Chapter 14
MARCUS
What was that? What was that?
I take the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time and, making sure the front door of the café locks behind me – I don’t like to think of Frankie alone up there in case of any intruders, although there hasn’t actually been a single crime of any kind recorded in this village for a good twenty years, so it isn’t hugely likely – I’m across the pavement and over to my car in two strides.
Almost as though I’m running away from something.
I frown the whole way home.
Because.
There was a moment there – at the end of the film – where all I could think about was what it would be like to date Frankie for real. Just because we had one nice evening together.
I do date – occasionally, in a very short-term kind of way – but I do not date close to home.
And the reason for that is really once bitten twice shy.
My wife and I fell in love, and then she got pregnant and we decided to get married, very young, both of us only twenty-three.
Astrid didn’t enjoy motherhood, but that was fine; we were very lucky to have help from my parents so that we could both build careers, and I thought a lot of people had problems in the early years of parenting, especially when they were as young as we were.
Then we had Sam and that was it. Astrid is German – she grew up in Munich and went to university here in the UK (that’s where we met) and then started work here – and she got a job offer in Munich and just decided to go, without discussing it with me or suggesting that the kids and I join her.
I didn’t want to go and live in Germany – my whole life is here – but I would have gone with her, because I’d made a commitment to her, although we weren’t getting on amazingly well by then.
No arguments; we’d just drifted apart. We probably wouldn’t have stayed together anywhere near as long if she hadn’t got pregnant with Ruby.
It turned out that she just didn’t want the kids and me to go to Germany with her.
When she barely got in touch again, I realised that she’d made a conscious decision to leave us.
She didn’t want to be a mother. I don’t know whether she’d have happily stayed with me if we hadn’t had children (I strongly doubt it) but I do know that she definitely didn’t want to remain part of our nuclear family.
She occasionally acknowledges the children’s existence, but never on their birthdays or at Christmas.
Sam doesn’t ever mention her.
Ruby, though, really hankers after her mother, and gets hurt and hurt and hurt. Every Christmas, every birthday.
I fell out of love with Astrid a long time ago. When someone hurts your children the way she hurt Ruby, in particular, it’s hard to carry on being in love with them.
And now I wouldn’t dream of entering into any kind of romantic relationship that involved someone meeting the kids, because I don’t want them to get close to a partner of mine and potentially feel abandoned again if we split up.
So, yes, I do date from time to time, but never anyone who might meet the kids.
Anyway. Obviously Frankie and I are not dating.
It was a nice evening. It’s a long time since I watched TV with a woman like that. Companionable. I smile, remembering the way Frankie screamed and gripped my arm; the way she became so engrossed in the world of the film was very endearing.
Yeah, so, actually, I had a good time, and this fake relationship will allow me to enjoy a woman’s company without any complications from any angle, which I think is why I was so happy to point out that in order to hoodwink everyone successfully we should probably see each other fairly regularly.
Basically, I’d be happy to continue for as long as Frankie likes with the fake relationship.
* * *
She texts me in the morning, just as I’m back inside the house from inspecting some of my fields, to check that we do actually like fish pie before she makes it for us tomorrow.
We tussle back and forth briefly about whether or not she really should cook for us, before she sends a definitive reply:
Okay. I owe you big. For all the reasons mentioned above.
Fauxmance, removals, dinner, probably a bruised arm even though you won’t admit it.
Therefore if you refuse to choose a meal I will just decide on one and deliver it at a time of my choosing.
So it would make sense for you to choose what and when.
I reply:
Okay. No more arguing from me. Very kind of you. Fish pie tomorrow would be fantastic thank you. P.S. For the record: arm genuinely not bruised.
She responds:
Great. I’ll deliver the fish pie approx 6.30 p.m. tomorrow if that suits
I just say:
Perfect thank you.
I will, I realise, be looking forward to seeing her then.
During the afternoon, Sam completes an enormous Star Wars Lego kit that he got for his birthday last month, and I’m unable to resist sending a photo of it to Frankie and pointing out that not many films give rise to such enormous franchises.
She replies:
For eleven-year-old boys, though, not thirty-five-year-old women?
I reply:
Fair point.
I’m smiling.
