Page 63 of Just for the Season

‘Made some cakes, served some customers, finished all the party prep apart from last-minute stuff, did some blue-sky thinking about my future career.’

‘Where did you get to on the career thoughts?’ I realise that I’m being extremely selfish but I don’t want Frankie to leave Milbury, even though I have nothing to offer her beyond friendship. She clearly feels drawn to London, and, after what happened with Astrid leaving us and going to Germany, I’d always be worried that Frankie would leave too. The kids really like her, and there would be a risk that she would become some kind of mother figure to them, and I couldn’t bear them then to feel abandoned for a second time if Frankie then left. Ruby and Sam are everything to me, and I have to do what’s right for them, i.e. not have a serious romantic relationship.

‘I like organising events,’ she tells me. ‘I loved doing the potluck supper last week. I’ve loved organising the party. I also love cooking and would happily do larger-scale catering. But I still don’t love working in the café. I could do part-time here, definitely, but not full-time. Also… yeah, no.’ She looks like she had something completely separate to talk about but then thought better of it.

I open my mouth to probe and then remember that I’d be hypocritical in the extreme to expect her to tell me about her career plans if I won’t tell her what I do. I’d like to tell her and I do trust her, so maybe I will. Actually, no, what am I thinking? I haven’t even fully told the kids.

‘I want to find something that fits in with my long-term plans,’ Frankie continues, while I’m still thinking.

‘Oh, yes?’ I ask, looking ahead at the path rather than at her. It’s definitely the case that teenagers talk better when you’re side by side with them, not really looking at them. Maybe that works with adults too sometimes.

‘A lot of my friends have or are having babies. I think I’d like to try for a baby myself.’

‘Oh.’ I had not expected that. God. She isn’t going to want to carry on with this fake relationship for a lot longer then. Or… does she want me to…? No, of course not. Of course not.

‘Your face is so funny right now.’ She sniggers. ‘You look so wide-eyed shocked. No, I am not expecting our fake relationship to extend to fatherhood. What I meant was I’m done with real relationships. Too many bad ones and no good ones. I’m going to try to go it alone. With a sperm donor. So I think I’ll want to work flexibly and obviously I’ll need to be in a position to support a baby.’

‘Wow,’ I say, still a little bit thrown, although I’m certain she’d be an amazing mother and what she says makes total sense. ‘Big plans.’

‘Yeah,’ she agrees.

‘So are you thinking you’d rather stay in Milbury or go back to London?’

‘I’m really not sure right now. I think, ultimately, if I decide to try for the solo parenting route I should maybe move back to London. I do have Ellie and Gran here, but in London I just feel that my job opportunities would be better, and there’s more childcare available. Ellie obviously has her job and Gran is elderly, so I couldn’t possibly rely on them to help too much. So, yep, probably back there in due course. Maybe when my tenants’ term on my flat is up next year.’

I nod. That exactly underlines my concerns about what would happen if we allowed romance to develop between us. She’d leave eventually and I’d be bereft, and, more importantly, so would the kids.

God. I don’t know at what point in our friendship we morphed into talking about big things, but I do know that this is a big thing and that I really don’t want Frankie to leave Milbury but that I cannot possibly ask her to stay.

21

FRANKIE

It’s the evening before Gran’s party and I’m standing at Heathrow waiting for Mum to emerge through customs into the arrivals area. I hope she won’t mind that I didn’t rent a car for her. It’s obviously a real schlepp to pick up a rental car at an airport, especially a huge, bustling one like Heathrow, and finding a taxi is obviously expensive and can involve a long wait, so I thought the nicest thing for her would be if I drove to meet her, and then put her on my insurance the whole time she’s here. I know my car isn’t the flashiest (that’s an understatement) but surely she won’t mind. It never breaks down and I took it for a serious valet clean, inside and out, at lunchtime today. (Marcus very kindly covered for me in the café.)

Mum is taking a long time to come out. Her flight landed a whole hour ago, and a few large groups of people with big suitcases have emerged into arrivals since then. I’ve tried calling her a few times, but she isn’t picking up.

Hmm, maybe she hasn’t got a great signal or her phone thinks she’s still in New York, because, now I think about it, I haven’t been getting a UK ringtone.

I check the time. She doesn’t like being hassled, but it’s now over five minutes since the last time I rang. Maybe she has some kind of problem I can help her with. Whatever the reason she isn’t out yet, it should be fine to call her again.

I press the phone icon next to her name, and, yes, a couple of seconds later, there’s that non-UK ringtone again.

Five rings in, she picks up.

‘Frankie.’ She doesn’t sound particularly effusive. She must be having a bad time.

‘Hi, Mum. Welcome to England! How was the flight? Do you have a problem with your suitcase or customs?’ I realise that I’m babbling slightly, but Mum being in a bad mood always does that to me. Like the more I talk the more the mood will disappear. Usually the reverse happens so I should actually shut up. Every time.

‘What?’

‘Erm.’ What does she mean by what? ‘Where are you?’

‘In my apartment?’ She says it like a question, like duh, like I’m being stupid.

‘Erm. But you were supposed to fly today? Did you…’ I should not word it in a way that might make her think I’m suggesting it’s her fault, although I am sure I wrote the right date and time in the email. ‘Maybe there’s been a miscommunication. Your flight was today. It just landed. I think. Maybe I got it wrong.’

‘I’m not coming. I told you that.’