by A J McDine
‘It’s a grade two listed Queen Anne house that’s the envy of the village. Poor me, poor me. Pour me another,’ Rory said, topping up her glass and winking. She batted him on the arm. It was hard to stay cross with him for long. Like Chloe, he had inherited their late mother’s amenable nature. The sun was always shining in Rory’s world.
‘Seriously though, sis, why don’t you look at Chloe leaving home as an opportunity, not a death sentence? You’ve always wanted to teach. What’s stopping you from signing up for a teacher training course while she’s away?’
‘Duh, what about Pa?’ Kate said, waving a hand in the old man’s direction. ‘Who would look after him?’
‘You could do a part-time degree close to home. Or one with the Open University. You can’t seriously want to spend the rest of your life waitressing.’
Kate bristled. ‘Don’t be such a snob. There’s nothing wrong with waitressing. I like my job.’
Rory held up a hand. ‘I didn’t say there was. But you had a place at Durham. Your A-level grades were way better than mine. Just because you missed out when you were eighteen, doesn’t mean you have to miss out again.’
By the fire, Chloe was high-fiving her grandfather after scoring fifty-seven points with maximise on a triple word score.
‘It could have been eighty-four, and I’d have been in the lead if you’d let me have US spellings,’ she was grumbling.
‘One needs standards, m’dear,’ the old man told her. ‘Else, where would we be?’
Chloe pouted. ‘Winning?’
Kate had turned back to her brother. ‘I know I never made it to Durham,’ she had said softly. ‘But I didn’t miss out.’
Chloe was still asleep when Kate pulled into the drive. As she turned off the engine, Chloe’s phone bleeped softly. Surprised it didn’t wake her, Kate couldn’t resist taking a peek. Chloe’s grip on the phone had loosened as she slept, allowing Kate to see a Snapchat message from Ben.
Hey Chloe, it was great to meet you today. I hope we can stay in touch. xxx
Kate raised an eyebrow. Three kisses. And more in one text than she’d heard him say all day. She stroked her daughter’s cheek.
‘Chlo, we’re home.’
Chloe opened her eyes and yawned.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone five. Come on, I expect Grandpa’s waiting to hear all about your day.’
Chloe checked her phone before she unclipped her seatbelt, as Kate knew she would. She was surgically attached to the bloody thing.
‘It bleeped while you were asleep. Anyone interesting?’
‘Only Ben.’
‘He must be keen.’
‘Mum!’
‘Sorry. I know. None of my business. But can I say one thing?’
‘What does it matter what I think? I expect you will, anyway.’
‘This is such an important year for you. Your mocks are only a few months away, and you’ll be sitting your A-levels before you know it. You are so nearly where you want to be. Don’t get distracted by a boy now. You’ve got the rest of your life to meet someone.’
‘I’m not going to get distracted by Ben. He’s a mate. I probably won’t see him again before uni. If he even goes to Kingsgate. There’s nothing to worry about, OK?’ Chloe bit her lip. ‘I know why you’re saying this, but I’m not you. I would never let a boy wreck my dreams.’
Ouch. It was no more than she deserved, but still. She was only trying to help. To stop Chloe making the same mistakes she did.
Because Ben clearly wanted to be more than a mate.
Take care, he’d said.
Three kisses.
Chapter Six
KATE
Although Kate had always planned on going to university, she’d never been interested in the law. She’d always wanted to teach. She’d backtracked to appease her father in the dark days following her mother’s death. He’d been a husk of a man, wrung dry with grief, but when she’d told him she had chosen law after all it had lit a spark of interest, given him a glimmer of hope.
As they’d traipsed around half a dozen university campuses, her father had shared stories of his student days and recounted big cases he’d won. He’d fired questions at the lecturers and pored over the course structures. Kate had felt like a fraud, terrified she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
As the deadline for applications crept closer, she’d had a major wobble. Not about getting the grades - she knew straight As were achievable if she did the work - but about the degree itself.
