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Why hadn’t she come back home more often after she’d left? Even if it was just to snatch a weekend with Nessa. Why hadn’t she insisted more firmly that Nessa come down to stay with her in the flat above her boutique in south west London during the school holidays more often? Suggest they take in a show or a concert or the rugby cup final – Nessa adored rugby; well, she adored all sports really.
‘I really am sorry, Ness. I’ve been a truly awful friend. Will you ever be able to forgive me?’
‘Real friends need no apologies, Soph. You were just investing in your dreams; dreams you’ve had since I met you. And I’ve followed mine, too. I’m happy. Only one thing would put the proverbial cherry on top of my cupcake.’
‘What?’
It was Nessa’s turn to colour up.
‘Or should I say, who?’
They had reached the lychgate of the parish church. Nessa lifted the rusty iron handle, and they sauntered along the churchyard’s cracked pathway, meandering through the moss-strewn graves which protruded from the ground like a set of crooked ogre’s teeth.
Then Sophie saw it. Her parents’ grave. And there, in front of the grey marble headstone, was the white rose bush that Noah had planted for her all those years ago. It had been carefully pruned and well cared for.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Sophie murmured, allowing the tears to trickle unchecked down her cheeks.
‘Noah comes here every time he’s home from a tour to tend the rose bush that you planted together for your parents.’
Sophie turned in astonishment to her best friend in the world.
‘He…’
‘It’s like a ritual with him.’
Sophie was suddenly so overwhelmed by a surge of grief that she dropped down onto her knees and sobbed as though the tears would never stop.
Chapter Twelve
Spring cast its blanket of hopefulness and renewal across the undulating fields but it failed to restore Sophie’s desolate spirits. Fingers of pale ivory light spread across the horizon promising a sharp new dawn and hinting at a warm sunny Sunday morning. All village activity was confined to the churchyard perched at the end of the village, so Somersby’s village green was deserted.
Grimacing with annoyance at missing the best part of the day, Sophie sat cross-legged on the threadbare Persian rug in front of a scarred red suitcase, its lid yawning wide, stuffed with a plethora of documents, yellowing newspaper clippings, official-looking letters and random receipts, all of which masqueraded as her aunt’s business accounts.
She’d been putting it off, but it was time to delve into the murk that was Gingerberry Yarns’ finances, such as they were. The task was turning into a feat of financial archaeology that evenTime Teamwould have baulked at!
Her mug of Earl Grey tea had grown cold, and her neck and shoulders were screaming their objection when her toil was interrupted by a loud hammering on the shop door downstairs.
It’s Sunday morning, for heaven’s sake, Sophie thought grumpily, unfolding her stiffened, jean-clad legs and raising her numb buttocks from the mat. She rolled her neck muscles by twisting her shoulders, before trotting down the stairs to answer someone’s urgent call for that last ball of yarn required tocomplete a project that could not have waited a single moment longer.
But it wasn’t a desperate customer.
‘Nessa!’
‘Hi, Sophie.’
‘Come on in. I’m busy trying to scale a mountain of my aunt’s paperwork.’
Sophie led Nessa upstairs into the room that served as both kitchen and lounge, seeing the place through Nessa’s eyes. Documents were spread over every available surface, some tumbling like an alpine avalanche from the chintzy sofa down to the rug and the nest-like space in which Sophie had been sitting as she thrashed her way through the maze of bureaucracy.
‘I had an inkling you’ve not been eating properly since you arrived home. That is why, my friend, I have arrived on this mercy mission to rescue you from your hunger pangs with these little beauties.’ She held aloft a familiar pale peppermint box tied with ivory ribbon. ‘Picked them up yesterday from Wallington’s bakery. Everyone’s talking about it, so I thought I’d make a special detour.’
‘Thanks, Nessa. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Did you know the guy did his training in Paris and then honed his spectacular talent at Betty’s, or maybe it was the other way round? You do remember that Betty’s Emporium of Confectionary is my most favourite shop in the world, right? These cupcakes are to die for. Erm, I have to confess that we started off with three each, but, well, I felt honour-bound to ensure they were up to scratch for my best friend’s delectation!’
Nessa had already flicked open the lid and set about arranging the little sugary gems onto a fancy china plate she’d pulled from the cupboard above Claire’s old-fashioned cooker.
