Oh my God. He caught me looking at him. I bury myself in the remains of my seafood pasta. That’s what I ordered. It serves me right, because I’m not a great fan of seafood. Molluscs and me do not agree. I push the plate aside just as the waitress returns.
‘Finished?’
‘Yes. Thanks. I’ll just have the bill.’
She is smiling a serene, secret smile. It’s a now or never moment. I root round in my handbag for a piece of paper, thanking God that I haven't yet spring cleaned it. I find an appointment card for my hairdressers and on the back of it hastily scribble my name and mobile phone number.
The waitress returns and gives me the bill. I clear my throat and decide to take her into my confidence. I hand her my note. ‘When I’ve left the restaurant, could you possibly give this to the man at the table by the window?’
She looks up at Adam. ‘Si.’ She grins at me. ‘You think he look nice?’
I feel myself blush. ‘Yes. I think he look very nice.’
I pay her, leaving a disproportionately large tip considering I’ve hardly touched my food, and busy myself collecting my newspapers. As I look up, I see that the waitress has wandered over to Adam’s table and has handed him the note already. Ohshitshitshit.
I stand up and make a dash for the door. Adam stands up, knocking his wine over, the waitress has blocked the door and I’m standing there quaking like a hedgehog trapped in the path of a speeding ten-ton truck. Adam looks like he’s been hit over the head by a cricket bat.
‘Emily,’ he says. There’s a note of laughter in his voice. ‘The Emily?’
I nod, wordlessly.
Adam’s full, soft lips break into a wide grin. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says. ‘At long last.’
This is ridiculous but I want to cry. I want to fall in his arms and cry. Clutching my newspapers tighter, I take off my hat and my sunglasses.
‘Bloody hell,’ Adam says, his grin suddenly frozen. ‘It’s you. Woman-from-the-wine-bar.’
‘Yes.’
The whole of the restaurant is basking in a stunned silence. The hush of paused cutlery pervades. Josh comes up behind Adam and slips under his arm. ‘This is Josh,’ Adam says softly. ‘My son.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Josh.’ I do my best children’s smile. I used to be a teacher. I have years of practice.
Josh’s eyes pop out on stalks and his face takes on an expression of awe. ‘Crikey, Dad,’ he says in a very loud voice. Every head in Luigi’s whips round to stare at us. ‘It’s the Saucy Santa!’
‘So it is,’ Adam says as he tenderly takes my hand.
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Oh my God. He caught me looking at him. I bury myself in the remains of my seafood pasta. That’s what I ordered. It serves me right, because I’m not a great fan of seafood. Molluscs and me do not agree. I push the plate aside just as the waitress returns.
‘Finished?’
‘Yes. Thanks. I’ll just have the bill.’
She is smiling a serene, secret smile. It’s a now or never moment. I root round in my handbag for a piece of paper, thanking God that I haven’t yet springcleaned it. I find an appointment card for my hairdressers and on the back of it hastily scribble my name and mobile phone number.
The waitress returns and gives me the bill. I clear my throat and decide to take her into my confidence. I hand her my note. ‘When I’ve left the restaurant, could you possibly give this to the man at the table by the window?’
She looks up at Adam. ‘Si.’ She grins at me. ‘You think he look nice?’
I feel myself blush. ‘Yes. I think he look very nice.’
I pay her, leaving a disproportionately large tip considering I’ve hardly touched my food, and busy myself collecting my newspapers. As I look up, I see that the waitress has wandered over to Adam’s table and has handed him the note already. Ohshitshitshit.
I stand up and make a dash for the door. Adam stands up, knocking his wine over, the waitress has blocked the door and I’m standing there quaking like a hedgehog trapped in the path of a speeding ten-ton truck. Adam looks like he’s been hit over the head by a cricket bat.
‘Emily,’ he says. There’s a note of laughter in his voice. ‘The Emily?’
I nod, wordlessly.
Adam’s full, soft lips break into a wide grin. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says. ‘At long last.’
This is ridiculous but I want to cry. I want to fall in his arms and cry. Clutching my newspapers tighter, I take off my hat and my sunglasses.