Rory, two years her junior and about to sit his GCSEs, had found her in her bedroom, tears streaming down her face as she stared at her UCAS form.
‘I can’t do it,’ she’d hiccuped.
‘It’s three years of your life, sis. You can do a year’s teacher training afterwards. You don’t have to become a lawyer. But it’s the only thing stopping the old man from taking his shotgun, walking into the woods and blowing his brains out. Please don’t change your mind now.’
Kate had wept. Great heaving sobs that wracked her whole body. Tears of self-pity for a motherless daughter who felt pressured into a career she’d never wanted. Rory had put a clumsy arm around her shoulder and given her a squeeze.
‘What if you told him you wanted to defer for a year?’
Kate wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘Like a gap year?’
‘Exactly! Tell him you need to find yourself and go travelling. You’ve always wanted to visit Asia. Do it. Come back, do law for three years and then train to be a teacher.’
‘He’d never agree.’
‘How do you know if you don’t ask?’
So Kate had asked, and to her astonishment, her father had agreed. One last hurrah, he’d called it. He was from a generation who’d left home at eighteen for National Service and had spent almost a year in the sticky heat of the Malayan jungle defeating a communist revolt. As far as he was concerned, National Service had made him a man and the country wouldn’t be going to hell in a handcart if they brought it back.
There were two conditions. The first that Kate self-funded the trip. The second, that she applied to Durham, her father’s alma mater, and that she’d be back in plenty of time for the start of her first year.
Kate had no problem meeting the first condition. She found herself a job as a waitress at The Willows, a Georgian manor house on the outskirts of their village that had recently launched as an upmarket wedding venue. Working every hour she could for the next eight months, she saved enough to see her through a year in South East Asia.
It was the second condition that was the problem. Because by the time Kate was due to fly home, three weeks before the start of Freshers’ Week, she was already four months pregnant.
Kate’s father was sitting in the kitchen in his Barbour and a tweed bucket hat, threading a live maggot onto a fishing hook. More maggots writhed in an open Tupperware sandwich box on the table. At his feet, their chocolate brown Labrador, Max, gazed at him adoringly.
‘Do you have to do that in here?’ Kate said, slamming her handbag on the kitchen counter with more force than was necessary.
Max thumped his tail on the floor and woofed a greeting. Her father ignored her.
‘How was it?’ he asked his granddaughter.
‘Oh, Grandpa, it was amazing.’
‘Remind me, what are they asking for?’
‘Three As, same as all the Russell Group unis.’
He smiled. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem for my favourite granddaughter.’
Chloe tutted. ‘Your only granddaughter.’
‘Fair point well made.’ He held the hook to the light to inspect it. The impaled maggot twisted and jerked like an obscene marionette. Kate dragged her eyes away and flicked on the kettle.
‘Tea, anyone?’
‘Not for me, Katherine. I’m off to catch a couple of trout for supper.’
‘But there’s a casserole in the slow cooker. I made it before we left.’
‘We can have that tomorrow.’ Her father pushed his chair back and pulled himself to his feet. He had always been big: tall and broad-shouldered, an imposing man, both physically and intellectually. As a circuit judge, he had commanded courtrooms, reducing even the most experienced barristers to quivering wrecks and earning the respect of defendants and juries alike. Now in his late eighties, his physical presence was waning, but his mind was as sharp as ever.
‘What if you don’t catch anything?’ Kate asked, snapping the lid on the Tupperware box and shoving it to the back of the fridge.
His gaze was unwavering. ‘I will.’
He returned less than an hour later with two good-sized rainbow trout, their silver-brown flanks peppered with dark spots. He handed them to Kate and washed his hands under the kitchen tap.
‘Sun's over the yardarm. G and T?’
