‘I love you, okay,’ I murmur. ‘And whatever’s upset you, we’ll fix it.’
He squeezes me tighter and then lets me go. ‘Can I have some hot chocolate now?’
‘Of course.’ I walk over to the fridge and take out the milk. ‘So, how was school today?’
‘Bad.’
‘You want the Batman mug or SpongeBob?’
‘SpongeBob.’
‘Why was it bad?’ I pour the milk into his mug and place it into the microwave, setting the timer.
Joe slides off the chair and runs into the hall.
‘Joe!’ I call. ‘Where are you going?’
He returns seconds later with his rucksack, swings it up onto the table with a bang, unzips it and starts ferreting around inside. I pull up a chair and sit down next to him just as he pulls out a square piece of card. It’s a party invitation – the party invitation.
I take it out of his hand and stare at it. Tyler’s name is emblazoned across the top. Joe’s name is nowhere to be seen.
This is getting more and more ridiculous. Did I somehow misunderstand Darcy? Were we supposed to organise our own invitations? I don’t think so.
‘Are you sad because your name isn’t on the invitation?’ I ask.
Joe nods. ‘Isn’t it my party, too?’
‘Yes, sweetie. It is your party, too. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out for you.’ I realise I’m shaking. I don’t know how a straightforward kid’s party has descended into such a major hassle. I’m going to have to ring Darcy but I really don’t feel like it. What am I going to say? It’s all going to sound so petty. The microwave pings. I stick the invitation back into Joe’s bag and take Joe’s drink out of the microwave, testing the temperature with my finger.
‘Tell you what,’ I say to my son, ‘why don’t you curl up in the lounge and watch a movie. Take your hot chocolate with you, okay?’
He nods and I bend down to kiss the top of his head, just as the doorbell rings.
‘Daddy!’ Joe runs out of the kitchen towards the front door, his sadness momentarily forgotten.
I glance up at the kitchen clock. It’s too early for Jared to be home, and why would he be ringing the doorbell? Maybe it’s Beth again. I follow Joe into the hall where he’s now crouched down, peering through the letterbox.
‘Who is it?’ I ask.
Joe straightens up and turns back to face me. ‘Tyler and his mummy,’ Joe says, pulling a face.
God, what are they doing here? It must be to do with the invitations. Shit, I feel like crap, I look an absolute mess, and the house is in a state, too – I eye the chipped paintwork, the basket of wet washing at the bottom of the stairs, and notice that two of the bulbs in the ceiling light need replacing. This is just about the worst time for Darcy to show up. I know I need to talk to her but I don’t want to do it here and now.
‘Are we going to let them in?’ Joe asks.
‘Of course,’ I say brightly. ‘Of course we are.’ I turn the handle and pull open the front door.
‘Louisa!’ Darcy steps into the hallway in a cloud of Chanel and throws her arms around me, kissing both cheeks. Her hair is pulled back into a catwalk ponytail, and she’s wearing a stylish cream mac with a silk scarf at her throat.
Tyler sidles around us and stands next to Joe, neither boy saying a word.
‘Hi,’ I say, dragging my fingers through lank curls in an attempt to magically transform my dishevelled state. ‘Sorry, I look such a mess, I haven’t been feeling too good today.’
‘I heard,’ Darcy replies. ‘That’s why I’m here. I met Beth in the playground and she said you had food poisoning! Poor you. Was it from the restaurant last night? If it is, I shall go in there today and give them a piece of my mind.’
‘I think it was the salmon but please don’t worry. These things happen.’ My stomach gurgles embarrassingly. Darcy is too polite to comment. ‘Come into the kitchen,’ I say. ‘Can I make you some tea or coffee?’ I turn to my son: ‘Joe, why don’t you take Tyler upstairs to your room?’
Joe shakes his head and stands beside me, away from his friend.
Tyler scowls.
‘What’s going on with you two?’ Darcy asks.
Tyler shrugs while Joe looks down at the floor.
‘TV?’ I ask the boys.
Joe nods.
‘Okay, go and put a film on.’
