Chapter 28
NORA USHERED GRETA out of the jewellery shop while uttering embarrassed apologies to Leonard.
‘It’s Millie in the photo. I know it is,’ Greta insisted. She glanced back into the shop, where Leonard stood staring at the timeline.
‘I understand you think it’s her, darling,’ Nora said. ‘It’s not the same thing.’
Greta shook her head and stepped in front of Nora, spinning on her heels to face her. She opened her mouth to explain that Maxwell could be Millie’s married name, but she stopped, realising how deluded she might sound.
She now knew that Millie had gone missing forty years ago. In Mapleville, Millie had confided to Greta that she’d been having new thoughts—ones that felt like memories. Could she have been in Mapleville for so long that she’d forgotten once living somewhere else?
‘You look like there’s something you want to tell me,’ Nora said. ‘What is it?’
Greta’s mind raced, tempted to spill about Iris’s coffee, but she closed her mouth. ‘Oh . . . it’s nothing. Sorry for how I acted in the jewellery shop. Perhaps I was mistaken, after all.’
Nora studied her. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?
You’re filming Back to the Land the day after next, and I want you in tip-top form.
No pulling out at the last minute or not showing up.
Don’t forget that the producer has links to Tobias Blake.
This is my chance to get one step closer to Hollywood royalty, darling, so don’t let me down. ’
Greta nodded firmly. ‘I’m fine. And I won’t.’
As they began to walk again, she felt a familiar buzz in her fingertips. The pull to return to Mapleville was growing ever stronger. Especially now, to discover more about Millie’s story.
*
WITH ONLY A few days left until Christmas, and counting down until the New Year, Greta felt increasingly twitchy.
Without Lottie around, the flat felt emptier than ever.
She missed the inconsequential things the most, like Lottie’s feet shuffling on the carpet, her toothbrush on the sink, and even the kitchen cupboard doors she always left ajar.
The fridge seemed too full without a teenager plundering it for late-night snacks.
Greta phoned Lottie a couple of times, making up reasons to hear her voice.
She asked technical questions about her laptop, or brought up the latest film releases.
All the while, her insides felt as knotted as seaweed.
She didn’t mention the repaired bracelet, wanting to give it to Lottie in person.
To keep herself busy, Greta started clearing out her wardrobe. As she held up some of the dark, shapeless garments in front of the mirror, hardly any of them felt like her any longer. She felt caught between two reflections of herself, in a kind of limbo.
Festive lights twinkled in shop windows, and the scent of cinnamon hung in the air, but Greta felt none of the usual anticipation.
This year, time passing didn’t feel like the build-up to a celebration.
It felt more like a countdown for her to escape back to Mapleville.
Even though Lottie’s talent show was fast approaching, on the last day of school before the Christmas holidays, Greta still felt like marking the days on her kitchen wall, as if it were a prison cell.
Greta tuned into that week’s episode of Coffee Morning Crew on the radio, thinking how she could’ve been in the hot seat. A novelist known for writing sweeping family sagas was this week’s guest, selecting Einstein, Madonna, Mother Theresa and Tutankhamen to take coffee with.
Greta’s original idea to meet Aubrey Hepburn, Margaret Atwood, Tobias Blake, and Alice in Wonderland now seemed painfully contrived. She’d give anything just to have a nice brew with her mum instead.
Nora sent over her filming schedule. Apparently, all Greta had to do was show up and spend a day on a farm. The footage would then be cleverly edited into six episodes, making it look like contestants had gone back to basics for two whole weeks.
Greta shuddered and set aside a woolly jumper, old jeans and sturdy boots.
*
THE SETTING FOR Back to the Land was stunning—rolling green hills, bales of hay scattered like a Constable painting, and even a picturesque red tractor.
No matter how pretty the surroundings were, it didn’t make up for the smell. The air was thick with the pungent aroma of mud and wet animals, a scent so strong that even bread baking in an outside oven couldn’t mask it.
A runner ushered Greta into a makeshift green room, which was really just a tent. Inside were a few foldable chairs, a couple of tea urns, and the kind of cheap biscuits left in a variety box after all the fancy chocolate ones had been eaten.
Greta set down her bag of fresh clothes to change into later. While the briefing session took place, she glanced around at her fellow contestants.
There was a bit-part actor she’d seen in the background of a few soap operas, and a newsreader on a local TV channel who’d lost his job for making inappropriate jokes on air.
A woman in her fifties, with a swallow and a rose tattooed on her neck, and a ruby embedded in her front tooth, was known for having dropped out of a famous girl band just before they’d made it big in Japan.
‘Kitty Real,’ Greta whispered to herself, suddenly remembering her name.
Each contestant wore a glazed expression, a why-has-my- life-come-to-this look in their eyes. They exchanged looks with each other, filled with disdain, curiosity, and sympathy.
A production assistant wearing denim dungarees and a Santa hat, who looked fresh out of university, bounded into the tent brandishing a clipboard. ‘Hi, I’m Barney. Welcome to Back to the Land.’
He outlined their tasks for the day with so much enthusiasm it bordered on condescending. Greta tried her best to appear engaged. She owed Nora a favour and needed money, especially if she had to renew the lease on her flat.
Greta’s first task was clearing out the goat shed. She brandished a rake and headed inside where bleating filled the air. She tried to pretend it was the sound of applause instead but her own acting skills let her down.
