‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you – happy birthday, dear Becca, happy birthday to you!’
‘Surprise!’ cheered Luke, as Becca blinked blearily at the vision before her. It was the following Thursday and there at the bedside were the four Jacksons – Scarlet with her violin in hand, having accompanied the birthday chorus, and Mabel, who was bearing a tray laden with a fry-up, mug of coffee and a posy of garden flowers. Rachel was already dressed and smiling rather bashfully, while Luke capered around the bed as if he had the proverbial ants not only in his pants but all the way down his pyjama bottoms and between his bare toes. Even Harvey, who wasn’t usually allowed upstairs, was present, his nose twitching enthusiastically at the scents of bacon and sausage.
‘Wowzers,’ Becca said, just about recovering her senses in time to have the breakfast tray plonked in her lap. ‘Thank you! What a lovely surprise.’
‘And there’s going to be another surprise later,’ Luke said, bouncing up and down alarmingly close to the coffee. ‘A surprise cake, but it’s a secret ’cos—’
‘LUKE!’ howled his sisters, before he could say any more. ‘Do you even know what the word “secret” means?’ Mabel added, raising her eyes to heaven.
‘Luckily I was so busy admiring the flowers I didn’t quite catch all of that,’ Becca said tactfully, hoping to avoid fullblown fisticuffs over her scrambled eggs. ‘What did you say, Luke? Something about a surprise?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, turning red in the face as Scarlet elbowed him. Then his eyes slid to his aunt’s breakfast plate and he gave her his best hopeful-puppy face, head tilted, eyes wide. ‘Can I have your hash brown, please?’
‘Luke!’ Rachel remonstrated, laughing. ‘No, you can’t. Tell you what, you kids go and get dressed for school while Aunty Bec has her birthday breakfast in peace. Then you can give her your cards and presents, okay? Shoo!’
Becca felt quite touched by all of this fuss. There was an actual lump in her throat, and it wasn’t from the mouthful of too-hot coffee she’d just gulped down, either. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as Rachel perched at the end of the bed. ‘This is amazing.’ It was only then that Becca noticed her sister seemed to be wearing make-up for the first time in weeks. And had she actually blow-dried her hair? Surely this honour wasn’t all for Becca’s birthday, was it?
‘I’ll take the kids to school today, by the way,’ Rachel said breezily, as if this was a perfectly normal occurrence.
‘You’ll—’ Becca almost choked on her food. ‘What? Seriously?’ Her sister still hadn’t managed a single school run, more than three weeks since the accident. The bruising and swelling had finally left her face, but Becca knew she was cripplingly self-conscious about her altered looks, and had been dreading the initial mob of gossips flocking around her like flies after meat – led, no doubt, by that nosey old horror over the road, and Melanie Cripps.
‘Yeah. Today’s the day.’ Rachel gave a nervous laugh. ‘So you can stay in bed as long as you want this morning. Enjoy your breakfast. I promise I made Luke scrub his nails before I let him anywhere near it, by the way, so you’re quite safe to dig in without fear of terrible gastroenteritis later.’
Becca didn’t quite know what to say. Today was the day, all right. This was a major breakthrough, right here in one suburban bedroom. This was big, big news. One ten-minute walk outside with the children was the equivalent of one giant leap for womankind in Rachel’s case. Step by step, day by day, her sister was venturing her way back to normality. Brushed hair, make-up, determination . . . it was all starting to reappear, and Becca felt inordinately proud of her. ‘Good for you.’ She saluted her with the coffee mug. ‘And thanks for this,’ she said again. ‘It’s bloody fab. Not just the breakfast but the kids, the singing, the flowers . . .’ She could feel herself getting emotional. When was the last time anyone had sung ‘Happy Birthday’ to her? Such a silly little thing, but oh, it was lovely. It reminded her of how birthdays used to be – waking up with a proper thrill in your stomach, ribboned presents and cards through the post, feeling special all day at school, candles flickering on a cake . . . ‘I feel like I’m part of the family now,’ she confessed.