‘Bloody hell,’ Adam says, his grin suddenly frozen. ‘It’s you. Woman-from-the-wine-bar.’
‘Yes.’
The whole of the restaurant is basking in a stunned silence. The hush of paused cutlery pervades. Josh comes up behind Adam and slips under his arm. ‘This is Josh,’ Adam says softly. ‘My son.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Josh.’ I do my best children’s smile. I used to be a teacher. I have years of practice.
Josh’s eyes pop out on stalks and his face takes on an expression of awe. ‘Crikey, Dad,’ he says in a very loud voice. Every head in Luigi’s whips round to stare at us. ‘It’s the Saucy Santa!’
‘So it is,’ Adam says as he tenderly takes my hand.
~ The End ~
If you enjoyed A Compromising Position, you don’t have to wait for more!
Read on for a preview of Carole Matthews’:
The Cake Shop in the Garden
Chapter One
I sit on the edge of my mum’s bed and take a deep breath. ‘I’ve booked you in for a week’s respite care,’ I tell her.
She stares at me, aghast. ‘But I don’t want you to have any respite from me.’
‘Things are quite difficult at the moment, Mum. You know how it is. The year’s marching on and I need some time to get the café ready for the season.’
She folds her arms across her chest, unconvinced.
I’ve already brought her a cup of tea and a slice of the new coffee cake that I’m trying out, in the hope of softening her up, but my dear mother has turned up her nose at them.
‘I’m not leaving here.’ Mum’s chin juts defiantly. ‘No way, lady.’
For someone who is supposed to be an invalid, my mother has the strongest constitution and will of anyone I’ve ever met. I knew even as I was making the booking that it was overly optimistic. Even a cake fresh from the oven won’t warm my mother’s heart.
‘There are loads of things I need to do, Mum. I could just do with a couple of days. That’s all.’ A couple of days without her banging on the ceiling every five minutes, wanting this or that or something and nothing. She has a walking stick by the bed especially for the purpose.
My family have been blessed enough to be able to live in a beautiful home alongside the Grand Union Canal since my parents, Miranda and Victor Merryweather, were first married. Both my sister, Edie, and I were born and brought up here. One of us is more pleased about it than the other. The house is in the pretty village of Whittan, at one time on the outskirts of Milton Keynes, but now being nudged in the ribs by the thrusting city as it engulfs everything in its path.
When I became Mum’s full-time carer, I gave up my paid job and, out of necessity, started a small cake shop cum café and tearoom – Fay’s Cakes I’d already started selling cakes from our dilapidated narrowboat, the Maid of Merryweather, which is moored at the bottom of the garden. It was a sort of hobby, I suppose, a bit of an ad hoc affair, but it gave me something to do with all the cakes and jam that I so liked to make. Now I run it full-time and it’s grown to take over the dining room, veranda and garden of our house. The only problem with running a business that’s based in our home is that half of my days disappear with me running up and down the stairs fetching and carrying for Mum while trying to keep things going with the café downstairs. Not that I really mind . . . it’s just that sometimes I do need a break from my caring duties so that I can concentrate on actually bringing in some much-needed money.
‘They’ll sit me in the corner with the dribblers and shakers,’ Mum complains.
‘They won’t. This is a nice place.’ I hold up the cheery Sunnyside Respite Care Home brochure encouragingly, but she averts her gaze, refusing to even look at it. ‘It’s not a hospital,’ I press on. ‘You get your own room. I researched it really carefully on the internet.’
‘Pah.’
‘It’s more like a hotel – exactly like a hotel – but with care. They’ll look after you.’
‘Just say if I’m too much trouble for you, Miss Fay Merryweather.’ There’s a sob in Mum’s voice and she dabs theatrically at her eyes beneath the rims of her reading glasses.
‘You’re not too much trouble.’ Once again, she makes me feel like the worst daughter in the world. ‘Of course you’re not.’
She pushes the plate of cake away from her, apparently too overwhelmed to eat.
