Sylvia makes a scoffing sound as she flicks another page. I look to Gus, desperate for him to say something light.
‘To be honest, dear,’ he says quietly, ‘I think we’d forgotten all about it.’
*
‘Why isn’t the home decorated?’
Jakub looks up at me as I charge into the kitchen. He’s stirring a large pot, which is wafting swirls of peppery steam.
My thumping, enraged heart returns to normal as I look at his unimpressed face.
‘What?’ he says, his accent reducing every sound to the same level.
I take a deep breath and puff my chest out.
‘The home,’ I say, gesturing behind me, ‘this home. It’s not decorated for Christmas. Why?’
The words tumble out of my mouth and Jakub looks up from the pot and observes my stern expression, which is twitching under the pressure of keeping it straight.
‘Pass me some bowls.’ Jakub raises his eyebrows at me.
What?
‘They’re behind you,’ he says. ‘I need three.’
I flounder, feeling my legs move at the compulsion to always be helpful. I open the cupboard door and pull three bowls from the tower of crockery.
‘Did you hear me?’ I say.
Jakub takes them off me and gives the pot a stir. ‘Yes.’
I stare at him, waiting for him to answer.
He doesn’t. Again.
Why is he so impossible to have a conversation with? He acts as if he’s living on a limited daily word count.
‘Well?’ I say incredulously. ‘Gus said that they’d forgotten all about it. That’s really bad, that they feel so unfestive here that they could have forgotten—’
‘They haven’t forgotten,’ Jakub says simply, lining up the bowls.
‘What?’ I say, my face burning. ‘Yes, they have. Gus just said so.’
For the first time ever, I see Jakub smile. I feel a weird squirm of emotion.
He looks much less like a serial killer when he smiles.
‘That man reads the paper every day,’ he says, picking up a ladle, ‘you think he doesn’t know what the date is?’
I flounder, feeling my face prickle.
‘But then why—’
‘They don’t want it this year.’
His words cut across me and I close my mouth stupidly.
‘This year?’ I echo. ‘Did they celebrate last year?’
‘Yup.’
‘So why don’t they want to this year?’
Jakub cocks his head as he spoons the soup into the last bowl. I loiter in the silence hopelessly.
I don’t understand.
‘Has something happened?’ I say, lowering my voice. ‘Did somebody here die? Was it that Diane lady? They said she’d left.’
I see Jakub’s face change.
‘She did.’
Oh my God.
Somebody died here?
‘So, she died?’ I say, my heart pounding.
Jakub shakes his head, running the pot under a jet of water. ‘No. She left. Everyone left.’
I look at him, my tense body softening.
What? Left?
‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘Why?’
Jakub switches the tap off and looks back at me. His permanent scowl has vanished.
‘They’re closing the home,’ he says. ‘They have until the first week of January to find somewhere else to live.’
My heart sinks.
‘Or what?’ I say.
Jakub picks up two of the bowls and turns to face me.
‘I don’t know.’
Jakub gestures to the third bowl, steaming on the counter, as he walks past me. I stand still, floored.
They’re closing the home? How can they close it? How are they allowed to? People live here.
It’s their home.
I grab the bowl and chase after Jakub, cursing as the hot soup splatters on my wrist.
‘Wait,’ I say roughly, as my legs power after him, ‘what do you mean they’re closing the home? Why? How can they?’
Jakub keeps walking. ‘It’s been sold,’ he says plainly.
Sold?
I reach him as he finally stops to turn into the living room. He goes to push the door open and I feel my heart leap into my mouth.
‘Wait!’
My free hand shoots out in front of Jakub’s chest like a barrier. He raises his eyebrows at me expectantly and I look back at him, my heart heavy in my chest. As he moves his blue eyes to meet mine, for a moment I see a flicker of something as we stand in silence. The hot bowl burns against my cramping fingers and I open my mouth hopelessly.
Jakub stares back at me, waiting for me to speak.
