Chapter 3
THREE
I am in Sophie’s tiny college room, looking around at the pictures on the wall and the potted plant Archie gave her and the scattering of make-up on the desk. This is her home now, I think, feeling a bit weirded out by that. It is like her room in our house, but in miniature – and it also smells of Marc Jacobs’ Daisy.
“You look nice,” she says, standing with her hands on her hips and frowning as she looks at me. Sophie has long blonde hair and is made mainly of legs.
“If that’s true, why are you frowning?”
“Because you look nice, but you don’t look like you! I’ve never seen you wear anything black in the whole of my existence!”
“I’ve become a goth in later life,” I reply. “I’ve always wanted to do it, I was just waiting until you and Dan left. Now I only wear black and purple. It’s the new me.”
She surveys me and shakes her head.
“No, sorry – no self-respecting goth would have curly blonde hair. Epic fail, Mum. New dress?”
“I borrowed it from Cally.”
Cally is my brother-in-law Archie’s new partner, and she is also a more curvaceous lady. That’s our word, and we’re sticking to it. She’s a bit taller than me, but the black wrap dress looks good enough. My boobs are on show, though, which I’m not really used to.
“Do you want me to do your make-up?” Sophie asks. Truthfully, I’ve already done it – I’m wearing more slap today than I have for the last few decades. By which I mean some tinted moisturiser and a lick of mascara.
“Yes please,” I say, delighted to have the opportunity to do something fun with my girl. She starts by wiping off everything I already have on and applying approximately eighteen layers of different creams and primers. It makes me feel like an old cupboard; I’m slightly concerned she might sand me down as well.
We chat as she works, and I pick up snippets about her new world that I will treasure. It’s very odd, this stage – for the whole of her life I’ve known her friends, dealt with her emotions, witnessed her triumphs. Mopped up the tears after her heartbreaks. Now, quite suddenly, she is here – in a place that I only have a peripheral knowledge of. It’s all good, it’s all right – but it does feel strange, this distance from her everyday reality. Everything she tells me – about new pals, about her course, about the college bar – is trivial, but I log it all to help me build a better picture of Sophie-land.
She stands back when she’s done and admires her handiwork. She pins my hair up, sprays it with something that smells of chemicals, and nods.
“All done. You look gorgeous.”
“For an old lady?”
“No, Mum – just gorgeous. Shall we go?”
We’ve arranged to meet Marcy and her family at a popular restaurant nearby. It didn’t exist when I lived in London, which isn’t a surprise as a lot of restaurants come and go very quickly. As we walk through the bustling streets together, I realise that I am enjoying the atmosphere. The sun is still out, and groups of drinkers are making the most of it, spilling out onto the pavements. Delivery people whizz past us on bikes, and the familiar big red double decker buses crawl along the roads.
It’s easy to forget the rest of the world when you live in Starshine Cove, and honestly I’ve never felt any real desire to leave it. My own time in London wasn’t especially healthy, even if it was exciting – but a little visit like this is enjoyable.
“Where did you live?” she asks as we stroll. “When you were in London. You never talk about that part of your life.”
“I lived in Kensington.”
“Ooh, posh! What was that like?”
I ponder how much to tell her. I am a very different woman than I was back then, but she is technically an adult, and I don’t suppose there’s any harm.
“I never really spent much time there,” I say. “I was really busy, working mad hours in the restaurant, and when I wasn’t working I was usually doing something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like going clubbing, drinking too much, and living my whole life like it was a competition. It was fun, but I burned out – I was exhausted by it all. None of it made me happy.”
I see her slight look of surprise at this information, and know she is piecing things together in her mind.
“And that’s why you ran away? Dad loved telling us he found you in a ditch. He always found it very amusing.”
“It was amusing. It was also the best thing that ever happened to me, because I met your father, found Starshine, and had you guys. It was a more than fair swap.”
She smiles as we pause outside the restaurant – a fancy Italian place – and responds: “Well, I’m glad you did. You became a Michelin-starred mum.”
This is such a lovely thing to hear that I am momentarily taken aback. Before we make our way inside, I give her a big juicy hug.
