Me and Mr Jones (41 page)

With cash already in the pot from their previous sale, and no chain behind them, they were the best kind of buyers and were able to sneak in a low offer, which was duly accepted. They organized solicitors, contracts and a land search, and Emma began making moodboards for every room, gathering paint charts and fabric swatches like a woman possessed.

They moved in at the end of May, two days before her thirty-sixth birthday. They threw a double housewarming-birthday celebration, with friends bearing presents and Prosecco, and there was a huge cake filled with whipped cream and fruit that David had bought from Patisserie Valerie. They strung fairy lights around the grotty kitchen and everybody toasted their good fortune, and danced.

The occasion was tinged with a pang of anxiety, though. She was now thirty-six, and her conception chances were running out, trickling steadily away like sand through an egg-timer. Blowing out the candles on her cake only served to remind her that her fertile days were numbered – if she even had any left at all.

‘Let’s give ourselves one more year to get pregnant,’ she suggested to David one evening soon afterwards, ‘and then maybe we should look at other options. IVF, for instance, or adoption.’

He nodded. They were sitting out on their small patio on a rickety wooden bench, which had come with the house. Late golden sunshine fell warm on their faces, while a cool breeze ruffled through the too-long grass on the lawn. ‘I’ve been thinking the same,’ he said. ‘And in the meantime we should make a point of doing all those things that our friends with kids envy us for. Dirty weekends away when we feel like it, lazy Sundays in bed . . .’ He put a hand on her thigh. ‘Screaming full-blown sex on the patio . . .’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘David Jones, do
all
your ideas for things to do revolve around sex?’

He kissed her and slid his hand up her top. ‘But of course,’ he murmured throatily, while she gasped, and hoped very much that their nosey new neighbours weren’t watching. ‘Don’t yours?’

Chapter Thirty-One

Down in Dorset, Izzy and Charlie were also embracing life – and each other – wholeheartedly. This was the relationship she had always wanted: someone who made her laugh, who was fun to be with, who was on her side. Best friend as well as lover, Charlie was the sunshine to Gary’s darkness, the flipside of the coin. She’d always preferred the warmth of the sun to storm clouds.

Lilian surprised everyone – not least herself – by professing to being overjoyed about the blossoming relationship. She actually clapped her hands with joy when they broke the news to her. ‘Oh! I was hoping this might happen,’ she said, hugging Charlie, then Izzy, then Charlie again. ‘You two are perfect for each other. Perfect!’

Izzy felt dazed by such enthusiasm. To think she’d once thought this woman a dragon – and look at her now, dabbing her eyes on the corner of her apron, having shed real wet tears of happiness that Izzy had got it together with her son. She hadn’t seen that one coming, back at their first inauspicious meeting.

Later on, when Charlie was helping Eddie trim the front hedge, Lilian cornered Izzy for a woman-to-woman chat. ‘I’ve never seen Charlie like this before,’ she confided. ‘I mean, I always knew that the girls he hooked up with in the past wouldn’t last. They simply weren’t good enough for him, and he didn’t care two hoots. But the way he looks at you . . . well. He thinks you’re a cut above, take it from me. And Eddie and I think so too.’

It was like receiving a blessing from the Pope. ‘Thank you,’ Izzy replied, trying to hide the stab of sympathy she felt for all the supposedly unsuitable girls who’d gone before. No wonder Charlie had never had long relationships in the past; she could well imagine Lilian terrifying each and every poor unknowing girlfriend with her gimlet eyes. ‘I think he’s pretty fantastic too. He’s great.’

‘Oh, he is. He’s had his moments in the past, mind you, but I feel he’s actually grown up a lot this year. And hasn’t he turned out lovely?’

Izzy smiled, her nose wrinkling. She was so going to tease Charlie for being Mummy’s Little Poppet. ‘He has,’ she agreed.

Term started and Willow and Hazel went back to school. Every morning Charlie appeared at twenty past eight to give them a lift in, and every afternoon he brought them home again. Within a few days the three of them had developed all sorts of in-jokes, and Charlie was party to umpteen items of gossip, about who was best friends with whom, and who had been sent to the head teacher for being naughty. Izzy might have felt left out, if she hadn’t been so pleased at the new bonds the three of them were forming.

