15. Chapter 14
Peter
Ihave served thirty-two baked apples, lost count of how many people have asked whether the custard is homemade, and watched Ed, one of Hunter’s trainee waiters who has been sent to the fair with me, prevent a small boy from eating cinnamon straight from a spoon.
The boy’s mother apologised.
The boy did not.
Morton Hall’s wedding has swallowed most of the staff, which is how I have ended up behind a trestle table wearing an apron that does not fit and explaining baked fruit to the residents of St Claire.
It is not the worst afternoon I have ever had.
That may be the problem.
There is something surprisingly satisfying about it. Apples into bowls. Custard over the top. Coins into the tin for the local mountain rescue team. Smile. Napkin. Next person. Simple, useful work with no branch closure conversations and no one asking me whether online banking is a conspiracy.
Then Mandy appears.
Everything in me notices.
She is crossing the grass with her hands in the pockets of her coat, hair moving slightly in the breeze. Her face is calm in that way of hers that usually means something very not calm is happening underneath.
I want to smile at her like an idiot.
I want to say something about baked apples and temptation and whether she has come to inspect my custard technique.
I do none of that.
She asked for space.
I am trying to give it to her, even though she is walking towards me and my entire body has apparently mistaken that for hope.
I ladle custard over an apple for Mr Pierce and hand it over with a napkin.
“There you go.”
“Cheers, Peter. Hope it tastes nice.”
“Don’t let Chef hear you.”
He laughs and moves away.
Mandy reaches the stall.
I pick up another bowl because having something in my hands seems wise.
“Afternoon,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Afternoon?”
I clear my throat. “I was aiming for normal.”
“You landed on parish newsletter.”
“Strong start, then.”
Her mouth twitches.
My heart starts racing even if I’m willing it not to.
I keep my hands on the ladle.
“Baked apple?” I ask.
“Are you selling or offering?”
“Both, technically. Though if you are asking whether I am abusing my temporary authority to give you one for free, the answer is not while Ed can see me.”
Ed, further down the stall, does not look up. “I’ll tell Chef.”
“Excellent hearing,” I say.
Mandy smiles properly this time.
It is small.
It still hits me in the chest.
“No apple,” she says. “Not yet.”
“All right.”
There is a pause.
It is not awkward exactly. It is careful. That is worse. I have touched every inch of this woman and somehow, we are standing two feet apart pretending baked apples require formal diplomacy.
Before either of us can say anything else, Lexi appears at Mandy’s shoulder with a raffle tin tucked under one arm.
“Hello you two,” she says to Mandy. “I need change for the raffle float, and Hunter said Peter and Ed might have some.”
Ed reaches for the cash box. “How much?”
“Twenty in coins if you can spare it.” Alexandra looks at me. “And you. I have not forgotten Sainsbury’s.”
My hand tightens on the ladle.
Mandy’s face changes by half an inch.
Alexandra points at me. “Do not look innocent. It does not suit you.”
“I was not aware we were discussing this in public.”
“Well, shouldn’t have avoided me then.”
Mandy looks at me.
I look at Mandy.
This is bad.
Possibly fatal.
Alexandra turns to Mandy, clearly delighted to have an audience. “I found him in Sainsbury’s last week with sanitary towels, ibuprofen, sweets and a packet of women’s knickers.”
Mandy inhales.
I consider climbing into the apple crate.
Ed goes very still beside me.
“Lexi,” I say.
“No, because this is important. He tried to tell me they were for a Morton Hall guest.”
Mandy presses her lips together.
I cannot tell if she is horrified or trying not to laugh.
Both, possibly.
Alexandra warms to the story. “A guest whose luggage had apparently gone missing in transit from somewhere unspecified, and who required emergency knickers, pads and fruit pastilles.”
Ed turns away to hide his laugh.
“I did not say emergency knickers,” I mutter.
“You implied emergency knickers.”
“I implied guest care.”
“You implied panic.”
Mandy takes a breath.
It is not a big breath.
No one else would notice it.
I do.
“They were for me,” she says.
Everything stops.
Not the festival, obviously. The festival carries on. Children shout near the beanbag toss. Someone laughs at the jam stall. The tea tent microphone squeals and is immediately thumped.
But at the stall, the air goes very still.
Alexandra turns slowly.
“What?”
Mandy’s cheeks are pink now, but she does not look away.
“The pads,” she says. “The knickers. They were for me.”
My sister blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then her gaze moves from Mandy to me.
Back to Mandy.
Back to me.
I have known my sister my entire life. I know the exact moment her brain catches up.
Her mouth opens.
Mandy lifts one hand. “Do not make a noise.”
Alexandra closes her mouth.
For half a second.
Then she whispers, loudly, “Oh my God.”