I have a weird relationship with restaurants, which I suspect is true of anyone who has worked in the business. I find it impossible to just relax and enjoy the experience as a customer. I remember Simon taking me to a fish place in Lyme Regis not long after we became a couple, and me spending the whole night commenting on the service, the food, the glimpses I got of the busy kitchens each time the doors swung open.
I wasn’t an especially nice boss, I know. It’s a high-pressure environment, and there’s a reason Gordon Ramsay swears so much. It was my whole life, which made me less than empathetic with some of my staff – people who were sometimes also dealing with families and kids and the normal complications that I was unhindered by. I hope I’d be very different now – my priorities certainly are.
Still, as we enter and are greeted by the ma?tre d’, I find myself automatically surveying the place – how many covers, whether the team is smiling, if the specials board is visible.
“Stop it,” Sophie says firmly. “You always do this. Just enjoy yourself, okay?”
I nod and give her a grin. I’ll try my very best, but in honesty I am feeling a little tense. Being with Sophie is marvellous, and being in London has been less troublesome than I imagined it would be. But meeting new faces, in this swish little eatery, is well outside my comfort zone. I’m not shy – the very opposite in fact, I love people – but I am usually on my home turf. Here, it feels different, like a test I have to pass. I’m even dressed as someone else.
I’m keen to get to know Sophie’s new BFF, Marcy, and am looking forward to having her stay with us – but the prospect of being thrown into a nuclear family set-up, even for one dinner, makes me wince a bit. I’m sure Sophie will have told her pal about her dad, and that is fine – but it always means that people have preconceived ideas about you. About being a widow, a single mum, and what that might say about you. There’s always an underlying touch of pity, which is understandable but not something I enjoy. I really should have stuck with my own clothes – nobody pities you if you’re wearing yellow dungarees. They’re usually just a bit scared of you.
Sophie scans the room, then her face breaks out into a grin and she raises her arm and waves. Right, I tell myself – game time. Me and my boobs follow her through the pleasantly bustling, dimly lit room, the smells of garlic and basil fragrant in the air.
As we approach the table, I see two people – one is very clearly Marcy, who jumps to her feet and runs to embrace Sophie. They literally only saw each other a few hours ago, but I do remember what it’s like with your friends at that age. It’s a bit like being in love, without the messy bits – you hate being away from them. Marcy is tall, slender, with a super-cool pixie cut that she’s dyed jet black. She looks like a modern take on a silent movie star, all pale skin and red lips and gorgeousness.
I notice that the table is only set for four, and that there is only one other person – a man with his back to us, sitting and looking at his phone. That’s one of my pet hates, phones at the table, which I realise puts me in the minority – people seem to be obsessed with taking pictures of their food these days. At the risk of sounding about two thousand years old, it was much harder in my day – when I was growing up, if you wanted to do something similar, you’d have to take a picture, take the film to the camera shop, wait a couple of days for it to be developed, then go around to all your mates’ houses and put prints through the letterbox with hand-written notes: Look, I had fish and chips for tea!
Sophie and Marcy disentangle from each other, and my daughter says: “Mum, this is Marcy – Marcy, this is Mum!”
She sounds a bit giddy and also a bit proud – though I’m not sure which of us she’s proud of. Maybe both?
I give Marcy a hug, because I’m one of life’s huggers. At least I am in Starshine Cove – here, in this bijou little place, I feel slightly awkward as I automatically go in for a cuddle. Marcy doesn’t seem to mind and squeezes me right back.
“Told you!” Sophie says, smiling. “She’d hug a polar bear if she bumped into one on the street!”
“Polar bears are cute, who wouldn’t?” Marcy says, her blue eyes huge and somehow innocent. She’s almost twenty, I know, but despite the make-up and the stylish haircut, there is something almost childlike about her.
“Polar bears,” comes a voice from behind her, “are apex predators. I wouldn’t recommend hugging one, if you want to keep your arms.”
Ah, I think. Still on his phone, but also listening in. Multi-tasking – a rare skill in a man, I’ve found over the years.