‘I love you. You know that. It’s only that I have such a lot to do in the café.’ The list is endless. Even the thought of it is making me feel quite dizzy.
‘Oh.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘The café this, the café that. It’s all you ever think about. It’s all I ever hear about.’
‘It pays the bills, Mum.’ Just about. The ones that don’t go away just because I’m at home and caring for you, I add to myself but dare not say out loud.
My mum took to her bed with a bad bout of flu, four winters ago now. The flu became pneumonia and there’s no doubt that she was very poorly at the time. But, several courses of antibiotics later and when the pneumonia had run its course, she was still in no hurry to get up. Then she slipped in the bathroom and broke her hip. When she came back from hospital, she eschewed the physiotherapy programme that she’d been advised to follow and took to her bed again to convalesce. She made herself very comfortable there and, since then, she’s simply refused to get up.
Mum has decided that she’s still ill and infirm, no matter how many times the doctor tells her that she’s just fine. She’s stayed exactly where she is and no one can persuade her otherwise. I’ve coaxed and encouraged her. Doctors come and cajole her. Mental-health professionals turn up, try to counsel her and are duly rebuffed. Antidepressants were prescribed, dispensed and found, by me, hidden down the back of the headboard. In short, my mother has decided she will be permanently bedridden and, quite frankly, she loves it.
Now, every day Miranda Merryweather sits in her bed, snuggled in a duvet, surrounded by fluffy pillows, holding court like the queen of a very small country. These days, she refuses to let most people enter her domain. Occasionally, our lovely GP, Dr Ahmed, is reluctantly allowed an audience. I think at first she liked the attention. Then, as the months went on, she simply became entrenched until, finally, she was frightened to get up and go out at all. Now it’s simply become a way of life.
The friends she once had have all gradually fallen away until, now, I’m the sole person at her beck and call. I cook, clean and run the café. While Mum can still get herself back and forth across the landing to the bathroom, she needs my help to shower, and I wash her hair for her too when she requires it. Though some days I don’t have time to wash my own hair. There’s an ever-growing cache of tablets that have to be administered at regular intervals – blood-pressure pills, water tablets, sleeping potions, statins. The list goes on. The longer she stays in bed, the more medicines she needs. I change her nightdress every day and her sheets once a week.
‘Your sister would never treat me like this,’ Mum says.
‘She wouldn’t,’ I agree. ‘You’d starve before you got tea and cake from Edie.’
Mum recoils as if I’ve slapped her, then turns her head to stare resolutely out of the window at the garden and beyond at the canal which meanders past. The trees along the bank are coming into full bud and soon the hawthorn will be in glorious blossom. It’s so beautiful out there. Yet she’ll stay in this room and miss it all.
‘Edie could teach you a thing or two about caring, madam.’
She couldn’t. Believe me, she really couldn’t.
Edie, my younger and only sibling, is the shining girl of the family. Edie, the unemployed, heavy-drinking, recreational-drug user who is currently kept by a married man, can do no wrong in Mum’s eyes. As she lives in New York, my mother is unaware that any of this actually goes on. As far as she’s concerned, Edie is busily working away at a wonderful career and has a boyfriend who is a fabulously wealthy lawyer. As such, she is a far better daughter than I am. My sister is very scant on detail when she speaks to our mother, and Mum only sees Edie through rose-tinted spectacles. Whereas I am so very often cast as the Wicked Daughter.
The truth of the matter is that Edie rarely rings unless she wants something and never comes home now. She hasn’t been back at all since Mum took to her bed – even when she was actually quite ill. And, let’s face it, New York is just around the corner these days. You can go there for the weekend. It’s not as if Edie’s in Australia or New Zealand or somewhere on the other side of the world.
Even though Edie can be a complete pain in the backside, I do miss her terribly. I wish she was here, and not just because I could do with some help with Mum. Though being the sole carer for your parent can be an onerous and thankless task, it would be nice to have Edie here just as a friend who’d know what I’m going through, so that we could, perhaps, share the emotional burden.
