The Sweetest Thing (32 page)

‘It was never mine,’ Guy smiles.

‘Nor mine,’ I say. ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘I’m sorry for what happened this afternoon … It was an awkward situation.’

‘It’s a little –’ he pauses, searching for the right word ‘– frustrating.’

‘Adam and the girls will be off to their dad’s next weekend. Perhaps we could … meet up properly then.’

‘That sounds like a good plan.’ Guy grins as I stand up. ‘How about a goodnight kiss?’

‘Better not,’ I say quietly. ‘Adam’s expecting me.’ Not only that, I’m not sure that once we start I’ll be able to stop.

I find myself thinking about Guy like I used to think about David when we first met. I keep having these delicious dreams, one in particular in which Guy sweeps me off my feet and carries me up to the bedroom. That’s where the dream ends though, strictly in his arms at the bedroom door. I can’t imagine anything beyond that at the moment. I daren’t. I’m too – out of practice … and my body isn’t quite what it was … and, if I’m honest, I’m still scared at the thought of that kind of commitment. Which is why, over the next few days, I enjoy taking it slowly, the snatched kisses and Guy’s romantic gestures: a gift of a basket of field mushrooms left on the doorstep, and two large bulbs of garlic for splitting into cloves and planting in the vegetable plot. They might not sound like much, but they mean everything to me.

The timer rings for the second batch of gingerbread people. This evening, I’ve made whole communities of them for tomorrow’s Farmers’ Market, along with several treacle tarts and all the other favourites. I grab the oven glove, open the oven door and tug at the tray which somehow gets caught on the rack.

‘Careful,’ Guy says as I pull at the tray which suddenly flies out. In a reflex action I catch it with my other hand, the one without the glove.

‘Ow!’ I stutter as I let go, the gingerbread men slamming on to the floor, heads and limbs breaking off. ‘Oh no …’ As I stand up, surveying the scene of devastation, Guy takes hold of my arm, leads me to the sink, turns on the cold water and pushes my hand under the tap. He stands behind me, slightly to one side, and I’m aware of the warmth of his breath against my scalp.

‘How stupid,’ I say through gritted teeth, as the pain subsides to more of an ache. Embarrassed by my stupidity and determined to show that it was nothing, I
attempt to pull my hand away from the jet of cold water, but Guy exerts more pressure on my wrist to keep it there, until he deems I’ve had enough and turns off the tap. Using a tea-towel, he pats my fingers dry and examines them closely, and I have to confess that I rather like standing here with him pressed up against me. With my eyes closed, the sensations of touch intensify, my heartbeat quickens … but nothing can happen.

I feel like we’re teenagers in my parents’ house, except that I’m the parent here and I’m trying to avoid my teenager.

I let out a sigh of frustration. I can’t wait for tomorrow night: no children, just me and Guy and dinner at the Barnscote Hotel.

‘You ought to get that checked,’ he says, breaking the spell.

‘I’ve had worse,’ I say.

‘I’d get a bandage on it at least.’

Moving away, I check the first-aid kit, finding two empty boxes of plasters.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Guy grins. He fetches some from the dairy, wraps my fingers. ‘No more baking for you today.’

‘I have to get these finished. The Farmers’ Market’s tomorrow.’

‘I’ll do it, but you’ll have to tell me what to do.’

‘You’ll find out all my commercial secrets,’ I say, teasing. ‘I wouldn’t say no to some help though …’

Guy stays for a couple of hours, talking rather than baking, but I get most of what I planned done, the incident with the baking tray giving me the inspiration to decorate the gingerbread people with bandages and stethoscopes: doctors, nurses and patients.

The girls wander in and out to ask where their dad
is, and by ten-thirty I suggest that they change into their pyjamas and clean their teeth, ready for bed. Fifteen minutes later, I tuck them in and kiss them goodnight, promising to wake them as soon as David arrives. Deciding that it’s too difficult to time our journeys to meet halfway at the same time to hand over the children, we’ve opted to do one round trip each.