Joe slouches into the lounge and I gesture to Tyler to follow him. Darcy raises her eyebrows and I tilt my head in the direction of the kitchen. She walks through with me.
‘I brought you round some goodies to cheer you up,’ she says, handing me a large gift bag.
I’m so taken aback by her kindness that I stand there in the kitchen doorway, my mouth hanging open.
‘Just some little things,’ she says. ‘Magazines, chick-flicks, soup, crackers and Alka Seltzer, ha ha.’
‘Thank you so much. That’s really thoughtful,’ I say as a tear escapes down my cheek.
‘Hey, are you okay?’ she asks.
I swipe at my tear, but more follow. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
She gives me a hug, then stands back, points to a chair in the kitchen and says, ‘sit.’
I do as she asks.
‘You’re exhausted. I’m going to make you some noodle soup. It’ll be gentle on your stomach.’
‘No, no, that’s okay,’ I protest, feeling utterly wretched and useless.
‘Nonsense,’ she says. She removes her coat and hangs it on the back of a chair, lays her handbag on the table, plucks the gift bag out of my hand and delves inside, pulling out a slim packet of soup. ‘I’d rather make it fresh, but actually, these ready-made things are pretty good.’
I’m in too much of a state to protest further. Darcy hands me a tissue from her handbag and I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. ‘I’m so sorry for crying all over you,’ I say. ‘It’s been a crappy day.’
‘Stop apologising. Everyone’s entitled to have a bad day every once in a while. I know I do.’
‘And to top it all off,’ I say, ‘I still haven’t written next week’s column. The last thing I feel like doing is writing at the moment. My brain is like mush.’
‘Poor you,’ Darcy says, tilting her head. ‘Just a thought . . . if you want, I can have a go at writing it for you.’
‘What? My column?’
‘Yeah, sure. Of course, I’d run the finished thing by you first, but I’m pretty sure I know your tone of voice. I can imitate your style if you want . . .’
I can’t believe her generosity. ‘Thanks so much for the offer. I can’t expect you to―’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ she says.
I’m tempted, yet it feels like I’d be taking advantage of her good nature.
‘Before you say no,’ she continues, ‘it would be you doing me the favour, not the other way around. You know how much I want to be a writer. This would be a great opportunity for me.’
‘Really?’
She nods.
‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘That would be amazing. I’ve been stressing about it all day. Only . . .it would have to be done by Monday. Are you able to―’
‘Not a problem.’ She smiles, and I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.
‘And of course I’ll pay you for the week,’ I add.
‘Not necessary,’ she says. ‘I’ll be thrilled enough to see my work in the paper.’
‘But―’
‘I don’t want payment, Louisa,’ she says.
‘Thank you.’
‘Cute kitchen, by the way,’ she adds, looking around at the mess.
I don’t for one minute believe she means it – we’re more shabby than chic. I thank her anyway.
‘Pans?’ she asks.
I point to a cupboard. ‘Thank you,’ I say again.
She busies herself with a saucepan, some water and the packet of soup. I think I misjudged Darcy – she really does know her way around a kitchen.
‘Any idea why Joe and Tyler are acting f
unny around each other today?’ she asks.
My eyes rest on the party invitation sticking out the top of Joe’s rucksack. Should I tell her about it? I feel bad mentioning it while she’s being so nice, yet I owe it to Joe to say something. I flex my fingers and take a deep breath. ‘I think it’s something to do with the birthday invitations.’
Darcy plops a lid on top of the pan and turns to face me, her brow creased in concern. ‘Didn’t Joe like them? Tyler and I thought they were pretty fun.’
‘No, no,’ I say, swallowing air. ‘Nothing like that. They look amazing. It’s just . . . they don’t have Joe’s name on.’ I pluck the invitation from Joe’s bag and hand it to her.
She takes the colourful card in her French-manicured hand and frowns as she examines it. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she cries. ‘What on earth must you think of me? I did tell the printer to add Joe’s name, I swear to you. It was all such a rush when the invitations arrived that I didn’t think to check . . . Gosh, you must think I’m a terrible person.’
‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘I knew it must be a mistake. It’s just . . .now Joe thinks―’
‘He must feel awful!’ Darcy interrupts. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get them reprinted.’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘You can’t do that. That’s too much hassle and expense. Anyway, they’ve already gone out to everybody now.’
‘Okay,’ Darcy replies, pulling up a chair and sitting down. ‘What I’ll do, is email everyone and tell them about the mistake. That way, they’ll know it’s a joint birthday, okay?’
‘Thank you. I’ll tell Joe. He’ll be so relieved.’
‘Of course,’ Darcy says. ‘It’s the least I can do after I made you abandon your own party and join Tyler’s.’
I’m so glad she understands how Joe feels. I knew she would. The aroma of the noodle soup makes my stomach growl once more. Suddenly, I’m feeling much better about everything, and I realise I haven’t thought about my stalker once since Darcy got here. Maybe that, like everything else, isn’t as sinister as I’m making out. I need to calm down and not worry so much about things. I have a loving husband, a gorgeous son, and a great new friend. Darcy smiles and I smile back. I don’t even know why I was in such a state earlier.
‘I don’t suppose . . .’ Darcy starts to say something, then shakes her head. ‘No, don’t worry.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘No, honestly, it doesn’t matter.’
I wonder what she was going to ask me but I don’t press it, she’s obviously changed her mind. ‘That soup smells amazing, by the way,’ I say.
‘Should be ready in about five minutes. I’ll dish it up and then we’ll be off. Let you get some rest.’
‘You’re welcome to stay for soup,’ I say. ‘Seeing as how you made it.’
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll eat later with Mike when he gets home.’
I smile. ‘Thank you so much, again. It was lovely of you to come over and check up on me.’
‘My pleasure.’ She gazes down at the scarred surface of the kitchen table, drumming her nails. ‘I wonder,’ she says, looking up again. ‘Do you think . . . Would it be possible to have my name on the column next week? Maybe as a guest writer or something?’
I’m a little taken aback by her request. And I’m not entirely sure how something like that would fly with Kathryn, my editor.
‘Is that cheeky?’ Darcy asks. ‘It’s just . . . I’ve always wanted to see my name in print in a national newspaper. Kind of an ambition of mine.’
‘Well, I could certainly ask my editor,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it would be fine as a one-off.’
‘Awesome! I would love that. Thank you, Louisa. You’re a sweetheart. Now let me dish you up some of this soup. Where do you keep your bowls?’
I point to the cupboard where we keep the crockery and I notice Joe’s forgotten mug of hot chocolate sitting next to the microwave. It will be cold and congealed by now. I’ll have to throw it out.
Chapter Nine
‘This place is unbelievable,’ I say, taking in the high ceilings, exposed brick walls and polished oak floors. It’s a dull day outside, yet swathes of light flood in through floor-to-ceiling windows.
‘I know, right.’ Jared rubs his hands up and down the back of his head and turns to me, his eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘I never expected anything like this.’
‘To be on the quay is amazing enough, but to be in such a beautiful building is―’
‘Yeah,’ he says, taking both my hands and squeezing them. ‘I thought I might be in a grotty building on the outskirts of town – maybe on a depressing industrial estate. I definitely wasn’t expecting a newly refurbed warehouse with views over Poole Quay.’
After getting a decent business loan from the bank, Jared finally handed in his notice at work. His boss asked him to leave the company immediately but Jared didn’t mind. He’s already been head-hunting staff and building his client list over the past few weeks, with the help of Mike and Darcy.
Jared got the keys from Mike to check out his potential new offices today, so now we’re here to inspect the space before he signs the contract. I can’t help being swept up by my husband’s enthusiasm. It looks like he’s going to make a real success of this. I just wish the butterflies in my stomach would settle down.
‘What do you think of these trestles?’ he asks, running a hand over one of the chunky wooden tables. ‘Would they be okay to work on? Or should I get proper desks?’
‘I think they look cool. Not sure how practical they’d be, though.’