She concludes:
See you tomorrow with a non-Star-Wars-themed fish pie.
And I smile again.
* * *
As half six approaches the next evening, I find myself hovering in the kitchen, with my ear out for the doorbell, and am forced to admit to myself that it’s so that when the bell does ring, I’ll get there before Ruby and get the chance to have a brief chat with Frankie.
She arrives just after six thirty. When I open the front door, she’s standing there holding a large, foil-covered dish. I usher her inside and ask if she’d like a cup of tea.
‘Are you sure?’ she asks. ‘Will I not be getting in the way of family time?’
‘Sam’s doing his homework at a table in the family room, and Ruby’s in her bedroom, which is where she spends a lot of her time now,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to force them to play a game or watch TV with me later but for now there’s no family time whatsoever going on.’
‘In that case, I will happily intrude for a few minutes.’
We go into the kitchen together and I open the door of the oven, which I’ve preheated, and she takes the foil off the top of the pie and puts it in.
‘Half an hour should do it,’ she says.
‘I think I might whip up some broccoli to go with it,’ I say. ‘Maybe also some spinach.’
‘Impressive. You’re a mighty fine chef.’
‘Certainly am.’ I grin at her and turn the kettle on. ‘What kind of tea do you like? Or coffee? As a mighty fine chef, I can offer—’ I go and look in my cupboard ‘—English breakfast and nothing else. I should really get some more in.’
Frankie laughs. ‘English breakfast is perfect.’
‘So how’s your day been?’ I ask once we’re sitting at the table with mugs of tea.
‘Well… I don’t want to moan. I mean, I really don’t.
But, also, yeah. A little slow. You know.
Apparently Monday isn’t a very happening day at Simon’s café.
Apart from the morning rush. And a bit at lunchtime.
But, yeah. A lot of downtime. And I really shouldn’t complain.
I mean, I’m incredibly lucky to have the job, obviously.
And Simon’s lovely. As is the café. As are all the residents.
Most of them, anyway. But, you know, I’m used to being really busy the whole time. ’
‘Can you read? Or… do stuff on your laptop?’
‘Yes, definitely. I’ve been doing some party planning.
And trying to think about alternative careers.
And… yeah, other stuff. You know. But, yeah, no, it’s all good.
I think partly it’s because in my old job, which was working in the head office of a Central London real estate business, so basically a fancy estate agency, I was out and about quite a lot.
I’m finding it a little bit difficult being inside all day, and in the same place. ’
‘I can imagine,’ I say. ‘I went to university – studied History and Politics – and tried my hand as a lawyer in London for a few years, and basically hated it, for some of the reasons you’re mentioning – obviously not the lack of busyness, but the rest of it – and so I left and became a farm manager. ’
‘When did you move here?’
‘This was my father’s farm and after we lost my mother last year he suddenly decided that he didn’t want to be tied to the land any more but wanted to travel while he was still young enough, so I’ve taken the farm on.
He’s now on a six-month-long cruise around South-East Asia, and having a great time.
And I have to say I love running my own farm.
I’m very lucky because I do have a manager so am not entirely tied to the land. ’
‘And…’ Frankie looks over both shoulders, very theatrically, before saying in a low voice, ‘You do of course have your secret spying to keep you occupied.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Yes, of course.’ For a mad moment, looking into her gorgeous hazel eyes, I contemplate telling her about my actual main job.
It’s interesting, and I think she’d like to hear about it, and it’s a little boring not being able to tell anyone.
Not that it’s super exciting. But… no. Maybe if we were to become very close friends and I fully trusted her. But not now.
‘So how’s the party planning going?’ I ask instead.
‘Amazingly well, because I’ve had so much time to devote to it.
We’re going full Bonfire Night – Halloween mashup.
I have everything sorted. Guest list, church hall booked, caterer sorted and fully instructed on themed food, decorations ordered.
Pumpkin carving will be getting underway in due course.
Everything. It’s going to be the best-planned party you’ve ever been to. ’
‘Sounds great. At the risk of interfering or trying to teach a grandmother to suck eggs, have you considered thinking about a different kind of career rather than going back to your old one? Maybe a career portfolio initially? Some event planning while still working at the café for the time being?’ I pause for a moment, and then, when Frankie nods, like she’s considering my words and doesn’t think I’m overstepping the mark, I ask, ‘Have you thought yet about how long you’d like to stay in Milbury? ’
‘I’ll definitely go back to London. I mean, I should.