Her father may drive her mad ninety-nine per cent of the time, but he made a mean gin and tonic. While he fixed their drinks, Kate reached in the cutlery drawer for her favourite paring knife and began gutting the first fish. Holding it firmly, she sliced off its head with one swift motion before expertly running the knife along its underbelly, deep enough to pierce the skin, but not so deep as to cut into the guts.
She reached into the body cavity and pulled out the intestines, running her thumb along the trout’s spine to make sure everything was out. She rinsed it until the water ran clear before reaching for the second fish.
Once both fish had been gutted, she rubbed their skin with olive oil and filled them with slices of lemon and sprigs of parsley. She seasoned them, wrapped them in foil and popped them into the oven next to three baked potatoes.
Her father settled himself at the kitchen table with the Telegraph crossword while Kate sipped her drink as she topped and tailed green beans.
Chloe appeared in the doorway. ‘Mum, I’ve been thinking about what you said.’
Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’
‘Very funny. Can I have a few shifts at The Willows over Christmas? I want to start saving for uni.’
‘Are you sure? It’s a tough gig. Long hours on your feet for the minimum wage. At least if you worked at the pub, you’d get tips.’
Frown lines furrowed Chloe’s brow. ‘Don’t you want me to work with you?’
Kate plunged the beans into a pan of boiling water. ‘Of course I do. I’m working tomorrow. I’ll have a word with Patrick. I’m sure it will be fine. He never says no to a pretty face.’
Chapter Seven
CHLOE
Chloe tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach as she followed her mum up the gravelled driveway. Ahead, The Willows, in all its haughty Georgian splendour, gazed down at them. People at school thought her house was posh, and she supposed it was, although they didn’t know it was also draughty, leaky and threadbare and basically falling down. But The Willows was proper posh: a five-star wedding and events venue with a spa, beautiful boutique bedrooms and immaculately manicured gardens.
Chloe’s squeaky-new black loafers were already pinching her feet. Her mum said she needed sensible shoes for the ten-hour shifts. Chloe thought they were the ugliest things she’d ever seen. But her mum had insisted on buying them, along with a terrible pair of black, tailored trousers and black pop socks, the kind of thing grannies wore. Not that Chloe had a grannie, but, anyway, they were beyond gross. Not even a glimpse of bare feet was allowed, her mum said. Patrick would provide an apron, tie and white gloves. White gloves! It was like Downtown flippin’ Abbey. And for the first time in her privileged seventeen years, she was the wrong side of the green baize door.
‘I remember my first shift,’ her mum said as they took a path around the side of the house to the back. Staff weren’t allowed in the main doors, apparently. Go figure. ‘I was your age. But I was saving up for my gap year, not uni.’
‘What was it like?’
‘A bit weird. Everyone else knew exactly what they were doing and were like this well-oiled machine, and I was completely clueless. It’s like the first day at school. You don’t know where anything is, or what you’re supposed to be doing. I breezed in through the front door and was offered a glass of champagne.’ She laughed. ‘When I said I was here for my first waitressing shift, I was sent round the back with a flea in my ear.’
‘By Patrick?’
‘No, by his mum, Shirley. She was a miserable old cow. Nothing was ever good enough. Patrick’s dad, Henry, was much nicer, even if he was completely under the thumb. But I was glad when they retired.’
‘Who does Patrick take after, his mum or his dad?’
Her mum laughed again. ‘Good question. Well, you never know with Patrick. Some days he takes after Henry, and some days Shirley. Which keeps you on your toes.’
‘What will I be doing today?’
‘A bit of everything. Laying tables, serving canapés, and clearing glasses. The wedding breakfast is due to start at four.’
‘That’s when I have to do the hand thing?’
Her mum had explained how they would start serving the top table and work their way around the room a table at a time. Each member of the waiting staff would be given hand numbers, so they picked up the correct dish for each guest. It sounded fiendishly complicated.
‘Don't worry,’ her mum said as if reading her thoughts. ‘You'll soon get the hang of it. And we always have a practice run. Look, there’s Pete, the chef. Come and say hello.’
