Chapter 4
FOUR
I wake up the next morning on the inflatable mattress on Sophie’s floor. Or, to be precise, my legs wake up on the inflatable mattress. The rest of me seems to have scuttled off on an adventure in the night, and my head is underneath her desk, right next to the bin and a stray trainer sock. A classy start to the day.
I don’t sleep especially well anymore, and it was impossible last night. I’d had a confusing evening, drank slightly too much wine, and London is so noisy I kept getting woken up by shouts and shattering glass and sirens. The urban lullaby of the city never used to bother me, but after so long in Starshine Cove, it is all brain-shreddingly loud.
Even now, as I slowly come to, I can hear a lorry outside, making that bleeping sound they make when they’re reversing. I rub my eyes, surprised when my fingers come away smudged with black from my mascara. Yeah. I probably should have taken that off, I think, as I try to decrust myself.
I look up at the bottom of the desk and spot a lump of chewing gum wedged up in one corner. Nice. I do the little stretches I’ve found I need to do in the mornings these days, just to get my body ready for proper movement. Naturally enough I also knock over the bin, and a pile of used face wipes spills out onto my head. Sophie, it seems, actually took her make-up off – clever girl.
I wriggle my way back onto the mattress and look up at her. She’s still asleep, one pyjama-clad leg hanging off the edge of her bed, blonde hair strewn over the pillows. I lie still for a bit and simply enjoy the moment – the guilty pleasure of being able to look at my baby girl. I know she’s technically an adult now, but she will also still forever be my baby girl. I can still see the outlines of her younger self in the curve of her cheeks, the gentle flutter of her eyelids. Even that one dangling leg – she’s slept like that since being a toddler, perfectly at rest but almost as though she’s getting ready to spring out of bed and face the day ahead.
I roll onto my side, the mattress squeaking beneath my weight, and realise it was stupid of me to insist on sleeping here instead of the bed she’d offered. I’m going to have to get up from the floor now, which will be a complicated manoeuvre involving getting on all fours first, then working my way back upright. I am fit and healthy enough for my age, and I lead an active life – but I am also carrying some extra timber, and my knees have noticed.
Not quite yet, I decide, staring at Sophie a little bit longer. I grab the bottle of water I’d thoughtfully left out for myself, and check my phone. Just after eight. We didn’t get back here until gone midnight, as our dinner turned into drinks, tucked away in a cosy bar a black cab ride away. I’d enjoyed it as much as I was capable of, and certainly played the part that was required of me – chatty, engaged, open.
Beneath that, I was still bewildered. Nothing personal against Zack, but I found being around him again disconcerting. He is from the past, and the past, as someone once said, is a foreign country. Everyone has a past, obviously – but most people’s are a little more linear than mine. Mine had a great big schism in the middle of it – a fault line left by my emotional earthquake. There was Before Me and there was After Me, and never the twain shall meet.
It’s a freakish coincidence that Sophie’s new friend is Zack’s daughter – but they do happen, I know. A pal of mine once bumped into a long-lost cousin while he was climbing Machu Picchu, and once, while Simon and I were showing one of his work colleagues our holiday snaps, he spotted his ex-wife standing behind us on the Spanish Steps in Rome. But they were freakish coincidences that happened to other people, and this one is happening to me – therefore, as human nature dictates, it’s more important.
I sip my water, realising I have so many questions. The chat stayed light last night, the girls full of youthful energy and excitement, Zack and I both making an effort to maintain the same level. He didn’t push to talk about the old days, and I appreciated it – I think he could tell I was struggling and showed me the courtesy of discussing nothing I might find challenging.
I needed that last night, but now I am curious – about his life, his career, his daughters (the older one works in France), his wife. I’m curious, but not curious enough to ask him – I’d just quite like to do one of those remote snooping sessions, like you do on Facebook sometimes when a name from the past emerges. You don’t want to actually engage with them, but it’s fun doing a gentle cyber-stalk.
He is, I think, a bit older than me, but he is aging disgustingly well, in that way that some men do – Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Liam Neeson. His eyes are still that gorgeous shade of forest green, and the hair… well, the hair is begging to have fingers run through it. He’s clearly done well with his career; he has the golden skin of someone who takes regular skiing trips and winters in the Caribbean. Being around him made me feel two things – slightly fizzy, and even more frumpy. The frumpy outweighed the fizzy, even with Cally’s dress and the boobs and the make-over. I rarely worry about the way I look – it seems irrelevant compared to the way I feel – but last night I was aware. Aware that when he last saw me, I was in a skin-tight pink mini-dress and could be described – in the over-egged words of an agent – as the supermodel of the food world. Now I’m just… me.