I don’t know what to say.
‘They can’t,’ I say eventually, the sad protest falling out of my mouth.
I see Jakub’s shoulders drop slightly, breaking his rigid posture. He looks back at me again before pushing through the door and into the living room. I hear Gus cheer at the sight of him and I push my back against the wall as an overpowering thought pulses through my mind.
If they close the home, then I can’t come here any more.
If I can’t come here any more, then I go back to being cold.
This thought cues the creature resting in my gut to flex its claws and I try to ignore the hot tears welling in my eyes.
I can’t go back to being cold. I can’t.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
My eyes flit down to my notepad as I rap my pen against my desk.
15.15: Afternoon visit from Faye.
16.00: Final tea break of the day.
16.15: Finish press release and send to Angela.
16.50: Shut down computer ready to leave.
17.00: Run for 17.08 bus to Sunfields.
I look back at the clock and see its red plastic hand tick to 3.30 p.m.
Faye is late, annoyingly. She must be talking to someone she actually cares about.
Or perhaps she’s found a mirror.
‘Working hard, eh, Bea?’
I look up as Duncan strides past my desk, a wide grin pulling at his puffy cheeks. Today he’s wearing a thick woollen jumper over his shirt and tie, and I feel a pang of familiarity.
I wonder if his wife made that for him.
I shoot him a half-smile and look back down at my monitor.
I don’t know what he expects me to say back to that. Yes? No? Kind of, but I’m also watching a tutorial on how to make my own short-crust pastry?
‘Keep an eye on your emails,’ Duncan calls, forming his fingers into small guns and shooting them in my direction. ‘I’ve got some exciting stuff coming your way.’
My smile quivers.
Oh great.
We finally published the beaver story this morning and, as predicted, no one cares. Not even Angela, who used it against me when I said I hadn’t had time to file the invoices.
It didn’t get a single like on Facebook, and our post about Teddington’s record-breaking sausage got two hundred.
I guess people care more about sausages than beavers.
I rest my cheek on the palm of my hand as I refresh my emails. As promised, an email from Duncan is waiting at the top of my inbox like an unexploded firework.
It’s a round robin.
I peer around the office, trying to spot if anybody else has noticed Duncan’s latest spout of madness. Nobody stirs. I snap my finger on my mouse and feel my insides shrivel as Duncan’s email pings onto my screen.
Hiya guys!! Thought it was time for another DO! This time I want to get cReAtIvE so have come up with three options on what we can do. Whichever gets the most votes WINS!!!!!
Peace and love
Big D.
I blink at the email, feeling hot sparks of panic flitting through me as I will myself to scroll down to read the options.
I really hope Duncan has no idea what ‘big d’ means.
My body burns with embarrassment at the thought.
Right. C
ome on. Let’s see what he has to say. I’m probably worrying about nothing. I mean, it’s a work do! Obviously it will be a meal at Pizza Express or some kind of drinks at a quirky bar. Maybe he wants to do something like make our own cocktails. That would be fine. That I can deal with.
My finger creaks over the mouse as I scroll down the page.
Or maybe he wants to push the boat out and go for a curry instead of the normal Chinese. That would be fine. I mean, I’d have to look up the menu beforehand but everything is pretty much online now, isn’t it? I could choose what I want before, and just ensure that—
My eyes judder to a halt as I spot the three options glistening on my screen.
Oh no.
So guys! Here are our three options . . .
1) Staff karaoke?!
2) Staff fashion show???!!!?
3) Staff calendar shoot?!!!???? SHOTGUN DECEMBER
I blink at the screen in horror.
What the hell is this? Why would anyone want to do any of these things?
I mean, a staff fashion show? Christ! What are we going to model? Our work outfits from the Next sale?
I bet Faye came up with these horrible ideas. What’s wrong with a curry? Why can’t we just go for a nice korma? Everyone knows where they stand with a naan.
I snap the email shut and get to my feet.