Marcy rolls her eyes, and says: “Yes, thank you, Captain Buzzkill – I was aware, and I promise I won’t ever hug a polar bear if I encounter one on Charing Cross Road! Come and meet Sophie’s mum! I’m so sorry, but my sister Amy cancelled on us – she used the excuse that she’s still in France – pathetic isn’t it? Has she never heard of the Eurostar? Dad! Get off your phone!”
Our table is in a back corner of the room, and although it is still light outside, the restaurant is deliberately shady – all about creating an ambience, I suppose. I don’t see much of him until he stands up and turns to face us, by which time I’ve already decided he’s a bit rude.
He’s a good foot taller than me, which to be fair isn’t hard as I’m vertically challenged. He’s wearing a dark-coloured suit that I can tell is expensive, and he smells good, a subtle masculine scent that makes my nostrils flare in appreciation – this is the kind of sophistication you don’t come across every day in a tiny village in Dorset. This is London glamour. I’d almost forgotten it existed.
I decide I’m not going to hug him, and instead hold out my hand. He takes it but doesn’t shake – he just holds it. I realise that he is staring at me, completely silent, and that this is all suddenly a bit weird. Maybe it’s the boobs – maybe I’ve broken him.
I meet his eyes and feel a flicker of recognition. It comes from somewhere deep, but it’s there – I know this man. He’s good looking, green eyes in tanned skin, hair that is slightly receding at the temples but otherwise thick and abundant, brown streaked with silver. Is he famous? Is he someone I should know from the telly? It feels like that – and he looks like he could be famous. One of those serious news presenters who looks grim as they report from outside the White House, or an actor who does a lot of Shakespeare.
He’s still holding my hand, and he’s still staring at me, and the girls are starting to exchange uncertain looks, wondering what’s going on. Much like myself. Back home, I’d jump right in and ask something nosy and inappropriate, but I don’t quite have my mojo in this place.
“Do I know you?” I simply ask, desperate to break the moment.
He starts to smile, and it changes his whole face – he suddenly looks younger, less stern. Way more amused.
“You do,” he replies, finally letting go of my hand. It flutters to my side, unsure where to go next. “Well, you do if your name is Connie?”
“Her name IS Connie!” Sophie responds, confused. I’m too busy studying his face, trying to place it, to actually reply.
“It’s been a while,” he says, his eyes running over me, “but I’m quite disappointed you don’t recognise me. I think we last saw each other about twenty-five years ago. You came into my office straight from a night on the town and left with the offer of a contract that you never signed.”
Immediately, the ducks line up – I know who this is. I know who it is, and I feel totally freaked out by it. Like the floor is moving, and I need to hold on to the wall to steady myself.
“Zack,” I say quietly. “Zack Harris.”
He nods, and his eyes are on mine, and I feel suddenly faint. I have no idea why – maybe because that was so long ago that I’d forgotten it even happened. I’ve buried that version of me so deep that this feels like I’m being exhumed, one rotting limb at a time.
He looks slightly concerned, as the girls giggle in the background, trying to figure out what amusing thing the old people are up to. He puts his hands on my shoulders and draws me in for a hug. I let myself become wrapped up in his arms, my face against his crisp white shirt. He leans down and whispers into my ear: “Are you okay?”
I let out a sigh and stay where I am for a couple of seconds. It gives me the time to reconfigure myself, to breathe. To stem the strange sense of almost-panic. I nod against him, and whisper back: “Yes, thank you – just a bit weirded out. Blast from the past.”
I pull away, and plaster on a smile as we all settle at our table. There are two bottles of wine – one white and one red to cover all eventualities – and I pour myself a glass, splashing a red stain onto the tablecloth as my hands shake. Zack has sparkling water, I notice, which probably means he’s driving.
“So,” says Marcy, leaning her elbows on the table, “tell us – how do you two know each other, then?”
Sophie looks just as curious, but also a touch concerned. She knows me well enough to spot the signs of nerves.
“Ah,” says Zack, running his hands through his hair as he talks, “well, that’s a funny story. Basically, I was going to make Connie a star.”
Sophie’s eyebrows shoot up, and she stares at me in surprise.