That’s always felt enough, but I now have a niggle of discontent chewing away at me. A little flurry of what-might-have-beens. I made the right choice, leaving that life behind – but at the same time, I suppose I can forgive myself a little self-indulgence.
Sophie starts to stir, flinging one hand across her eyes.
“Are you staring at me while I sleep?” she mutters, making me laugh out loud.
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s creepy. What time is it? And do you have any ibuprofen?”
“Just after eight, and of course I do.”
Even now, with all of them living away, my handbag is a cornucopia of delights – painkillers, blister plasters, safety pins, antiseptic cream. When you’ve raised three kids, it seems almost irresponsible to leave home without them. These days I’ve added my own – antacids, and a little battery-powered fan to help if I suddenly go nuclear.
I do my admittedly quite comedic clamber back to my feet, to the encouraging backdrop of my daughter’s giggles.
“Yeah, laugh it up,” I say, as I locate my bag. “Nobody ever believes this when they’re nineteen, but one day this will be you!”
I pass her the pills and go for a quick shower. The bathroom is obviously basic, a bit like a hostel, but it gets the job done and I feel a lot better when I’m clean and don’t have a clown face. I feel a sense of relief as I put my own clothes on, cropped jeans and a bright pink T-shirt with an acid house smiley face on it. I give my hair a little upside-down shake – it’s naturally curly and will dry however it chooses that day – and add some hoopy earrings. Yes, I think, giving myself a wink in the mirror – looking a whole lot more like me, and that is a good thing.
When I come back into the room, Sophie is hopping around on one leg trying to get her leggings on, so I take the opportunity to laugh back at her. Fair’s fair.
Once she’s dressed, we finish off her bits of packing ready for the journey home. She doesn’t have to empty the room, so it’s just a matter of gathering what she’ll need for the next few weeks. Most of it was already done – she is an organised kind of girl – but she does a final check for last-minute toiletries, chargers and her coursework files.
I briefly wonder how Dan is getting on in Liverpool. Nowhere near as organised as his twin, but he gets where he needs to get in his own way. I was worried when he left – he had meningitis the summer before last, and it took a lot out of him. It took him ages to fully recover, and I wouldn’t have minded him having a year off – but he worked his arse off, got his grades, and disappeared up north.
Cally, Archie’s partner, is originally from Liverpool, and she came back up with us when we dropped him off. She showed him her favourite pubs and a nightclub called the Blue Angel, and his eyes were shining with excitement for the whole day. Small-town boy in the big city. I rarely hear from him these days, which is probably a very good sign.
Sophie stuffs her teddy bear into her bag, and I try not to smile. I love the fact that she still has her teddy bear, not going to lie. She sits on the edge of the bed and checks her phone.
“Mum,” she says, looking up from the screen, “would it be okay if we call off at Marcy’s house on the way? Her dad’s invited us for breakfast, and she says she wouldn’t mind collecting a few bits and bobs.”
Ugggh. I can’t think of anything worse.
“I don’t know, Soph – it’s already a long drive and I could do without the detour.”
I could also do without seeing Zack again, especially wearing my acid house T-shirt and looking like Grandma Glastonbury.
“Please! It’s in Wimbledon, which is southwest London, and we live in southwest England, so it’s practically on the way… plus I’ve never been there and I’m nosy!”
“Why haven’t you been there? In fact, why doesn’t she live there and commute to college? It’d be a lot cheaper.”
Sophie pulls a face and replies: “She said both she and her dad thought it’d be good for her to live in halls, at least for the first year. And we’ve been busy, and it’s miles away, and please ? I’ll do some of the driving on the way back.”
I think about it, and find that there’s something about seeing Zack again that intrigues me, and I am also a bit nosy. Well, if you ask anyone who has ever met me, they’ll say I’m a lot nosy – and I suppose I have the time. The café is in safe hands – or at least in hands – for the rest of the day.
