Becca wanted to have a word with Rachel about Luke that evening, but her sister seemed to be avoiding her, claiming a splitting headache and sloping off to bed early. This left Becca to supervise Scarlet’s violin practice, assist Mabel with researching the ‘fascist–communist horseshoe’ for her history homework and help Luke draw an entire comic strip, featuring SuperLuke and his Bad-Ass Aunty B who went flying around the world together, sorting out all the bullies and botherers. She didn’t mind doing any of this, of course. She had come to absolutely love spending time with her nieces and nephew and enjoyed their company, especially when she was rewarded by three separate bedtime hugs for her efforts later on. Nonetheless, as she put on her pyjamas and snuggled down in Scarlet’s bed that night, pictures of the tongue-lolling Harvey beaming dementedly from the wall, a flatness descended upon her. It was all very well stepping into her sister’s shoes for the duration of her injuries, but this was not her place, her home, these were not her children. She was here on borrowed time, and before long she would have to return to Birmingham and start over, with the rest of her life looming uncertainly ahead. And what, exactly, would she do with it?
Good weekend? Wendy had texted earlier that evening, freshly home from her face-packs and salt scrubs. What did you get up to?
They both knew what that meant. How is the New Life plan coming along? Any snogging to report? Are you leaping out of bed with a smile on your face yet?
Becca had deliberated over her reply. Home for the weekend, catching up with friends, she eventually wrote with faux cheer, but felt horrible for lying to her own mother. Back with R now, here for at least another week. All good!
All good! No, it wasn’t. Her nephew was having a tough time at school, her sister thought she was a meddler (and possibly worse), plus she had just spent the quietest weekend of her life back home. Pressing Send on her deceitful text made her feel hollow inside, especially when Wendy replied with a single FAB! and a row of smiling emoji. Still, silver linings, she thought the next day: at least being here gave her precious little time to dwell on such failings. Barely had her eyes closed on Sunday night than it was Monday morning, alarms trilling around the house, Scarlet screeching ‘SHIT!’ at the sight of a huge spider in the bathroom, and off they went all over again.
Monday’s weather matched her mood – drizzly and damp, more like October than mid-June. It was the kind of low-spirited day that might have seen her staying in bed ordinarily, making excuses to whoever was employing her at the time. Not today, though. She had the children to badger into their uniforms, packed lunches to make, the usual last-minute sprint up to school and then a quick word with Luke’s teacher begging her to save him from any potential fisticuffs with Mean Girl’s Mean Big Brother. All that, and she had a session booked in with Hayley at ten o’clock, too. Go, go, go.
Rachel had provided her with a new list of exercises for Hayley, including a whole range of ‘bingo-wings banishers’ that she insisted Becca perform in front of her before setting off so that she could check her stand-in was up to the job. ‘I’m not wasting my time here, am I?’ she asked. ‘You will do all these exercises with her, won’t you?’
‘Yes!’ said Becca indignantly. ‘Of course I will. You don’t have to keep going on at me.’
Rachel provided her with two pairs of dumb-bells (‘One each, so you can demonstrate’), and a skipping rope for Hayley to use in the aerobic part of the routine. She looked kind of sad as Becca packed it all up ready to go, and there were dark circles under her eyes. ‘I miss skipping,’ she said wistfully. ‘I miss all of it, to be honest. I can’t bear sitting around the house feeling sorry for myself day after day like this.’
Here’s an idea, then, Becca felt like retorting. Don’t. Get out of your pyjamas, brush your hair and try re-engaging with the rest of the world again, maybe starting with your own son, who’s unhappy at school, by the way.
But despite the scratchy sort of tension that still crackled between them, Becca knew better. She couldn’t be quite so brutal when Rachel was pale and drawn and still on painkillers round the clock. She looked exhausted, too, following her weekend alone with the children. And there wasn’t time to get into the whole story of Luke now – she was already on the verge of being late. ‘Yeah, I know,’ she replied instead, wanting to make things better between them. ‘Just another month or so, though, eh? You can do it. I know it must be hellish watching me galumphing off in your place, but one day you’ll look back and this will all seem like a weird dream.’
Rachel gave a small, crooked smile, which was something, Becca supposed.
Over at Hayley’s, once they had warmed up, Becca got stuck into the upper-arm exercises that her client had requested for wedding-dress purposes. ‘I normally wouldn’t be seen dead without sleeves,’ Hayley shuddered, a dumb-bell in each hand as Becca demonstrated lateral raises. ‘But the dress I’ve chosen is strapless, so it’s all going to be on show. I need to tone these wobblers right up, basically.’
