Fear. There were a lot of things I didn’t want to deal with right now, and before I’d even got to the front door, I was met by the sound of a key in the lock and the familiar shove of the wood to get inside.
And here was Mrs Patel. Armed with a wooden spoon.
“Oh good,” she said calmly, lowering her makeshift weapon. “I was going to smack whoever was making a racket with the hoover in here.”
“I doubt a thief would have been cleaning,” I replied flatly.
“You never know these days. Young people and their ideas.” She snorted. “Like your boys would learn to clean up. I did ring Edward and threatened him, for leaving the house in a state like this.”
“Did you now?” I smiled.
Mrs Patel. Had been Mary’s best friend for all the years we’d lived here, and still I always called her just that.
“What have you done now?” she continued, crossing the room with determination in her step. “I will bring your dinner later, but why are you here? Are you on some kind of break? Is the filming going well?”
Not a moment to breathe, then. Not even a hot drink and a calming bit of chatter.
“You will make me a cup of tea,” she demanded. Nothing new there. “I will sit here patiently.”
“Mrs Patel,” I said…calmly. Calm. Oliver had said that a lot. I rolled my eyes. What had I become? A sentimental old fool, that was what I had become. “Mrs Patel, this programme…”
“I have watched both episodes.”
“Both what?”
“The first two episodes.” She waved her hand impatiently towards the kettle. “And I have questions.”
“I have signed NDAs,” I said sternly.
“Bah.” She shifted impatiently in her seat. “When has an NDA ever stopped anyone? I knew about Omar Thakur and Eleanor Havenshall before anyone else. I knew about Michaela Fairbrooks. I knew everything. Did I ever get anyone into trouble, Mr Fenton?”
“No,” I admitted. She wasn’t lying. She’d been a solid friend to my late wife. And to me.
“What was it that Mary and I always said? A bit of gossip is good for the soul. And a problem shared is a problem half solved.”
“She didn’t say that.” I had to laugh. Gosh. It felt good to laugh.
“So…” Another nod. Towards the darn kettle. “This tea isn’t making itself.”
“Kenya or Ceylon,” I questioned. Safe. Safe ground.
“Peter,” she whined.
Yes. Yes, okay.
Tea made, I took my seat opposite her, letting her gently stir the sugar into her cup. One cube at a time. The way she’d always done it. A small ritual that cut a deep slash in my chest.
This had been the way. And now it was just me sitting here, with…
“I miss her too,” she said, Mrs Patel.
“Amara, it’s…”
“Oh shush.” She smiled and carefully lifted her cup to her lips. “She’s always here, and always looking out for you. She promised she would.”
Words that should bring comfort, and usually did. Today? I didn’t know why. They made me embarrassed.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t move on, Peter,” she said in her soft, lilted accent. “Because it is allowed.”