“Okay,” I say. “But the deal is we swap at Basingstoke, after which I will get drunk on Prosecco in the back seat, then sing along to Katy Perry songs as loud as I like. Deal?”
“Deal!”
We rendezvous with Marcy in the lobby of the halls, and she looks fresh-faced and eager. She and Sophie are thrilled to be in each other’s company again, and another round of hugs is dispensed. The two of them chat away as I plug her home address into my phone for directions, and we stroll to the side street where I’d managed to park the car.
I can’t say that driving in London is even remotely pleasurable, and I have to concentrate hard to avoid smashing into a kamikaze cyclist or an especially determined pigeon. By the time we enter the pretty tree-lined streets of Wimbledon, I’m ready for an hour or so in a sensory deprivation tank.
I’ve never been to this part of the city before, and all I know about it is based on watching tennis. It turns out to be rather lovely, very green, with lots of cute shops and cafés and some grand houses tucked away behind neatly trimmed foliage.
“Have you always lived here?” I ask Marcy, as I make my way down slightly more civilised roads.
“Uh, yeah,” she says, sounding uncertain. “Well, I think when I was born we were in central London, but then with two kids, Mum wanted to move somewhere with a bit more space. It’s way too big for Dad now. Especially since Mum died.”
I almost crash the car through the front of a Polish artisan bakery as these words come out of her mouth. I grip the steering wheel, and say: “I’m sorry, Marcy. I didn’t know.”
It would, I think, glancing at Sophie through the mirror, have been useful information. She pulls a little face back at me and mouths the word ‘Sorry’.
“That’s okay,” Marcy responds with a sad smile. “Why would you? It’s one of the reasons me and Sophie get on so well – shared trauma, etc. etc. But I don’t tell people as soon as I meet them, because then they go all misty-eyed and start feeling sorry for you, you know?”
“I do know, yes. When did you lose her?”
“Ten years ago. Ovarian cancer. I was eight when she was first diagnosed, and it always makes me sad that when I imagine her, she’s always sick. I mean, there was a time before that, but I can’t always find it in my mind. Anyway. Next left.”
For a moment I’m disconcerted, then realise she’s giving me directions and hit the indicators. The wheels of the car crunch on the gravel driveway, and I park up outside a beautiful home. It’s a big Victorian villa, all ornate red brick and big bay windows. The front garden has apple trees, and the door is draped with a bough of wisteria that hasn’t as yet come into bloom.
The car next to me – Zack’s, I presume – is a sleek Audi saloon in metallic grey. My own car is a bright pink Fiat 500 with stick-on eyelashes, which makes for an amusing contrast. They look a bit like they’re out on a date.
I clamber out, pulling the seats forward so the girls can follow. I need to catch my breath, to recalibrate, to let this sad new strand to Zack’s story sink in. I can’t believe Sophie didn’t mention this – and yet, I can. She is wrapped up in her own little world. Her squirrel brain is always dashing from one thing to another. Lots of times when she’s forgotten to tell me something and I ask why, she simply looks confused and replies: “I’m sorry, I really thought I had!”, or “I just assumed you knew.”
I’m still feeling flustered as the front door opens, and the man himself is standing on the steps. And yes, I do now see him differently – even though I hate it when people react like that to me.
He waves, and is almost knocked over by a supremely fat black Labrador shoving past him to greet Marcy. She crouches down to stroke him and he washes her face in kisses, his tail wagging so hard that his whole body shakes. Even the dog is different – I’d pictured something fancy like Afghan hounds, and here is this tank-sized creature making happy snorting noises as he receives his adoration.
Funny how just a few pieces of the puzzle can change the whole picture. Last night, I imagined Zack as this uber-glamorous London dude, with an equally glamorous wife. I imagined a life of corporate lunches and flashy dinners and them living in the kind of apartment that comes with a pool and a doorman.
Now, here I am, faced with a completely different version of him – he is a widower who lost his wife when she was tragically young, and who has raised his daughters alone since then. Plus, he lives in a family home with a fat black Lab.
I look up from the slobbering dog as Zack walks towards us. He’s dressed more casually today, in jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt that shows off his tan. His thick silver-streaked hair almost touches his shoulders, and the only slip from his ‘effortlessly stylish off-duty’ look is the fact that he’s also wearing a pair of giant slippers in the shape of Christmas elves.
