It’s nearly two months since I last saw Dan, on the night of my party.
And I can confirm that the old adage, out of sight, out of mind, is definitely not true. Not for me, anyway. Trying not to think about Dan is like attempting to hold back the tide. Like we did at the beach when we were kids, building dams to stop the sea. It works for a while but eventually a giant wave comes crashing in and makes a nonsense of all your frantic efforts.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder has far more truth in it.
Since the party, I’ve been going about my normal routine, making deliveries and driving to the farm only when it’s absolutely necessary. Alison seems to understand my desire to be in and out as swiftly as possible because she always makes sure the produce is there waiting for me when I arrive.
The thought of running into Monique scares me to death.
But worse even than that is the idea I might see Dan because that really would tear me in two.
I walk on eggshells at home, too, expecting – but at the same time dreading – a call from the estate agent to say they’ve lined up a prospective buyer. This is clearly the wrong time of year to sell a house because in the month since it went on the market, I’ve not had a single bite. I don’t know whether to be depressed or delighted. It’s all so unsettling.
I’m still dreading Jamie’s deadline of 15th December – now only a few days away – but at least if another legal letter arrives, I’ll be able to inform his solicitor that the house is on the market and the funds will soon be available.
My mother is obviously worried about my sanity because she’s insisting that I take a full fortnight off over the festive period and go ‘home’ to relax.
To be honest, the idea of ‘relaxing’ at my mother’s at Christmas is a bit of a contradiction in terms, but she seems determined to look after me and I haven’t the strength or the heart to refuse.
And actually, by the time the final week of deliveries arrives, I find I’m counting the days, looking forward to handing over the very last pre-Christmas box before savouring a whole two weeks of freedom.
Having Alison to help with the Christmas rush makes a huge difference. There’s no way I could have packed and delivered nearly a hundred and fifty boxes myself. She even helps with the last of the deliveries but it’s still a frantic dash to get finished in time. I’ll have to break the news to her in the New Year that after the house is sold, I’ll be winding up the business.
Every time I think about next year, I feel sick with apprehension.
The final box delivery turns out to be Mrs P’s.
It’s nearly 6 p.m. when I finally arrive, exhausted but grateful that after today, I won’t have to look at another cabbage for at least a fortnight.
Mrs P ushers me through to the kitchen.
‘Ooh, you’ve had your hair done,’ I say admiringly, setting her box down.
She turns her head this way and that. ‘What do you think?’
Her short, salt and pepper hair is now full of subtle honey blonde highlights and flicks up youthfully at the sides.
‘It really suits you.’
She looks pleased.
‘What’s that racket? You hate country music.’
She laughs. ‘Don’t knock anything until you’ve tried it. And that includes Dolly Parton.’ She brings a casserole out of the oven and takes off the lid.
A delicious herby smell rises up and tickles my nostrils.
She takes off her naked-man apron and hangs it on the back of the door.
‘You’ll catch a fly if you’re not careful,’ she points out.
I realise I’m gawping.
With the apron gone, her outfit is revealed in all its glory. A raspberry pink shift dress, belted at the waist, with a little black cardigan. The dress skims her knees and I notice with surprise that she has great legs. They’re shapely for a woman of any age, never mind one who’s been travelling free on buses for at least a decade.
‘You’ve never seen me out of slacks, have you?’ She slips her feet into a pair of black court shoes.
I shake my head. ‘You look … great. What’s the occasion?’
‘Oh, I just fancied a change.’ She takes a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours me a glass.
‘What, for a night in watching TV? It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’
She gives an enigmatic smile.
‘So are you going out?’
Right on cue the doorbell rings.
She pats her hair and glances in the mirror by the door as she walks out, heels clicking on the parquet flooring.
When Banksy appears – groomed in a pristine white shirt and really rather handsome in a craggy sort of way – I am utterly speechless.
I drive to Mum’s on Christmas Eve.
It’s very cold with squally showers that forecasters are saying will turn to snow on the higher ground. Usually, the thought of snow falling at Christmas would make me feel happy. But not this year.
All I have to look forward to this festive season is cooking goose with my mother. This strikes me as hugely appropriate. After falling for a man who is now happily shacked up with his ex, my goose is so cooked it’s practically cremated.
When I arrive, my mother welcomes me with a showy air kiss to each cheek, a clear sign she has the neighbours in for early evening drinks.