One goat seemed to watch her every move with its apple- green eyes.
Another managed to nibble a hole in her sweater without her noticing.
Cleaning out the droppings was particularly nauseating, making her gag.
Greta’s eyes watered from the stench, and she tried to imagine the scent of roasted coffee instead.
Her next task was foraging mushrooms in a nearby forest. Despite a talk from a local expert on which edible fungi grew in winter, she still wasn’t sure which were safe to eat and which might trigger hallucinations.
Her fingers grew scarlet from the cold and her breath floated in the air like low-hanging clouds.
She did, however, find unexpected joy in making bread. There was something calming about kneading dough on a rustic wooden table under the open sky, then gathering around a crackling fire with the other contestants to share a warm, freshly baked loaf.
By the end of the day, a smoky, musty smell clung to her clothes like a shroud. Her hands were chapped and dirty, and her hair was a mess.
Greta returned to the tent, desperate to change into her clean clothes. She searched for her bag, moving chairs around and peering under the table, until she realised it was missing.
‘Looking for your stuff?’ Kitty Real said, poking dirt from her nails with a wooden fork. ‘I think Doreen from Florist Faceoff took it by mistake.’
Greta stared at her in disbelief. ‘You didn’t think to stop her?’
Kitty shrugged, continuing her manicure. ‘Honestly, I didn’t have the energy after milking the cows. Fancy a brew before we leave this hell-hole?’
‘No thanks,’ Greta said through gritted teeth. She was dying for a coffee, but not a lukewarm one from the stainless steel urn in the tent. She longed for a frothy cappuccino, or even better still, one of Iris’s special blends. Her craving for it was becoming unbearable.
Thankfully, the production assistant offered her a lift back into town. Barney drove along the country lanes with his window wound down, as if trying to blow away the smell.
He dropped her off a mile away from Longmill centre. ‘This okay? I need to hit the motorway. The show airs in a few months. Hope you got a lot out of today.’
‘I did, thanks. Very enjoyable,’ Greta said, forcing a thumbs- up. She glanced down and noticed her boots had left clumps of soil in the footwell of his car, like small molehills. As soon as she stepped out, she hurried away before he noticed the mess.
Walking toward town only heightened her awareness of her dishevelled state.
The mud on her jeans had dried to a thick beige cuff, and the dirt ingrained in her knuckles made them look like tree bark.
People stared at her, and she needed a cup of Iris’s coffee more than ever. An escape from everything.
It felt like an invisible force was pulling Greta toward the coffee shop.
Would it still be there? And if it was, could she persuade Iris to lift her ban and make her a brew?
As the slender building came into sight, Greta sped up and crossed the road. Just as she stepped onto the pavement, her shoelace came undone. She stumbled, catching herself in time, then crouched down to retie it.
A few coins suddenly appeared on an outstretched hand, right in front of her face.
‘You look like you need this more than me,’ a kindly female voice said.
Greta stared at the money, confused. It took her a couple of seconds to realise the person thought she was begging in the street.
Quickly shaking her head, she looked up. ‘Oh, no. I don’t need—’ Her words stuck when she saw a familiar mane of pink hair. ‘Maisie?’
The assistant from Brewtique widened her eyes in surprise. ‘Oh. Wow. Greta. It’s you.’ Maisie hastily withdrew her hand, clutching the coins to her chest. ‘Sorry. I didn’t recognise you.’
Greta’s cheeks burned furnace-hot. She finished tying her lace and stood up.
‘I’ve been filming a new show in the country about going back to basics.
I don’t need . . .’ She scrambled to find the right word.
Sympathy? Money? Attention? Now that she thought about it, she could actually do with all three.
‘Right,’ Maisie said, running a hand down the lapel of her faux leopard-skin coat. ‘Basics? Cool. I’ve just finished work, too. Just had an audition and aced it. Got a presenter gig for Glastonbury and a part in a new indie film. Dreams can come true, huh?’
‘I guess they can,’ Greta said, brushing a piece of hay off her sleeve. She wished she could slide down the nearest drain and disappear. ‘That’s fantastic. Well done.’
‘Yeah. They saw my stuff on TikTok. If you’re still in the game, you should give it a try . . . get yourself out there again.’
‘Great tip,’ Greta said, struggling to smile. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
Maisie patted her hands awkwardly against her sides. ‘Well, hey. It was great seeing you again.’
‘Yes. You, too. Good luck with everything.’
Maisie glanced down at the coins in her palm, then back at Greta. ‘Are you sure you don’t need . . . ?’
Greta shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’
Maisie still didn’t look entirely convinced.
They exchanged stiff half waves before heading in opposite directions.
Greta swallowed hard. She kept her chin up, striding with mock confidence, until Maisie was out of sight. Only then did she feel her body crumpling.
Please let the coffee shop be there.
Her knees almost gave way when she saw the white rabbit ornament sitting in the window. All the panes of glass were intact, and the door was solid. The weeds were gone.
Greta caught sight of her reflection in the window. Her hair was wild, her clothes were crusty, and she looked like she’d been lost in the woods for days.
With a shaky hand, she pushed the door open and stumbled inside.
‘Iris,’ she called out. ‘I feel like I’m falling apart, and I don’t know what to do. Please help me.’