A memory flashes into my head. Theo making his comment about celery being one hundred per cent not pizza and winking at me.
‘Actually, no, it was okay,’ I muse. ‘There was this bloke called Theo who helped me off with my case. Otherwise I’d have missed the stop.’
‘Theo, eh? Tell me more.’
Her tone is loaded with innuendo and heat floods into my cheeks. ‘Nothing to tell. He’s just … um … nice.’
‘Nice? Is that all?’
‘And quirky. He was reading a book about crochet.’
She laughs. ‘He sounds fascinating. And how’s your dad?’
‘Oh, you know. Putting on a brave face, I think. They both are,’ I say, relieved she’s dropped the subject of Theo.
‘Your dad is just the best. Remember he used to cut sticks of rhubarb from the garden and give us a little bag of sugar each to dip it in? We must have been about ten.’ She sighs. ‘Those were the days.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, and when you crunched it, you felt like you were stripping the enamel off your teeth. And if you ate too much you were awake all night with a sore stomach. Those “good old days” had a lot to answer for!’
Paloma gets quite sentimental over her childhood, but as my own memories tend to feature a lot of Lucy Slater in a starring role, I much prefer to look to the future.
We decide to meet for brunch at eleven, and I switch off the light, feeling so much better for having spoken to her. Coming back to Hart’s End alone, without Paloma in my corner, would have been a whole lot more difficult …
Paloma was there for me through my darkest days at school. She made me laugh through my tears and even squared up to Lucy sometimes on my behalf, although I knew she hated fighting – was against it on principle. She’s much more resilient than me. Refuses to let anything get her down. And it’s not as if her own childhood was exactly a walk in the park, either.
Born in Hart’s End, she was given away at birth and moved soon after, with her new family, to Scotland. But her adoptive dad, Bill, died when Paloma was only six, and her heartbroken mum, Linda, decided to move them both back to the familiar surroundings of Hart’s End. Then, last year, Linda – who Paloma adored – died after a short battle with breast cancer.
I came back to Hart’s End for the funeral, then offered to stay on a few days to help Paloma clear out her mum’s house because I knew she had no relatives to rely on. But she wanted to do it herself. It would help her draw one phase of her life to a close, ready to start the next, she explained. There was something about the calm, logical way she said it that made me uneasy, but I told myself people coped with bereavement in all sorts of different ways.
Then something happened that made me realise Paloma was far from okay.
Six months after Linda’s death, she had what I later realised was a sort of breakdown.
I was at her flat one morning when the doorbell rang, and listening from the living room, I gathered it was one of her female clients. After a minute, Paloma’s voice started to rise and to my alarm, I heard her shout, ‘And never come to my home with your stupid questions!’ before slamming the door.
I rushed to the window. The poor, bemused woman was hurrying away as if a psychopath was after her.
When I questioned Paloma, she insisted she was in the right. The woman shouldn’t have come to her flat, no matter how urgent the matter was and however many emails were bouncing right back to her. I asked her if she’d managed to get a new broadband provider (she’d thrown the router at the wall in a fit of annoyance over a weak signal a few days before). She hadn’t.
Retreating to the kitchen, I put the kettle on and stood there worrying about how to help my best friend. With no email contact, it was no wonder the poor client felt she had no option but to pay Paloma a visit in person to discuss her account. But Paloma wasn’t thinking clearly. She was missing Linda so much but refusing to give in to the feeling and actually grieve for her mum.
The next day – a warm and sunny Saturday in early August – I told Paloma we were going on a mystery tour, down to the south coast, and I took her to Bournemouth, where she’d spent many happy holidays with Linda in a little B&B there called The Bay View Guest House. I was nervous about how she’d react. But when she realised where we were heading, she fell silent, staring out at scenery that must have been heartbreakingly familiar.
We sat on the sand and shared the picnic I’d brought, and I could tell she was growing emotional because she kept losing track of the conversation and staring out to sea, a wistful look on her face. The memories, I could tell, were flooding back.
In the end, her shoulders started to shake, and she dropped her head on her knees and wept for the mother she’d lost. We sat there for a long time, my own throat hurting in empathy with her sobs, as I rubbed her back gently from time to time.
At last, she stopped crying and looked up at me with red, swollen eyes and asked if I had a hanky.
‘No, but you can use my sleeve if you like,’ I joked, and was rewarded with a watery smile.
She gave a giant sniff and lifted her T-shirt to dab her eyes. ‘I need something to drink.’
I dug in the bag for the flask of coffee and started unscrewing the lid.
She shook her head. ‘I want to get plastered.’
So we gathered our things and went to the nearest pub as the light was fading and drank far too much for our own good. Then we walked back to the beach, arm in arm (mainly because we’d have fallen down otherwise), kicked off our shoes and went for a paddle in the sea, which we both found hysterically funny.
Next day, over breakfast at The Bay View Guest House, Paloma was subdued. But she talked a bit about Linda and the fun times they’d had in Bournemouth. And when we were leaving, before she got into the car, she stared out across the blue sea that glittered with diamonds in the sunshine, and said softly, ‘I miss you so much, Mum.’
On the journey home, she said the first thing she was going to do when she got back was telephone her client and apologise for her outburst.
That’s when I knew Paloma was going to be all right …
‘Use the pulley! Go on, please. For old times’ sake.’
It’s the following day – a sunny morning in early May – and we’re in the garden of Honey Cottage, Paloma beaming down at me from the open window of the treehouse.
She lowers the basket on a string, a remnant from when we were kids, and I plonk the box of freshly baked cookies inside, along with the two portable coffees I’ve made. Then I stand back, arms folded, grinning as she makes a big ceremony of hauling up the goodies.
‘Double chocolate chip?’ she calls, rescuing the coffees then pulling off the cookie box lid. ‘Gorgeous. You can charge a fortune for these in your café.’ She waves one around and starts munching.
‘I’ll be charging what they’re worth, no more,’ I call back, climbing Dad’s home-made ladder. ‘Otherwise the customers won’t return. If they come at all.’
‘If you build it, they will come,’ she quotes from the movie Field of Dreams.
‘I don’t have to build it. It’s already there,’ I call up to her. ‘And I’m not sure my café will be in the same league as a magic baseball stadium and a delicious Kevin Costner in his much younger days.’
She laughs. ‘Well, maybe. But I bet he didn’t sell the best strawberry and dark chocolate shortcake this side of the English Channel. Which yours will