‘Happy Christmas, darling!’ she trills for their benefit. ‘Come on in. We’re all here.’
I follow her through, past the perfectly baubled turquoise and silver Christmas tree in the hall. Above every mirror and picture sits a sprig of holly with three red berries.
Marge and Phil, from next-door, are sitting on the Chesterfield sofa, and my mother’s other neighbours, who I’ve never met, are perched on the Queen Anne style chairs either side of the fireplace. They’re all holding tall-stemmed glasses of something pink. My mother does the introductions as if she’s the gracious lady of the manor then asks me if I’d like a Kir Royale.
‘Actually, I’m quite tired and alcohol will finish me off,’ I say truthfully. I look around apologetically. ‘A shower will wake me up. Do you mind?’
There’s a chorus of ‘No, no, you go right ahead; you must be exhausted after your journey.’
I retreat gratefully to the spare room and instantly flake out fully clothed on the bed.
When I wake up it’s dark outside and I can hear the clink of plates being stacked in the dishwasher. Guiltily wiping mascara from under my eyes, I go through and find my mother clearing up in the living room.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Can I help?’
She carries a tray of glasses into the kitchen, Russell & Bromley jewelled sling-backs clipping on the floor tiles. ‘Don’t worry. You obviously needed it. I don’t suppose you’re up for midnight mass?’
‘I’d probably fall asleep again,’ I admit, watching her fill the sink with soapy water. She’s wearing the slim-fitting skirt from her cream Chanel suit, with a silk blouse in oyster pink. Her hair is a mass of soft blonde waves in a short, chic style that suits her. She’s always looked a decade younger than her actual age.
She’s washing glasses at a furious speed, pumping them up and down in the suds then rinsing them under a running tap.
What a pity, I think suddenly, that she never found anyone to be happy with after Dad. What must that be like? Reaching the age of fifty-nine, still youthful, but with no-one to take holidays with and share the stuff of everyday life? Having to change plugs, take out the rubbish and manage everything all on your own.
We have far more in common than I’d like to think.
‘Look, give me ten minutes and I’ll come with you,’ I say.
‘No need.’ She places the last glass on the drainer. ‘Sylvia’s going. Mind you, I think she’s more interested in checking out the eye candy than the carols.’
Sylvia, newly divorced, is my mother’s friend from the Rotary Club.
‘So Sylvia’s on the pull? God help ye merry gentlemen.’
My mother laughs and pats my cheek. ‘Get up to bed and get a good night’s sleep.’
‘Well, if you’re sure …’
‘Yes, I am. Now, shoo!’
I get into bed but sleep evades me.
I lie there, a jumble of thoughts going round and round in my head.
Dan, Monique and Zak will be having a proper family Christmas this year. I picture them unwrapping presents round the tree; the proud parents watching Zak performing tricks on his brand new scooter; Monique preparing Christmas lunch in the farmhouse kitchen.
These images fill me with deep gloom until I remember Dan mentioning that Monique’s cooking skills left a bit to be desired. So maybe everything at Parsons Farm will not be rosy this Christmas.
Then I realise how pathetic I am, desperately seeking comfort from a potential turkey disaster.
The only dried-out bird this Christmas is me.
Then I start worrying about Jamie.
I’ve been watching out for a letter since the 15th but so far, I’ve had nothing. It must have been held up in the Christmas post, which is a relief because at least it’s given me a bit of breathing space. But no doubt it will be waiting on the mat to welcome me when I get back. And of course, once the festive season is over, people will start house-hunting again …
I eventually fall into a fitful sleep and have a nightmare about Monique and a giant turkey wrestling me to the floor then trying to force me into the oven. I wake up in a sweaty panic just as they’re discussing where to put the sage and onion stuffing.
I glance at the clock. Just after one. I can hear my mother in the kitchen, back from midnight mass.
Slipping on my dressing gown I go down.
She’s making tea so I join her. We sit at the table in the kitchen and she chats about Sylvia and how her friend is thinking of joining a dating agency.
‘Good for her,’ I say, reaching for a biscuit. ‘Perhaps you should do the same?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She looks horrified. ‘Can you imagine … ?’
Changing the subject, she asks about Izzy’s Organics. She seems genuinely interested for once, which I find hugely ironic considering I’ll be giving it up soon.