‘You are part of the family,’ Rachel said at once. ‘God, Bec, you are most definitely part of this family now – you’ve been the heart of this family lately.’ Their eyes met, and then Rachel looked a bit embarrassed and got to her feet. ‘Listen to us, we sound like a pair of cheesy fridge magnets. Kids!’ she yelled, turning and heading for the door. ‘Are you nearly ready?’
It felt such a luxury staying in bed while she heard first Mabel leaving for school, and then Rachel with the younger two children. Becca stretched her arms above her head, patted her full tummy and then wandered through to the bathroom for a leisurely shower in glorious peace and quiet.
Wiping condensation from the mirror, she leaned forward and examined her face. Ever since she’d been a child she’d always expected to see that year’s difference suddenly apparent in her reflection the very moment she had a new age. How can it be, she’d wondered, aged seven, eight, nine, that I’m a whole year older and yet look exactly the same as I did yesterday?
Maybe it was the clouds of steam lending her a misty outline but the funny thing was, today she actually looked a bit younger, if anything, than she had done six months earlier. It must have been all the fresh air and cycling, she guessed, because her skin seemed clearer, her eyes a little brighter, and she knew without having to squidge them that her thighs and bum were definitely more toned than they had been for years. Country living clearly suited her. Country living, and the fact that she wasn’t just eating pizza and takeaways these days either, she was cooking family meals from scratch. God, she was becoming sickeningly virtuous, she thought, raising an eyebrow at her reflection. Maybe her birthday meant that it was time to stuff her face and drink lots of calorific wine to counteract so much goody-goody behaviour.
She’d just finished drying her hair when she heard Rachel come back. ‘I’m upstairs,’ she yelled, pulling on some cycling shorts and her favourite mint-green T-shirt in preparation for her first appointment of the day. ‘Everything all right?’
Rachel did look rather pale, it had to be said, but there was a set to her shoulders that was reminiscent of the tough, uncrushable Rachel of old. ‘Well, I survived the mum mafia,’ she replied drily, coming into the bedroom and sinking onto Scarlet’s bed. ‘I had six people stopping me and saying they’d heard about the accident. Another three asking if Mabel was all right because they’d been told she’d been escorted home by the police – no guessing how that little story got around.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And then I had old Neighbourhood Watch herself, Sara, trying to get me to sign some awful petition or other, to get Luke and Elsa’s teacher disciplined.’
‘Oh Lord, what a welcome back,’ Becca said. ‘I heard some of the other mums talking about that stupid petition yesterday. Apparently Miss Ellis was spotted at some nightclub or other in a skimpy dress, going for it on the dance floor. How dare she have fun out of school hours, etc. etc., because that clearly makes her a terrible example to the children. None of whom, obviously, were actually in the nightclub at the time, of course. Honestly!’
‘She is just the limit, that woman,’ Rachel agreed. ‘Anyway, I refused to sign, so now she’ll hold that against me too. Oh well. The better news is that I saw Jo and Karen and . . .’ She looked shy, all of a sudden. ‘Well, Jo’s having a girls’ night in on Saturday, she asked if I would go along.’
Excellent. Jo and Karen were two of Rachel’s nice mates who’d always been friendly to Becca, without ever being nosey or pushing themselves on the family. ‘I hope you said yes,’ she replied.
Rachel nodded. ‘I did. I said yes. If you don’t mind holding the fort here, that is, otherwise I could ring my usual babysitter and—’
‘Of course I don’t mind. It’s about time I had the telly to myself without having to watch all your shit programmes every night . . . Joking! No, that’ll be brilliant. Good on you.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better push on, actually, I’m meant to be meeting Adam in fifteen minutes.’ She squirted her wrists and neck with some of her new perfume – Jo Malone, a present from Rachel, who had perhaps noticed her own bottle mysteriously running low – and then, just for the birthday hell of it, added a quick slick of coral lipgloss and some mascara. Hey. It wasn’t every day you turned thirty-one, was it?