Right, well, I will just have to make sure that I am ill for this ridiculous staff event. If I pretend I have a urine infection then nobody will question it and everybody will be too embarrassed to ask any questions.
I grab my mug and make my way into the kitchen.
Although they’d better not go with the staff calendar idea, because they might wait for me to be better so I can shoot my month.
Urgh.
If that’s the case then I’ll have to up my illness so that I’m off work for a considerable amount of time. Maybe I’ll get glandular fever.
But will I need a doctor’s note? I can’t fake one.
God, maybe I’ll have to actually break my leg.
‘Oh!’
I bound straight into the kitchen and spot Faye. She is leaning over the kitchen counter with her back to the door, her long hair hiding her face like two curtains. Her head jerks up at the sight of me and I spot small black pools gathered in the corner of her eyes. She quickly whips her head away from me.
Is she crying?
‘Sorry,’ I say stupidly, leaning towards the kettle, ‘I was just . . . do you want a . . .?’ I trail off as Faye spins back round to me. The small splodges of black from under her eyes have vanished and her mouth is split in a wide, toothy smile.
‘I’ll have a coffee if you’re making one,’ she says in her usual chipper tone.
I look back at her. ‘Are you okay?’
I’ve never seen Faye upset before.
‘Black, please,’ Faye adds, as she swans past me, ‘I’m on a dairy ban. Thanks.’
*
‘Hi, Joy,’ I ramble, ‘is my letter here? Do I have one?’
Joy pulls her door open, a smile appearing on her face at the sight of me. As soon as she clocks it’s me, she turns on her heels and walks back into her house, the door swinging behind her.
‘Come on in, Bea!’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘Sorry, I’m making a cake.’
I hover at the door frame, peering after her as her copper head disappears into the kitchen.
I frown.
It’s a Wednesday. She knows I don’t come in on a Wednesday. I do my ironing on a Wednesday.
Dubiously, I step inside, pulling my feet out of my grubby trainers. As soon as I push her door shut, a light scent of vanilla wraps itself around me and I feel my taut muscles relax.
Joy’s house always feels so clean and warm.
‘Thank you,’ I say, following Joy into the kitchen, ‘I can’t stay long, I just want to see if . . . wow!’
My mouth drops open as I spot Joy, craning over a staggering cake in her kitchen. Her buttercup-yellow jumper is rolled up to her elbows and she has splats of flour over her pink apron. The cake has been crafted into a castle, made of small squares of sponge stacked together like bricks with layers of buttercream. I gawp at Joy as she presses another piece of sponge into the smallest wall.
‘Joy!’ I cry. ‘That’s amazing!’
Joy flashes me a smile as she slowly lifts her hands up from the piece of sponge, then picks up another one.
‘Oh this?’ she says. ‘It’s not as impressive as it looks.’
Gosh. What I wouldn’t give to live in a castle made of cake.
‘Do you need any help?’ I ask.
Please say no, please say no.
Joy looks up at me, her eyes bright.
‘Go on, then.’
Damn it.
‘If you could just hold this part in place,’ she says carefully, gesturing to the wall she’s building, ‘while I cut up some more sponge.’
She catches my stricken expression and laughs. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she says.
I hold my anxious hands up to the cake.
What happens if I sneeze and jerk this whole thing over? Or if a wasp comes in and tries to sit in my ear? Or I get an involuntary cramp and end up clapping my hands together and crushing the cake to smithereens?
Joy cranes over a large, square piece of sponge as she holds her ruler up to it.
‘This is so cool, Joy,’ I say, clenching my quivering muscles as I hold the cake.
Christ, this is worse than holding a newborn baby.
What’s going to happen if my hands start sweating?
Joy smiles and picks up a small knife.
‘Do you like it?’ she says. ‘I used to make it for Jenny all the time, for her birthdays.’
I smile, as the image of Joy as a young mum unfolds in front of my eyes.
I bet she was a great mum.