Pete was unloading a delivery of meat from the back of a van. He set down a tray of chicken breasts and walked over to meet them.
He grinned at Chloe. ‘Ready for your first day at the madhouse?’
‘I guess,’ Chloe said. She didn’t know Pete well - her mum liked to keep work and home separate - but he seemed nice, and wasn’t afraid to take the piss out of her mum, which awarded him automatic brownie points in her eyes. Her mum was always so uptight.
‘Patrick’s on the warpath. The bride’s announced that four of the guests are gluten-free,’ Pete said.
‘Why’s he getting his knickers in a twist? That impacts on you, not him.’ Her mum’s voice was indignant.
‘You know me. I go with the flow.’ Pete turned to Chloe. ‘Fancy giving me a hand?’
‘Sure.’
Once Chloe had finished helping Pete, she joined her mum in the Great Hall, the enormous vaulted room where wedding receptions at The Willows took place. Strings of fairy lights decorated the beams and on each table was a floral centrepiece of holly, ivy and velvety roses the colour of cherries.
‘I love a Christmas wedding,’ her mum said, depositing a pile of white napkins on the nearest table. ‘I’ll show you how these are folded and then we’ll lay the tables.’
Chloe quickly mastered napkin-folding - it was hardly rocket science - and soon she was following her mum around the room, laying cutlery, napkins and side plates with clinical precision.
‘It all seems a bit pointless. The minute they sit down, they’re going to mess it all up,’ Chloe grumbled.
‘Don’t let Patrick hear you say that,’ her mum said.
‘Don’t let Patrick hear you say what?’ said a smooth voice behind her. Chloe spun around to see a short, stocky man with perfectly-coiffed hair and piercing blue eyes looking her up and down.
‘Chloe, I presume?’ he said.
Chloe nodded and held out a hand. It seemed the right thing to do. He took it, his eyes never leaving her face.
‘As beautiful as your mother.’ He dropped her hand. ‘Welcome to The Willows.’
Chloe’s phone buzzed in her back pocket. A flicker of displeasure crossed Patrick’s features.
‘Chloe, I thought I told you to turn that damn thing off,’ her mum said.
‘Sorry.’ Chloe pulled the phone from her pocket. Her eyes slid over the message on the screen as she switched the mobile to silent. She felt a tiny spark of elation but kept her expression neutral, aware her mum and Patrick w
ere both watching.
‘Don’t let it happen again,’ Patrick said, walking away.
Chloe turned to her mum and mouthed, ‘Is he actually joking?’
When he was safely out of earshot, her mum shook her head and said, ‘No, he isn’t. Today’s a Shirley day.’
While her mum was checking the place settings one last time, Chloe headed across the small staff car park to the low-slung building that housed the storeroom and staff toilets. She locked herself in one of the cubicles, flipped the lid of the loo seat down and unlocked her phone.
Hey, Chlo, how’s your first shift? Been thinking about you all morning and hoping it’s going OK. Xxx
Ben. Smiling to herself, Chloe tapped back a reply.
The boss is an absolute arsehole but other than that it’s fine. What are you doing today? Xxx
A second later her phone, still on silent, vibrated in her hand.
‘Hey you,’ she said softly.
‘Hey yourself,’ Ben said. ‘I thought I’d call. I was missing the sound of your voice.’
‘Me too, but I can’t talk for long. Mum thinks I’m in the loo. Well, I am in the loo, but not going to the loo, if you know what I mean. Just sitting on it, talking to you. Where are you?’
‘In my bedroom, thinking about you. Why is your boss an arsehole?’
‘He told me off for having my phone switched on.’
‘Wanker. Did you tell him where he could stick his job?’
‘I wish I could but I can’t. I need the money. And my mum would go apeshit. She works here, too, remember.’
‘Probably not a good idea then. Can I see you over the holidays?’