‘Your mum’s had her first industrial accident,’ Guy tells Adam when he turns up trawling for food at about eleven o’clock. ‘I said I’d give her a hand.’

‘Yeah, but where’s Dad got to?’ Adam says. ‘Has he rung you, because he hasn’t contacted me?’

‘Have you tried his mobile?’

‘He isn’t answering. I’ve left him a message.’ Adam drums his fingers against the worktop. ‘What do you think’s happened?’

‘I shouldn’t worry, love. He’s probably caught in the weekend traffic.’ I hesitate. ‘Would you mind printing off some more labels? I seem to have run out.’

‘Do I have to?’

I tip my head to one side.

‘Okay,’ he says with a small smile, and disappears into the lobby to wake the printer up, giving Guy the opportunity to give me the briefest hug.

‘Tomorrow …’ he murmurs, brushing his lips across my cheek.

‘Tomorrow,’ I echo.

I walk with him – at a respectable distance – through the lobby and into the hall where he puts his boots on.

‘’Bye, Jennie,’ he says, his voice loud as he pulls me close and plants a kiss on my lips.

‘Goodbye, Guy,’ I say, trying not to giggle at our attempts at deception.

As I open the door for him, Adam turns up, brandishing a couple of sheets of labels.

‘Is this enough?’ he says.

‘Yes, thanks,’ I say brightly.

‘You haven’t looked to see how many there are,’ he says.

‘I only need a few. Thanks, Adam,’ I add, taking them from him. ‘You can come and stick them on, if you like.’

‘No. I’m going to try Dad again.’ Adam turns away and disappears up to his room with his laptop and phone, and I wonder if I should be more proactive about finding out exactly what he’s up to on Facebook. I did get Hugo to set me up with an account before we moved here, but Adam soon de-friended me, and despite my requests to be his friend again, he’s turned me down repeatedly.

Back in the kitchen, I wrap and stick labels on the cakes that need them, then finish clearing up. There’s no sign of David, and I’m beginning to feel a twinge of unease. I try his mobile and his land line, but there’s no response. Where the hell is he?

At midnight, I receive the call.

‘David, where are you? The kids have been waiting for you all evening. Adam’s been worried sick.’

‘Yeah, I should have been in touch earlier, but I’ve been with my solicitor.’

‘All evening?’ He sounds to me as if he’s been drinking, and then I remember that he’s quite friendly with his solicitor, a friend of his from university. ‘I don’t see why you couldn’t have picked up the phone.’

‘Well, I’ll make up for it. I’m going to apply for custody – I want the children to live with me and Alice full-time.’

‘You what?’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You can’t do that … Can you?’

‘I’ve given you a fair crack of the whip, Jennie, and this arrangement isn’t working – for me or the kids. I’ve talked to Ross and he doesn’t see why we can’t reverse the current agreement, which means—’

‘I know exactly what that means,’ I cut in, ‘and it isn’t fair. They’re just getting settled here. You can’t uproot them again.’ I burst into tears. ‘You can’t do this, David. I’m their mum … They need me.’ I need them.

‘They need some stability in their lives,’ David says calmly. ‘Alice and I can provide that.’

‘You’re both out at work all day.’

‘There isn’t a problem. Alice is cutting her hours – we don’t need two full-time salaries.’

‘You mean, you think she is going to look after my children? David, what utter—’ I swear out loud.

‘You don’t need to give me all that “I’m the only person in the world who can look after them” crap,’ he says, making my fingers tighten around the handset. ‘Because you haven’t been making a very good job of it recently.’

‘And you think you and Alice can do better?’

‘There’s no need to do the derisive snort,’ David interrupts. ‘We’ve got acres of floor space in the flat, we’re right in the centre of civilisation, and Adam can go back to his old school. It’s a no-brainer.’

‘You’re the one with no brain. And no heart,’ I say.

‘Jennie, you can’t blame me for this. You’ve brought it on yourself. You seem oblivious to the concept of a healthy diet – the kids are always eating cake.’