‘Wobblers? Don’t give me that. There is nothing wobbling on you, girl,’ Becca told her, conscious of her own jiggling upper arms as she lowered them again. ‘But I’ll humour you, okay, because Rachel keeps telling me how the client is always right. So give me two sets of ten, on the lateral raises. That’s it, shoulder height. Don’t pull faces, think of how amazing you’ll look in those wedding photos. Gorgeous, darling, gorgeous. You are working that dumb-bell!’
After a whole series of arm exercises, they went out into the back garden with a skipping rope and Wilf trotted after them like a lean grey shadow, cocking his head in a hopeful way. ‘Sorry, pal, we’ll go out properly later,’ Hayley told him. ‘I’ll try and time it for my daily phone call from the old bag – I mean, my beloved, delightful mother-in-law-to-be,’ she added to Becca.
Becca laughed at the comic look of disdain on her face. ‘Still giving you grief, is she?’
‘And the rest! She’s started taking matters into her own hands now, can you believe. Actually turned up here the other day with the most hideous tiara she’d bought me. I mean . . . it’s horrible, properly vile. Naff plastic flowers – I’m not even joking.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The day that thing goes anywhere near my head is the day I’ve officially lost the plot, believe me.’
‘Yikes.’ Becca might only ever have seen Hayley in her joggers, but you could tell from her elegant house that plastic flowers were very far from her idea of good taste. ‘Maybe there could be some terribly unfortunate accident involving the dog chewing off the plastic flowers, or burying the whole thing in a flower bed?’ she suggested, reaching down to scratch Wilf behind his ears. ‘You’d do that for your mistress, wouldn’t you, eh?’
Hayley smiled as he made a low, loyal woof in his throat. ‘I’m just going to have to nip out and buy one myself this week and pretend I had it all along. I wasn’t here when she dropped it off the other day, so at least if I act fast, I might be able to get away with it. Oh sorry, Brenda. So kind of you. You know how much I adore plastic flowery headgear, but . . .’
‘Or you could make one,’ suggested Becca, thinking of all the bridal tiaras and other pieces of jewellery she and Debbie had made to flog at the National Wedding Show at the NEC back in the day.
‘Make a tiara? I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘Yeah, but I would,’ Becca said, handing her the skipping rope. ‘Five minutes, please. Single steps to begin with, then we’ll go for some evil double-footed jumps.’ She stood well back out of rope-lashing range. ‘I’ve got some kit here at Rachel’s with me, actually. Some gorgeous pearly beads, and proper Swarovski crystals, too. Honestly, I could help you make a really lovely one, and then your mother-in-law would have to shove her stupid flowery thing up her . . . Well, you know.’
Hayley began skipping as Becca clicked the stopwatch. ‘That’s what you do, is it? Make jewellery?’
‘Yeah, I used to,’ Becca replied. ‘My friend and I had a little business a while ago, I’ve just been getting back into it. I made a couple of headpieces for my flatmate and her friend the other day, I can show you pictures on my phone.’ She hesitated, not wanting to give one of Rachel’s clients the hard sell; it was hardly her place to do so, plus Rachel would probably bollock her for it. ‘It’s just an idea, though. I totally understand if you’d rather go out and buy your own tiara, obviously . . .’
‘It’s a great idea!’ Hayley said. She was turning pink in the cheeks from the skipping, the rope hitting the patio slabs with a steady swishing rhythm. ‘I’ve not seen anything I love in the shops but if you could help me design my own style . . .’
‘Absolutely! You’re on. Let’s sort out a date for you to come over once we’re finished here.’
Hayley was soon breathless with her skipping, so Becca let her gaze roam around the garden as she waited for the last few minutes to tick by. In contrast to Rachel’s outdoor space with its trampoline, hammock and paddling pool, Hayley’s garden was a more sophisticated affair, with a rattan patio table and matching chairs in one corner, and oriental-looking metal lanterns hanging from the walls containing half-melted candles. Becca thought of her airless flat in Birmingham, without so much as a balcony, and couldn’t help a twist of envy.
Her stopwatch beeped, making her blink. ‘Okay, now for the gruelling bit,’ she warned. ‘Feet-together jumping for a minute. Come on! Imagine you’re stamping on the flowery tiara. Jump! Jump! Jump!’