Watching, Rachel gave a meaningful quirk of her eyebrow. ‘This for Adam’s benefit, is it?’ she asked teasingly.
‘Certainly not! For my benefit,’ Becca said, sticking out her tongue. Then she ran down the stairs singing ‘I Feel Pretty’ at the top of her voice, hopped on her bike and pedalled away, grinning to herself like a lunatic.
She’d had a good few days, all in all. Hayley had been thrilled by the delivery of tiaras at the start of the week and had promptly booked Becca in for a knicker-making slot too as part of her hen night celebrations. ‘Oh, and you’d better give me your email address,’ she’d said as they parted ways at the end of the session. ‘If that’s all right? I’ll pop it on the end of my blog, in case anyone’s interested in getting in touch.’
‘Cool, thanks,’ Becca had said, scribbling it down. She was about to ask more about the blog, but Hayley’s mobile rang at that moment and she made an apologetic face, taking the call. Becca had waved and mouthed, ‘See you next week,’ before leaving her to it.
Still, a knicker-making event was always a laugh, especially with a bunch of rowdy hens where the prosecco flowed freely. The only danger was making sure nobody got so drunk they sewed their own finger to the fabric, but she’d be there, keeping an eye on health and safety at least. The hen night wasn’t until August and it felt good, having one nice little job there on the calendar already. The future starts here, she kept telling herself, determined to stay positive about the no-job situation. Tomorrow, she promised, cycling over the river and taking her feet off the pedals to freewheel down the hill. She’d get on the case tomorrow.
It would be a wrench to leave Hereford, she found herself thinking. She might only have been staying here a few weeks, but that had been enough time for her to start feeling part of a community, thanks to all the different people she’d met around the city. Part of a family as well, she thought, remembering her lovely birthday breakfast. God, she was going to miss Rachel and the children most of all. More than she’d thought possible, if she was honest.
She locked her bike up in the usual place, trying not to think about that. She had agreed to stay for another fortnight or so, until Rachel was back to full working order (Will I ever see you again? I miss you! Meredith had texted plaintively), and then after that . . . Well, not to put too fine a point on it, she had been wondering if her old flat in Birmingham was really the right place for her any more. Coming here, making a change, trying a different lifestyle on for size – she had enjoyed it. Maybe she was ready to move on at last. She was even thinking she might . . .
‘Morning!’ came Adam’s voice, and she jumped. Miles away.
‘Hi,’ she said. He was smiling again, she saw as he approached. Good. She’d quite enjoyed the last session with him, much to her surprise; he was actually a laugh once you got beneath the gruff exterior. ‘How are you today? I take it your business empire didn’t collapse last week while you were away from your desk for that single hour, then?’
He grinned. He had very nice teeth, she noticed, and his eyes went kind of sparkly whenever he smiled. ‘Astonishingly, no. The empire is intact. I’ve even been going out running independently a few times this week, phone left deliberately at home, and am still somehow in business. It’s all good. So how are you and how’s that nephew of yours?’
She loved that he remembered the conversation about Luke. All these high-powered clients of his, and he was asking about a six-year-old boy. ‘He’s fine, thanks – LOVED your idea of taking up some kind of martial art. Rach has got him down for some karate holiday club already, so cheers for that.’
‘You’re welcome. How about you? You look chipper this morning. I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve lined up an absolutely heinous hour of fitness punishment for me.’
She laughed. ‘I am ludicrously cheerful, thank you, despite being another year older today,’ she told him. ‘And as for this morning—’
‘It’s your birthday? Happy birthday!’
‘Thanks. But don’t think this means you’re getting away with an easy workout. Especially now I know you’ve been sneaking in extra training sessions. Let’s crack on.’
