Chapter 1 #2
‘Yep.’ Marcus does not sound happy, I’m pleased to say.
* * *
I am not at my happiest either, and for much bigger reasons, but driving through the lovely familiarity and sheer gorgeousness of the village high street, with its row of higgledy-piggledy, pastel-painted cottages, against their backdrop of tree-covered hills, which look particularly beautiful right now with their autumnal brown and orange leaves, I do begin to feel a little calmer.
Enough to drive without either crying or yelling fucking tosser every five minutes, anyway, which is a big improvement on my journey down here.
Five minutes after leaving the café, I’ve parked round the back of Ellie’s cottage next to her garage (aka a very ancient barn containing everything under the sun except any kind of vehicle) and am standing next to my car shivering a little.
It’s always easy to forget that late September sunshine – however glorious – fades quickly as the evenings draw in.
There are no lights on in the cottage, even though it’s five thirty and the days are getting shorter now, so it looks like neither Ellie nor Jack are in.
Ellie’s a teacher in a big comprehensive in the nearest town, Chartfield, and Jack is a sixth-form pupil there.
Ellie is usually home by this time on a Friday; to celebrate the end of the working week she allows herself to go home not long after the pupils and does her marking, lesson prep and so on over the weekend, and if she’s going out in the evening she still likes to pop home first to get changed.
It really doesn’t look like she’s here, though, and I now realise that in my haste to get away from London I didn’t actually tell her I was coming.
Well, never mind, I’ll just wait for her inside with a cup of tea and my delicious mangled carrot cake.
I don’t attempt to unpack any of my stuff. I chucked pretty much everything I own into my car earlier, in no order whatsoever, so at some point I’m going to have to go through my bags to find basics like underwear and toiletries, but right now I can’t face it.
Ellie always leaves the back door – which leads straight into her kitchen – unlocked.
Obviously that strikes horror into my crime-infested-London-based soul, but she’s consistently been proved right by the fact that the last crime recorded in Milbury was over twenty years ago (a tourist snatched a bag through the open window of a car and was immediately tackled by several local residents, and then he tried to sue them for the distress they caused him); and right now it’s perfect for me.
Carrying the bag of cakes, I go inside, flick on the lights, put the kettle on and then sink into a chair.
I am so tired. Being really upset, really stressed and really angry – and having to pack up all your stuff as fast as you can and then drive out of your life and back to your childhood home – is exhausting as it turns out.
When the kettle boils, I barely have the energy to lug my body back across the kitchen. I do it, though, because I really want tea with my cake.
A cup of English breakfast made, with a dash of milk added, I sit back down at the table with the tea plus a plate and fork for the cake.
I send Ellie a quick text to let her know that I’m here for the weekend (or a lot longer, eek) and heave a sigh of…
something, I’m not sure what. Almost – weirdly – contentment.
As in, my life has very suddenly gone to complete crap, but at least – and it’s a very big at-least – I have my best friend and cousin, plus her lovely son, plus my grandmother. Plus great friends, including Simon.
My thoughts are interrupted by my phone buzzing with a message from Ellie:
SO happy that you’re here this weekend. Perfect ending to the week for me – right now am playing in a ‘fun’ after-work staff team-building FOOTBALL MATCH.
Obviously they’ve stuck me in goal. It’s half-time at the moment.
Thirty more minutes of true torture to go.
And then I’m coming straight home to see you – perfect excuse for avoiding the post-match pub debrief.
My mind’s boggling. Ellie hates team sports.
Another message pings in from her:
Guess how many goals I let in in the first half? Twelve. It’s a record apparently.
I send a message straight back:
Amazing to be a record holder. Proud of you. Also, thoughts and prayers for the second half. I HAVE CAKE. Focus on that. See you later xxxx
Then I send another one:
Please don’t miss a pub evening for me. We have the whole weekend to catch up…
Ellie shoots straight back with:
No, no, no, I’m coming home. Right now I HATE THEM ALL. Stupid football enthusiasts. Oh fuck. We’re back on. Gaaaah. See you later. I’ll be a shell of my former self. You might not recognise me. Thank God for cake.
I send her some cake and happy-dance emojis, which would make Jack really cringe, but which I know Ellie will like, because I’m sorry but a lot of women in their mid-thirties do like an emoji, and teenagers should not take that away from us. And then I take a lovely, much-needed slurp of tea.
Things have been feeling really nightmarish today, and realistically it’s going to be a while before I sort myself out, but there are some good things in life.
Basically, at just after eleven thirty this morning, I became homeless and jobless (and fiancé-less but that’s a good thing; what an arse) all at once, but at least I have this lovely haven in Milbury.
I tip the carrot cake out onto the plate and pick up my fork.
I’m finally about to take my first mouthful, when the door opens and a very large man steps forward and blocks almost the entire door aperture.
And then, just as I register that Queue Man has invaded Ellie’s kitchen, he has the incredible temerity to say to me, ‘What are you doing here?’