Chapter 27
GRETA STOOD IN front of her oven, mixing Bolognese sauce into spaghetti and trying not to think about Edgar’s warnings.
The meal was Lottie’s favourite, and she still wanted to clear the air after staying overnight in Iris’s coffee shop.
She was looking forward to a quiet, uneventful evening with her daughter.
Behind her, Lottie moved around the kitchen, opening a cupboard door to take out plates and glasses before retrieving cutlery from the drawer.
Greta added a twist of black pepper to the pan, savouring the unusual sense of harmony in the flat.
Lottie appeared at her side. ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ she said casually, as if asking for extra pocket money. ‘I might stay with Dad for a while.’
‘At the penthouse?’ Greta paused, gripping her spoon. ‘How long is a while?’
‘Not sure. Maybe a few days or so. That okay with you?’
‘I suppose so.’ Greta stirred the pasta again, harder, until it began to break apart. The spoon clanged against the side of the pan. ‘I’d been thinking we could decorate the flat together for Christmas. I’ve left it late this year, and there’s only a week to go.’
She’d started noticing sequinned dresses in shop windows, cosmetic sets in magazines, and roast turkey commercials on TV. Not working in an office, she missed out on hot dogs and mulled wine at the Christmas markets with workmates.
Before Greta could say anything else, Lottie added, ‘Dad just lets me be myself, you know?’
A sharp sting pierced Greta’s heart, and she took the pan off the hob. ‘Are you going there because I stayed out overnight?’ She turned to face Lottie. ‘Your dad knows about this, right? There’s only a few days left until you break up for Christmas at school.’
Lottie shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ll call him after dinner. I’m sure he won’t mind. It’s nicer there, and the view’s better,’ she said. ‘You’ll be okay here on your own, right?’ She lifted a hopeful eyebrow.
There were probably a hundred other reasons why Lottie wanted to stay with Jim, and it looked like she’d already made up her mind.
Greta told herself that some time apart might be a good thing.
Let Lottie see that clothes didn’t wash themselves, and meals didn’t appear by magic. Jim was less organised than she was.
‘Yes, of course. I’ll be absolutely fine.’ Greta forked spaghetti into bowls and carried them to the table. Lottie brought over their glasses of juice.
While they ate, the scraping noise of their forks against bone china was the only sound filling the void between them.
Later that evening, after Lottie had been holed up in her room for a while, Greta rang Jim. ‘Have you spoken to Lottie today?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, she called me earlier. Said she wanted to move in with me for a while. Is that okay?’
‘Move in?’ Greta’s voice thinned. ‘She told me it was just staying over.’
Jim hesitated. ‘Perhaps I phrased it badly. It’ll probably only be for a few days. I think she’s finding things tough right now and needs a break.’
Greta’s frustration got the better of her, bubbling over. ‘I know the feeling,’ she snapped. ‘But nobody’s offering me a luxury escape.’
Her fantasy place was only accessible by drinking weird coffee, guarded by an old lady fiercer than Cerberus.
‘It just feels like . . .’ she may as well come right out and say it ‘. . . a kick in the teeth. Christmas is supposed to be a time for family.’
‘It’s only for a short while,’ Jim said. ‘She’ll probably soon realise it’s much nicer staying with her mum.’
Greta’s ears pricked. He sounded caring and understanding.
‘I’m sure she’ll want to come home before Christmas,’ Jim added.
‘I hope so,’ Greta replied, not entirely convinced.
Jim’s voice was full of certainty. ‘I know she will,’ he said.
*
GRETA’S ACTING SKILLS came in handy, forcing a cheery face as she helped Lottie to pack a small suitcase. She pretended her daughter was going on holiday for a few days, rather than admitting Lottie wanted to move out for a while.
They were polite, passing socks and deodorants to each other, like strangers sharing a hotel room, rather than mother and daughter.
‘You can call me if you’ve forgotten anything. I can drop it over for you,’ Greta offered.
