Chapter 35

“So what did you think about your first week working at Bridge Holdings?” asked Bridge, a hopeful smile on her face.

“It’s great,” Mary answered. “What’s not to like?”

There was nothing not to like. Her office was next to Bridge’s; it was light and airy and had a countryside view. There was a small café in the building that sold really nice sandwiches, soup, and a hot meal of the day (vegetarian option also). The people were so friendly; Sonia, Bridge’s pregnant PA who was showing her the ropes, was a peach. Even the toilets at Bridge Holdings were swish, with touch-sensitive taps and the sort of glittery tiles suited to a nightclub. Bridge was a boss who said things like, “Mary, you’re a find,” and made her feel as if she was actually a visible and worthy entity. Everything pointed to this being a great career move. Except… how Mary missed the chaos of Butterly’s. She missed the banter of the packing department. She missed Edna’s grumpily delivered excellent tea and the scones that she buttered with a heavy hand. And she missed Jack. Not that she’d admit this to Bridge, who’d done everything possible to make her move as easy as it could be. Mary didn’t even want to admit it to herself, never mind anyone else.

She’d moved in with Bridge on the second of January because Mary’s family had arranged for them all to bring in the New Year together. Her brother was back from Australia and her mum was home from the Canaries. Mrs. Padgett was convinced that Mary’s dad had been watching over her as a guardian angel and helped her find the inn. Sean was more interested in the details of what had happened between her and Jack, holed up for days. He was mightily impressed that his little sister had told the boy from Ipanema to jog on.

Bridge’s house was not as Mary had imagined it: cavernous, huge windows, neutral, minimalist, it oozed expense, good taste, wealth. It was gorgeous—but it was a house, not a home. She suspected it mirrored an emptiness that Bridge felt within herself. Mary wondered if this would be her destiny one day, because she was determined to be successful, and if riches came with that, then she, too, would buy herself a big house. But she hoped it would reflect a full and satisfied heart, have toys around the place, a dog basket, sticky fingerprints, and a room just for handbags.

Ben was waiting for them on the doorstep when they got home that night. Since Mary had moved in, Bridge hadn’t been staying in the office for hours after everyone else had gone. She intended to make sure her life/work balance sat on the scales a little more evenly this New Year.

“You’ve had parcels delivered,” he called, rushing out to meet them. He was tallish but looked taller than he was, being built like a solid oak wardrobe; completely bald, always smiling, always looked happy to see them, like the human version of an overgrown boxer with a permanently wagging friendly tail. He was the antithesis of drab in what he customarily wore, and today he had on a yolk-yellow wool sweater, a color that suited him perfectly, Mary thought. She’d taken to him from the start, felt she had known him months, not days. He was sunshine in human form, like a younger, hairless version of Charlie running on supercharged batteries.

“Thanks, Ben,” said Bridge, taking the two parcels from him. A large one for Mary, a smaller one for herself. The address appeared to be written by the same hand. “You coming in for a Friday wine?”

“I will have to pass, alas,” Ben replied with an audible sigh of regret. “I’m going to watch Cinderella at the theater. My niece is a dancing flower and it’s the last night. I’ll take a rain check, of course.”

“I wish you’d been my uncle,” Bridge said to him, meaning it. “And of course. You can have the wine with added interest the next time you’re free.”

“I’m free tomorrow. Chinese banquet at mine. I’m paying,” he threw over his shoulder.

“It’s a date,” said Bridge, on Mary’s behalf, too.

Wherever he went, he seemed to leave a smile imprinted on the air behind him like the Cheshire cat, thought Mary. How blessed he was not to miss the sensation of falling in love with someone, not to have the complication of yearning for the soul mate to spend his life with.

“I wonder who these are from,” Bridge said, unlocking the front door.

“I have no idea,” Mary answered. Hers had been forwarded from her old address.

They took them through to the kitchen, sat at the long island, and began to unwrap them.

Bridge’s contained a black box. As she peeled off the paper, the name CHANEL was revealed in white capitals.

“What the hell? Who’s sent me this?”

Mary’s much larger box was white, trimmed black at the edges, the name CHANEL written in black across the middle. She looked at Bridge with the same look of confusion as Bridge had for her.

Bridge eased the lid off the box. Inside wrapped in tissue was a Chanel scarf she recognized, and a folded note. She read it aloud.