“Dad, I only got you those as a joke!” Marcy says, pointing at them and laughing. “You look ridiculous!”
He grins at her, shrugs, and replies: “They’re comfortable, and they were a gift from you, so I don’t care if I look ridiculous. Come on in. I ordered from the café on the high street, so nobody’s at risk of being poisoned. Normal Lab rules apply – do not feed him, no matter how sadly he looks at you. He’s on a diet.”
The dog gazes up forlornly, as though he understands every word. I give him a quick rub on his broad dome of a head and follow the rest inside.
It is, as I’d suspected from the outside, a gorgeous house. Everything is painted in pale colours, and sunlight pours through every window. The hallway is lined with art and photos, and it smells faintly of lemons and lavender.
Zack leads us into the kitchen, which is a huge extension across the whole rear of the building. Skylights are open, and patio doors lead straight out into a long, lush garden. I spy clumps of bluebells and pots of daffodils, tables and chairs, and a wooden summer house that’s painted completely black.
“That was from my vampire obsession days,” Marcy says, seeing me look. “I’d sit in there in the dark, convinced that the sunlight would kill me.”
She does have very pale skin, almost translucent, so I can see where she was coming from. I wonder how much of it was normal teenaged girl stuff, though, and how much of it was laced with loneliness. I have no idea if she’s close to her sister or has cousins and aunts and uncles. She might have been raised in a clamour of noise and love despite the loss of her mum – but once the image takes root, I can’t quite shake it.
I’m brought back to reality by both Marcy and Zack crying out: “Bear! Get down!”
The dog, predictably enough, is attempting to scale the kitchen table and reach the summit of Mount Breakfast. I can’t say that I blame him – there’s a gorgeous spread laid out for us. Fresh croissants and pastries, a platter of deli meats and smoked salmon, cheeses, bowls of strawberries and cherries, big slabs of some kind of chocolatey traybake topped with almonds. There are jugs of orange juice, a pot of coffee, and a bottle of chilled Champagne in an ice bucket.
Zack follows my gaze and says: “Buck’s fizz?”
“I’m tempted, but no, thank you. I have a long drive ahead of me and I’ll need all my brain cells functioning.”
He nods, and I’m sure I see a flicker of relief on his face. I’m confused at first, but then I put it together. I suddenly realise that this isn’t just about seeing Marcy one last time – it’s about making sure that his daughter is safe.
I can’t blame him. The last time I saw this man I was a wreck, a burned-out party girl running on attitude. I had more alcohol in my veins than blood, and I was clearly reckless. I sashayed into our business meeting wearing last night’s clothes, stinking of booze, and skating by on winks and innuendo. It wasn’t pretty, and even less so when I followed up on that by doing a runner and leaving him with egg on his face in his professional life.
I hope I don’t give off those vibes anymore, but he has no real clue what my world has looked like since then. Yes, I still like a drink on a night out. Yes, I still like to party – but the party is usually held in our local pub, which is hardly a den of iniquity. I’m guessing that last night, he had similar thoughts to mine – wondering what I’d been up to for all these years. Wondering, perhaps, if I was still that same woman – a self-destructive lunatic who should have been checking into rehab, not running a restaurant and building a media career. And if I was, perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so happy to let his baby girl come and spend the next few weeks with me.
I suspect the Champagne was a test, and the look of relief suggests that I passed. Go me. I’d like to be annoyed, but I’d be exactly the same in his shoes. And as Simon died in a car crash, the last person likely to drive while drunk is me.
I help myself to a plate of food and wonder if I should just talk to him about it, honestly. Assure him that all will be well. I decide that I will, once the girls are out of earshot – they will undoubtedly disappear up to Marcy’s room at some point.
Bear stares at me soulfully as I slice some chilled Brie, and I can totally understand how he got to be so fat. He’s too cute. Plus, I’d guess he’s an older dog, still energetic but with greying fur around his muzzle – it’s likely that Bear arrived as a puppy after their mum died. He’s undoubtedly been spoiled rotten.
“Sorry, pal,” I say, carefully keeping my plate high. “It’s for your own good, honest.”
He lets out a little whine and slides to his belly, his tail making one sad thump against the tiled floor.