I press on, even though I’m beginning to realise that my mission is fruitless. ‘I thought I could decorate your room while you’re away.’
‘I’m not going away, Little Miss Cloth Ears. I told you.’
Goodness only knows this room needs a bit of a makeover. I don’t think it’s been decorated since about 1972. Some of the pastel-pink, flower-sprigged wallpaper is curling and there’s a damp patch on the ceiling that says we may well have a leak in the roof. Not the first. I don’t even dare to go into the loft these days. To be honest, the whole of Canal House could do with a bit of tender loving care. It hasn’t had any money spent on it in years, simply because there hasn’t been any to spare.
I am forty-one years young and this is the only home I’ve ever known. I was born here, in this very room, and, at the rate I’m going, I will more than likely die here.
‘I could bring in some wallpaper samples.’
‘Not listening.’ My mum puts her fingers in her ears. ‘La, la, la. Not listening.’
I wouldn’t mind if Mum was actually really ancient, but she’s only seventy years old. That’s all. Surely seventy is the new fifty. She should be out there having the time of her life. Yet the concept of the University of the Third Age has, unfortunately, passed her by. It’s so frustrating that she seems to have given up on life and is content just to lie here. Even more frustrating is the fact that she seems to revel in it: she spends her day languishing, watching soap operas and quizzes. Or home-renovation programmes which are never destined to help this particular home.
Before I can remonstrate with her any further, I hear the back door open, and a voice travels up the stairs from the hall.
‘Is me!’
That’s my assistant, Lija. The café isn’t open for a few hours yet but Lija has come in early today to help me scrub down the tables and chairs that have over-wintered in the garden. The first thing on a long list of glamorous tasks that we need to do before we start heading into the busy summer season. Then we won’t get a minute to do anything.
‘I have to go,’ I say.
‘My tea’s gone cold,’ Mum grumbles.
There are times when I’d swear she spends all day thinking up small ways in which to torture me. If she’s woken up in a particularly belligerent mood, she often waits until I’m at the bottom of the stairs to call me back for some little instruction she might have forgotten, or to plump up her pillows.
I take her cup. ‘I’ll bring you a nice fresh one.’
‘Not as much milk this time. It tastes like rice pudding when you make it.’
I could sugges
t that she’s perfectly capable of getting up and making her own tea and then she’d have no cause to complain, but I don’t. It would be a total waste of my breath as, sadly, I lost that argument quite some time ago. Instead, I scoop up the laundry – the sheets I changed yesterday, the nightdress that was swapped for a fresh one this morning – and head back downstairs.
This is my life, like it or lump it. And I simply have to man up and get on with it.
Chapter Two
When I go into the kitchen, Lija has already stripped off her coat and is taking some eggs from the fridge.
‘Morning,’ I say as I go to shove the washing in the machine and set it going. I can iron it tonight when I’m watching the episode of Escape to the Country that I’ve recorded. My guilty pleasure. ‘Shall we go out and clean the furniture now while it’s fine? It’s forecast to rain later and we can come in and bake then.’
This afternoon, if all goes to plan, we’re going to try out some new recipes.
‘Is always bloody raining,’ my assistant grumbles. ‘Rain, rain, rain.’
Lija Vilks is young, lithe and Latvian. She’s not really an ideal assistant for a customer-facing business as she’s quite spiky. Particularly with the customers. On the other hand, she’s a great and loyal worker who can turn her hand to pretty much anything. She bakes the most wonderful cakes, which, if I’m honest, are far better than mine. You’ve never had carrot cake until you’ve tasted Lija’s, and I’d swear that her chocolate brownies could win awards. She is a sweary, Goth version of the goddess Mary Berry.
‘How is Old Bag today?’ Lija throws a disdainful glance at the ceiling, above which my dear mother reposes.
‘Not great,’ I admit. ‘She won’t go to the respite-care place, no matter what I say. I’m going to have to ring and cancel it.’
Lija tuts. She’s not my mother’s biggest fan. But then my mother isn’t hers either.
‘I’ve tried,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what else I can do. We’ll just have to work round her.’