She joined in with an energetic warm-up once more – why not? She was entitled to make a prat of herself on her birthday, after all – then gave him his instructions for that morning’s training run. It was strange to think she’d only be doing a few more of these sessions, she thought, as they set off in their usual running–bike configuration. Rachel would be deemed fit enough to pick up the reins of her business once six weeks was up, and she’d already been making noises about wanting to come along to certain sessions next week, to advise from the sidelines and check in with her clients personally. Becca wasn’t altogether sure how she felt about that. She’d got to like the clients after weeks of seeing them and building up relationships; they felt like her clients now – mates, even, some of them. Besides, she knew Rachel wouldn’t exactly approve of some of her more unorthodox fitness-training methods, once she got to hear about them. Perhaps she’d better print up a bunch of confidentiality agreements before then.
‘So,’ Adam said, as he jogged along, ‘it’s your turn this week. I bored you with my story last time, now the spotlight’s on you. Spill, Birthday Girl. Let’s hear the details. My Wonderful Life, by Becca, aged . . . what? Twenty-five?’
She pulled a Seriously? face at him (Mabel would have been proud). ‘Thirty-one, actually, although nice try with the flattery. As for the gory details of my life . . .’ She hesitated, not quite sure what to say. ‘Well, what do you want to know? My career hasn’t been quite as resounding a success story as yours, let’s put it like that. Er . . . I make a bit of jewellery here and there. Used to have a little business with a mate, until she emigrated. I can make lampshades and knit things and cook and . . . Oh, I’ve been asked to do a hen party and make a load of frilly knickers too.’ She could hear her own voice sounding lamer by the second. ‘You know. Stuff. Anyway, we should probably stop so I can make you do some press-ups in a minute.’
‘So this is all on a sort of ad hoc basis, is it?’ he asked, ignoring the bit about press-ups. ‘You’re self-employed?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, then wrinkled her nose. Self-employed made it sound like a much bigger deal than it really was. ‘To be honest, I’ve been working in a pub kitchen all year,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t feel like being creative for a while. But then my flatmate Meredith asked me to make her this medieval diadem – well, more like Galadriel’s one, actually, you know, from Lord of the Rings – and then the other week I helped someone make a tiara for her wedding, and . . .’
He looked thoroughly confused by now. Obviously he had never come across anyone quite so haphazardly crap in his long history of business consultancy. She blustered on, trying to make her point. ‘And I really enjoyed it, that’s what I’m trying to get across – I loved doing it, in fact, it made me feel so happy again! – and I’m going to try and do more of that sort of thing, I want to “find my way” again, as my mum would say, and . . .’ Oh God, Becca, just shut up, her brain started screaming. SHUT UP! ‘Yeah,’ she muttered eventually, as if that was any kind of way to end an explanation. ‘Right, anyway. Press-ups!’ She stopped cycling, and pretended to consult her list of exercises.
‘I think that sounds good,’ he said quietly. ‘For what it’s worth.’
‘So Rachel said to –’ She broke off again, feeling like a dork. ‘Oh.’
‘Doing your own thing, I mean. Doing something that makes you feel happy.’ He shrugged. ‘I reckon you should go for it. Why not?’
She’d been so sure he would laugh at her or mock her shambles of a ‘career’ that she stood there dumbly for a moment or two, waiting for the ‘KIDDING!’ It didn’t come. ‘Anyway, it’s all a bit up in the air, so it’s academic right now,’ she said. ‘Just bits and bobs to be getting on with, you know. But it’s a start.’
He nodded, his dark eyebrows bunching together in a thoughtful frown. ‘Right. So how are you going to turn these “bits and bobs” into something more concrete? What are you doing to grow the business?’
‘Grow the business?’ Stupidly, she found herself thinking of Rita, her careful watering and mulching up at the allotment. ‘Um . . . Well, to be honest, I’ve been really busy,’ she said by way of an excuse. ‘Running around after Rachel’s clients – a couple of mums, and this lady at the care home across town, and there’s this sweet old man I’ve been teaching to cook, so . . .’
‘So there you are. Captive audience – your first potential customers. You should start being a bit more proactive with them all, put yourself out there. Go for it!’ He was standing leaning against a tree now, the fitness session forgotten, she registered dimly, but her brain was taken up with trying to come up with a reply.
