Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
I was much better prepared for the flight home and arrived at Bergen airport with plenty of time to indulge myself in the business lounge.
Starting with a massage and a mini-mani, then half a bottle of champagne and a smoked salmon platter.
As much as I’d grown to love the stripped-back experience at Firefly, it was nice to indulge a little before I returned home.
Never had smoked salmon tasted so good – with prawns and fresh crab and crusty bread and butter.
It turned out I wasn’t vegan after all. It was time to start prioritising pleasure again, and cheese was top of my list. Top of my food pleasure list at least. I was going to thoroughly enjoy all the little things on this business class flight.
It would be the last one for a while without a legal case weighing on my mind.
I’d soon be back to panic-working between panic-eating and panic-sleeping.
‘Welcome back, Ms Pearson.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, smiling.
Which reminded me. I needed to change my passport back to my maiden name. I didn’t want to be a Pearson anymore.
Lil’ Will was sat next to me on the table, and Henrik had even organised an official phytosanitary certificate to make sure it sailed smoothly through security.
I wouldn’t have thought twice about popping it in my handbag, but apparently it’s not that easy to smuggle plants in from other countries.
His thoughtfulness levels were something else.
I’d have likely been arrested for attempting to poison the ecosystem without the paperwork.
*
I opened the door to my flat and it felt cold and unwelcoming.
The smell of paint was strong and noxious, and I felt my sense of Firefly freedom deflating almost immediately.
At least the painting had been done, and the flat was clean and decorated.
I whacked the thermostat up and opened all the windows so the air could circulate; I needed to take a fresh breath.
Me: Hey Abs, thanks for overseeing everything with Jimbo. Was he OK?
Abi: Yes, all fine. Do you like it?
I walked from room to room, turning on the lights.
Did I like it? He’d done exactly what I’d asked him to do.
He’d used the greys and the blues; the exact same shades Mark and I had in the house on the King’s Road.
Colours I’d loved. We’d loved. Back then.
I ran in and out of all the rooms and tried to imagine new beds and a sofa, but I could only think of our old furniture.
Our love seat from John Lewis, our Heals dining table.
The thought of it made my stomach turn. It was all wrong.
The colours and shades were all wrong. I didn’t want my flat to be a smaller, shitter version of my old home.
A daily reminder that I didn’t have the big Chelsea house anymore, or the big swinging-dick husband.
That the future we’d planned together had all been a fantasy.
I wanted my place to represent the me I was now.
To be a vibe. Abi had said it was all transitory anyway.
That it was only paint and we could change it anytime. So that’s what we’d do.
Me: Not 100% sure. Can you come over tomorrow?
Abi: Of course. Desperate to hear all about it. Shall I bring my paints?
Me: Please!
Abi: Shall I bring Jimbo?
Me: Lol. You know me too well.
*
Sunday 11th October
HIIT me up Group Chat
Kat: Are you back?
Abi: She sure is – I’m heading there now with Jimbo.
Me: Got back last night! Come too and bring your roller.
Kat: Erm, OK… sounds fun.
At least I’d have the girls to distract me from my pining.
Bad joke. The last few days had completely thrown me.
My mind was so full of Henrik, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Everything about him had felt so different and real.
The gifts, the looks, the breakfast. The rescue missions.
His never-ending patience. How could anyone else I dated compare to He-Man Henrik?
I unpacked my suitcases into three piles.
Dry cleaning, washing, bin. This time there were also things that could go straight back in the wardrobe.
I lay all my Norwegian trinkets out on the bed and breathed in the scent of the crocheted blanket, slowly unfolding it to appreciate its full size and all the effort Greta had put in.
The double-dyed colours, the alpaca wool, the luminous thread she’d used for the fireflies.
It didn’t feel right using it as a blanket; it needed framing and hanging in a gallery.
I washed my labradorite rocks and placed them on the windowsill in descending order to air-dry.
Lil’ Will had survived the journey home in a carrier bag, but the central heating was a bridge too far.
I popped him in the sink to freshen up, gave him a long drink then put him next to my bed, so he’d be the first thing I saw every morning.
