‘Daddy can we put the Christmas decorations up now, please?’
Tom looked up from his bowl of porridge and smiled, exposing his small white milk teeth. He had a speck of porridge on his chin, so Oli used a tissue to wipe it off.
‘I guess so.’
‘Yay!’ Tom wiggled on his chair.
The previous year, Oli had suggested that they wait until Amy’s birthday had passed before they decorated. It was, in part, a way of not stealing her thunder, because he’d hung birthday banners around the cottage and stuck balloons outside the house, but it was also because he just found the whole process so damned hard. However, now it was Saturday morning, the day after Amy’s party, and Oli really had no excuse to delay any further.
‘Are they in the attic?’ Amy asked.
Oli nodded and his stomach lurched. It was another reason why he was reluctant, because he’d have to go up there where Linda’s things sat in their boxes: silent reminders that he was about to spend another Christmas with his children – alone. After she’d died not long before Christmas, he’d left everything as it was until the new year. Then suddenly, he’d woken up one morning in February, burning with rage at the unfairness of it all and after taking the children to school, gone into the surgery and grabbed a load of old boxes, then marched into the cottage and packed everything of hers up. He’d stuffed clothes and shoes, jewellery, brushes, perfumes and body lotions, her sewing machine, her notebooks and even the books she’d been reading – that had sat on the bedside table for months – into boxes then taped them shut. He’d carried them up the ladder to the small attic and pushed them to the back, behind everything else, ending up sweaty and dusty from his efforts. He’d known, even in his deepest grief, that he had to keep Linda’s things for the children, but he couldn’t bear to look at them for a moment longer.
Now he would have to venture near them to get the two plastic containers of Christmas trimmings.
‘Can I come up in the attic and help you?’ Tom asked.
Oli shook his head. ‘Better not. There’s all sorts up there. Big fat spiders, ancient cobwebs, woodlice and lots of dust. I’ll go up and hand the boxes down, then you and Amy can unpack things.’
‘Okay, Daddy.’
Amy nodded. ‘That’s a good plan, Daddy.’ Her face had paled and he knew it was the talk of spiders. She had had a phobia of them ever since someone at school had told her that now she was in the ground her mummy would be eaten by spiders. It had given Amy nightmares for weeks and taken a visit to the school from Oli to get the issue dealt with. Amy hadn’t been troubled by such bullying again, but Oli knew that children could be blunt and cruel; he hoped his children wouldn’t have to deal with more as it made their grief all the more difficult to handle, especially as he was still trying to navigate his way through his own.
As Amy lowered her eyes and stared into her bowl, Oli realized that there was something different about her appearance. Her eyelashes looked longer and darker. As if she was wearing…
‘Amy?’
‘Yes, Daddy?’
As she met his eyes again, he saw that she did, in fact, have longer lashes this morning.
‘Are you wearing mascara?’
She rolled her eyes and he stifled a laugh.
‘Yes, Daddy. Brogan bought it for my birthday.’
‘Your eleven-year-old friend bought you make-up for your eleventh birthday?’
‘Well, yeah…’ She bridled as if he’d just said the most ridiculous thing he could think of.
‘Oh. I see. Don’t you think you’re a bit… young for all that? I mean, it wasn’t so long ago that you were playing with Barbie and Sylvanians.’
‘Daddy, you’re so behind the times.’ She flicked her blonde hair.
‘And you’ve made your hair all wavy. I knew there was something else different about you.’
‘It’s fashionable, Daddy. I did it with my new straighteners from Lauren.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘I am eleven now, Daddy and that’s almost a teenager.’
‘Almost.’
Oli drained his mug then carried the breakfast things over to the sink. He turned on the tap and waited for the water to get hot, using the time to get his head around his daughter’s comment. She was right, of course, she was growing up and quickly. But was it too quickly?
As he had so many times before, he wished he had someone to talk to about it, someone who understood how it felt to look at his daughter and see the serious, precocious pre-teen who had taken the place of his sweet, happy little girl.
But there was no one to discuss it with.
Because Oli was all alone.
‘Shall we get a hot chocolate first?’ Louise asked her daughter as they strolled through the town.
They’d driven into Truro to spend Saturday morning soaking up some of the pre-Christmas build up, and because Louise wanted to buy some festive decorations for her new home.
Grace yawned. ‘I don’t know about hot chocolate, think I need coffee.’
‘Well, if you will write until the early hours, what do you expect?’
Grace knew that her mother understood her writing processes and that once she was on a roll she had to keep going, no matter what the time. She became so involved in her plots, so engrossed in her characters, that they took precedence over everything else. If she’d had a husband and family to worry about, then she suspected it would have been different but for Grace, her writing was her life.
‘I know, I know. But I had to get the ending just right.’
‘So that’s another book finished then?’
‘Well, the first draft yes, but I’ll need to revise it and edit it before sending it to my agent.’