When I fail to be forthcoming and upbeat about it, she frowns at me. ‘What’s wrong? Are you worried about Jamie? Because you’ve no need to be.’
‘How do you know that?’
She shrugs and gets up to fetch the teapot. ‘It will all blow over. These things usually do.’
I throw her a cynical look.
‘I wish you’d talk to me, Isobel,’ she says, pouring tea and slopping some on the table. ‘I’m your mother but you hardly ever tell me anything about your life. You know what I’d like? The sort of relationship that Sylvia has with her daughter. They went to New York together. They go on shopping trips and have lunch. They talk. All the normal things mothers and daughters do.’
I stare at her, trying to picture us gossiping over coffee and sharing girly confidences. It’s a bit of a stretch to say the least. But this, apparently, is what she’s always wanted?
‘You’ve got to start trusting me, Isobel. Then maybe I can help you.’
I sigh inwardly. She’s lecturing me, the way she always does, convinced that she is right and I’m the one who needs to change.
To confide in someone, there needs to be a certain closeness, which is not something my mother and I have in abundance.
I stare at her mutinously.
She purses her lips. ‘Look, I know I fall way short of being the “perfect parent”. But do you know how hard it was knowing you’d probably rather have had Midge for a mother instead of me? Not able to share your private jokes. Seeing you so excited about going down to that bloody place for the school holidays?’
I stare at her. My mother never swears. She says ‘sugar’ instead of ‘shit’.
‘That bloody place just happens to be my home,’ I mutter. ‘And of course I wanted to go down there. Midge always made me feel like I mattered.’
‘And I didn’t?’
She stares at me, looking genuinely upset, and I feel terrible.
She’s right. I do keep things from her. But it’s partly because I know she’ll look for the negative in anything I tell her. She hardly ever praises me and I can’t remember her ever saying I make her proud. I know it’s pathetic but it stings.
I take a big slug of tea. ‘OK, well, I’ve got some good news for you.’
Her eyes light up. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘I’ve decided to sell the house and give up the business.’ This will cheer her up, for sure. ‘I probably could have made it work but with Jamie demanding money which I don’t have, really the only solution is to sell up and—’
She grabs my arm. ‘Hang on. Sell the house?’
She’s looking at me like I’ve just said I enjoy the occasional spot of dogging in my spare time.
‘What’s wrong?’ I’m confused. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me to do for months?’
She sighs and shakes her head. ‘You can’t give up Izzy’s Organics. Not after you’ve worked so hard to build it up.’
I stare at her, amazed.
Talk about contrary!
When I was trying to make a go of it, she thought I was a lunatic. And now I’m giving it up, she still thinks I’m insane.
‘Izzy, do not give it up!’ she says, still clutching my arm. ‘And don’t you dare sell the house!’
‘My, you’ve changed your tune. A while ago it actually embarrassed you to have a door-to-door saleswoman for a daughter.’
She smiles sheepishly. ‘Yes, but that was before I came to your summer fayre and saw what a huge success you’d made of it. I had my eyes opened that day, I can tell you. You’ve built something amazing there, Izzy. You absolutely mustn’t give it up now.’
I stare into my mug, tears pricking at my eyes. ‘I can’t do it anymore.’
She sighs. ‘But think of all those people who rely on you. It would be such a shame to let them down.’
I give a harsh laugh. ‘I’m sure they can get their organic sprouts somewhere else. I’m not the only purveyor of fruit and veg in the south of England.’
‘Yes, but after all your effort? Don’t you think you should try a little bit harder to make it work? You’ve got the perfect set-up there at Farthing Cottage.’
‘Try harder? What do you think I’ve been doing for the past year?’ I shake my head. ‘No, I’m all done with trying harder. In the end, it makes no difference at all. Especially when you’ve got the likes of Jamie Bugger Evans braying for blood. And money.’
There’s a pause then she says, ‘He might have had a change of heart. You never know. Miracles can happen.’
I shake my head. ‘You don’t get a solicitor involved unless you mean business. He won’t change his mind.’
She shrugs. ‘OK, OK. I’m just saying you shouldn’t give up at the first hurdle, that’s all.’
I glare at her. She has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. She knows nothing about the dawn starts and the late nights pulling my hair out trying to make the books balance and the endless worries over making ends meet …
I swallow hard on the big lump in my throat.
I should be used to her criticism by now.
