Page 31 of When Lemons Give You Life

She doesn’t let go until I relax into it and hug her back. Her voice is raw with emotion. “Thank you so much. Tonight has been an absolute gift to me. It’s meant more than you know.”

“All good, madam. I hope you get some rest.”

“You too, love.”

I was going to get some rest alright: eternal rest.

I help tuck her in bed then turn to leave, hoping that she doesn’t want a lullaby too.

“And, chef?”

“Yeah?”

“If you speak to Griff, please tell him to cancel those plans of his.”

I freeze. I thought my fake accent was pretty convincing . . .

She gives a bemused smile, as if reading my mind. “You know, I had a hell of a nap yesterday, which is very unlike me. When the carer put me to bed, she found a couple of pills stuck to my hair. Said they looked like sleeping pills. I told her I can’t imagine how those got there . . .”

Shame burns my cheeks. I can’t form a single word.

“I may be blind, but I see things. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. But you simply must try the cake! And I’d love you to meet my Herb and witness the look on his face when he sees it. I can’t do that anymore. Don’t take it for granted, love, it’s the sight I miss the most. Be my eyes?”

Beau’s butter beam flashes in my mind; it was my favorite sight too.

“I’ll, um . . . pass on your message,” I say.

“Good lad. You tell Griff to think about it. He is still wanted here.”

A lump forms in my throat. I return to my room, look in the mirror and take Gladys’s advice: I tell Griff to think about it.

18

Lisa

Thank god Frank didn’t ask to come in. We couldn’t have even made it past the hall table without him discovering who I truly am.

I press my hand to my sternum, heart still racing. His cologne lingers, earthy, warm and oddly steadying. Am I relieved or disappointed that he didn’t go in for the kiss? Maybe it’s too far for him to bend down. This is clearly not going to be an ergonomic relationship. Even in my favorite cream heels, I’d probably need a step stool to snog him.

How would sex even work? I don’t think we could kiss and, well . . . have other things line up at the same time.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, you goose, Ursula tells my blushing reflection in the hall mirror.

I drag my feet to the washing machine and open the door, a thick, dank smell filling the air. I’ve forgotten to hang it out again, but I’m too tired now. My back is beginning to ache; it’s been a while since I’ve worn stilettos.

A moment later I’m standing in the kitchen with a blister pack of ibuprofen, a glass of water and zero memory of whether I’ve taken them or was just about to take them. Grabbing my phone, I google what happens if you take a double dose: stomach pain . . . bleeding. I’ll just have to suck it up.

I get ready for bed and slip under the cool sheets, popping on my earphones like the ones I’d bought for Mabel. I’m so glad she liked them—best online impulse buy ever! And there have been many, especially during the pandemic. To be honest, most days I didn’t know what was coming, and if I’d opened a box and it was an inflatable flamingo costume, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.

“Connected,” the bluetooth lady announces as I flip through Netflix on my phone, though I really should take my own advice and listen to a mindfulness track.

Ten episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine later, I minimize the screen to check the time: 3 a.m. Nooo! Morning Lisa, who had to wake up at seven, won’t be happy with Night Lisa. Selfish woman. I set my alarm, put on a white-noise track, and begin the long and torturous process of trying to get my aerobic brain to calm down and go to sleep.

Ursula is loud tonight. At first, she examines Frank and analyzes every detail of the date, listing all the reasons why he will never call again, how I was misreading the signs. This is new material, as it’s been a couple of years since I’ve had interest of the romantic kind.

After about an hour of this, my brain turns to its recent nightly program: Why Didn’t My Brother Love Me Growing Up? What Was Wrong with Me? It has many, many episodes and an open-ended season finale called “How Could I Have Been so Stupid?” It’s like the writer and the lead actor of the show have died, so there is no one I can ask for answers. Even the supporting cast is gone.

Now I need the toilet. I force myself out of bed.