seemingly without a care in the world, Trish furrowed her forehead. ‘She told me you didn’t give her any money this weekend. Which is why I gave her twenty pounds on Tuesday.’
A long sigh whooshed through the ether. Trish could imagine her still-husband raking a hand through his thick fair hair. It had been his hair that had first caught her attention when she’d toppled onto him on the train that fateful day. The way he always raked his hand through it when considering something always made her smile. Her lips threatening to do just that now, she forced the corners down and elbowed aside all hair-raking images.
‘She’s costing me a fortune,’ Ian grumbled.
‘And who’s fault’s that?’ Through her seriously straight mouth, Trish’s words sounded harsher than intended. To be fair, Ian had never griped about money.
Another sigh ensued, before he ventured, ‘Have you, um, told her about Chloe and the baby yet?’
Despite his sheepish tone, hearing him voice the phrase “Chloe and the baby” made Trish feel sick. Saying the woman was pregnant was one thing. Saying “Chloe and the baby” made it seem much more real; hammered home the realisation that, in a few months, there would be another little person in her husband’s life. One who would have a name. Then it would be “Chloe and the named-little-person” – Ian’s new family. One completely detached from Trish. The thought made vomit rise in her throat.
‘No,’ she replied, sucking in a bolstering breath. She’d been waiting for the right moment to tell Amber. She’d thought, if Ian agreed to the paper round, that she might do it over the veggie fajitas that evening, when her daughter would most likely be in a good mood. But now it struck her that she didn’t want to. That she had no desire to be the one to break her daughter’s high spirits. Or the one to suffer the fallout. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’ve decided I’m not going to. The news should definitely come from you.’
For several seconds a heavy silence clattered down the line.
‘She’s not going to like it,’ Ian eventually puffed.
Trish bit back a snort of ironic laughter. Amber “not liking” the news of her impending half-sibling was akin to saying property prices in the Cotswolds were below the national average. ‘No. She isn’t.’
‘Which is why I think it would be so much better coming from you.’
Trish shook her head. The gall of the man. ‘And why exactly do you think that, Ian?’
‘Well, because… because… you’re her mother.’
This time she didn’t bother holding back her laughter. ‘I am her mother. And you’re her father. And as this development is purely father-related, I see no reason why I should tell her.’
This time his sigh rang with impatience. ‘Right. Fine. I’ll tell her at the weekend.’
‘You do that. And if you bottle out and do it by text, I’ll never forgive you.’
‘Right.’
‘Oh. And one more thing. She’s gone vegetarian.’
‘Bloody hell. That’s all we need.’
‘All I need, you mean,’ retorted Trish. Before jabbing the End Call button.
Reclining against the soft leather seat of the car, Trish watched the cow lift its tail and swiftly turned her head away. She’d had quite enough of the stuff it was about to evacuate during the conversation with Ian. She had, however, dealt with it well, she thought. She had no idea what had inspired that bout of assertiveness – very possibly the chat with the self-assured Connie – but it was the first time she’d stood up for herself since the split; the first time she hadn’t allowed Ian to treat her like a doormat just to keep Amber happy. But, based on how good it felt, she resolved there and then that it certainly wouldn’t be the last time.
Arriving home, Trish found Amber waiting for her, throwing open the front door with great aplomb.
‘Well?’ she demanded, huge amber eyes sparkling. The very eyes responsible for her name. Minutes after entering the world, with Trish and Ian gazing at her in stupefied awe, she’d opened those eyes and gazed back.
‘They’re amber,’ Ian had gasped.
‘That’s what we should call her then,’ Trish had decided.
‘What did Connie say?’ pressed the quasi-adult version now, not nearly as placid as the newborn Trish had just pictured.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she confirmed. ‘Connie has explained exactly how it works and what’s expected of you. I told her you’ll start on Monday.’
‘Brilliant! Thanks, Mum.’ She planted a kiss on Trish’s cheek. Then, horror washing over her face, ‘Crap. I have nothing to wear.’
Trish wrinkled her nose. ‘You’re delivering papers at six in the morning. I don’t think anyone will give a monkey’s what you wear.’
Amber tossed her an admonishing look. ‘Honestly, Mum. You have no idea,’ she chided, before sticking her nose in the air and waltzing off down the hall.
Several hours later – at two-fifty-three in the morning – Trish discovered Amber wasn’t the only one in the house with sartorial matters on her mind. She’d woken in a cold sweat stressing about the cookery club – worrying her skills weren’t up to it; concerned the other members wouldn’t like her; and wondering what to wear. At two-fifty-seven, after a furious rummage through her wardrobe, she’d settled on black linen trousers and a cream, V-necked top. And, after several changes of mind during the day, had reverted to her original – and ridiculously early – choice.
‘How do I look?’ she’d asked Amber, as she prepared to leave for Connie’s cottage.
Amber had tilted her head to one side, run appraising eyes over her and made a strange grunting sound.
Trish hadn’t known if it was a good grunting sound or a bad one. And she’d lacked the courage to ask.
The moment Connie opened the door to her, though, all her concerns evaporated on a puff of garlic-infused smoke. The younger woman, while still looking gorgeous, was wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt. Making Trish breathe a sigh of relief she hadn’t opted for anything more formal.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ her host gushed. ‘I had a horrible feeling you might back out at the last minute.’
Trish pulled a face. ‘Between me and you, I almost did. Not because I didn’t want to come, but because I’m so nervous. It’s been ages since I’ve met any new people.’
Connie laughed. ‘Honestly, I felt exactly the same when I set up the club. The evening of the first meeting, I was so nervous I almost threw up.’
‘Yep, that sounds familiar,’ chuckled Trish, entering the cottage and following her host up the hall. ‘Goodness. This house is gorgeous.’
‘I know. Unfortunately, it isn’t mine. I’m house- and dog-sitting – for a friend for six months while she and her husband are in Australia. Eric – the dog in question – is behind the sofa, but he should pluck up the courage to poke his head out in approximately twenty minutes.’
Trish laughed. ‘Bit on the nervy side then?’
‘Just a tad. An old rescue greyhound, who, despite having tons of love and attention heaped on him, still hasn’t conquered his nerves. He’s getting better, though.’
‘That’s good,’ said Trish. ‘But I thought you were looking after the newsagent’s while the owner was in Spain.’
‘That too. Well, me and the owner’s cousin. So, I suppose you could say I’m an all-round sitter. Which suits me fine at the minute. I’ll spare you the gory details but I ended up living back with my parents in London a short while ago. So, when my friend Anna offered me this house