As I’m pouring a coffee, I hear Marcy giving Sophie a verbal tour of the room. That’s the yucca plant that Bear once peed on, she tells us. That’s the hob where she made her first French onion soup. That’s the chair she used to stand on so she could reach the high cupboard, where the chocolate biscuits were kept. That’s the skylight that once had to be replaced when her sister Amy was practising hockey indoors on a snowy day and rocketed the ball right through the glass.
I smile as she does it and notice that Zack looks similarly amused. It’s nice – a run-through of family memories, the legends we build, the stories we tell. You’d never guess from all of this that Marcy has spent years without her mum, and I hope the same is true of Sophie about her dad. Me and Zack? Probably we’re just a whole lot better at hiding the pain.
She skitters around to a cork notice board on the wall, and I see Zack grimace.
“Marcy,” he says firmly. “There’s no need for that!”
“Oh but there is, Daddy dearest,” she says, looking devilish. I look at the board to see what all the fuss is about, and I see several photos of women, clearly printed off at home, possibly from social media profiles. They’re all young, but not super-young – like maybe in their thirties. They all look different but the same – totally gorgeous.
“This,” Marcy announces with some glee, “is my dad’s wall of shame! I know he wants to take it down, but I’ve told him he mustn’t. He needs to face up to his mistakes, like he always told me when I was little. Like he told Amy when she smashed that skylight. So, these are the women he’s dated in the last, what, two years?”
Zack swipes his hands across his face, then shrugs in resignation.
“About that, yeah,” he says.
“So, after Mum died, he stayed single for ages,” Marcy continues. “Understandable, especially with us two hanging around. Then when Amy went to France, and I was eighteen, he went on his first date for… how long was it, Dad?”
“It was my first date since I met your mother. So, since the first of October, twenty-three years ago.”
He looks mortified, but all I can think is that it’s sweet he remembers the exact day they went on their first date. After all this time, it’s still embedded in his mind.
“That was Francesca,” Marcy says, pointing at a glossy brunette with perfect teeth. “He dumped her because she’d never heard of Tiswas , whatever that is.”
I have a brief image of Saturday morning chaos – the kids’ TV show that dunked celebs in goo and smashed people in the face with custard pies. It makes me smile just thinking about it.
“That’s fair,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“This,” Marcy continues, showing us a pretty blonde, “is Lola. Her crime was that she thought the musical Wicked was better than the original version of The Wizard of Oz .”
“Not quite,” Zack interrupts. “It was because she decided that was the case even though she’d never even seen the original Wizard of Oz . I mean, who hasn’t seen The Wizard of Oz ?”
“Lola, apparently,” I reply, leaning against the counter and enjoying his discomfort. It doesn’t come as a surprise that Zack has dated beautiful women who are younger than him, given the world he works and moves in, but it is fun to see him skewered by his daughter.
“What about her?” I ask Marcy, gesturing at a stunning redhead with glittering green eyes. “What was wrong with her?”
“She didn’t know the Lord of the Rings films were based on books.”
“Right – and this one, with the dimples?”
“That was Elodie. That was going okay until he went to her flat and discovered she had a Pokémon collection.”
“This one?” I say, looking at an athletic woman in a yoga pose, hating her already. Bet she doesn’t have to clamber onto all fours to get off the floor.
“Simone. Actually, I think she dumped you didn’t she, Dad?”
“Yes. She pitched me a concept for a show where overweight people did yoga, and wanted to call it The Biggest Poser . I wasn’t keen, and she lost interest in me pretty soon after that. To be fair I was relieved – she was a weird combination of way too limber and supremely competitive. It wasn’t good for my back.”
I guffaw at that one, and accidentally dribble coffee on my chin.
“None of them lasted more than a few months,” Marcy says. “And none of them were serious enough for us to meet them. I keep their pics here to remind him that he needs to up his game and find someone better, or he’s going to end up as a sad and lonely old man watching clips of Tiswas on YouTube and living off multi-packs of crisps. All alone with his sense of superiority.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, darling,” he replies, sounding amused but actually looking a bit sad. Sophie and Marcy have known more grief in their young lives than most people their age have known – but they haven’t got a clue what it’s like to find your soulmate and then lose them. It is devastating, and Zack is doing better than me even if none of it has worked out. I suppose I only lost Simon five years ago as opposed to ten, but I’ve not been on a single date since.
“You’re welcome, Dad! Sophie, do you want to come up to my room?”
