Page 3 of Just for the Season

‘Half each,’ I confirm to Marcus.

‘Thank you,’ he says, sounding the exact opposite of grateful.

I smile at him. When you’ve had a day like mine, you really, really don’t care if a random stranger in a cake shop gives you the evil eye. Frankly, I’m just impressed that I can still smile at all, about anything.

I suddenly realise that Simon is on his hands and knees sorting out a mess I made (well, it was entirely Marcus’s fault, but my bag was involved).

‘Simon, let me do that.’ I crouch down next to him.

‘No, no, all good.’ He’s actually already finished.

‘You’re good,’ I say, impressed.

‘I am. Always remember that.’ Simon grins at me and I hug him. Thank goodness for friends. Maybe I will be able to get through the complete fuck-up that my life has suddenly turned into. Then he stands up and begins to fill a large takeaway paper carrier bag with boxes containing my half of the squashed carrot cake plus several other cakes. ‘So you’re paying for all of this, Marcus?’ he asks.

‘Yep.’ Marcus does not sound happy, I’m pleased to say.

* * *

I am not at my happiest either, and for much bigger reasons, but driving through the lovely familiarity and sheer gorgeousness of the village high street, with its row of higgledy-piggledy, pastel-painted cottages, against their backdrop of tree-covered hills, which look particularly beautiful right now with their autumnal brown and orange leaves, I do begin to feel a little calmer. Enough to drive without either crying or yelling fucking tosser every five minutes, anyway, which is a big improvement on my journey down here.

Five minutes after leaving the café, I’ve parked round the back of Ellie’s cottage next to her garage (aka a very ancient barn containing everything under the sun except any kind of vehicle) and am standing next to my car shivering a little. It’s always easy to forget that late September sunshine – however glorious – fades quickly as the evenings draw in.

There are no lights on in the cottage, even though it’s five thirty and the days are getting shorter now, so it looks like neither Ellie nor Jack are in. Ellie’s a teacher in a big comprehensive in the nearest town, Chartfield, and Jack is a sixth-form pupil there. Ellie is usually home by this time on a Friday; to celebrate the end of the working week she allows herself to go home not long after the pupils and does her marking, lesson prep and so on over the weekend, and if she’s going out in the evening she still likes to pop home first to get changed. It really doesn’t look like she’s here, though, and I now realise that in my haste to get away from London I didn’t actually tell her I was coming.

Well, never mind, I’ll just wait for her inside with a cup of tea and my delicious mangled carrot cake.

I don’t attempt to unpack any of my stuff. I chucked pretty much everything I own into my car earlier, in no order whatsoever, so at some point I’m going to have to go through my bags to find basics like underwear and toiletries, but right now I can’t face it.

Ellie always leaves the back door – which leads straight into her kitchen – unlocked. Obviously that strikes horror into my crime-infested-London-based soul, but she’s consistently been proved right by the fact that the last crime recorded in Milbury was over twenty years ago (a tourist snatched a bag through the open window of a car and was immediately tackled by several local residents, and then he tried to sue them for the distress they caused him); and right now it’s perfect for me.

Carrying the bag of cakes, I go inside, flick on the lights, put the kettle on and then sink into a chair. I am so tired. Being really upset, really stressed and really angry – and having to pack up all your stuff as fast as you can and then drive out of your life and back to your childhood home – is exhausting as it turns out.

When the kettle boils, I barely have the energy to lug my body back across the kitchen. I do it, though, because I really want tea with my cake.

A cup of English breakfast made, with a dash of milk added, I sit back down at the table with the tea plus a plate and fork for the cake.

I send Ellie a quick text to let her know that I’m here for the weekend (or a lot longer, eek) and heave a sigh of… something, I’m not sure what. Almost – weirdly – contentment. As in, my life has very suddenly gone to complete crap, but at least – and it’s a very big at-least – I have my best friend and cousin, plus her lovely son, plus my grandmother. Plus great friends, including Simon.

My thoughts are interrupted by my phone buzzing with a message from Ellie:

SO happy that you’re here this weekend. Perfect ending to the week for me – right now am playing in a ‘fun’ after-work staff team-building FOOTBALL MATCH. Obviously they’ve stuck me in goal. It’s half-time at the moment. Thirty more minutes of true torture to go. And then I’m coming straight home to see you – perfect excuse for avoiding the post-match pub debrief.

My mind’s boggling. Ellie hates team sports.

Another message pings in from her:

Guess how many goals I let in in the first half? Twelve. It’s a record apparently.

I send a message straight back:

Amazing to be a record holder. Proud of you. Also, thoughts and prayers for the second half. I HAVE CAKE. Focus on that. See you later xxxx

Then I send another one:

Please don’t miss a pub evening for me. We have the whole weekend to catch up…

Ellie shoots straight back with: