‘I hurt him too, Dad. I was so mixed up, and it’s only since I came here I feel I’m getting back to normal.’ Her fears had left her emotionally closed and unapproachable to Aaron and even though he was the one who ultimately ended their marriage by cheating, she’d always take part of the blame for the relationship failure. But she’d only seen that since she’d come to New York and got some distance, and she never wanted to tell her dad what it was that had driven a wedge between them, what she was truly scared of. After what he’d been through, losing her mum, it wouldn’t be fair to him.
‘Well, Aaron asked me to pass on his regards.’ Her dad turned all formal and Cleo smiled at the English-ism.
‘Thanks, Dad.’ And she stopped any further conversation about her ex by changing the subject to the Christmas season, his plans with Teresa, hers with Grandpa Joe and Violet, the holiday season in the store. She hadn’t told her dad about the lease expiring; he’d only worry, and she figured sending Teresa into the lion’s den, as it were, by setting up a meeting between his daughter and his wife, was enough for him to worry about.
‘I love you, Dad,’ she told him as they were about to finish the call.
‘Love you too, Buttons.’
The sound of her childhood nickname brought a smile to her face. ‘How come you’re calling me that all of a sudden? You haven’t done that for years.’
‘I spoke to Grandpa Joe yesterday.’
‘You did?’
‘I was thinking a lot about your mum and I knew he would be too. He told me he’d called you Buttons for the first time in years and you hadn’t stormed out or even yelled at him.’
‘Dad! I’m not that bad!’
A belly laugh rumbled down the phone line. ‘Oh, you’ve had your moments, young lady, and for a time you hated the name.’
‘I’m in my thirties now,’ said Cleo. ‘It makes me feel like a little girl when I hear it and it’s kind of nice. Just not in front of anyone though. Promise?’
‘On one condition?’
‘And what’s that?’
‘You’ll try with Teresa. You’ll give her a chance.’
‘Of course I will.’
She wondered whether Teresa was dreading meeting up as much as she was. Only time would tell.
Greenwich Village
In her apartment that evening,Cleo warmed up a bowl of mushroom barley soup with smoky bacon. She’d made a huge batch of it a couple of weeks ago and frozen it in portions. It was an easy recipe and it made sense to cook in large amounts that she could defrost at a later date. It also felt better knowing she was eating at least some home-cooked food rather than choosing to open yet another tin.
She sat on an enormous, square, burgundy cushion against the wall, her legs crossed and a tray balancing on her lap. She’d eaten this way as a stroppy teenager when she couldn’t face being opposite Teresa at a dinner table, but she’d grown to enjoy it. Sitting at the table felt formal, this felt as though she was totally switching off from everything.
The soup finished, Cleo took her dishes to the sink and then sat down in front of the laptop at the table. She had to start getting through her to-do list. She had a few different suppliers because there were so many yarns to choose from and they were accessible worldwide, so she went on to two sites to place orders. She chose more cashmere in a variety of colours—a customer that afternoon had wanted a vibrant shade that the store didn’t have. Then she selected some chenille wool, stocking up on the opal variety in the mixture of green and burnt orange that seemed to be selling so well right now. Lastly, she placed an order for a yarn that was a blend of merino and cashmere, strong, yet silky and very warm.
When her phone bleeped, she looked over, expecting a message from her dad or another from Kaisha who had been asking question after question about tomorrow night’s workshop. This would be her second time running it alone and given how well it had gone the first time, Cleo had no doubt she’d be fine this time round. But the text wasn’t from either of them. It was from Arnold, who ran the bridal store. She’d seen him this morning as she opened up, but the delivery guy had arrived with her box of vicuña and Arnold had said he’d catch her later.
Cleo read his text and took a deep breath in, an even longer one out. It was only a short message, to ask whether she’d heard anything about the year’s extension on the leases, and she texted back to say that she hadn’t. But what Arnold’s text had brought to her tonight was a recognition of finality. The store owners she’d passed the time of day with and chatted to every day for the last four years had accepted the times they were in and were embracing the inevitable wave of change. For Arnold, it was his chance to move his family from the city. He’d found a small store near Hartford, Connecticut. Rita seemed keen to make changes to her life too. But what would this all mean to Cleo?
Out in the kitchen, Cleo took down a bottle of red and poured an extra-large measure into a glass. And then she did something she hadn’t done for a long time. She went to the bedroom and pulled out the under-bed storage. She took out a photograph of her mum sitting on the steps leading up to a bathing box at Brighton beach. Cleo was on her lap, sand stuck to her legs and a spade in her hand.
It was the last time they’d been photographed together before her mother died.
It was the last time Cleo’s mum had said, ‘I love you, Buttons.’
It was the last time Cleo had smelt the sun on her mother’s skin, the salt from the waves in her hair, the softness of her hand encasing hers.
And as a tear crept slowly down Cleo’s cheek, she wanted to scream at the woman in the photo who’d disappeared from her life but taken so much away from her own daughter: her happiness, her ability to love properly, and instead replaced it with fear… fear of letting anyone in, fear of having a child of her own.
Cleo’s biggest fear was that she was exactly like her mother, and for the last four years the Little Knitting Box had made her see herself in a new light. Now, it felt like the canopy of shade was being pulled over again and she didn’t know what to do. Was her light about to go out, just as her mother’s had?
13
