Thinking of You (31 page)

Over cups of tea and crumbly slices of orange drizzle cake, Ginny and Carla heard the whole story. Having taken Ginny's outburst to heart and realized that the time had indeed come to get her act together, Laurel had left the house in order to pick up her repeat prescription, pondering her future en route. The queue at the pharmacy had been epic, practically trailing out of the shop, so she'd wandered down the road for a bit to give the pharmacist time to catch up—anything was preferable to being sandwiched between two competitive pensioners discussing the various qualities of their bowels and piles.

There was a bit of a queue in the bakery too, but this time Laurel waited in line. When it was her turn, she plucked up the courage to tentatively ask the baker if by any chance they had a vacancy for a part-time cake-maker.

The baker hadn't needed to be quite so blunt. Scornfully he informed Laurel that making bread and cakes involved getting up at three o'clock in the morning and finishing at six in the evening. It was hard physical work. Their particular specialty here was lardy cake, and no, they didn't have any vacancies anyway.

Humiliated by his rudeness, Laurel hurried out of the shop. Behind her she heard a man protest mildly, “That was uncalled for.”

She was on her way back to the pharmacy—irritable bowels and piles like blackcurrants were preferable to being sneered at—when someone tapped her on the shoulder. Turning, she saw the man who had been standing behind her in the queue.

“Don't let Bert upset you. His wife walked out on him last week.”

“I'm not surprised.” Her sympathizer was on the scruffy side, lanky and tall, but he had gentle eyes and a kind face.

“Look… um, I don't know if you'd be interested, but there's a woman in St. Austell who sells cakes at the farmers' market. I happen to know she's looking for help.”

St. Austell was miles away, right down on the south coast of Cornwall. Tempted to say no outright, Laurel nevertheless found herself hesitating, reluctant to end the conversation. If anything, this man seemed almost shyer than she was.

“Would she bite my head off?”

He smiled and his whole face lit up. “Her name's Emily Sparrow. Can you imagine anyone called Emily Sparrow biting anyone's head off?”

“You lost your place in the queue.” Laurel realized he'd left the bakery empty-handed.

“Hey, their pasties aren't that great. There's another shop a bit farther down the road. Do you have a pen on you?”

Laurel indicated her bagless state; all she'd come out with was her house key and the doctor's prescription in her cardigan pocket.

“Me neither. Never mind, I've got one in the van.”

He had a nice voice too, reassuringly gentle and well spoken. Laurel found herself walking with him to the next shop, where he bought three pasties. Then they made their way back to his parked van and he explained that he'd been out on his delivery rounds since seven o'clock. She jumped when he opened the van's passenger door and a big hairy dog scrambled out.

“Don't worry about Stiller; he's a softy. We always have a break around now. Are you hungry?”

“Actually, I am.” Laurel hadn't realized until now how enticing the hot pasties smelled. “Did you buy that one for me?”

“I did. Although if you don't want it I'm sure it wouldn't go to waste. I'm Hamish, by the way.”

Hamish? Hamish! Good grief, surely not the Hamish who wrote poetry and who'd failed to turn up at the singles club that night all those months ago. The one Ginny's ex-husband had insisted would be perfect for her.

The three of them entered the park where benches were dotted around, and Hamish shared the pasties out.

“Are you married?” The words came tumbling out; she had to know.

He smiled and shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Just… um, wondered.” Laurel hastily bit into her pasty to stop herself asking if he was a poet. Since Gavin was unlikely to have said complimentary things about her, it was surely better if Hamish—if this
was
the same Hamish—didn't know who she was.

But her brain clearly had other ideas. As soon as the mouthful of pasty had been swallowed, she heard herself blurting out, “Do you know someone called Gavin Holland?”

Hamish looked astonished. Then he went red and nodded. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

All of a sudden Laurel felt extraordinarily brave. She looked directly at him and said, “You stood me up.”

He stared at her. “I did? Oh God, you mean that time at the club? I lost my nerve at the last minute, chickened out. You mean…?”

She smiled and nodded, no longer afraid. “My name's Laurel.”

It had all become more extraordinary after that; it was as if several protective outer layers had fallen away, leaving them able to discuss anything and everything without embarrassment. There was a connection between them that Laurel had never experienced before, not even with… no, she wasn't even going to think about Kevin. Before she knew what was happening, they were back at the van and Hamish was writing down the name and address of the woman in St. Austell who ran a cake stall at the farmers' market. Then he looked at Laurel and said shyly, “I know this is awfully presumptuous, but if you're free, I'm on my way back there now.”