Lottie clenched her jaw. ‘Thanks. I’ll be okay.’
‘I know you will. I’m just saying, if you do find you’re missing anything . . .’
‘Thanks, Mum. I’ll bear it in mind.’
Greta swallowed a tight feeling in her throat, then added simply, ‘I’ll miss you. Let’s keep in touch. Okay?’
Lottie gave her an embarrassed smile.
Jim came to collect Lottie later that evening. ‘Think of it like an extended sleepover,’ he whispered to Greta while Lottie was doing a final sweep of her bedroom to check she’d packed everything she needed.
‘I know,’ Greta said, though she felt like she was breaking in two.
Not only from Lottie leaving just before Christmas, but also an empty feeling inside she couldn’t seem to shake.
Her last visit to Mapleville had been full of extreme ups and downs, and Edgar’s warnings kept popping into her head.
The shark still made an occasional appearance, too.
Her craving for a cup of Iris’s coffee was getting stronger, and her arms were pink from scratching.
‘You might even beg me to keep her for longer.’ Jim smiled.
Greta struggled to return it. ‘Sure.’
As she waved to them from the window, it reminded her of saying goodbye to Jim and Lottie before her event at Brewtique.
If she’d thought things were shaky between them then, they were much worse now.
The looming deadline of their marriage decision, whether to renew the contract on her flat, and being barred from Iris’s coffee shop, felt like a boulder had rolled onto her chest and she couldn’t push it off.
Greta turned to face the empty flat and sighed. It looked like she’d be stuck here alone for a few days, and she mooched around, plumping a few cushions and tidying up.
As she did, a surprise thought landed in her head. One that gave her a buzz.
For once in my life, I can do what I want.
If she went to Mapleville again, she could stay there longer this time without worrying about getting home for Lottie, or facing questions from Jim. She bet that the Mapleville version of her family would welcome her back with open arms.
Unfortunately, the biggest obstacle standing in Greta’s way was Iris.
*
GRETA MET NORA at Brewtique the next day, as planned. Josie was absent, and Maisie’s pink hair was nowhere to be seen. The coffee shop was now staffed by a man wearing a baseball cap and a harassed expression as he took their order.
Greta hadn’t planned on sharing details about her personal life, but as they sipped their lattes together, she confessed to Nora that Lottie had moved out for a while.
‘Sorry to hear that, darling. Young people can be very sensitive,’ Nora said. ‘I remember one of my dogs sulking for weeks because I threw out one of her old toys.’
It wasn’t the same thing at all, but Greta felt grateful for any kind of sympathy. ‘How are things at the agency?’ she asked.
Nora shook her head, her smile weak. ‘On paper, everything looks great, but I sometimes feel like I’m on the outside looking in. The world is changing so fast, it’s tricky to keep up.’
Greta nodded sympathetically. ‘Have you ever thought about, you know, doing something else?’
‘Oh, I’ll never ever leave showbiz, darling. I just need to brush myself down, get back on my horse, and land Tobias Bloody Blake.’
Greta couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I’m sure Tobias won’t know what hit him when you do,’ she said.
After finishing their coffees, Nora insisted on booking an Uber to take them to the jewellery shop.
Standing on the pavement, Greta looked up at the sign.
The racing-green background and gold lettering exuded an air of quality. Greta thought Iris’s coffee shop could do with something similar, to better convey what it offered.
L. MOSS & CO. FINE JEWELLERY. ESTABLISHED IN 1875.
Inside, the shop was elegant and classic. Antique dark wooden counters looked like they’d been there since it had first opened, a marked contrast to the shabby chic vibe of Edgar’s shop.
Greta peered into cabinets displaying fine new gold jewellery, noticing that nothing was priced. She thought briefly of the complimentary clothes in Millie’s boutique, very much doubting anything here was free.
One cabinet was devoted to vintage pieces—Victorian brooches and sea pearl pendants. ‘I bet these items could tell some stories,’ she said to Nora.