Of course she does. They both grab more pastries and disappear off up the stairs in a thud of feet and a gust of giggles.
Zack looks at me, and I feel the intimacy of the moment. He looks raw, exposed, waiting for me to comment. I understand that sense of vulnerability all too well.
“My husband died as well,” I blurt out. “Five years ago. I admire you for getting out there again.”
A cloud of surprise appears on his face, and it’s obvious that Marcy hasn’t told him that either. Maybe we’re just not interesting enough to talk about when you’re their age.
“I’m sorry,” he says simply. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”
I laugh a little at that. It sounds like something my son Dan would say, not this sleek, successful man standing before me in his expensive cologne and his elf slippers.
“Yeah, it really does! I turned up last night expecting to do the widow dance, you know? That thing where everyone else is in couples and they’re a bit too awkward to ask you about anything?”
He grimaces, and it’s obviously not an alien concept to him.
“I know it well. It’s a bit like having leprosy, isn’t it? People are fascinated but also worried they might catch it. Look, they might be a while – do you want to come through to the living room where we can sit down? Then I can close the kitchen door and put poor Bear out of his misery.”
I take my coffee and a pastry on a small plate, and we head out. I’m conscious of the fact that I am back wearing my clown clothes, no make-up, and that I’ve probably got crumbs on my face. But really, I decide, what’s the point in being concerned about that? I could be at my most well-dressed and alluring and still look like a bag lady next to the beauty show of his ex-girlfriends. I’m not in the same league, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I am who I am.
The lounge is as bright and airy as the rest of the house, walls lined with bookshelves, framed posters of some of his TV shows, potted plants, family pictures. I see one of a pretty dark-haired woman with two little girls, and say: “Is that her? Your wife?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Rowena. She was a food stylist. I met her on a photo shoot, where she was making everything look delectable even though it was actually cold by that stage.”
I remember those days – vaguely. The days when I was front of house, getting the shots done for our website. The strange world of food showbusiness.
Rowena is, like I say, pretty – but she is not by any means glamorous or beautiful. She looks like a mum, with a gorgeous smile.
“What was she like?” I ask – because nobody ever does. Sometimes you desperately want to talk about them, but everyone is too scared to ask in case they make you cry.
“She was surprisingly blunt. Bearing in mind my work, I was used to people saying yes, people trying to curry favour. She, to put it frankly, took no shit at all. She told me off, called me out, and didn’t care if she did it in public. She was from Dublin originally, and she swore like a trooper, which always surprised everyone because she looked so petite and meek.”
“So you were hooked?”
“I was! She loved her work, but she loved family life more. She was a great cook herself, so I’m not surprised both my girls have gone down that route – Amy works at a restaurant in Paris. She was a great mum, a great wife, a great home-maker. Just an all-round great human being. I miss her every day, but now at least I can smile when I think about her, not just grieve.”
“I get that. I’m starting to feel the same. Depends what mood I’m in, and I’m always amazed at how unpredictable it is – one day laughing at some nice memory and feeling lucky I ever had him, and the next day hysterical tears because I miss him so much. People assume after five years, I’ve moved on – but it’s not that simple, is it? I was so busy after he died, raising three teenagers on my own, that sometimes I wonder if I ever really processed it all properly myself. There was just this raw, gaping hole in my life, and all I had time to do was slap on an emotional plaster and get on with making the packed lunches. It must have been the same for you.”
“Yep,” he says, looking thoughtful. “I’ve been considering that lately. There are all these stages of grief you’re supposed to go through – you know, denial, anger, all that. Supposedly working your way through to acceptance. I think I stalled at anger, and went straight into sorting childcare, managing a demanding job, and trying to make it to as many school events as I could.”
“Is it still there?” I ask gently. “The anger?”
“Sometimes, yes. She was so young, and so good. It felt unfair. I still find myself sometimes watching the news, some report about some awful crime or whatever, and raging that scum like that are still walking the earth and she isn’t. Makes me sound like a psycho, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all. It just makes you sound honest. It’s even worse when you have those thoughts about perfectly normal people. Like when you’re walking around the supermarket and see some happy couple, and think, why do they still have each other? Why was he taken away and not one of them? Then feel yucky about it, because of course you don’t actually want someone else to die! It’s complicated. I don’t think it’s something you can judge, and it changes every day anyway. Sounds like you’re at least trying to move on though?”
