Page 54 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

‘It depends,’ I said carefully. ‘There are some fantastic things about living there. But there are also some not so fantastic. The crowds on the Tube in rush hour, for a start.’ I shuddered as I recalled the swarm of humanity, all jostling to get through the barriers every evening. ‘Trust me. Travel to work in Padcock is much better.’

‘I guess. But with you doing creative stuff — isn’t there just a perfect vibe for that?’

‘Well yes. There’s no denying that there is a vibe. However, to make it up there and not just be a creative wannabe, takes a very special skillset.’ I paused for a moment and considered Damien. He blagged. He could blag for England, Ireland and everywhere else. That boy had snogged the face off the Blarney Stone, never mind just kissing the damn thing. That was the sort of person I needed to be to compete with all the other “creatives” in London. And I’m not sure I could sustain it, even if I could blag well enough to start in the first place. ‘I’m just — not sure I have that skillset.’ I smiled, to take the edge off my words. ‘Anyway — I’ll let you get on and get the pins and things. See you later!’

‘Yes, see you later, Matilda!’

And that was it, all sorted. I’d make the most of my last day here I decided. Get what I needed at the corner shop, go back to my room, collect my art things — maybe paint for a little bit on the village green, which had looked remarkably pretty when I’d passed it on my wanders. I’d go back, see Polly, pack my belongings — and head home.

The word “home” should have sent a thrill through me — a lovely, warm, cosy thrill. But as I walked across the square to the Spatchcock, I was afraid I was getting more of a warm, cosy feeling about my surroundings in Padcock. And surely that couldn’t be right?

Perhaps, I mused, if a certain person was in London, I’d get the cosies there too . . . ?

Oh well. It wasn’t worth thinking of and pondering that question, because currently my life was in London — and his was firmly based in Padcock.

Chapter Twenty

And, just like that, my soiree in Padcock was over. I had looked around my room at the Spatchcock with a definite sense of sadness after I’d packed and there was nothing personal strewn around.

I’d managed to find safety pins, scissors and even a travel sewing kit at the corner shop, which was luckily open on a Sunday. So I’d pinned, tacked and revamped the blouse, using Polly as my very twitchy and wriggly model, and I had the garment in my bag to take home.

Jay drove me to the train station, which was very kind of him, and I managed to get a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek before I boarded my train. It was such a friendly kiss that I started to doubt that moment on Friday evening when — I thought — we’d almost kissed.

But perhaps Jay was just leaning forward to tell me I had a smudge on my nose or something in my teeth. Too late, I ran my tongue around my teeth as I sat on the train and my cheeks burned in case I had severely misinterpreted it all — and I was just, basically, scruffy.

So here I was now, back in the flat, my bags dumped on the bed, the evening sun streaming through the Blitz-gap opposite my bedroom, and Padcock seemed like a dream. In fact, I would have wondered whether I had genuinely been there, were it not for the rusty-coloured blouse in my bag that certainly didn’t belong to me.

I doubted I could get one arm in it, to be honest.

I sighed, and took the blouse over to my machine. Might as well do it now, then I’d feel as if I was hanging onto Padcock for a bit longer . . .

* * *

‘Matilda!’

Rosie’s yell startled me a few hours later, and I jumped, dropping a pin on the floor. I ducked down to get it and banged my head on the table. By the time she flew into my room, I was glaring at the door and rubbing my head.

‘Oh Matilda!’ She halted and stood there with her arms outstretched, obviously expecting a hug, yet looking horrified by the expression on my face.

‘You startled me. I bumped my head,’ I complained.

‘Oh is that all it is?’ Her sunny smile lit up the room again. ‘At least it’s not as bad as when you sewed your finger to that apron you were making.’ She beckoned me over by flapping her hands around, clearly expecting me to jog into them.

‘It was an apron dress,’ I grumbled. ‘And it hurt.’ She’d startled me many, many times before, and that time I’d put the needle through the skin at the side of my finger when she made me jump, causing the hand guiding the fabric through the machine to slip.

‘Oh I bet it did. Hug!’ More flapping of the hands. More beckoning.

I shook my head in despair. Despite her oddness and eccentricities, or maybe because of them, Rosie was my best friend, and I still couldn’t believe I’d practically ghosted her for two days or so. The hugs and the startling were part of why I loved her so much.

So I jogged over to her, and we gave each other the most squishiest hug ever. Then I suddenly pulled back.

‘Oh God. I’m not squashing it am I?’ I nodded to her midriff. ‘The baby.’

‘Good Lord, no.’ She patted her tummy. ‘Probably well protected by Sunday lunch anyway. That’s where we’ve been.’

‘“We”, I assume, is you and Damien?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded happily. ‘He’s in the kitchen. I’m training him to make a decent coffee. If I can only have one a day for the next few months, I want a proper one.’