‘I can keep them for now and then replace them if they don’t work out,’ Jared says. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get any work done with that view.’
We gaze down at the narrow quayside, at the boats and the gulls and the blue-green water.
‘So, he’s actually letting you have this place free for a year?’ I ask.
‘That’s what he says.’
‘What will the rent be after that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jared replies. ‘We can negotiate that nearer the time, I suppose.’
I turn away from the view to face my husband. This is exactly the kind of thing I was afraid of.
‘What?’ he says, catching my troubled expression.
‘You can’t wait until “nearer the time” to sort out the rent,’ I say. ‘You have to sort that out now, before you move in.’
Jared’s face darkens. ‘Don’t spoil it for me, Lou. For once, can’t you just enjoy the feeling that everything is working out.’
‘I’m not spoiling it. I am enjoying it. But you don’t want a nasty shock in a year’s time when Mike slaps you with a huge invoice.’
‘Mike’s not like that. We get on. He’s going to help me make a success of this. I know he won’t shaft me.’
I dig my nails into the palm of my hand, attempting to stifle my rising temper. ‘Chances are, it will be fine. But surely it would be better to know what kind of costs you’re looking at. It’ll help you to plan. And you need to know how long you’ll be tied into the lease. What did you allocate for rent in the business plan? The one you gave to the bank.’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember off the top of my head.’
I grit my teeth.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Louisa.’
‘I’m just worried, that’s all. You need to sort out the details.’ I turn away and walk across the empty space, the clop of my boots echoing into the exposed rafters. If I carry on this conversation, we’ll end up having a massive row.
‘Look,’ he calls after me. ‘I’ll discuss it with Mike when we get home, okay?’
I stop and turn, my gaze drawn by dust motes floating in a shaft of light. ‘Okay,’ I reply.
‘Now,’ he says, his mouth twisting into a half smile, ‘can we stop with the doom and gloom and go and get some lunch? I’m bloody starving.’
I take a deep breath and nod. ‘Fish and chips?’
‘Now you’re talking,’ he says. r />
We head back down the stairs and out into the chill October air. Jared takes my hand and we walk into the wind towards the end of the quay where a cluster of cafés and restaurants huddle together under striped awnings.
Ten minutes later, we’re strolling back along the quay with our warm packets of cod and chips. I open mine up, break off a piece of the crispy fish and pop it into my mouth.
‘I’ve always fancied going fishing,’ Jared says. ‘Maybe we could get a boat.’ He turns to look at me.
I stop walking and raise an eyebrow.
‘Not now, obviously,’ he adds hastily. ‘In a year or two when everything’s sorted with the agency. We could moor it here. How cool would that be?’
‘I could meet you after work each night with a bottle of champagne and a picnic hamper,’ I say, laughing. ‘Dressed in all my finery.’
‘Mock all you like, woman,’ Jared says, tweaking my nose. ‘It could be a reality sooner than you think.’
‘Next year, boats and champagne, today we’ll have to settle for takeaway food on a wooden bench.’
‘What about something like that?’ He points to a sleek, white motor yacht moored on the other side of the quay.
‘It’s a bit flashy.’ I pop another chip into my mouth.
‘Nothing wrong with flashy,’ Jared says with a grin. ‘Do you like it, though?’
‘Yeah, of course. What’s not to like. God, this food really is delish, just what you need on a chilly day.’
‘This time next year, we’ll . . . Hey!’
A seagull has just swooped down and swiped a chip straight out of my husband’s fingers.
‘Cheeky little . . .’
I break down into hysterical laughter at the outraged expression on Jared’s face. But I soon stop laughing when more gulls begin dive-bombing us for our lunch. I squeal as we run along Poole Quay, flapping our arms in an attempt to scare the squawking birds away. A couple of amused pedestrians glance our way. Apart from them, it’s quiet here today. We turn down a cobbled side street, tears streaming down our faces, panting with laughter. Thankfully, the gulls don’t follow us and we spy a wooden bench on which to sit and polish off our lunch.
‘I still can’t believe how gorgeous your new offices are,’ I say, breaking off another piece of fish.