As you all would have heard by now, poor Lottie was hit by a truck yesterday. She’s going to be all right but in consideration of Miriam needing to take care of her, we are postponing the open garden at her place that was going to be on Saturday.
From Mary
From:Miriam Peters
To:Garden Club
Subject:Re: Postponing Garden Club Meet on 20th
Hello everyone,
Thank you for understanding the need to postpone our open garden, given I may be unable to spend the time preparing for it. Lottie is fine but I need to see how she goes. Silly girl, walking between a car and a truck! But it is important after a head injury that someone be on hand to observe, and also, given her newly ‘delicate condition’ she needs some TLC. She learned some exciting news while in hospital, but I won’t spoil the timing of her announcement. Let’s just say there might be a designer pram (hopefully in blue) parked outside my doorstep in a few months’ time! (And if anyone is a member of the Royal Sydney Golf Club and would like to sponsor a potential new member for a 2044 intake, do let me know. The male line in my family has quite athletic genes, so we won’t let you down.)
Best,
Miriam
Anger flares in me, hot and wild. At Miriam, and at myself because I didn’t think to explicitly tell her to keep quiet about this stupid, ridiculous pregnancy. I should have known she’d pull a stunt like this.
I take a deep breath, thinking of what my mother’s email will mean. I am, according to my recent ultrasound, about nine weeks pregnant. I’ve never wanted a baby. If anything, now this pregnancy has arrived, I want motherhood even less than I did when it was a hypothetical possibility. I think of Hugo and presume he would be pleased, which makes me furious. Also, because he has no idea my body has been taken over by an alien due to his carelessness and so he isn’t here to provide soothing words. Despite my protestations to Miriam about two people being involved in impregnation, I am letting Hugo take sole responsibility. It seems like the least he can do.
I email Roddy, asking him to come and see me. It’s strange that he hasn’t yet been in. If the whole village knows what’s happened, he must have heard too. I want to talk to someone about my pregnancy, and how terrified I am. I want desperately to talk to Hugo, but that’s not an option. Tears well in my eyes; a hot, fierce pang of loneliness. Miriam will be coming to pick me up soon and I’ll have to stay with her for a few days to make sure my concussion completely heals. Justperfect.I finish the email to Roddy, telling him to come to Miriam’s as soon as is humanly possible so I don’t go insane.
50
RODDY
NOW, LONDON, ENGLAND
Roddy steps off the tube. He pulls his suitcase onto the escalator and looks up at the line of commuters crowded to the right, ascending magically to the surface of the London winter streets. Most are on their phones, chins buried inside scarves. At the top, the cold hits his face in an icy whoosh as he taps his credit card to get through the ticket gate. He is faced with three sets of stairs all going in different directions. There appears to be no lift. He picks a set of stairs randomly, heaving the suitcase, puffing, trying to avoid the puddles and the mashed, sloppy carcasses of oak leaves. At the top he emerges to fat grey skies, a fresh bluster of freezing wind and a hint of drizzle. It feels like twilight, but it is peak morning commute. He pulls his suitcase past a mossy brick wall and into Bethnal Green Gardens.
Opening the map on his phone, Roddy is directed to a street lined with lovely old buildings guarded by imposing brickfences. The bright lights of a coffee shop beckon. It is 9 am, but through the window, the tables hold only two patrons. He pulls his case in behind him. Thirty hours in transit and he is in dire need of caffeine.
‘Skim latte, please, and one of those pastries.’
‘We don’t do skim milk.’
‘Oh. No worries. Full cream is fine.’
‘We don’t do cow’s milk. Oat, soy, almond or coconut.’
Roddy frowns. ‘Ah … oat? And that croissant thing, please.’ He points to one of the delicious looking pastries in the glass cabinet.
The young man behind the counter is wearing a cap, which seems a strange choice for the middle of winter. He looks at Roddy with a frown until Roddy feels his usual need to appease rising up.
‘Oat milk’s great. The croissant will make up for me being healthy,’ he jokes. ‘I love a buttery pastry.’ He pats his stomach.
The man continues to frown. ‘We’re a vegan cafe.’
This feels like a non sequitur, and Roddy peers at him dumbly. He suspects his brain is still somewhere over the Arabian Sea. He focuses on the e-reader and pays then pulls his case to the corner table. He struggles out of his winter coat and texts Lottie and Mary to say he’s arrived. It is Mary’s fault that he is here. After hearing Sienna relay Lottie’s pre-accident plan to fly to London to find Francis, Mary told him he needed to ‘get out more’ and to go and ‘spend some of his plentiful cash on a holiday’.
Of course, he was keen to help Lottie too, but he doubts that, left to his own devices, he would have immediately jumped on a plane. He also has doubts about the wisdom of digging upPhyllida’s past. Mary is very persuasive when she wants to be, he decides, sipping the odd-tasting coffee.
When he finishes the excellent pastry he pulls the case outside and braces against the wall of icy wind. He smiles at the delightful sight of a red double-decker bus approaching. It runs through a puddle, splashing dirty freezing water onto the hem of his trousers and shoes.
He crosses the road, back towards the Young Victoria & Albert Museum, and approaches a block of apartments behind a gated entrance. He squints into his phone at the complicated instructions. The key is apparently inside one of the dozen lock-boxes attached to the railing.
I must have been mad to let Sienna and Mary talk me into this, he thinks for the hundredth time.