Hazel would often burst into giggles for unfathomable reasons when they were having their post-school biscuits and apples in the garden. ‘Charlie was so funny in the car this morning,’ she would splutter, suddenly remembering. ‘Wasn’t he, Willow? When he—’

‘When he was doing all the voices!’ Now Willow was cracking up too.

‘What voices? What do you mean?’ Izzy would ask, but both girls would be helpless, shaking with laughter. ‘I guess you had to be there,’ she would say, when no answer was forthcoming.

In the wake of Gary’s death and the turbulent few weeks they’d had, Izzy had worried about Willow and Hazel coping at school, but being back in a busy routine seemed to distract them both, thankfully, and soon they were in the usual whirl of new playground crazes, school trips to look forward to, and spelling tests. If anything, they actually seemed happier and more settled than they had all year. Willow joined the drama club and was growing in confidence by the week, and Hazel had discovered (to Izzy’s horror) that there was a certain cachet to be had amongst her peers by dint of having ‘a dead dad’. ‘I’ve got an alive one as well now,’ Izzy heard her say to a group of girls one Saturday afternoon at a birthday party. ‘He’s called Charlie and he’s
really
cool.’

Izzy wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. Pleased as she was that the girls had taken Charlie to their hearts so readily, she didn’t know if they should yet be thinking of him as their new dad; it seemed clingy, even by Hazel’s standards. But they liked him at least. That was the main thing.

Three weeks into the new term Hazel’s long-suffering teacher, Mrs Anthony, called Izzy in for ‘a little chat’. ‘I know life has been difficult lately,’ she began tactfully, ‘but I’m slightly concerned that Hazel is being rather . . . er . . . well, ghoulish, frankly, about her late father. One parent has already come in saying that her child has had nightmares about, and I quote, “Hazel’s daddy being a zombie”.’

Izzy tried not to laugh, but it found its way out as a splutter. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know it’s not remotely funny.’

‘I’m glad she’s no longer quite so distraught about losing her father,’ Mrs Anthony replied, her own mouth twitching with suppressed amusement. ‘But perhaps you could have a word – ask her to tone it down a touch?’

‘Leave her to me,’ Izzy promised, then snorted again as she was leaving the classroom. A zombie, indeed. If Willow was showing a flair for amateur dramatics, then her younger sister seemed more inclined to no-holds-barred melodramatics. Still, she supposed she should be grateful that Hazel was talking about it at all. There was no chance of her ever bottling anything up.

Meanwhile, with the girls at school, Izzy had begun helping Lilian out more and more. The first morning that Charlie whisked them away, she sat twiddling her thumbs for all of ten seconds before deciding to hobble up to the house and see what needed doing.

She had never witnessed breakfast at the B&B before, and walked into the kitchen to find herself in a whirl of noise and action. Lilian was breathless and red-faced as she single-handedly flipped bacon, scrambled eggs, buttered toast and made pots of coffee, all apparently at the same time.

‘What can I do?’ Izzy asked.

Lilian looked faint with gratitude as she passed Izzy an apron. ‘If you carry on here, I’ll go out and clear the tables. Please.’

The next hour flew by in a hot blur of cooking, plating up food and making endless pots of tea and coffee, while Lilian took orders, wiped tables and delivered the breakfasts on enormous trays. By the end of it, Izzy never wanted to see a black pudding again. ‘Whoa,’ she gulped, when the last guests had finally left the dining room. ‘Is it always like this?’

Lilian gave a small laugh. ‘You want to see it when we’re really busy.’

‘And you’ve been doing all of this yourself? This whole time?’

‘David helped me while he was staying, and Eddie used to chip in before that, but . . .’ Lilian didn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘I have Becky and Lynne, girls from the village, in for busy weekends and the summer holidays, but otherwise I have to manage alone.’

‘Wow.’ Izzy felt exhausted already and it was barely nine-thirty. ‘I’ve worked in pubs that were less busy than your breakfast room.’

Lilian smiled and set the dishwasher running. ‘You get used to it,’ she said as the machine rumbled sloshily into life. ‘That’s always the toughest bit of the day. The way I see it, hoovering and stripping beds feels like a holiday afterwards.’

‘Right,’ said Izzy politely, although she remained unconvinced. ‘Well, look, you’ve got me now as well. I’m not going to be much help waitressing while I’m on crutches, but I don’t mind taking over the cooking, if you’ve had enough of frying breakfasts.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly let you.’

‘You could,’ Izzy told her. ‘Really, Lilian. You could.’ Her eyes twinkled as she used one of Lilian’s favourite phrases back at her. ‘No arguments now.’

‘But . . .’

‘And no buts, either. I know you’re a tough lady, but so am I. You’ve helped me out – and now I’m going to return the favour.’

From that day on, a new arrangement began at Mulberry House. Every morning at six-thirty Izzy and the girls would wake and get dressed, then come to the breakfast room for seven. It was quite unusual for any guests to emerge for food until at least seven-thirty, by which time Izzy had woken up properly over a coffee, the girls had eaten and she’d brushed their hair. Lilian appeared at eight, in time to supervise Willow and Hazel’s tooth-brushing (she was proper strict too, much to Izzy’s approval and the girls’ dismay), by which time Izzy would be in full swing in the kitchen. Once she’d mastered the temperamental gas grill and got a routine going, she discovered she rather enjoyed being head chef. She did think Lilian was missing a trick with the menu, though.

‘Listen,’ she said one day, once the rush had subsided and the two of them were taking morning coffee together. This had become a new ritual too, a companionable unwinding session where they discussed the rest of the day’s chores and divided them up. ‘I was thinking – how would you feel if I changed things round a bit on the menu?’

Lilian frowned and dipped her Rich Tea into her mug. ‘What do you mean, changed things round a bit?’

‘Well . . .’ Izzy knew she had to be tactful. Criticizing Lilian or her business was highly precarious. ‘I think you do a great-value breakfast here – I mean, everyone enjoys a fry-up, don’t they? But sometimes people want a lighter meal. A good old bacon-butty, for example, or pancakes for the children. My two would have pancakes every day if they could, and they’re no bother to make. Banana pancakes are nice, or we could try blueberry ones, perhaps . . .’

Lilian said nothing, but her lips were tightening as if she was on the verge of disagreeing.

‘Maybe eggs Benedict, too, I know how to cook that,’ Izzy went on quickly. ‘I once worked in a fancy café in Manchester, and that was dead popular. Or slow-cooked porridge with honey . . . We could have a pot of that bubbling away at the back of the stove, no problem. What do you think? We could give it a try.’

Izzy was feeling less and less optimistic by the second as Lilian remained silent. It was obvious she had served up the same old fry-ups day in, day out for the last twenty years. Was she affronted by Izzy wanting to muck around with her menu now?

Then Lilian nodded. ‘Well,’ she said slowly. ‘If you think it’s a good idea, I suppose we could try.’ She looked faraway suddenly. ‘I haven’t had eggs Benedict since our honeymoon, you know.’

Izzy grinned. ‘Then I’ll make us all some for lunch,’ she said. ‘I can remind myself how to do it, before I’m let loose on the paying guests.’

They launched the new breakfast menu the next week, and Izzy’s hunch quickly proved right. Her creamy smooth porridge was a big success (several people actually requested seconds) and the pancakes went down a storm too. Nobody seemed to miss the kippers and black pudding, especially not Izzy.

On a high from all the compliments she was receiving, she found her thoughts turning to the future, idly planning what she could introduce later in the summer. Strawberry pancakes would be nice – Eddie had some strawberry plants in his kitchen garden, she had noticed. Maybe she could try making her own fruity granola. She might even be able to persuade Lilian to invest in a waffle-maker . . .

Then it hit her. Summer? What was she thinking? She’d be long gone by then, of course. Once she was up and about as normal, she and the girls would be packing up and leaving here to go back to their flat in Lyme. Their contract on that place ran out in August, but if her money came through in time, she wanted to buy them a little house down near the sea front – a brand-new home for the three of them.