited on the platform for the next train a new thought occurred: what if Ben sent this parcel?
How would she feel if the journalist wasn’t ready to give up? Could it be another ploy to extend his recent run of attention-grabbing news stories? She couldn’t imagine he had ever read I Capture the Castle;
even if he had, the thought of him identifying with Cassandra Mortmain as much as she had was crazy. He didn’t strike her as the hopeless romantic type. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to see him again last time they had spoken. But what if Ben wasn’t willing to let it end like this?
So many details of the parcels had put Ben in the frame as the sender before he’d written the newspaper story. The coincidence of the midnight-blue shoes arriving close to their first date when they’d danced beneath the stars was too significant to ignore. But back then Anna knew she had wanted Ben to be her mystery benefactor. She’d wanted to believe he’d done it out of love, to win her heart. But if the parcels had been sent just for the sake of a story, why send another gift when he’d been found out?
Is this an apology?
It was a strange choice, if so. He couldn’t have known about Anna’s love for I Capture the Castle. She couldn’t remember specifically mentioning the book to him during their early-morning coffee-house visits. Maybe it was just a lucky guess?
She was still angry with Ben. But since Jonah kissed her, she had been slowly growing aware of a truth that she didn’t know what to do with. What had forced her away from her friend with such definite action hadn’t been anger because Jonah had crossed a line. It was because, in that moment, it galvanised her feelings for Ben. Pointless feelings – feelings that couldn’t be acted upon after what she had said to him the last time they met.
How did I find myself here?
She looked back at the quote on the card:
. . . because life is too exciting to sit still for long
Is my life exciting?
She had never considered it as such, before the parcels arrived. But back then ‘exciting’ wasn’t at the top of her requirement list for a happy life. Safe, secure and ‘mine’ were. Had she ever craved excitement? It was difficult to say. Her life in Cornwall had been anything but dull, but Anna longed to live away from the constant drama. Excitement became a byword for whatever car-crash relationship Senara was either lusting after, involved in or noisily exiting. That kind of excitement Anna was keen to avoid.
The memory of the optimism of Dodie Smith’s story had cheered her today, when she most needed it. If Ben had sent the gift, was that his intention? She stroked the embossed cover of the leather-bound book and let her worries go. She was tired of unpicking every development and the thought behind this gift was kind, regardless of whose thought it was. Opening the book at the beginning of the story, she began to read. Words she had loved so much in the past rose up to meet her and Anna welcomed their return. If there was ever an important time to revisit Cassandra Mortmain’s irresistibly optimistic world, it was now.
Forty-Seven
There were benefits to having water leaks in your apartment, Tish Gornick concluded, as she enjoyed the welcoming warmth of the coffee shop below her home. Firstly, she couldn’t work while it was being fixed, which was always an unexpected blessing on a Friday when she usually completed the accounts from home. Plus, she didn’t trust the Wi-Fi in Spill the Beans (at least, that was what she’d told her manager this morning when she’d phoned in her apology).
Secondly, she could allow herself a larger-than-usual late lunch in order to kill time, writing off the no-doubt-excessive calories against the increased emotional stress of the event. The indignity of the water situation in her apartment called for it. After having no water at all a few weeks ago, the tinkering done to fix it then had now caused the ageing pipes to give up the ghost.
But the most unexpected benefit had presented itself when Seamus, the admittedly rugged Irish caretaker of Walton Tower, removed his shirt in the line of duty – and, inadvertently, revealed a rather deliciously toned chest that commanded her attention. She blushed thinking of it, even two hours after the event. Who knew the caretaker was hiding such an awesome body?
Her mother would be appalled, of course, her own deep-seated mistrust of Irishmen informed by a brief but disastrous fling with an Irish deli-owner in Harlem, not long after she divorced Tish’s father in the late Seventies.
‘Never trust an Irish fella,’ she’d often warned her daughter. ‘They whip up a tale around you so sweet you’re drowning in sugar, then drop you like a hot rock.’
When Tish was still young and impressionable enough to take notice, her mother had practically locked her in their house on St Patrick’s Day, forbidding her to attend the parade that passed by, for fear of Tish becoming enchanted by a Gaelic ne’er-do-well. She would be horrified to learn that her daughter was, at that precise moment, conjuring up raunchy scenarios starring the caretaker, while devouring a hunk of chocolate cake large enough to make her arteries beg for leniency.