And that had been that. Together the three of them had driven down to St. Austell and Hamish had introduced her to Emily Sparrow who, as promised, wasn't shouty at all. He offered to pick up the supply of cakes Laurel made each Tuesday while he was on his rounds, so they could be sold at the Wednesday market. It was all so simple and straightforward that tears of relief had sprung into her eyes. OK, it wasn't a full-time job, but it was a start.

To celebrate, they had taken Stiller for a long walk on the beach. The conversation didn't falter once. When Laurel asked Hamish if Gavin had described her as boring, Hamish was perfectly honest. “Yes he did, but have you seen his girlfriends? Giggly airheads in miniskirts.” With a shudder he added, “Gavin's a nice enough fellow, and each to his own and all that, but his taste in women would be my idea of torture.”

After three hours on the beach, they had driven back to Hamish's cottage and dropped off an exhausted Stiller. When Laurel had rubbed his ears and said good-bye, Stiller had gazed up at her with such a look of pleading in his liquid brown eyes that she'd found herself saying, “Don't worry, boy, I'll see you again soon.” Then, realizing how presumptuous that sounded, had abruptly shut up and glanced at Hamish to see if he'd noticed.

“I hope so,” said Hamish.

“Excuse me,” Ginny interjected when she and Carla had been brought up to date. “You hate dogs.”

Laurel looked genuinely hurt by this slur. “I don't.”

“You do. You told me you hated
all
dogs, that they were messy and horrible.” Pointing accusingly with the last slice of cake, Ginny said, “You said all dogs
smell
.”

Laurel stared at her as if she'd gone mad. “I said some dogs smell. But Stiller doesn't.”

This was so blatantly untrue that even Hamish said apologetically, “He does a bit.”

“Well, I don't think he does
at
all
. Stiller's perfect.”

Which just went to prove, Ginny discovered, that love wasn't only blind: it had a peg-on-your-nose effect as well.

 

“Wait till Gavin hears about this.” Having watched from the window as Hamish gallantly helped Laurel into the van's passenger seat, Ginny rejoined Carla at the kitchen table. “He's going to be unbearable.”

“No change there then.” Carla's smile was tentative. “Just kidding. How is he?”

“Same as ever. Gavin's never going to change.” Pausing, Ginny dabbed up cake crumbs with her finger and popped them into her mouth. “So, how about you?”

This was what they'd both been waiting for. Carla visibly braced herself.

“It was the biggest mistake of my life, the worst thing I ever did. And I'm sorry.” Abruptly her eyes filled. “Oh, Gin, I'm so sorry. And I've missed you so much. Can you ever forgive me?”

Carla, who never cried, now had tears running down her cheeks. Quite suddenly, what would have been unthinkable twenty-four hours ago became the natural, the only thing to do. Plus, Ginny realized, if Lucy had been able to forgive Jem, then she could do the same with Carla.

Some men simply weren't worth losing a best friend over.

And Perry Kennedy was no loss to either of them.

“It's forgotten,” said Ginny, and Carla threw her arms round her.

“Thank you, thank you… oh God, it's just been so
awful
without you. It's like when someone dies and you keep picking up the phone to ring them, then realizing you can't do it anymore. You wouldn't believe how many times I did that.”

“Me too.” There was a lump in Ginny's throat now; the last few weeks hadn't exactly been uneventful. “So tell me what happened with you and Perry. Did you chuck him or did he go off with someone else?” Despite having forgiven Carla, she still hoped it was the latter; saintliness was all well and good but there was something far more comforting about tit for tat.

“Neither. I told him I wanted a baby and that was it. He took off.”

The word “baby” gave Ginny a bit of a jolt. Recovering herself, she said incredulously, “What on earth made you tell him that?”

“Because it was true.”

“
What?
”

“I wanted a baby.”

Ginny shook her head. “Is this a joke?”

“No! All my hormones exploded at once. It happened just like
that
,” Carla clicked her fingers, “and took me over. Like being abducted by aliens. I couldn't think of anything else. I couldn't even sleep, I was so busy thinking about it.” She leaned across the table and confided, “It's like when you see the most perfect pair of shoes in the latest copy of
Vogue
and just know you have to have them, even if it means driving up to London at four o'clock in the morning so you can be there when the shop opens its doors.”