“A star?” she says, frowning. “I thought you were a chef?”
“I was,” I reply quickly, just in case she’s starting to think I had a whole secret life. Which I suppose I kind of did. “I was a chef, but I was also… maybe a borderline celeb?”
“What?” she answers, looking impossibly befuddled. I suppose the idea of your yellow dungaree wearing, hug-obsessed café-running mum being a celeb, borderline or not, must be weird. If she’d ever googled me under my maiden name, she’d have found a few things – not as many as you would now but the internet certainly existed that long ago. I guess she’s never done it, and why would she? Kids always seem to assume their parents are dull, and anything of note about their lives only started when they were born. As I basically said exactly that to her just minutes earlier, I can’t blame her for it.
“A celeb?” she repeats, when I only shrug. “What kind? Like, the Big Brother kind, or the posh party in Hello! magazine kind?”
“It started with newspaper and magazine articles,” I say. “Reviews for the restaurant, which was one of those places that proper famous people liked to dine out at, so there were often mentions in the gossip columns, that kind of thing. And that developed into profiles, because I was so young.”
“Your mum was one of the youngest head chefs in London,” Zack adds, filling up my glass for me. “She attracted a buzzy crowd. It wasn’t just the food, it was her – she was fun and gorgeous and a party girl. When she walked into the restaurant to chat to guests, everyone was watching her, even if George Clooney was in the house. She was like the supermodel of the restaurant world.”
I cringe as he says these things, because I recognise at least some of it from the way my agent Sal used to pitch me.
“That was a long time ago,” I say. “I was a different person then.”
A person who was maybe half the size she is now, I think, suddenly aware of my age and my weight in a way that doesn’t feel good. I wasn’t happy then, I remind myself, and I am now. It doesn’t matter what I look like. I am a middle-aged mother of three, not the skinny adrenaline-fuelled wraith that I was back then.
“Were you, like, on the telly?” Sophie asks, wide-eyed, still clearly bursting with questions.
“Yeah. A few times. Interviews, and guest appearances – stuff to promote the restaurant and the recipe book I was writing.”
“You had a book deal?”
“I did, but it came to nothing. Like I told you earlier, Sophie, that was a different life. Not one I even remember especially clearly, or especially fondly. It was… thin. It was unsubstantial. It was built on shadows.”
This concept obviously goes over her head, because the next thing she says is: “But you were famous! That’s really weird! So how did you know Marcy’s dad?”
‘Marcy’s dad’, I note, not Zack – strange how children do this. They see us only as those roles for most of their lives, not even giving us names. I have lived for a long time as ‘Sophie’s mum’, or ‘Dan’s mum’, or ‘James’s mum’, and I’ve been content with that. I am not really enjoying the trip down memory lane back to a time when I was just me – at least the me that I was back then.
“I was head of content for a TV production company,” he explains, “a couple of years before I started my own. We wanted Connie for one of our shows. A cookery show where amateur chefs competed for a job in a top London restaurant.”
There have, of course, been many similarly themed shows since then – but I’ve never watched them. They hit a little too close to home, and even watching Bake Off can make me tense. I feel too sad for the contestants when their showstoppers collapse when they’re taken out of the oven.
I have seen Zack’s name pop up at the end of a programme occasionally, over the decades, but it never inspired anything other than a slight shiver at the memory of what might have been. I genuinely suspect that if I hadn’t run away that day – if I hadn’t crash-landed into the embrace of both Simon and Starshine Cove – that I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I think being burned out would have led to something darker, something more destructive. I might not be a star – but I am very much alive.
“And that’s what you ran away from?” Sophie says, shaking her head. “Fame, fortune, success? You swapped it all for raising a family in a village in the middle of nowhere?”
When I’d talked to her briefly about this earlier, she’d seemed to understand – but I guess a girl of her age will always be swayed by the allure of fame. This is the Love Island generation, and their motto seems to be I Am On Screen, Therefore I Am.
“It wasn’t that simple, Soph. To put it into food terms?—”
“Which you always do.”