‘Of course. And you want me to read it before you send it?’
‘As always, Mum, you know it can’t go anywhere until you’ve done a critique for me.’
Grace was really grateful for her mother’s no-nonsense feedback; she knew her mum would want her books to be as good as they could be before anyone else saw them. On a few occasions, they’d debated about the best way for a plot to go, or for the most exciting way to end a scene, but they always ended up laughing and agreeing, and Grace appreciated her mother’s honesty. It was just one of many things that made them so close; she didn’t know what she’d do without her mother.
Which was another reason why she should consider moving to Cornwall. The thought of being so far away from her parents, even though she could drive it in a few hours, was getting more worrisome by the day. Instead of looking forward to returning to her quiet flat and locking herself away to write, Grace found that she was starting to dread the day she had to leave.
‘Oli mentioned a place called Espresso Yourself. He said it’s really nice.’
‘Did he now?’ Louise smiled. ‘Well, let’s see if we can find it.’
The small café was nestled between a bookshop and a shoe shop. The interior was warm and cosy, the window steamy as the warm air met the cold of the glass. The aromas of freshly ground coffee and baking met Grace’s nostrils and her mouth watered instantly.
‘There’s a table.’ Grace pointed at the far corner, so they headed over to it.
‘I’ll get the drinks in. So do you want a cappuccino?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Anything to eat?’
‘I shouldn’t really.’
Louise smiled. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, go on then. Surprise me.’
As her mother went over to the counter, Grace removed her warm duck-feather gilet and the thick black fleece she wore underneath. She knew her mother would have told her to do as much, just so she’d ‘feel the benefit of them’ when they went back out into the cold air. Grace had grown up hearing those words and it was instinctive now to act on them. A mother’s wisdom. Amy and Tom popped into her mind. Those poor children didn’t have what Grace was still enjoying in her thirties. They didn’t have a mum to advise them, to comfort them or to take shopping trips with. It was so incredibly sad and her heart went out to them.
She gazed around the café. There were random words painted on the dark orange walls in swirly black ink: coffee, cake, tea-break, biscuit, muffin, shortbread… Certainly some not so subtle subliminal messaging going on there, she thought, as her stomach growled. She’d only had breakfast an hour ago, so shouldn’t really be hungry, but she found she suddenly was.
The tables were low and round, and the seating consisted of large, squishy fake leather armchairs that swallowed you when you sat down. It was sort of comforting, although Grace suspected that a few coffees had probably been spilt as patrons sat down, not realizing how much bodily control they’d lose once within the grasp of the chairs. In fact, they were like chair-beanbag hybrids.
As it wasn’t yet ten o’clock, the café was still relatively quiet, with a few spare tables, but Grace suspected that as there were only three Saturdays left before Christmas, that the café would fill up fairly soon. Better to get her caffeine fix now before the queues got too long.
Louise soon returned to the table with a tray. She placed it on the table then went to sit down.
‘Careful!’ Grace warned.
‘What? Why?’ Her mother looked around her, then at her chair. ‘There’s nothing on the seat is there?’
‘No, but once you sit down, it’s hard to get back up.’
Louise giggled. ‘We should get your father one of these then. Do him good to sit still every now and then. Boy does that man like to keep active.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t want to come today.’
Simon loved a good shopping trip, but today he had declined.
‘He said he wanted to finish sanding the bedroom floor.’ Louise rolled her eyes. ‘I told him it could wait, but he said he wanted it done before Christmas.’
‘But it’s the spare room, no one will be sleeping in it.’
Grace started as the reality of her words sank in. Had Sam survived, it would have been his room. But any place they lived in that had a third bedroom would always have a spare room.
Louise lowered herself carefully into her seat.
‘It’s okay, Grace. It is the spare room. We have to accept that. To be honest, I think it’s actually easier to say that here, because in our old house the room was always going to be Sam’s room… even after all this time. But now, we’re in a cottage he never lived in, and although I thought that would make me sad, it’s actually a bit easier. I’ll never ever forget him, obviously. I mean… he was my baby boy. But he’s gone and we had to make a decision about what to do at this stage in our lives. Your father always loved Cornwall, so this seemed like the best place to choose.’
‘You love it too though, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes. But after years of watching your dad living a kind of half-life, I wanted him to have what he really wanted. He’s such a good man and he deserves to have what he wants. Don’t tell him this, but I’d have been happy moving anywhere, even to a small apartment in the south of France. But your dad had his heart set on Conwenna Cove and now that we’ve moved, well, I’m certain we made the right choice.’
Grace nodded then leaned forwards and picked up her cappuccino.
‘I got you a cherry Bakewell tart. Is that okay?’
‘Fabulous. Just what I need before we hit the shops.’