Ginny had never been tempted to do this, although she had once seen an advert on TV for a new kind of Magnum ice cream and had driven to the nearest supermarket, only to discover that they'd sold out.

“Shoes don't wake you up in the night. They don't puke on your shoulder. When shoes get a bit boring, you can give them to a charity shop. The people who work in charity shops hate it when you try to give them your baby.”

“I know, I know.” Carla sighed and buried her face in her hands.

“So you told Perry you wanted a baby, and…?”

“He panicked. I wasn't safe anymore. When I went round to his flat the next day, he was gone.” Her smile crooked, Carla said, “You must be glad.”

“For all our sakes. And how do you feel now?” The thought of unmaternal Carla wrestling with a colicky infant was as bizarre as Martha Stewart wrestling in the mud with a crocodile. “Do you still want a baby?”

“Kind of. I don't know. Sometimes I think I do and other times I wonder if I'm mad. It comes and goes in waves,” Carla admitted. “When I'm being sensible, I think it's a terrible idea.”

“Just don't rush into anything until you've really made up your mind.” The cake had long gone but Ginny could still smell the oranginess of the last few crumbs in the tin; would Carla think it odd if she finished them up?

“The nappy thing could be a problem.” Ever fastidious Carla wrinkled her nose.

“Nappies are the pits.”

“And then there's the vacation thing. I mean, what happens when you want to go out at night and enjoy yourself? Babies can be such a
tie
.”

“They can.” A glass of orange juice would be nice. “It's a shame you can't leave them at home, put them in the baby equivalent of kennels.”

“Exactly! I was
thinking
that! Oh, you.” Realizing she was being made fun of, Carla jumped up and gave Ginny another massive hug. “I'm so glad we're OK again. We should be celebrating! Is there wine in the fridge?”

“Sorry. We've got orange juice.” Lovely fruity
orangey
orange juice…

“No wine at all? That's terrible! What's the matter with you?” Carla had by this time opened the fridge in disbelief, affording Ginny a tantalizing glimpse of the orange juice carton. The longing was now so fierce she was salivating.

“Never mind, I've got some.” Closing the fridge—it was like slamming the front door in Johnny Depp's face—Carla said, “I'll zip home, bring back a couple of bottles, and we'll have a lovely catching-up session. You can tell me what's been going on with you.”

***

“You're kidding.”

“No,” said Ginny.

“Oh my
God
.”

“I know.”

Carla was so stunned she almost slopped red wine over her pink skirt. “What are you going to
do
?”

“Ah well. That I don't know.” Ginny clutched her almost empty pint glass of orange juice. “It's all a bit of a mess. There I was, worried sick that Jem might get pregnant. And instead it's happened to me.”

“Maybe subconsciously you did it on purpose,” Carla offered. “You know, you missed Jem so much that you wanted another baby to replace her.”

“I did not do it on purpose. And we weren't irresponsible either.” Ginny shook her head in frustration; she'd been through that night in her mind a thousand times. “We used something, OK? The bloody thing just didn't bloody work.”

“So. Are you keeping it?” Carla was ever practical.

Ginny, who wasn't, said, “I can't get rid of it.”

“You'll have to tell Finn.”

“I definitely can't do that!”

“Look, I know men are stupid,” said Carla, “but sooner or later he's going to notice.”

Was it the pint of orange juice or the thought of Finn finding out she was pregnant that was making her feel sick? Ginny took deep breaths. “Not if I leave the restaurant.”

“But he should know!”

“As far as Finn's concerned, it was a one-night stand that meant nothing. God”—Ginny's face reddened at the memory—“he was practically doing me a favor. He's got Mae and Tamsin now. This is the last thing he needs.” Realizing that Carla was gazing at her with an odd look on her face, she said defensively, “What are you thinking?”

“You've got a baby in there!” Dreamily Carla pointed at her stomach. “An actual real baby! When it's born, I'll be able to hold it as much as I want. And play with it and talk to it and… and
everything
.”

“Ye… es.”

“But don't you see how fantastic that is?” Triumphantly Carla said, “Now I don't have to worry anymore about having one of my own!”

Maybe it was just as well. As she watched Carla knocking back her fourth glass of wine, Ginny said drily, “So glad I could help.”