‘That isn’t true. They have lots of fruit and veg as well.’

‘It might surprise you to know that they confide in me,’ David says, ‘so I know what goes on in your life. I know you leave them home alone while you run your business.’

‘Adam’s fourteen, nearly fifteen. He’s perfectly capable of keeping an eye on Georgia and Sophie for an hour here and there.’

‘Well, I don’t like it – three kids alone in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Guy’s usually around,’ I say.

‘The oik – I’m glad you’ve mentioned him. Adam says he hangs around a lot, and he’s caught you and him at it. I think it’s disgusting.’

‘We weren’t “at it”,’ I snap.

‘So Adam was wrong? There’s nothing going on between you and your neighbour?’

‘It’s absolutely none of your business.’ I pause for a second, running over the implications of admitting any kind of relationship with Guy. ‘For your information, Guy and I are merely friends.’ Okay, I’m lying, but I’ll lie for England if it means I’ll keep my children. ‘I can’t see any reason why a court would give you full custody of the children over me.’

‘Apart from the fact that you won’t let me see them, that you keep changing the dates and giving me the runaround …’

‘That’s happened once!’

‘That you can’t stop our son playing truant …’

‘I’ve done my best. Since the problem with Mr Hughes, I’ve taken him to student welfare every morning …’

‘And that you put Georgia in serious danger on that pony …’

‘I wasn’t to know …’

‘Jennie, you’re an unfit mother!’ With those words, David might as well have taken a knife to my heart. ‘I haven’t decided to do this on a whim. I’ve sounded the children out – in a roundabout way, of course, because I don’t want them worrying about it. I think Adam and Sophie will be perfectly amenable. I’m not so sure about Georgia …’

‘The three of them will be absolutely devastated. It’ll be like going through the divorce all over again.’

‘Well, the sooner it’s over with, the better then. I thought I’d get the ball rolling …’

‘If you’re expecting me to tell them, like you did with the divorce, then don’t.’

‘I’ve already thought it through. When they’re next with us—’

‘This weekend, you mean? They’re supposed to be with you
this weekend
.’

‘The one after. Alice wants me to go along to some bridal exhibition with her. It isn’t my scene, but when you’re in love …’

‘Oh, shut up,’ I interject. I can’t bear it.

‘I was going to say that that is when I’m going to sit the children down and talk to them face to face. You and I can talk about it some more when you’re in a better frame of mind. In the meantime, you’ll be hearing from Ross.’ David pauses. ‘I hope we can resolve this quickly and amicably, without putting the kids through the trauma of the family courts.’

‘I won’t give them up without a fight,’ I say stubbornly.

‘I was afraid you were going to say that, Jennie. Why don’t you sleep on it?’

‘Because nothing will change my mind. I hate you, David. All you think about is yourself.’

‘Don’t we all – in the long run?’ he says quietly.

It must be David who cuts the call. Afterwards I stand there with the handset still pressed to my ear. On the outside, a statue. Inside, quaking with emotion.

I don’t know where to turn, who to call. I can’t sleep. I can’t function. If I wasn’t an unfit mother before, I’m one now. I sit on the window-seat in my room, watching the dawn light leak from the horizon into the sky.

I touch my chest through my sweatshirt, vaguely surprised to find that my heart is still beating, hammering lightly against my fingertips.

How did I end up in this mess?

I call David in the vain hope that he’s reconsidered.

‘Jennie,’ he says, picking up the phone. ‘I hope you’re not going to make a scene. I’ve made my decision. I’m doing what’s right for our children.’

‘What you think’s right for them,’ I say, my voice wavering. I promised myself I’d stay calm, rational, reasonable, but with each sharp intake of breath, I’m losing it further. ‘David, you can’t do this. You can’t take them away from me …’

‘I’m not taking them away. You’ll still be able to spend time with them. Quality time,’ he goes on. ‘That’s the term you use, isn’t it? Quality time.’