‘Well . . .’ she said again, doubtfully. It wasn’t exactly as easy as he was making out. ‘The knicker-making job did actually come from one of Rachel’s clients,’ she told him.
‘You presented the customer with the idea, did you? You gave a pitch, won the business?’
‘No,’ Becca admitted. ‘She just asked me, so . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘That’s what I’m saying. You need to take control. Get onto those school mums and organize a knicker-making party with them, too. Go back to that care home and start . . . I don’t know, a knitting club with the residents. See if your tiara friend has got any good contacts—’
‘She’s putting me on her blog, actually,’ Becca felt compelled to say, just about managing to resist adding, so there! She felt uncomfortable, though, on the back foot. How had their training session turned into a business meeting? ‘Anyway.’
He didn’t look quite as impressed as she had hoped. ‘No offence –’ oh, here we go – ‘but everyone and his dog has got a blog,’ he went on. ‘She probably only has about twenty readers too, if the average is anything to go by. Look, have you thought about—’
‘Have you thought about the fact that it’s my birthday and you’re making me feel a bit shit about my career prospects?’ Becca interrupted huffily, before he could go any further. ‘Right – press-ups now. Definitely.’
Adam obediently got down on his hands and knees – that was more like it – with a somewhat sheepish expression on his face. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Force of habit, that’s all, from work. I didn’t mean to piss you off. That’s just what I do, poke my nose into people’s businesses, ask annoying questions.’
Becca’s flash of temper subsided. She was a fine one to criticize someone else for poking their nose in, after all. ‘It’s okay. You’re probably right anyway, I need to get my act together over the next few weeks, make some decisions, sort my life out.’ She pulled a comical face. ‘Okay. Drop and give me twenty, as they say. And no more talking.’
He did what he was told – it gave her a bit of a thrill, actually, saying ‘Drop and give me twenty’ like that – and then rose up afterwards, dusting his hands off on his shorts. ‘I am sorry, though,’ he said again. ‘I forgot it was your birthday, I shouldn’t have lectured you like some kind of patronizing old twat.’ He held out a hand. ‘Friends?’
She laughed. ‘You’re not a patronizing old twat. Don’t worry, I’m going to plunder your knowledge shamelessly once I actually get started on any kind of business plan. Anyway, you’ve given me some good ideas.’ She took his hand and shook it firmly. ‘Friends,’ she declared. He had nice hands, she thought. Large, strong, tanned . . . Then she realized she was still shaking it like some kind of a weirdo, and let go hurriedly. ‘So anyway . . .’ She consulted her sheet. ‘Calf drives! That’s what we’re doing next. And it’s not some strange rodeo experience, it’s for your Achilles tendons and calf muscles, according to Rach. Allow me to demonstrate.’
‘What are you doing later, then? For your birthday, I mean?’ he asked, not seeming to pay any attention as she took off into a jump.
‘What? Oh,’ she said, taken aback. ‘Er . . . I think my nieces and nephew are planning some sort of revolting birthday cake surprise later on,’ she replied, ‘but other than that . . .’ She shrugged. ‘All my mates are back in Birmingham, so not a lot, I shouldn’t think. Right, so the aim of the calf drive is to—’
‘Maybe I could take you out for a birthday drink, then,’ he said, apparently uninterested in the new exercise. ‘After the revolting birthday cake surprise, I mean,’ he added. He was smiling but the air around them seemed to change with his words. She could almost feel it sizzling with a strange new tension.
‘A . . . a drink? Oh!’ Was this a date? Was he asking her on a date? Oh my God. Wait till she told her mum! (Ugh. She could not believe that was the first thought that had occurred to her.) ‘That would be lovely,’ she said politely. ‘Sure. Thank you.’ And then, because she felt weird all of a sudden as well as a tiny bit excited and jittery too, she changed the subject. ‘Anyway. Where were we?’ she said firmly. ‘Calf drives. Let’s do this.’