He laughs and runs his hands through his hair. I’ve noticed this is a thing he does – maybe when he’s nervous, or maybe when he’s unsure of what to say next. It’s an attractive emotional tic and doesn’t help dampen down my Zack’s Hair fascination.
“Not really. I mean, yes, I did date those women. The girls were independent, and I felt like I should at least try, you know? But as you’ll have gathered from Marcy’s little performance, I’m not exactly taking it seriously. They’re too young. They’re too different. They’re too everything, except right for me. Partly it’s just the kind of women I meet in my world – but partly, if I’m being honest, it’s deliberate. I know from the get-go that it’s not going anywhere. I’m playing a part, and I pick women who I know won’t offer me anything real. I might be ready to move on to a bit of fun, but I’m not sure I’m ready to move on to anything real.”
“Maybe you won’t ever be,” I reply, because exactly the same thought has occurred to me. “Maybe something real would feel like too much of a betrayal.”
“That’s exactly it. Now, enough of this morose conversation. Isn’t it strange, though, Connie? That we haven’t seen each other for such a long time, and end up having this awful thing in common?”
“It is strange, and I wish for both our sakes we had nothing to talk about. But now we’re discussing the past, just let me reassure you that I am no longer the train wreck you used to know. When you last saw me, I was young, dumb, and full of Jack Daniel’s. Now, I’m a very respectable, very boring mum-of-three who lives in a remote corner of Dorset and runs a little café. Marcy will be perfectly safe with us.”
He gives me a grin that tells me my earlier suspicions were right.
“Ah,” he says, “you noticed my sneaky little sobriety test, did you?”
“It wasn’t that sneaky – and I don’t blame you. I was a basket case last time you saw me. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”
“Good. I do worry – as I’m sure you know. Once something that bad has happened, you never feel quite safe again. Maybe we could swap numbers, so I could check in with a grown-up occasionally?”
“I don’t know about a grown-up, but you can definitely have my number.”
We’re in the process of doing this when the girls come racing down the stairs again. Marcy has an extra bag to cram into the tiny boot of my car, which will be fun. I hope she doesn’t have any Fabergé eggs in there or it could end badly.
“We were thinking…” says Sophie, glancing at her friend.
“Oh no. Did you hurt yourself?”
“Ha ha, very funny. No, we were thinking that maybe Marcy’s dad could come and visit for the Spring Feast night?”
The two of them are the picture of innocence, but I am not fooled for a minute. I suspect they’ve been discussing their poor old mum and dad, and how sad their lives are without their babies at home. In my case they may be right, but I’ll never admit that in a million years.
My mind quickly races over all the potential pros and cons of this scenario, and I realise that I don’t feel especially comfortable with Zack being in Starshine Cove. It’s nothing personal – he seems like he’s become a very nice man – but he is from that other country. The Past. Starshine is my present and my future, and I have a completely illogical fear that the two won’t mix. Or that they will in fact curdle.
If I’m being brutally honest with myself as well, I also find him unsettling to be around for other reasons. It’s been so long since I’ve felt attracted to a man that I almost didn’t recognise it at first, this fizzy feeling. Now I do recognise it, it’s not entirely welcome.
“It’s sold out, Soph,” I say sadly. “You know it always is. Besides, I’m sure Zack has better things to be doing.”
“I don’t actually,” he says, frowning. “I’d booked a fortnight off to go and visit Amy, but she says she’s too busy to manage more than a weekend. But I totally understand if it’s not possible. I’ll make it down for the next one.”
“Couldn’t you squeeze an extra table in?” Sophie pleads.
“Not really. People don’t pay that much money to be squashed in like sardines. I can let Zack know if there’s a cancellation, though?”
I’m really hoping there isn’t. Zack is looking at Marcy, deep in concentration, as though he’s trying to solve a problem.
“How about this?” he asks. “How about if I come down to help out? I’ve been around food shows enough to know the basics, and I did years waiting on tables while I was uni. That way I don’t need a table, and Connie, you get an extra set of hands.”
“Brilliant!” says Sophie, giving Marcy a high five like it was all their idea to begin with. “We’re always desperate for more staff, aren’t we, Mum?”
I nod, and plaster on a smile. She’s right, we are – but I still feel unsettled at the thought of those hands belonging to Zack Harris.