Grace sipped her drink, savouring the frothy surface of the coffee and the bitterness underneath tempered by the creamy milk. She hadn’t know that Conwenna was mainly her father’s choice, had always thought her parents agreed on just about everything. But then that was probably why they got on so well. A relationship was about give and take and being prepared to make compromises. Kind of like a good cappuccino, where the milk and coffee went so well together. Would she go well with Oli, Amy and Tom? They were very different, had lived different lives, although they had both been through a devastating loss. Would that bond them? Was there more beneath the surface that would bring them together?
She shook herself. She was getting way ahead of herself and it wasn’t like her. Grace was not a hopeless romantic: she was a pragmatist. She got things done and didn’t waste time swooning around over handsome men. Yet with Oli, she was convinced there was something more there. Something they had only just scratched the surface of and she wanted to find out more, to see if they could be more than just people who shared the loss of a loved one.
‘Have your tart, Grace, and stop daydreaming.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Anyone would think you’d recently bumped into a handsome vet, wouldn’t they?’
Her mother winked.
Heat rushed into Grace’s cheeks. What had her mother seen? First Maxine and now her own mum. She stretched forwards and grabbed her Bakewell tart, then took a bite. At least with a mouth full of cherry and almond deliciousness, she could avoid responding to the topic her mother had just hinted at.
Ten minutes later, Grace heaved herself out of the chair and pulled on her fleece and her gilet. She slipped her bag across her body then turned back to her mother.
‘Mum? What is it?’
Louise was bright red, her eyes bulging and her hands white as she gripped the sides of the chair.
‘I can’t get up.’
‘Of course you can.’
‘I can’t. I’m really stuck.’
‘Hang on, I’ll help you.’
Grace went around the table and took her mother’s hands.
‘After three.’
‘One… two… three!’ Grace pulled, but just as her mother was almost on her feet, she lost her balance and Grace ended up being dragged back down on top of her.
‘Grace!’ Louise squealed.
‘Hold on, Mum.’
Grace tried to move, but she couldn’t budge her knee without putting it somewhere that would hurt her mother. So she tried to use her hands to push herself upwards on the arms of the chair, but she just couldn’t hoist herself high enough.
‘It looks like I was giving you some sort of bizarre lap dance that went wrong.’
Grace started to giggle and beneath her, she felt her mother laughing too.
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Grace, get up. I’m too warm now. It’s my age!’
‘I can’t, Mum, I’m stuck.’
‘Morning ladies, need a hand?’
Grace raised her head to find herself looking at Oli. Either side of him were Amy and Tom, their mouths open and their eyes wide as they took in the spectacle before them.
‘What are you doing?’ Tom asked. ‘Are you playing Twister?’
Grace started giggling again.
‘Hold on.’ Oli went around behind her. ‘I’ll have to put my hands on your waist, Grace. Is that okay?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll pull you backwards so you don’t accidentally knee your mother in the stomach or something. Just don’t change your position.’
Grace was still giggling. ‘I can’t move. I’m weak.’
‘Right, I’ve got hold of you. Ready…’
Oli tightened his grip on Grace but his fingers tickled as they dug into her sides, so when he pulled, she wriggled, still weak with laughter but finally upright again.
‘Easy, Grace,’ he whispered into her ear, his warm breath caressing the sensitive skin there. ‘So you’re ticklish are you? Useful information.’
A tiny shiver ran down her spine and the hairs on her arms stood on end.
What did he mean? How could that be useful? Tickling was such an intimate thing. She stood there trying to compose herself as he moved around her and went to her mother.
‘There. Now let me help you up too, Louise.’
He took Louise’s hands and with one firm tug, pulled her out of the chair.
There was a round of applause in the café and Grace realized that they’d become the morning’s entertainment. In her weakness, she hadn’t noticed what was going on around her.
‘Well that was fun,’ Oli said, his eyes twinkling as he held Grace’s gaze.
‘Fun?’ she asked. ‘Embarrassing more like.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Coming to the rescue of two beautiful redheads is certainly my idea of fun.’
‘Get on with you, Oli!’ Louise laughed. ‘I’m old enough to be your mother.’
‘And our granny.’
They all looked at Tom who gazed at them, his face the picture of innocence.
‘I guess I am, Tom.’ Louise smiled at him. ‘Now there’s a thought.’
‘We’re going to put our Christmas decorations up today!’ Tom clapped his hands. ‘Want to come and help?’
‘Oh… uh…’
Grace looked at Oli to try to gauge his reaction to his son’s question, but he was removing his coat and a strange expression had taken over his face, as if he’d been transported far away to a different time and place.
‘Perhaps, Tom. It depends on how long my mum keeps me walking around the shops.’ Grace pulled a face at the little boy and he nodded his understanding.
‘Daddy, can we have milkshakes now, please?’ Amy tugged at Oli’s hand.
Oli glanced up again as if he’d suddenly been dragged back into the moment.
‘Yes, Amy. Of course.’
‘They’re on me.’ Grace pulled her purse out of her bag. ‘It’s the least we can do.’