Her agent didn’t look up from her phone. ‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Just picking up a few emails. No rest for the wicked.’
A door at the back of the shop opened, and a reed-thin, well-dressed man emerged. He wore rimless glasses perched on the end of his nose and looked to be around sixty. ‘Ah, Ms Noakes,’ he said to Nora. ‘So lovely to see you again.’
‘Back at you, Leonard.’ Nora put her phone in her pocket. ‘I think you can call me Nora, now. I’ve frequented your gorgeous shop enough times.’
Leonard bowed his head. ‘We appreciate your esteemed patronage, and the recommendations to your clients.’ He smiled. ‘Are you here to collect the bracelet?’
Nora nodded.
‘It belonged to my mother,’ Greta explained to him. ‘I gave it to my daughter for her sixteenth birthday, but it got broken.’
Leonard retrieved the bracelet from beneath the counter, carefully laying it on a dark blue velvet tray. Its silver links and clasp shone under the light, looking like new.
Emotion swelled in Greta’s chest. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, touching it lightly with her fingertips, choking back a tear. Memories of her mum trickled back, of the bracelet dangling on her wrist when she read bedtime stories or did the washing up. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘Life’s little treasures are always worth caring for,’ Leonard said gently. He laid the bracelet in a long box and snapped the lid shut. ‘Jewellery reminds us of the stories that shape us. Wearing it helps to keep them alive.’
Greta liked the sound of that. She thought that her mum would, too.
‘I’ll pay for this, I insist.’ Nora delved into her handbag. She batted Greta’s hand away when she tried to protest. ‘I have a couple other things that need your magic touch, Leonard. If you’re up for the challenge?’
He dipped his head. ‘As always, Ms Noakes.’
Greta whispered thanks to Nora, stepping away to give her some privacy with Leonard. She circled the store, taking time to admire all the displays properly. There were engagement rings to mark the beginning of love stories, and memorial pendants holding locks of hair to honour their endings.
On the back wall there was a timeline of the shop’s history, displaying dates, photos and snippets of information. Greta started at the beginning, reading how the shop had been established by a husband and wife 150 years ago. It had since passed through the generations of their family.
Her eyes landed on a photograph of a much younger Leonard standing next to a woman, his mother. Her hair fell in soft copper waves, and she sported a chunky pearl necklace.
Greta blinked at the photo. Then she peered closer, barely able to believe her eyes.
Millie?
Blood whooshed in her ears, and she spun around to stare at Leonard as he finished his conversation with Nora.
Greta returned to the timeline and quickly read the rest of the history.
Apparently, Millie had been born in 1945, the granddaughter of the shop’s founder. She’d only had one child, Leonard, and had never married.
So, Millie is eighty?
An uneasy sensation crept over Greta, making her feel a bit woozy. The room seemed to spin on its axis. How could this be true? She looked at the photograph again to check, and it was definitely her.
‘Okay, darling?’ Nora called over. ‘You look a bit washy.’
Greta’s legs wobbled as she approached the counter. How could she tell Leonard she’d met a younger version of his mother, in a magical place that shouldn’t exist?
Leonard stood with his hands resting on the counter, a hint of quizzical concern in his eyes.
Greta stood before him. ‘I think I know your mother, Millie Maxwell,’ she said in a shaky voice.
For a split second, Leonard froze, his glasses slipping down his nose. He pushed them back up deliberately. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not possible . . .’
Greta shook her head, glancing back at Millie’s photo. ‘I really don’t think I’m mistaken.’
Leonard smiled tightly. ‘I’m afraid you must be.’
‘No, really, I’ve met her. I recognise her first name . . . her hair, the pearls. Everything. I know it’s her.’
Leonard’s eyes swept away. ‘Sorry, but you’re wrong,’ he said in a clipped tone that seemed to disguise deep hurt. ‘My mother’s name is Millie Moss, not Maxwell, and she vanished in 1985. No trace, no word. And I haven’t seen her since.’