I read it again to make sure I haven’t got the wrong gist of it. But no, she wants to see me. My first thought is: I wish I could tell James. But a second later, I’ve jumped up from the kitchen chair and I’m charging through to Charlie’s room, shouting, ‘Charlie, good news!’ And he jumps up too and we hug.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ he says, and without warning tears fill my eyes: tears over losing James but also at how my boy has somehow come back to me.
Three days later I wipe my sweaty hands on the front of my navy trousers and hope my outfit of blazer and a skinny-rib polo is appropriate for meeting a literary agentat a smart London address. It’s crazy really because I’ve met dozens of clients face to face over the years: magazine editors, founders of online food platforms and even retail bigwigs who wanted to refresh their in-store magazines. It’s never daunted me because they were just meetings, to discuss food, and what was there to be afraid of?
Plus, it would all feel pretty straightforward as they would commission me and I’d work to their brief. This – my very own cookbook – is different. The stakes feel much higher. Corsica is in my blood, after all, not to put too grand a point on it. As soon as I could use a knife safely I was next to Mum in the kitchen, standing on a little chair, chopping up herbs.
I grew up loving Corsican dishes. It set me on my career path and helped me to break free from Frank after Mexico and raise my son on my own. It’s enabled me to build the life we have together. So, yes, it matters quite a lot.
Juliette Lloyd’s office isn’t too far from James’s street, although her neighbourhood is posher. There’s a beautiful Victorian pub on the corner with hanging baskets of winter pansies and purple hyacinths, and an attractive young couple in chunky sweaters are sitting at an outside table.
At the start of February the sky is blue, the air crisp and chilly. But still my hands are sweating with nerves. As I reach Juliette’s townhouse in the middle of the terrace, I have to wipe them on my trousers again and hope no one’s spotted me through the window, doing that.
Clearing my throat and thinking of what Charlie said – ‘You can do anything you want, Mum’ – I inhale deeply and knock on the glossy blue door.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
JAMES
I miss Tony Lomax. There’s a notable absence now he’s not popping in on a regular basis with his packets of shortbread and concerns about Bob. After his stroke, he’d only been discovered because Irene Craven had seen Bob up at his living-room window, barking, which wasn’t like him at all. Since we spoke again – touchingly, she’d wanted to know how Bob was doing – I’ve learnt that she’d knocked on his door to check if everything was okay. When Tony hadn’t answered, and finding the door unlocked, she’d ventured in and discovered him lying on his kitchen floor.
I suspect now that Irene had felt guilty at being so offish when I’d gone round to collect Bob.
However, some good has come out of the sad situation. Esther and Bob are incredibly sweet together. I realise now that that’s what her mother used to say about Esther and Miles. (‘They’re sweet, James! Surely you can see that?’) But they really are, in a genuine way, with him padding around the house after her and nudging her wrist with his nose, wanting a walk or a treat. She only has topull on her jacket for him to be jumping about, tail spinning in delight. Esther was never an outdoorsy girl, not really; she had to be cajoled along on those bracing seaside walks. But now she’s hardly in. And soon I realise something wonderful is happening.
Bob is helping to mend Esther’s broken heart.
‘He’s always been a favourite of ours,’ I tell her, meaning all of us at the practice.
‘Is it okay for vets to have favourites?’ she asks.
‘Yes, of course it is! We’re not teachers.’
She laughs and kisses Bob’s greying face. That’s what I’ve been trying to focus on lately; Esther and Bob, telling myself how right and cosy it feels, the three of us here together. I’m keeping busy, busy, busy – working full pelt, then walking miles with Bob. Fitter than ever, he seems to be ageing in reverse.
A few weeks later a surprise letter arrives at the practice, addressed to me. Tony might have seemed a bit shambolic in his fraying sweaters and threadbare cords, but he did have a will. His solicitor has written to say that a substantial (actually eye-watering) amount has been left in trust for our veterinary practice. By which he means that it can be used – ‘At your discretion’ – to cover veterinary care for those who would otherwise struggle to afford it.
‘So, he could have paid his bills after all?’ Esther suggests with a grin, when I tell her what’s happened.
‘Seems like it, yes.’ I smile. ‘But maybe that’s how he managed to build up all those savings. By being canny, I mean.’
When I meet with the solicitor to figure how it’ll work, I learn that, while Tony’s flat was rented, his savings were substantial and the rest has been left to the animal rescue centre he adopted Bob from as a pup.
So it’s worked out, in some ways at least. Until Esther comes back from a walk one breezy afternoon, flushed with excitement. ‘Dad, I’ve got a flat!’
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘I didn’t think you were looking.’
‘I can’t stay here forever,’ she says, looking so happy I wish I could take my reaction back. ‘I’m twenty, Dad. I should be doing my own thing and leaving you in peace—’
‘I don’t mind you being here. I like it …’
‘I know you do.’ She grins. ‘But all my friends are doing cool things and, y’know, not that it’s not cool living with you …’
‘So where’s this flat?’ I ask, trying not to sound hurt. ‘And can you afford it?’
‘Of course I can,’ she retorts. ‘I’m not as stupid as you think.’
‘I’ve never thought you’re stupid, Est. Of course I haven’t. Quite the opposite.’