‘Who’s this one for, then?’ I ask. ‘Are you posting it to Jenny in Australia?’
I try to shoot Joy a grin but she doesn’t look up as she runs the knife over the sponge.
‘No,’ she says, ‘this one is for the school fête tomorrow, up the road. They’re always looking for cakes, and I don’t mind.’
I feel my eyebrows creep up my face.
She’s made all this effort for a school fête? She doesn’t even have a child at the school.
‘Right,’ Joy says, picking up the ruler and measuring the lines of sponge again, ‘now I just need to cut these.’ She squints at the sponge and picks up the knife. Her eyes flick up to me and she almost does a double-take, as though she’d forgotten I was there.
‘Sorry, dear,’ she says, her smile pinging back on to her face, ‘I’ve just dragged you in here to help with my cake. Did you want something?’
I feel a pang in my chest.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I just wanted to see whether you had any letters for me.’
It’s been a week and Nathan hasn’t written back. He usually writes back within three days. But this was the first letter that was really from me. Well, I still signed it like I always do. But I said things that I really meant.
I told him about Sunfields. Then I told him about Nina.
Her kind eyes look at me and I feel my insides twist.
‘No,’ she says, ‘sorry. I haven’t received anything.’ She turns back to the sponge. ‘Is it another love letter you’re waiting for?’
The back of my neck pricks with guilt.
‘Yeah,’ I say in a small voice.
Joy swipes the knife across the sponge and beams down at the perfectly cut squares. She gestures to my hands, still cupped over the tower of sponge.
‘You can let go now, dear,’ she says kindly, ‘it’s set.’
I slowly take my hands away, my heart racing as I stare at the wall of sponge, which stands proudly before me.
‘Phew!’ I laugh. ‘It didn’t break.’
Joy smiles at me, and admires the wall.
‘No,’ she says softly, ‘it’s stronger than you think.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I eyeball Jakub as I shove my shoulder into the front door, my arms burning under the weight of two large carrier bags.
He looks back at me from behind the reception desk, blankly.
I glare at him.
Why isn’t he helping me?
He watches me shove my shoulder against the door again, which creaks open slightly, before wedging itself into the carpet. I stick my head through the gap and stare at Jakub furiously.
‘Can you help me, please?’ I yelp, sounding like a furious mother of five.
Jakub walks towards me, his mouth fixed as a straight line across his face. He pulls the door open with ease and I try not to stagger through the door as the bags swing off my shoulder.
Jakub raises his eyebrows at me. ‘What are those?’
I look up at him as I bumble past.
‘It’s a game,’ I say, hoisting one of the bags up on to my hip.
I shoot him a look, daring him to break his permanent look of indifference.
Honestly, I think I could tell him there was a swarm of locusts in these bags and he’d still look at me like I’d asked where the toilets are.
To my surprise, he reaches forward and hooks the bags out from my clenched fingers and holds them like they’re filled with feathers.
Good Lord, he’s strong. How is he so strong when he works in a care home?
‘A game?’ he repeats, following me as I walk towards the living room.
I know where they all will be now. I don’t need Jakub to show me. Not that he would, or ever really has.
‘Yup,’ I say, pushing my body weight against the door, ‘you can play if you like.’
Jakub leans forward and holds the door open for me.
‘I don’t play games,’ he says.
I try not to roll my eyes. Of course he doesn’t.
I stumble through the door and flash a smile at Sylvia, who is sitting in her usual chair and peering at me from Wuthering Heights. Gus is grinning at me from the moment I walk in and Nina is sitting, as she always is, by the window. She glances over at me as I walk in, but moves her head away within seconds.
I try to squash the flutter of anxiety as Jakub puts the bags down gently on the table.
‘Fine,’ I say, meeting his cool stare, ‘we’ll play without you.’
‘Play what?’ Gus asks, his square head resting low on his shoulders.
I open my mouth to reply, when I hear the click of the door. I turn and see that Jakub has left.
The Accidental Love Letter Page 15