“That was a noise,” Mandy says.
“That was restraint.”
“It was not.”
“It was for me.” Alexandra looks at me. “You and Mandy?”
I cannot move.
I cannot speak.
Because Mandy said it.
She said it here, in daylight, at the harvest festival, in front of my sister and Ed and half the village within listening distance if they are willing to pretend not to be listening.
Mandy glances at me.
There is fear in her face.
But she is still standing there.
“Yes,” she says. “Peter and I have been seeing each other.”
The words are quiet.
They still feel like bells.
Alexandra’s eyes fill with a kind of savage joy I recognise from every Christmas morning of our childhood.
“I knew it.”
“You did not know it,” I say, finally finding my voice.
“I absolutely knew it... deep down.”
“You accused me of shopping for a mystery woman.”
“Because you lied like a concussed sheep.”
“That is not a phrase.”
“It is now.” Alexandra grips Mandy’s arm. “How long?”
Mandy looks suddenly hunted. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I say at the same time.
Alexandra ignores me. “Since the wedding?”
Mandy’s silence answers.
Alexandra’s face becomes a festival in itself.
“Oh, this is wonderful.”
“Careful,” Mandy says.
“I am being careful.”
“You are vibrating.”
“I am happy.”
“You are alarming.”
Alexandra turns to me. “You. You did not tell me.”
“I was not allowed.”
Mandy looks at me sharply.
I lift both hands. “Sorry. Poor wording. I chose not to.”
“Better,” Mandy says.
Alexandra looks between us, and her smile softens into something far more dangerous than excitement.
Affection.
“Oh,” she says. “You are both ridiculous.”
“That is not new,” I say.
“No, but it is usually less romantic.”
Mandy makes a choking sound. “Romantic?”
“You are at a village harvest festival admitting a secret relationship beside a baked-apple stall. That is either romantic or a very niche nervous breakdown.”
Ed coughs.
I turn to him. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
Alexandra beams at Mandy. “My best friend and my brother. This is perfect. You are practically my sister-in-law.”
“No,” Mandy and I say together.
Too quickly.
Too loudly.
A woman buying chutney at the next stall looks over.
Mandy and I glance at each other.
And there it is.
The old rhythm. The shared horror. The ridiculousness of the word and the warmth beneath the protest.
Her mouth curves.
Mine follows.
Alexandra sees it.
“Oh, I am going to be unbearable.”
“You already are,” I say.
“Yes, but now with purpose.”
Mandy exhales, half laugh, half surrender. “Alexandra.”
“All right. Fine.” Alexandra steps back, hands raised. “I will leave you alone.”
“That would be a first,” I say.
She points at me. “Do not ruin this by being smug.”
“I am not smug.”
Alexandra turns to Mandy and squeezes her arm once. “I am happy. Truly.”
Mandy’s face softens. “Thanks I guess.”
Then Alexandra looks at me. The smile remains, but her eyes sharpen into sisterhood.
“And you. I know where you live.”
“I am aware. You grew up there.”
“Then take it seriously.”
“I am terrified.”
“Good.”
She collects the change from Ed, gives us both one last look of poorly contained glee, then walks back towards the raffle table.
For three seconds, neither Mandy nor I speak.
Ed lifts the cash box. “I need to pretend to check stock.”
“You are standing right there,” I say.
“And now I am standing slightly farther away.”
He moves two feet to the left and becomes intensely interested in a tray of apples.
Mandy looks down at the grass.
I put the ladle into the jug because I do not trust myself with custard at a time like this.
“What,” I ask carefully, “does this mean?”
She lifts her eyes to mine.
The noise of the festival seems to move further away. A blur of voices, raffle numbers, children shrieking, Bernard’s bark, the clink of coins.
Mandy takes another breath.
“I did not say no because I did not want you.”
My chest tightens.
“I said no because I did,” she says. “Because wanting you felt like the start of everything I have spent years being careful about.”
I stay still.
If I move, I might reach for her too soon.
“I built a life I like after Karim,” she says. “Not a perfect one. Not a lonely tragic one either. Mine. My house. My work. My routines. My peace.” She swallows. “And I convinced myself that if I let a relationship into that, eventually I would find out we only worked in the exciting bits.”
I do not interrupt.
She looks across the green, not at me now.
“That was what frightened me. Not you exactly. The after. The ordinary. What happens when the secrecy stops and the thrill has to survive breakfast, tired evenings, errands, village gossip and all the small things nobody puts in love stories because they are not shiny enough.”
I think of her in my jumper, furious at Homes Under the Hammer.
I think of her on my doorstep in the rain.
I think of her letting me buy sanitary towels and then laughing herself breathless over the lie I told to protect her.