When her daydreams offered her a moment’s respite, Tish looked up and spotted her friend Anna Browne sitting on the opposite side of the coffee shop. She was practically curled around a hardback book, oblivious to everything around her. The book looked old and expensively bound, although Tish couldn’t make out the title. But most noticeable was the expression Anna wore. It was wistful – a word not usually in Tish Gornick’s lexicon, but the most apt for what she saw. She toyed with the idea of remaining in her seat, leaving Anna be. But who was she kidding? She had to know what was going on.
With thoughts of the unexpectedly delectable caretaker still sweetly glowing at the back of her mind, Tish left her table.
‘Anna? I thought it was you.’
Anna looked up and reluctantly put her book down, marking her place with a coffee-shop napkin. ‘Hi, Tish.’
Without waiting to be asked, Tish sat down at Anna’s table. ‘What happened to you? Where did you disappear to?’
‘I just needed to clear my head for a couple of days.’
‘You left in a hurry.’
‘It was a last-minute decision.’
‘Was it that crazy article about your mother? Mrs Smedley showed it to me when I looked in on her yesterday. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Anna.’
Anna shrugged. The article seemed a world away now. ‘It’s done. I’m moving on.’
‘Okay, what aren’t you telling me? What happened while you were away?’
‘Nothing special.’ Anna hoped her smile would be enough to curb Tish’s questions. ‘Anyway, I’m here now, and hopefully back to work on Monday, so I’m making the most of my long weekend.’
‘Reading.’ Tish’s flat tone conveyed her disdain.
‘Call it revisiting an old friend.’
Tish peered over at the cover. ‘I Capture the Castle? Wow, it’s years since I read that. My sister was obsessed with it in high school. I even caught her trying to write with her feet in the kitchen sink once.’ She shook her head. ‘I guess you love it, huh?’
‘I do. I take it you don’t?’
‘Too rainbows-and-bluebirds for my taste. I was more of a John Steinbeck girl.’
‘Ah.’ This came as no surprise to Anna. ‘Well, I love it.’
Tish sat back in her seat, observing her friend. ‘Where did you get it?’
She could lie, of course. But she found she wanted to know her friend’s thoughts, her own being difficult to quantify. ‘It was in another parcel.’
‘Another? They started up again?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Was there a note?’
Anna handed the card to her. Tish studied it as if close inspection would uncover the sender’s DNA.
‘And you’re thinking it’s the journalist, right?’
‘I don’t know what to think. The last conversation I had with Ben was pretty final. I don’t know what he would gain from sending another gift.’
Tish held out her hand for the book, subjecting it to the same scrutiny. ‘Could be an apology, I guess. Weird choice.’
Anna accepted the book back and stroked its cover. ‘Actually, it means something to me. But Ben – or whoever else might have sent it – couldn’t have known.’
‘Lucky guess? Doesn’t every girl love Dodie Smith?’
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‘You didn’t.’
‘Good point. So how do you feel about the new parcel? I only ask because, if it was me, I’d probably wish I’d never had them at all.’
Anna stared at her friend. She had felt like that before, but spending time in Cassandra Mortmain’s world again had make her think differently. ‘I want to know who sent it, obviously. But I don’t wish the parcels had never arrived. I haven’t liked everything that’s happened, but when in life do we ever get everything we want? The thing with Mum was hard and it hurt, but it also made me stand up for myself, and I would never have thought I could do that before. I thought the gifts in the parcels were changing me, but I was wrong. They gave me the courage to change myself.’
Tish’s eyes narrowed. ‘I guess that’s one way of looking at it.’
Anna put the book on the table between them and rested her hand on its cover. ‘If Ben sent the parcels – and I’m not saying he did – then regardless of everything that’s happened, I’m still grateful to him. I haven’t forgiven him for the story, of course. But I like the changes I’ve made this year. They weren’t made trying to impress anyone, just to make me happy. For that, I’m grateful.’
Her friend smiled and, quite unexpectedly, leaned over and hugged Anna. ‘I think that’s awesome. You know, my therapist says life is a choice and a journey. It’s a choice because nobody can change you without your permission, consciously or otherwise. And a journey because it’s a process. I’ve watched you changing every week. You’re more confident. You walk taller. You stood up to your mother, for heaven’s sake! I’ve been in therapy twenty-two years, yet I still turn into a mouse when my mother walks in.’
In all the time they had been friends Anna had never heard Tish talk so personally. She had always pictured the irascible former New Yorker as too concerned by her own worldly woes to notice anything else. ‘A choice and a journey. I like that.’
A Parcel for Anna Browne Page 32