‘I can’t believe you’re attacking me for giving up,’ I mutter. ‘Have you studied yourself recently? Because you gave up long ago. On life.’
She frowns. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You live in the past, Mum. You’re full of bitterness over Dad and yet you still wear your bloody wedding ring. What’s that all about? Isn’t it time you moved on and got yourself a life?’
Colour rises in her cheeks but she says nothing so I plough on.
‘Dad’s moved on. He moved on a long time ago. He’s found the sort of happiness with Gloria that he never had with you, probably because she’s nice and relaxed and doesn’t nag him half to death all the time.’
‘She’s welcome to him.’ This through gritted teeth.
‘You really can’t forgive him for being happy, can you?’
She stares at me for a second, her lips pressed together. ‘You have no idea what went on in our marriage, Isobel. No idea at all.’
‘What went on was you nagging Dad until he got sick of his life and left.’
She swallows and looks away. Then she says softly, ‘I know you blame me for your dad leaving, but there are … things you don’t know.’
‘What, like Dad never helped enough around the house and was always forgetting to take his shoes off at the door?’
‘No, Izzy.’ She turns, her eyes blazing with emotion. ‘Like your dad started an affair a year into our marriage. And I forgave him, like the stupid woman I am, only to realise he’d lied about giving her up.’ She scrapes her chair back and goes to the sink, staring out of the window at the blackness beyond.
In the shocked silence that follows, a car’s engine roars and Trixie barks.
‘Dad would never do that,’ I say at last.
‘You think not?’ She still has her back to me. ‘Try asking Gloria.’
‘Gloria? What would she know? Dad only met her when he moved out.’
‘That’s what he wanted you to think,’ she says softly. ‘And I let you believe it because I knew how much you adored your dad. Gloria was a widow. She lived along the road from us. She worked in the baker’s and made fancy party cakes as a sideline. We were friends, she and I. Until I found out your dad was up to all sorts with her.’ She laughs. ‘He was literally having his cake and eating it!’
My head is spinning.
She’s lying. She must be.
There’s no way my lovely, caring dad would have done something as sordid as this.
‘He denied it at first, of course.’ She turns and smiles grimly, her face flushed. ‘But I went on and on at him until he admitted it. And he swore he’d end it with Gloria.’ Her laugh is bitter. ‘But over the years, it was obvious they were still in touch. I became very good at spotting the signs.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I tell her. ‘You’re making it all up.’
Caught up in her agitation, she doesn’t seem to hear me. She picks up a tea towel and winds it round in her hands.
‘He sometimes stayed away for days at a time. Don’t you remember?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ I snap. ‘He had to go away to business meetings and conferences.’
‘Isobel.’ She throws me a severe look. ‘He was an accountant for a small local firm, for God’s sake. The job was office-based. There were no business conferences.’
This shocks me for a second. Until I realise she’s twisting things round to suit her, like she always does. Making Dad the one to blame for her sad little life.
‘He had the bloody cheek to bring one of Gloria’s party cakes home once for your birthday. I remember thinking she’d gone totally crazy with the red food colouring.’
‘You’re lying.’ Tears well up but I brush them away. ‘He left us because he’d had it up to here’ – I slice the air above my head – ‘with your constant whinging and nagging.
‘I’m going to bed,’ I say, scraping back my chair.
‘Oh, Isobel, wait—’
But I’m already in my room and slamming the door.
I get back into bed, determined to fall asleep and forget all her stupid lies about Dad.
But an hour later, I’m still wide awake.
I still don’t believe Dad was a cheat but why would she make up such an elaborate story?
Perhaps he had a fancy for Gloria but never actually acted on it until he walked out on Mum. Yes, that must be it. And she’s twisting the truth to make out that she’s the victim.
I manage to fall asleep but less than an hour later, I’m awake again, feeling like death. I look at the clock. It’s 5 a.m.
I’ve been here less than twelve hours, and Mum and I have already been at it, hammer and tongs. Merry bloody Christmas to us.
I groan and pull the duvet over my head.
And right at that moment, a memory slides into my head: my mother is lying in bed, pulling the sheet over her head and telling me she’s not feeling well. Dad has gone away and Mum has taken to her bed.
It’s the time I went out to the ice-cream van and bought one of everything because I couldn’t make up my mind. Then ate the lot.
Eventually Dad came back that time. But where had he been?