‘Wow!’
‘I know…’ Sorrel broke off, obviously speaking and laughing with someone who was insisting she join them. ‘Got to go, Jess. Tell Mum and Robyn I rang…’ And she was gone.
Thanking God my little sister appeared more than OK, but realising how much I missed her, I stirred my stumps as they say (what one’s stumps were and who said it, I’d no bloody idea), reached for ingredients and started baking.
* * *
Two hours later, I was out of the shower, hair wet, legs defuzzed and smooth, searching frenziedly for something, anything, that wasn’t baggy trackies or leggings. Would Lola wonder what the hell I was up to if I arrived in the beautiful cream pencil skirt that now fitted me like a glove? I could downplay it with a pair of flats and a lightweight sweater. Yep, that looked good. I made up my face, scrunched at my dark curls and added bright red lipstick. I examined my face carefully. Since losing the stone – over a stone now – I realised I actually had cheekbones once more. The years with Dean had had me comfort eating every time he started a new fling. He had a new woman: I had several new bars of chocolate. He messed about with another floozy: I messed up my figure and face with another flapjack. What a waste of my life, my time and my body that I’d gone along with it, time after time.
No more.
‘Too much, you daft woman,’ I censured myself, wiping off the red lipstick.
After leaving a note for Joel with instructions on how to reheat the shepherd’s pie, as well as to remind him to let Arthur out for a pee – an actual walk if he had time – I collected the dog from his snooze in Mum’s garden, locked him in the kitchen and made my way down to the van.
Stopping briefly only to repaint my lips defiantly in red and squirt a generous amount of Jo Malone’s Orange Blossom, I pouted my – very red – lips in the rear-view mirror and set off, crashing Vera’s ancient gear box as I went.
* * *
I knew the drill now. Park the van up on the verge by the bright red phone box and head straight for the keypad on the stone gate post of Will O’ The Wisp. If I lived here, I’d soon be changing that bloody stupid name, I thought. If I lived here? Blimey, I was getting ahead of myself.Just think of this as another Jessica Dining job, I told myself as the gates immediately drew back on the first ring.
‘Jessica, how lovely.’ Henry was actually in the garden waiting for me, and he immediately came forward, kissing me on the cheek. ‘For us?’ He took the muffins and traybake, sniffing appreciatively at the ridiculous amount of expensive dark chocolate I’d put into the brownies.
‘Mum? What areyoudoing here?’ Lola’s voice was accusatory as it drifted down from an open window on the first floor.
‘Your mum’s brought goodies.’ Henry smiled at me as he raised both his voice and the box of brownies skywards. ‘As well as herself,’ he added in an undertone to me. ‘You’re looking gorgeous, Jessica,’ he added appreciatively, ‘and smell almost as good as these brownies.’ He leant into me – not in a creepy, slimy, undressing me sort of way – stroking my arm briefly. With a ‘Shall we?’, he led me to a table on the terrace where a bottle of champagne was waiting in a bucket of ice.
‘Gosh, champagne? On a school day?’
‘School’s out.’ He smiled. ‘Easter holidays, I believe.’ He was wearing a beautiful navy, obviously expensive, shirt and a pair of jeans. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to reveal toned, tanned forearms, the only bit of bling being a gold Rolex. This was one upmarket man.
‘You’ve a fabulous tan,’ I said, sitting down in the evening sunshine and reaching for my glass of champagne.
‘Langkawi Island,’ he said.
‘Sorry, never heard of it,’ I said, pulling a face both at the bubbles which were tickling my nose, as well as my lack of geographical knowledge. ‘Obviously a long way from West Yorkshire…’
Henry laughed at that. ‘Forested hills, romantic white-sand beaches and crystal-clear waters…’
‘Obviouslya long way from Leeds and Bradford,’ I reiterated, feeling suburban, stuck in my home village.
‘Known as “Legendary Island” because of myths associated with its ancient geological formations,’ Henry went on. ‘In the Andaman Sea. I go there to dive.’
‘My husband – my ex-husband,’ I quickly amended, ‘took up diving a year or so ago. Probably thought it would be good for his image.’ I laughed as I remembered. ‘Thought he was going to end up meeting nubile, scantily dressed Bond-type girls as they surfaced from the waves and made their way up the white sand towards him bearing exotic cocktails in coconut shells.’
‘And did he?’ Henry laughed at the picture I was painting of Dean in his rubber wetsuit.
‘Got as far as Midhope municipal swimming pool for tuition and then progressed to MAD…’
‘Mad?’ Henry stared.
‘Morecambe Area Divers. He panicked apparently when he went under the freezing cold water and couldn’t see much more than a couple of feet in front of him. His wetsuit is still in the back of my van waiting to be taken to the charity shop…’ I broke off. Was I talking too much? Especially about my ex? Wasn’t that a dating rule? Not to talk about one’s ex?You’re not on a damned date, I told myself crossly, downing my champagne, Henry immediately refilling my glass.
‘And you’re a cook?’ Henry smiled.
‘I am,’ I said proudly. ‘It’s the one thing I do really, really well.’Hark at you, Jess Butterworth. I chastised myself, hiding my face in my champagne glass as I realised what I’d just come out with. I knew I mustn’t drink any more if I was going to come over as a professional cook rather than a giggling drunk. The evening when I’d slid under the table at Kamran’s place was something never to be repeated.
Henry laughed. ‘You’ve every right to be proud of what you’ve achieved, Jessica. Now, I know you’re going to help me with supper tonight for myself and the girls’– he looked up at what was obviously Ruby’s bedroom window – ‘but first, tell me all about The White House and what your plans for it are?’