It would take years for a tiny seedling like that to get to huggable status, so I’d have to settle for stroking his leaves for now.
The London traffic droned loudly outside my window as the pollution tried to cough its way in. The stars were hidden behind a fug of fumes and the rain smattered against the skylight, quickly turning into a downpour and hammering the windowsill with water. London in October was the worst.
The intercom buzzed. The cavalry had arrived.
‘Hello?’
‘Hellooooo!!!’ Kat, Abi and Jimbo collectively cooed. Hurrah!
I buzzed them all up and threw on some clothes to give the illusion my day had begun. It wasn’t like me to still be in my pyjamas, positioning plants at 11 a.m.
‘I missed you girls!!’ I screamed, opening the door and hugging Kat and Abi at the same time. ‘Thanks for coming straight over. You too, Jimbo.’
‘Not a problem, pet,’ he said, smoothing his hand down the wall and admiring his own handywork. ‘Lovely job, this. The paint went on like a dream.’
‘Tea? Coffee?’ I shouted, pointing at them all like an out-of-control air stewardess. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, milk, three sugars. And then you need to spill the tea,’ Kat said, eyes gleaming. ‘Don’t miss anything out. I want all the gossip. My cup needeth to be filleth-ed.’
‘Coffee for me and Jimbo – both white, no sugar.’
I put the kettle on and got straight into the tricky part of the chat to get it over and done with.
‘Jimbo, you have done an amazing job. Exactly what I wanted, no complaints – it’s perfect.’
‘Champion!’ he said, beaming widely. ‘I was worried there for a minute when Abi called.’
‘Well, that’s the thing. This is exactly what I did want, but it’s no longer what I do want.’
‘It’s not?’ Jimbo said, exchanging a look with Abi. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘I’ll pay for it twice, obviously, because I want to change all the colours.’
I locked eyes with Abi, and she immediately understood.
‘Don’t worry at all,’ she said, fixing me with her ‘we can do anything’ smile.
Jimbo was still puzzled.
‘It’s a re-brief,’ Abi whispered. ‘Double bubble on the cash.’
His face lit up at that. ‘Well, why didn’t you say?’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Nay problem, pet, we’ll get straight onto it and have it done in no time.’
‘I don’t want a mini version of my old house on the King’s Road; I want a King’s Cross original.’
‘Amen, sister,’ Kat said, holding her roller aloft, ready to do battle.
‘I’m thinking lots of greens in different shades – grassy, emerald, racing car – with stark white walls.’ I showed them the Pinterest board I’d put together.
‘Ooo, yes, that’ll look fab,’ Abi said, swiping through and zooming in to check against her colour swatches.
‘Then, Kat – I was thinking maybe we could go shopping with your PR discount and get some furniture. Floating shelves in pine, a rustic dining table with hand-hewn chairs, see what else there is – maybe a wicker basket for my blankets?’
Kat gave a low whistle. ‘Someone’s got their mojo back,’ she teased, putting her roller down. ‘That is a huge relief. I’m much better at shopping than painting.’
‘I LOVE these colour combos. Very rumble in the jungle,’ Abi said. ‘I know you weren’t keen before but can I please, please do you one of my murals? I’ve got a brilliant idea.’
She was desperate to get her hands on my naked walls. And really, what was the worst that could happen? It was only paint after all.
‘Yeah, go on then,’ I said, giving her a hug.
‘Squeeee! Really? Shall I tell you what I’m thinking?’
‘No. Surprise me.’
‘Even better,’ Abi said, clapping her hands in delight. ‘My favourite.’
It was time to shake things up. Kat was right, my mojo was back. I’d found it in Firefly Forest.
*
Kat dragged me in and out of every house-y shop on Oxford Street.
Furniture, beanbags, fresh new sheets, blankets, cutlery, tea towels.
It was like getting married again. Except this time, I didn’t have to compromise.
It didn’t matter what anyone else thought, I was having my flat exactly as I wanted it.
And I wanted it like my cabin in Firefly Forest. Warm, cosy, homely.
