“Greetings, earthlings!” I announce as I enter.
They both look up from their spots on the sofa, and Sophie replies: “Mum! We’re watchingBridgerton– want to join us?”
“Maybe later. Do you want dinner?”
I really, really hope they want dinner. I might have been doing it all day, but I feel like cooking. It will distract me, and comfort me, and it is something I know I am actually good at – unlike interacting with members of the opposite sex, it seems.
“Nah, thanks, Mum – we’ve already eaten. Zack left a note for you, it’s on the kitchen table.”
Sophie says this with complete indifference, and why wouldn’t she? She doesn’t know that just last night, Zack and I were on that sofa snogging each other’s faces off. She doesn’t know that I’ve spent the whole day looking forward to doing it again. She doesn’t know that my heart has sunk so low it’s somewhere around my ankles right now.
“Oh, right. He’s left, I believe?” I say, oh-so-casually. Part of me hopes I’m wrong. That Jake was wrong. That it’s all been some kind of misunderstanding.
“He has,” Marcy replies, tearing her eyes away from yet another stunning Regency ball, “he said he had to go in to work. He’s always doing that.”
“I thought he was supposed to drive you two to the airport the day after tomorrow?”
“He was, but he didn’t think he’d be able to get back here so soon, so he transferred me some cash so we could get an Uber.”
An Uber, I think, almost laughing. She’ll be lucky. Maybe Ged will give them a ride on his tractor.
Both girls turn back to the screen, and I suppose I am grateful that they seem so unconcerned. They definitely don’t have a clue that anything has gone awry.
I head back into the kitchen, taking solace from its familiar sights and smells. The pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. The crammed surface of the island. The little notepad I always keep at hand to jot down recipe ideas in. This is my turf, my terrain, and I am safe here. I almost convince myself that I am completely fine, that I am simply over-reacting and that I will be perfectly okay as soon as I’ve had a chance to recalibrate. I’ll probably even laugh at it some time very soon, this minor disappointment.
I pick up the envelope from the table, and see that my hands are still shaking. I’m not sure I even want to read what’s inside. I’d quite like to simply throw it in the bin, or maybe even set it on fire. I remind myself again that I am a grown-up, and that this note might explain all. It might be a full and wonderfully acceptable reason for him running away without even bothering to say goodbye.
Inside the envelope I find a postcard that shows a picture of the beach, the wordsHello from Starshine Cove!emblazoned above the shining blue sea. He must have bought it from Trevor’s Emporium; he has racks of them outside the shop every day. So, I think, frowning and feeling the angry part of me rise up again, he had time amidst his alleged emergency to go to the store, buy a postcard, write me a message and come to my house to deliver it – but not to call in at the café and actually talk to me in person? Am I that repulsive? Was seeing me again such a horrendous prospect?
I flip the postcard over, and see his loopy handwriting scrawled across the back of it.
Connie, I’m so sorry, it says,but I have to leave. This isn’t the right time for any of this. You’re fantastic, and I promise it’s not you, it’s me. Corny but also true. Forgive me – Zack.
I sit down at the dining table and lay the postcard flat before me. I have no clue what to make of it, other than he’s right. It is corny. And I am fantastic.
I sigh, feeling about a hundred years old. I glance at the fridge, and see that picture of Simon. The one where he’s wearing the Mickey Mouse ears. It almost feels like his brilliant blue eyes are staring out at me for real. Like he could step out of the picture and into my arms any second.
I smile at him, and allow myself the luxury of letting my tears flow.
FOURTEEN
The next week passes on autopilot. Sophie and Marcy successfully make it to Crete, where they are having a wonderful time lounging on inflatable flamingos in their swimming pool and sipping cocktails beneath the stars. James and Miranda have gone on a little trip to Cornwall with baby Evan, making the most of their time together before James heads back to Jersey. Dan is in Surrey, visiting his film student girlfriend, Julia. Basically, they’re all busy and I’m on my own again.
I have made a little deal with myself not to care about that – not to sink into a blue mood, or let it get me down. My children are all healthy, happy and moving on with their lives, which makes me far luckier than some. It is the way it is meant to be, and all is right with the world.
I have been keeping myself as busy as possible, helping Ella organise the annual breast screening van visit, sorting out a programme of activities for the next few months in the community centre, and signing up to help Archie and Rose with their fruit and veg delivery project. I’ve taken George out for dinner, painted my downstairs loo a nice shade of blush, and made a head start on the menu for the Summer Feast event. I’vealso opened the café every single day, and kept it open until six instead of three. Sam’s been delighted with the extra hours.
All of this frantic activity has gone some way towards keeping me out of trouble, and has certainly been very effective at making me tired. The days have passed relatively easily in a blur of busy-ness. The nights, though, as ever, have been a different matter. I try to ban Zack from my mind, to pull up the mental drawbridge as soon as I think about him – to hold up a giant “Stop!” sign whenever he starts to creep in there. I try, but I don’t always manage. Sitting on the sofa watching TV in particular makes me sad, which is utterly pathetic. He was here for less than a fortnight, and I have no right to miss him, especially when he behaved like he did.
Despite the surface reassurance of the words on the postcard, I still feel hurt and disappointed that he didn’t say goodbye in person. Sexy fun times aside, I genuinely thought we had become friends. I have considered calling him, but my final shred of self respect always stops me as my fingers hover above his name in my contacts. He is obviously fine, or Marcy would have mentioned something. He is back in his real life, and I am here in mine, and never the twain shall meet. I suppose I’ll get used to it again.
Tonight, I decide to do a spot of spring cleaning in the kitchen. This seems to involve taking every single item I own out of a cupboard, and piling it somewhere on the floor, the counter or the table. It starts well enough, and I rediscover a really nice marble pestle and mortar I’d forgotten existed. I also find out that I own four colanders, way too many saucepans, and approximately seventeen thousand slotted spoons.
I try to sort the piles out ready to get rid of some. We have an event here every year called the Spring Greening, where we all set up trestle tables and arrange our unwanted stuff on them. Essentially it’s like a giant swap shop. The idea is to declutter,but I usually end up coming home with more crap than I got rid of. Sometimes, as was the case with my lovely singing fish, I get rid of things one year, miss them, and get them back the next. I am never going to be a minimalist.
By the time a knock comes at the door, I am sitting on the parquet surrounded by pots, pans, mismatched lids, serving plates, cheese graters, Kilner jars, casserole dishes and baking trays.
“Come in!” I yell. “I can’t let you in, I’m trapped!”
