Chapter 2 #2
‘You’re home early!’ Clem’s mum called as soon as Clem stepped over the threshold of their tiny cottage.
That was the only problem with a home where the front door led directly into the living room: you couldn’t exactly sneak inside or get to your room without being spotted.
‘I didn’t expect you for another hour or two at least. Did it go okay? ’ she asked.
Clem hung her bag and jacket on the hooks behind the door, and manoeuvred around the umbrella stand to drop into an armchair to the left of the sofa.
Her mum was sitting in the centre of the settee, with a cup of tea and a worried frown line across her forehead.
The TV by the brick fireplace was playing a David Attenborough documentary, his smooth, calming tones filling the room, underscored by the sound of birds chittering.
Her mum reached for the remote and turned the volume down.
‘Don’t turn down Attenborough on my account,’ said Clem, sinking back into the chair. ‘It’s the new one you wanted to see, isn’t it?’
‘Never mind that. How did tonight go?’
Clem picked at a loose thread on the cushion sandwiched beside her.
She’d come home with the window open in the taxi, which had eased the sickliness she’d been feeling.
By the time the cottage came into view, she felt better.
‘I came back early. After dessert. They brought the cake out, and a guy spilled his drink on me. He was laughing, and . . .’ She trailed off.
It sounded so silly now, in hindsight, and in the cosy warmth of the cottage.
‘But you stayed through dessert!’ said her mum. ‘That’s good. And you went – even though you didn’t want to.’
‘I did want to,’ she clarified. ‘Even if my brain was trying to tell me I didn’t. I feel bad for not staying.’ She’d also texted Sylvie in the taxi on the way home, apologising for leaving so soon, claiming a headache. She felt bad about that, too.
‘Well, maybe next time you will. Small steps. Gradual, remember?’
‘I just wonder how long I’ll be stuck on gradual .’
Her mum drained her tea and set it on the table, beside a stack of magazines. She’d been subscribed to the same nature magazine since Clem was a child; the space under her bed was filled with them and she often had to recycle some for lack of space. Clem was surprised the magazine still existed.
‘You should be proud,’ said her mum. ‘It wasn’t easy for you.’
‘I know,’ said Clem, watching David Attenborough talk quietly on the screen as he wandered through a light-dappled forest. ‘It’s just . . . well . . . Sylvie . . . She asked me to enter a baking contest. To represent the café. Whisked Away , it’s called.’
‘That’s wonderful!’
‘I know, but . . . It’ll be posted online.’ She quickly explained about Whisked Away .
‘But, Clem, this could be an amazing opportunity for you! I know you love the café, but it’s not what you truly want to do, is it? Not forever.’
That was true. She’d once wanted to work in conservation, with animals, before that was ruined for her.
She’d turned to baking as a means of relaxing and easing her anxiety; turned out, she actually loved it and could see herself doing it for a long time.
Her dreams lay outside of Catpurrcino, in the prospect of starting her own cake business.
‘I . . . don’t know if I can,’ she managed. ‘Look what happened tonight. I came home early because people were laughing and someone spilled a drink on me.’ Her throat ached at the admission – she was so stupid.
Her mum shook her head, a gentle smile playing around the edges of her mouth. ‘You need more self-belief. That’s how you’ll reach your dreams. Not by putting yourself down. Sometimes, dreams take a path you don’t expect.’
Clem smiled tentatively. Her mum was a photographer – originally, landscapes and wildlife.
But when she decided she wanted to do it for a living, she shifted, swapping kestrels, red deer, and sheep for weddings and family portraits out in nature instead.
That was the more profitable path and she’d ended up doing well, and enjoying the work just as much.
‘This could be that for you, Clem,’ said her mum. ‘The path you don’t expect.’
‘Have you been talking to Jared’s mum?’ Clem joked. Clem had never met her, but she’d heard about her tarot reading from Emmie. ‘Want another?’ she asked, motioning at the mug her mum had emptied of tea.
‘Sure. Thanks.’
Clem headed into the little kitchen. It was small in here, too, with a hodgepodge of weighed-down wooden shelves, and appliances, including Clem’s electric whisk, crammed the worktops.
The window ledge was lined with her mum’s plants, the walls decorated with wildlife photography in wooden frames, some of them crooked.
Clem had baked more things in here than she could remember but she longed for a space that was entirely her own.
She boiled the kettle and set to work making tea for them both.
When she was done and had given her mum her fresh cup of tea, she retreated to her room.
Misha was there, curled on Clem’s pillow by the wooden headboard, sleeping.
When she heard Clem come inside, the cat yawned widely, and hopped down to greet her, threading her tail and her stripy body around Clem’s ankles.
Whatever remaining tension Clem had been carrying in her shoulders slid away.
‘Hi, little one,’ said Clem, setting her tea down and scratching the cat on the chin. Misha pushed her face into Clem’s hands, exposing her teeth, as if grinning happily at her touch.
Clem’s chest gave a squeeze. She was glad to be back here. But this feeling of needing to move on – she couldn’t shake it. Most of the people she knew who were her age had moved out – or moved away entirely, trading the Cumbrian fells for cities like London, Edinburgh and Manchester.
She needed to grow up but here she was, standing in her childhood bedroom: with the hedgehog-print bedspread on the single bed pushed against the wall; the stacks of wildlife and baking books in the slightly leaning bookshelf; her corkboard filled with ideas for cakes and cat cookies; the wooden desk she’d been sitting at since high school, scratched and worn.
University books from a conservation course she’d never finished were shoved under the bed.
Clem knew things needed to change. She just didn’t know how, or if she could do it.