My Dear Bridge,

I am sorry to have to tell you that my darling Charlie has left us. He died on the day we all left Figgy Hollow, just fell asleep and didn’t wake up. There has been a lot to do, as you can imagine. His funeral is at Tuckwitt Church, where we got married, on January 25 at 11 a.m., and I hope you can join us. We were a family for a while, the Figgy Hollow Six of us, weren’t we? What a happy Christmas we had. The best.

Charlie was insistent that I give this scarf to you. He said you would look lovely in it, like the true queen you are. He was such an excellent judge of character. I have washed it, but sprayed a little of his cologne on it for you.

It will be bittersweet to see you again on the 25th. I do hope you can come. Dress code: black and fabulous.

Love to you

Robin (and Charlie) xx

Bridge lifted the scarf reverently to her nose. The base notes of cedar and lavender transported her back to the inn, sitting around the fire sipping mulled cider, nibbling on mince pies, Radio Brian’s chatter in the background. She folded it, replaced it in the box, not wanting to wet it with teardrops.

“He died, then,” said Mary with a long, drawn-out sigh. “I was hoping he would have had so much longer.” She wiped at her eyes with a piece of snatched paper towel.

“I’m glad it was peaceful, though,” said Bridge. “I really am. And of course I’ll go to the funeral. I’ll drive us.” Dear lovely Charlie. “Open your parcel, Mary.”

A sea of tissue paper, and sitting in it, a rectangular black bag, double c’s on the turnstile lock. Mary’s jaw dropped and stayed there.

“That is gorgeous,” said Bridge. “What a sweetheart he was.”

Mary opened the accompanying note, her fingers fluttering with emotion.

My Dear Mary,

My darling Charlie has left us now, but he was insistent that you have this to remember him by. He bought it for his mother, who never used it, but perched it on her dressing table and looked at it a lot as if it were a treasure. And so it seems fitting that this treasure goes to yet another treasure. But it does come with a stipulation: that you must always carry it with all the chutzpah you can muster. Charlie was most insistent about that. He became so fond of you in the time he knew you, as did I.

Charlie’s funeral is at Tuckwitt Church, January 25, 11 a.m. Please try to come. Also—a heads-up—I may be using my Christmas present from you soon and ringing you, as I will need a friend’s cheerful voice. Your presence on the 25th is one of the few things about the day I will be looking forward to. Dress code: black and glamorous.

Love to you

Robin (and Charlie) xx

She turned the bag over in her hands and knew exactly how Charlie’s mother must have felt. She could quite happily have put it on her dressing table and stared at it for hours. It must be worth a small fortune.

“I can’t accept it,” she said. “It’s far too much.”

“Yes, you can,” said Bridge firmly. “Charlie wanted you to have it and enjoy it, so you must. For him. As long as you promise you’ll parade it. It will have made him happy to think he was giving it to you. I shall wear my scarf to the funeral and you must take your bag. If that doesn’t fit in with the dress code, nothing will.”

“Do you really think I should, Bridge?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” said Bridge. Charlie had an obvious soft spot for Mary. Who didn’t? Bridge only wished she had been like this young woman herself at that age: someone who recognized her own worth, who was brave and competent while still retaining a gentleness.

“Then I’ll keep it.”

Bridge crossed to the fridge, took out a bottle of champagne. She always had a bottle in there waiting for an occasion. Once upon a time, she thought it would be the most glamorous thing ever to do, so now she did it.

She ripped into the foil, twisted the wire, covered the mushroom cork with a tea towel as she popped it so it didn’t fly off and break one of her very expensive glass lights.

“We are going to drink a toast, to Charlie,” she said, swooping up two flutes and filling them.

“To Charlie.”

They chinked and drank, the bubbles racing down their throats.

Bridge looked at Mary as she drank; she had changed even in the very short time she had stayed here, was shedding a previous self like a skin. Tomorrow, Mary was going to have a consultation with Bridge’s hairstylist, Russ. Then they were both going shopping afterward. Mary said she wanted a whole new set of clothes to match her new life. She was planning to buy something bright, something that would pull her out of the shadows.

Mary Padgett owned a Chanel handbag; Bridge would do her best to make sure her young friend never slid back into the shadows again.