Page 64 of Just for the Season

‘What?’

‘Frankie. I sent you an email. Telling you I wasn’t coming.’

I put the phone on speaker and check through my emails, both inbox and junk.

‘I don’t want to contradict you,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think you did.’

‘For God’s sake.’ There’s a tapping sound, and then she says, ‘Oh I see. It didn’t send. Oh well. I’m not coming.’

‘But…’ I have so many, many things I want to say right now. ‘Why?’

‘I decided I needed to come home instead.’

‘Where were you before?’ I’m very confused.

‘In New York? You know that?’

‘But that is your home?’ I’m doing the question thing myself now.

‘No. My home is in Sicily.’

‘Sicily? What? Sicily as in Italy? What?’

‘Frankie. I told you this. I moved here last year.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ I say.

‘I’m sure I told you.’ There’s a bit of a rustling sound and then she says, ‘Well, who knows. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Anyway. I must go. Lovely to speak.’

‘No, Mum,’ I yell. ‘The ticket. Please could you transfer the funds.’

‘Very loud, darling,’ she says. ‘I’m not going to transfer the funds because, remember, I didn’t use the flight.’

‘But I paid for it on your behalf, in good faith, and you didn’t tell me you weren’t coming and I also put you on my car insurance, and I’m skint.’ I’m shrieking slightly, and people are staring at me, but I really don’t care.

‘Darling, so am I. You’re probably insured for this. Speak to the insurance company.’

‘Mum. This is ridiculous. I insist. Morally, you have to pay me.’ It isn’t actually the money that’s making me so outraged (although I really am skint), it’s the awfulness of her behaviour.

‘Darling, it isn’t my fault if emails don’t send.’

‘Mum. I am your daughter and you are treating me appallingly. As though you don’t love me at all. You shouldn’t treat me like this.’ I’ve never, ever said it to her before, but it’s true.

‘Darling, don’t be silly. I love you. Have fun at the party. Speak soon.’ And then she fucking ends the fucking call.

And I stand in the middle of Heathrow arrivals and cry hot, angry, deeply, deeply hurt tears.

After a few minutes, I scrub my eyes, and send Ellie a text telling her everything – I don’t want to speak on the phone right now but I need to tell someone and also everyone will notice tomorrow that Mum isn’t actually there. And then I go and begin my solitary drive back to Milbury in my sparkling and insured-for-my-mum car.

I get back to the village just after 11 p.m.

I park very badly outside the café, too miserable to be bothered to manoeuvre backwards and forwards. The lights are all on; Simon must be in there.

‘Oh,’ I say when I have the door open.

Simon is there, and so are Ellie and Marcus.

Ellie springs straight up out of her chair and envelops me in an enormous hug.