“Yes, which I always do – to put it into food terms, my old life was junk food. My new life has been superfood. I… I don’t regret it. No matter what happened later.”
Her eyes meet mine, and we share a look. She knows exactly what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about her dad. The thought of Simon floors me, and I feel raw with yearning. For his smile, for his humour, for his calm and steadying presence in my life. It’s hard enough keeping my balance without him back home – here, in an alien place and being mugged by memories, it is even harder.
A waiter appears asking if we’re ready to order, and I realise I haven’t even looked at the menu.
“Are there any specials?” I ask, stalling for time. “And can you describe them in detail please?”
He does exactly that, and I smile and nod and pretend to be paying attention as he enthuses about lobster ravioli and slow-roasted porchetta. When he’s finished, I thank him and order a lasagne. He looks a bit disappointed but perks up when Marcy gazes up at him and asks for the lobster. She is super-pretty, and he is clearly taken with her.
By the time everyone has finished and the waiter has gone, I am feeling calmer. This was an emotional ambush, I tell myself, and I can be forgiven for over-reacting. But now, it’s time to Be More Dolly.
“So,” I say, turning to Zack, “I suppose I should apologise.”
I smile as I say it, because I don’t want this to be serious – I just want to clear the air. Yes, it was a long time ago but his memories are probably also ambushing him, and maybe his are just as unpleasant. It was a big deal, that show he was putting together, and my disappearing act must have thrown a spanner in the works. It was unprofessional, and not at all grown-up, and I have to accept that.
“For what?” he says, leaning back and sipping his water. Lordy, I think, he is still a fine-looking man. There always was a spark, and even though I’m pretty flame-retardant these days, I can still appreciate the aesthetics. Back then I wouldn’t have thought twice on letting that spark ignite, and I always got the sense that the feeling was mutual. Now, I am very much a look-but-don’t-touch kind of woman.
“For running away without any explanation.”
He shrugs, thinks it over, and says: “Well, I won’t say it didn’t sting at the time. I may have called you a few unflattering names. It was my idea to bring you in, and the bosses were all keen – thought you had star quality, that you’d be a ratings magnet. They were right, you would have been – and when you left, I got some stick for it. But life moves on, and I’m older and wiser now. I’ve thought about it occasionally over the years, and I came to the conclusion that you did what you had to do.”
“I really did. And if it’s any consolation, I never intended to stay away forever. I always thought I’d come back, do a bit of grovelling, and take up where we left off. But then… something else happened.”
“What happened?”
“I fell in love.”
His smile is big and genuine and warm, and he pats my still shaky hand on the tabletop.
“Ah. Well. Who can argue with that? Besides, things didn’t turn out too badly for me in the long run.”
Marcy pipes up: “He’s being modest! He runs one of the most successful production companies in the entire world!”
“The entire world?” I echo, widening my eyes. “Really? Even without me?”
He knows I’m joking, and laughs before he replies: “Yep. Even without you. It’s been… an interesting journey, to put it into reality TV parlance. One I must admit I’m getting a bit weary of.”
Marcy makes a snorting noise and adds: “He’s always saying that. He’s always threatening to retire, or step down. Then he realises he’d be bored rigid and goes back.”
Zack looks at her fondly. This is clearly a well-trodden conversational path. I glance at Zack’s hand, see a gold band on the traditional finger. There is no ‘Marcy’s mum’ here tonight, but that means nothing – she might be busy. She might be on the runway at Milan fashion week, or masterminding the hostile takeover of a multi-billion dollar corporation, or back at home with a litter of Afghan hound puppies. Who knows?
He glances at his phone again, and I wonder what is so urgent that he can’t bear to put it away for even one meal. He looks up, catches me staring at him, and firmly sets the phone to one side.
“Sorry,” he says, “that was rude. It’s supposed to be me telling the young people off for that isn’t it? Anyway, Connie, it’s wonderful to see you again, and Sophie, it’s great to meet you at last. Now, let’s enjoy our night out together!”
He raises his glass in a toast, and we all clink in the middle of the table. He still looks distracted, but who can blame him? All we can do is try and make the best of a very strange situation.