“I was talking to Lucy the other day,” she begins. Lucy is another recent addition to the village, the mother of Rose the gardening apprentice and partner of Jake’s brother, Josh. “Her mum has joined a dating site! She’s been single for decades, but now she’s getting out there, meeting men for coffee and doing Pilates. And you remember Cally’s mum – she met the new love of her life in her seventies!”
“Yes, I’m aware, and good on them. But I think I’d rather hit myself on the head with a wooden train than do that, Ella. I’m happy being single. Meeting new men for coffee is my idea of hell – never mind the Pilates. I’m just going through a period of… readjustment.”
That, of course, is putting it mildly. When Simon died, I had three grieving teenagers to care for. I had to put them first, and I also suddenly had to do everything on my own. Put the bins out, unload the dishwasher, buy a stepladder so I could reach the top of the cupboards. Remember the car’s MoT, find an accountant, renew the home insurance. Couples all have their different ways of divvying up the household tasks, a kind of domestic rota ofresponsibilities – and when one half disappears, the one left behind has to become an instant expert.
Between the practicalities and the kids and running my business, I never had time to even think about meeting someone new – nor the inclination. Simon was, and always will be, the one for me. Even the memory of him is better than the reality of someone else.
“Anyway, enough life coaching, Doctor. Don’t you have any warts to look at?”
She grimaces, and says: “I’m due back on in a few minutes. But it’s blood pressure and cholesterol checks today, unless there’s a wart emergency.”
“There might be, you never know. Could be an epidemic heading your way. Give me that baby and leave us be.”
She shuffles Kitty into my arms, and I love the solid weight of her, warm and chunky against my body. It’s a long time since mine were this age, but I’ve had a bit of practice with Miranda and Evan, and it all comes back pretty quickly. The baby makes a little squeaking noise and has a half-hearted snuffle at my boobs.
“There’s nothing there for you, Kitty Kat, and I know you’ve just been fed,” I say, rocking her gently until she settles again. Nothing on earth compares to a sleeping baby, with their tiny snores and the funny faces they pull, the way their chubby fists wave around. The lush milky smell of their tiny heads.
Ella stands up and stretches her arms into the air. She’s already pretty much back to her previous self, weight-wise, which frankly disgusts me. It’s almost as though eating sensibly and going on runs helps with that kind of thing.
“Hey,” she says, as though she’s suddenly remembered something. “Is it tomorrow that you’re going to get Sophie from college?”
“The day after,” I reply, unable to keep the glee from my voice. “Technically it’s still term time, but the last bit of it ispractical, so she’s coming home to help out. I now get free slave labour and the chance to claim I’m doing it all for her education. She’s bringing a friend, Marcy, to stay as well.”
“Will they help out at your posh food night?”
The Cove Café is, most of the time, quite a simple place – fresh croissants from the village bakery, soup and sandwiches, ice creams, all the usual stuff. People come for good, home-made meals and the chance to enjoy the view and the ambience – which is, if I do say so myself, very welcoming.
But every now and then, usually once a season, I put on something special. I indulge the part of me that was once the head of a Michelin-starred restaurant, and plan gourmet nights. They’re pretty popular – which is me being modest. In fact, they’re always over-subscribed, and there is a waiting list of people hoping for cancellations. We serve three courses, and pair them with wines, and charge a small fortune – though it’s nothing, of course, compared to London prices. It’s hard work, but it allows me to express my creative side and brings in a lot of revenue – some of which is reinvested in the Starshine Cove fund. Those Zumba classes don’t come cheap.
“They will,” I say, grinning. “It couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it – which of course I have!”
Finding staff in our quiet little corner of the world can be a challenge. My kids always helped out, as did a young man called Sam, who has also gone off to college now. This university lark has cut right into my workforce – I hope it doesn’t catch on.
“So are you just driving to London, grabbing your free labour, and coming straight back?” Ella asks.
“No, sadly. I’m going up the night before, to have dinner with Marcy and her family. I suppose it’s fair enough, they want to meet me before they let their precious girl come and stay. Probably want to check I’m not a nutter.”
“They’ll be disappointed, then, because you definitely are!”
“Is that a medical diagnosis?”
“One hundred per cent, yes. It sounds like fun, anyway – a night out in the big city!”
“I suppose so. But I lived there for years, and the charm wore off. Plus I’ll have to find, you know, real clothes to wear. Ones that don’t make me look like a clown.”
I see her debating whether to dispute that or not, and she wisely decides on not. I’ve always liked bright colours – pinks and yellows in particular – and when I was younger, those colours always came in the form of skin-tight dresses and other glamorous gear. These days, I’m more of a dungarees and jeggings kind of woman.
“Well, let me know if you want me to come shopping with you. I could do with some new bits myself. None of my old bras fit.”
“That’s because you’re a dairy cow these days. And thank you, maybe I’ll take you up on that. Now, leave me alone with this adorable baby girl.”
She leans down to drop a soft kiss on Kitty’s forehead and does exactly that. She looks back and makes amoo!noise as she disappears into her surgery.
THREE
I am in Sophie’s tiny college room, looking around at the pictures on the wall and the potted plant Archie gave her and the scattering of make-up on the desk. This is her home now, I think, feeling a bit weirded out by that. It is like her room in our house, but in miniature – and it also smells of Marc Jacobs’ Daisy.
“You look nice,” she says, standing with her hands on her hips and frowning as she looks at me. Sophie has long blonde hair and is made mainly of legs.
