which had completely hooked her. One which, following a course at the local technical college, had revealed a whole new world: cooking. Previously viewing the activity as an unavoidable everyday chore, Trish had discovered that by experimenting with recipes, being adventurous with flavours, attempting dishes from countries she’d never previously have dreamed of visiting, and expanding and perfecting a range of associated skills, cooking not only produced a tangible and – hopefully – delicious result that tickled all the senses, but fascinated, absorbed and – above all – relaxed her.
That fateful morning last October – exactly ten months ago now – when Ian had informed her – over his shoulder as he’d departed for the office – that they needed to have A Serious Chat later, Trish had been so anxious about what The Chat might entail and just how Serious it might be, that she’d rustled up a veritable feast in a bid to calm her nerves. Not that any of it had been eaten. Every morsel had ended up in the bin because The Chat, just as she’d suspected, had been very Serious indeed: Ian was leaving her for his twenty-five-year-old personal assistant, Chloe.
For all her mounting apprehension, Trish hadn’t been surprised. Desperately hoping she might be wrong, she’d spotted all the clichéd signs: the sudden requirement to work later than usual; the whiff of perfume on clothes; the teeth-whitening, intense fascination with hair gel, and the weekly purchasing of yet more designer boxers. Plus, she’d had the unfortunate privilege of being seated next to the rather-too-fragrant Chloe at Ian’s office Christmas party. Despite her own sartorial efforts that evening – a hairdresser’s appointment to pin up her shoulder-length bob – the same honey-blonde as her daughter’s; a new frock – which, although her usual size twelve, flattened and smoothed in all the right places; and outrageously expensive sequined silver sandals – adding four inches to her five-foot-three frame, Trish had found herself wondering – once again – why she’d bothered, as she’d languished in the shade of the radiant – and young – Chloe: a polished, shiny package of toned, tanned perfection, with a degree in business studies, a shimmering sheet of glossy black hair, and an impressive set of 36DDs.
‘So, what do you do?’ the younger woman had demanded, steely green, perfectly made-up eyes boring into Trish’s insipid blue ones.
Trish had been tempted to reply, ‘I’m a naked tightrope walker’. But instead she’d stuck to the truth: ‘I illustrate children’s books.’
One side of Chloe’s plump, glossy mouth had curled upwards. ‘Ducks and things?’
Trish had caught her decidedly less juicy lip between her teeth. That very day she’d been working on a Daisy Duck book. But, judging by the younger girl’s reaction, ducks evidently weren’t “cool” – as Amber would say. ‘Among other things’, she’d replied, as civilly as she could muster.
‘What? Like trains with faces and fat postmen?’
The blatant condescension had caused Trish’s polite smile to dim, anger to stir in her stomach, and her gaze to slide from the girl’s mocking one to the chocolate-orange trifle she’d hardly touched. The urge to tip it down Chloe’s ample cleavage had been overwhelming.
And she suspected, from the way Ian’s eyes had repeatedly migrated to his assistant’s chest, that he’d been experiencing a similar desire – albeit for different reasons.
For a woman who’d not long since “celebrated” her fortieth birthday, the experience hadn’t done much for Trish’s self-esteem, which, for months, had been slowly edging southwards, along with her average 32Bs, her less than pert derrière, and the majority of her flesh.
And now Ian and Chloe were not only shacked up together in the girl’s “luxury apartment”, but another “development” had arisen in their relationship. One Ian – with his well-honed delegation skills – had requested Trish inform their daughter of.
‘You don’t mind telling her, do you?’ he’d bleated on the phone earlier. ‘I think she’d take it better coming from you.’
Trish, though, knew her estranged husband better than that. It wasn’t Amber’s mental wellbeing that concerned him, but his own physical one. What he’d actually meant was, ‘I daren’t tell her because she’ll blow a gasket and very possibly throw things around.’
Given the enormity of the “development”, Trish would have put money on her daughter blowing several gaskets, if not an entire engine. And an extra fiver on her throwing things around. The complete opposite to her behaviour in her more formative years. As a child, Amber’s gaskets had remained polished and intact. And she’d never hurled so much as a proverbial toy out of her proverbial pram. She’d been as close to perfection as Trish could imagine any child being: sleeping through the night from two months old; embracing potty training like it was the latest craze; skipping off to nursery without a backward glance; and eating anything placed in front of her without the slightest demurring.
‘God, she’s perfect,’ her friends would sigh when grumbling about their own offsprings’ failings. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are.’
Trish, though, had been very conscious of her luck. And had always harboured a suspicion it wouldn’t last. That, upon entering teenagerdom, Amber would rebel – coming home with unmentionable parts of her body pierced, and boyfriends who didn’t wash and spoke only in words of one syllable. But she hadn’t. Despite Trish waking up with palpitations on her daughter’s thirteenth birthday, convinced this would be the year it would all go horribly wrong, the child had remained loving, studious and considerate. Which, having heard of some of the mood swings and tantrums other teenagers indulged in, Trish had been relieved and secretly a little smug about. She may have made only minor inroads into the dazzling fine artist’s career she’d planned for herself when she’d sailed out of university with a first-class degree and an esteemed portfolio, but she didn’t mind. Becoming unexpectedly pregnant at twenty-six had been the best thing that had happened to her. And she’d willingly forfeited her design agency job to be a full-time mum – something, although she said so herself, she’d proved rather good at so far, priding herself on the close relationship she and Amber shared, confident they could talk about anything.
Anything, Trish had discovered ten months ago, except the news that Ian was leaving her, or – more specifically – leaving them.
‘I think it would be best if you told her,’ he had – once again – proposed.
‘Actually, I think it would be best if it came from both of us,’ Trish had replied – amazed at her own lucidity, given the bomb which, only seconds before, had obliterated her world.
Ian had cast a meaningful look at his watch. ‘Can’t stay. Chloe’s waiting outside in the car,’ he’d announced, before scuttling to the hall cupboard, yanking out a suitcase he’d prepared earlier, and legging it down the front path at a speed Trish hadn’t witnessed since the day Mott the Hoople concert tickets had gone on sale.
Leaving her to do his dirty work.
Despite the rampant despair and confusion surging through her – plus the overwhelming urge to burrow under the duvet and remain there for the next two decades – Trish had made a valiant attempt to rally, cobbling together some words she hoped made sense, and attempting to break the news to Amber as calmly and rationally as possible: ‘These things happen’; ‘It isn’t the end of the world’; ‘You’ll probably see more of your dad now than you have in the past’; and ‘He’s been working so hard lately, you might not even notice he’s gone’.
She’d been prepared for tears – holding back her own so they could indulge in a synchronised session. She’d been ready to hold her daughter until she sobbed herself dry. And she’d braced herself for some severe name-calling of Ian, the perpetrator. The one eventuality she hadn’t expected had been Amber’s burning fury and the crushing accusation: ‘This is all your fault.’
And that had been that.
The end of life as Trish had known it.
Not only had her husband deserted her, but her once-perfect child, the