My whole life is there and I own a flat there; it’s just rented out at the moment.
All my friends, apart from my Milbury friends, obviously, are there.
I’ve been living there since I left uni, and that’s quite a long time now.
But, yeah, I’m starting to feel as though I’m in no rush.
And, you know, my friends are all coupled up and several of them have babies, and I’m clearly not in that phase of life, so things have changed a little anyway.
So, yep, basically I’m going to take my time and make sure I don’t make a mistake. ’
‘Sounds very wise.’ I’m pleased that she’s going to be around for a while, I realise. Although that does mean that this fake relationship could get a little complicated – how will we fizzle it out due to distance if there is in fact no distance? Well, whatever. That’s a problem for another day.
‘I should go.’ Frankie stands up and puts her empty mug next to the sink. ‘That was a very good cup of tea.’
‘And that’s smelling like a very good fish pie.’ I stand up too. ‘Thank you again.’
‘Er, no more thank yous?’
‘Very good point. I apologise.’
‘As you should.’ Her smile is gorgeous. Her ex was clearly an idiot.
‘Hi, Frankie.’ Ruby has just come into the room. ‘Wow, that’s a nice smell.’
‘Another home-cooked meal courtesy of Frankie,’ I tell her.
‘Wow, this fake-relationship thing is a big benefit to us,’ Ruby says. ‘Awesome.’
‘Ha,’ Frankie says. ‘Pleased to be of assistance. Right, I’m going to leave you to your evening.’ She whisks herself out of the room and is at the front door almost before I’ve had a chance to react.
I don’t really know how to say goodbye to her – are we going to see each other again soon for example – and I think Frankie feels the same way: we both just kind of say, ‘Bye, then,’ and then off she goes.
‘She’s nice,’ says Ruby when I go back into the kitchen.
‘Yep,’ I agree.
* * *
Frankie makes us a bean chilli on Wednesday and suggests that she make a beef stroganoff for us at the weekend. The kids love her for her cooking. I’m loving the whole home-cooked food situation too.
When she comes over on Wednesday to drop the chilli off, I wait until the kids are out of earshot and then say, ‘Should we be getting together at some point? For illusions of growing relationship purposes. Are you free on Friday evening? Pretty sure Ruby will babysit Sam if I bribe her with a takeaway of her choice and money.’
Frankie’s lovely smile peeps out. ‘Friday’s very good for me,’ she says. ‘We could go to the cinema and try to watch a better film?’
‘You mean Star Wars.’
‘Of course.’
‘Great. Shall I book?’
‘Eek,’ she says. ‘There isn’t an actual Star Wars out at the moment is there?’
‘Ha ha ha. Sadly not. Maybe let’s both check the listings and text to agree the film?’
‘Perfect.’
Frankie texts within fifteen minutes:
Four options. A romcom. Or a very good but very sad First World War drama. Or a rock star biopic. Last one an English film about two pensioners kidnapping the Pope.
I reply:
They all sound GREAT, but maybe we should investigate so we don’t end up watching a weird post-apocalyptic sex equivalent. Romcom plot? HOW sad? Which rock star? What do they do with the Pope (please don’t tell me there’s any post-apocalyptic sex in that one)?
She says:
Oh sorry, I thought you LIKED the p-a sex. They all have it. I discarded any that didn’t.
I say:
Ha. What’s your preference?
She replies:
Well, the romcom sounds too improbable – I like them to be realistic. The war drama – all the critics cried and they are HARD to upset and I don’t want to be TOO sad. The biopic – not keen on his music. So if I were choosing I’d go pensioners and Pope.
I tell her:
Okay, but if I don’t love it (and if there’s no p-a sex I almost certainly won’t) I’m choosing our next one.
She responds:
Deal.
And now, even though a film about OAPs making off with the Pope doesn’t entirely scream watch me now, I’m looking forward to seeing it because I know that if I watch it with Frankie I will enjoy it.