Soft and snuggly. Hot baths full of oils, beeswax candles on the go, and a wilderness of big, leafy plants.
No more fakes. I wanted the real deal in every aspect of my life and to have the time to enjoy it.
‘Can we please stop for a drink? I’m desperate.’ Kat was laden down with bags and had slowed to a stumble. She was flagging. We both were.
‘Yeah, let’s grab some lunch. Mildreds?’
‘Is that Italian?’
‘Vegan.’
‘Bloody hell, Sara! No. Lunch without cheese is like toast without butter. And vegans can’t have that either. How about we compromise and go for sushi. That’s healthy?’
‘I’m only joking, I don’t want vegan either. Let’s tuk-tuk into Soho and see what takes our fancy,’ I said, flagging down a man in a pink feather boa who was blasting out Whitney Houston. The pair of us sat on the furry seat and clutched our bags to our knees.
‘Dean Street please!’ I shouted as the man stood up and tried to get going. ‘Kat, tell me honestly – do you think me getting a bread maker is taking it too far?’
‘Taking what too far?’
‘My new “woman of the land” vibe. Making my own food. Living off-grid.’
Kat rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t want to burst your bubble, babe, but King’s Cross is about as on-grid as it gets. And why on earth would you want to make your own bread when they sell it in the supermarket?’
‘To bake it fresh.’
‘Waitrose bake it fresh.’
‘I want to get rid of all the nasties – the additives and preservatives.’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s the stuff that makes it taste nice.’
‘I could always make the dough by hand, I suppose.’
Kat turned to me in shock. ‘Am I hearing things? The queen of takeaways is now baking her own baguettes. What have you done with my friend Sara?’
‘It’s time for a change, Kat. I’ve been eating myself into type-two diabetes for too long.’
‘If it’s a health thing then bread should probably be off the menu anyway. Why don’t you start small? Get a window box and grow your own tomatoes?’
‘I can do that as well, but I really want to make fresh bread every day.’
‘Realistically? You won’t have time for all that once you’re back at CSH. You’ll be working twenty-four-seven on your next case. And if you do end up with a spare half hour, do you really want to spend it kneading dough?’
‘Yes! I do. Work should facilitate my life, not the other way around. I shouldn’t be giving up my spare time to work my bollocks off, helping criminals who don’t deserve it. Arguing reasonable doubt when I know damn well they’re guilty.’
‘Easy to say but that’s why they pay you the big bucks.’
‘What’s the point in money though, if I don’t have time to enjoy it? I’m fitting a tiny bit of life in around my work, rather than doing a job that works around the kind of life I want to live. That’s a major red flag.’
Kat shrugged. ‘Is it? You love being a lawyer and you’re brilliant at it. You’ve got an amazing flat in central London – and unbelievably cool friends.’
‘The best, and thank you. But I can tell that story a different way. I’m thirty-two and divorced – nearly – and I keep bad guys out of prison.
I’m so burnt out I’ve been signed off work and when I go back I won’t have enough time between working, sleeping and commuting to make a loaf of bread.
That’s more than a red flag, Kat, it’s the red bloody sea.
’ My breathing had gone off kilter, and I could feel a panic attack coming on.
Physical red flag. I was allergic to London.
‘It’s OK, look at me.’ Kat held my hands, breathing with me to try and calm me down. ‘It’s alright, you’re fine, I’m here. Of course you can order a bread maker. Let’s go and buy one now. Whatever you want to do,’ she soothed. ‘How much is it?’
‘Two hundred,’ I said, as Whitney hit a high note.
‘Pounds? Two hundred pounds? Before you’ve bought any ingredients? Then add on the butter, eggs, sugar…’
‘Isn’t that a cake mix?’
‘Probably. I’ve no interest in trying to do something Mr Warburton has spent decades perfecting. You’ll be fashioning your own shoes together next and putting Jimmy Choo out of business.’
‘You’re always so am-dram.’
‘Just looking at the bigger picture, babes. By the time you’ve bought all the stuff you need to make the bread, you’ll have spent four hundred quid and could’ve had eight loaves a week delivered to the flat by Tesco. For a year.’