In the end, it all goes much more smoothly than I could possibly have imagined. We arrange that Cal will come to dinner at Lilac Wine, meet Martha, and we’ll see how it goes from there. Everybody is making a conscious effort to keep it casual, and not turn it into a huge drama.
I’m playing along with that, but the word ‘dinner’ sends me straight into a tailspin, as it seems unlikely that I can fit in a quick cookery course before nightfall. I grew up half-feral, and my domestic goddess has always remained on the shy side. I probably shanked her for looking at me funny. Cooking, cleaning, gardening … it all seems foreign to my nature, and such a waste of time when there are books to be read and songs to be listened to and box sets to be watched.
I do, however, manage a quick tidy-up, scooting around the cottage clearing up the detritus that two women living together tend to amass. Stray bobbles and hair grips; odd socks down the side of the sofa; Martha’s school files; piles and piles of paperbacks; music magazines; stray shells and bits of driftwood I’ve collected on my walks; discarded earrings and gummy bottles of nail varnish.
Predictably enough, Laura comes to the rescue on the dinner front, an angel on my doorstep encased in a fuzzy blue sweater. She turns up, with Matt, about an hour before Cal is due to arrive – just as I am staring helplessly into the fridge, willing it to have created a gourmet feast without any assistance from me.
Midgebo is with them, and does a quick minesweep of the house, his big black nose snuffling around looking for treasures, his fat black tail wagging so fast it’s almost a blur.
Matt gives me a little nod – he’s a very self-contained man – and carries a load of foil-wrapped bowls into the kitchen. Laura stares after him, a peculiar mix of fondness and lust on her face as he takes his jean-clad self away. She’s obviously over the Cal-swoon phase, and only has eyes for her man. And who can blame her? He looks like a young Harrison Ford, plays the guitar, and delivers pug puppies. Perfection.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, turning her attention back to me. “I just thought … well, you had enough on your plate, without worrying about the catering as well. It’s just a lasagne, which you can heat up, and some salad. And some red velvet cake. And some garlic bread. Oh, and some stuffed olives … and some cider, donated by Scrumpy Joe …”
She holds a bag up to demonstrate. It’s made of brown paper, and bears the Scrumpy Joe logo. I barely know Joe, but one thing I’ve already learned about this place is that whenever there’s a crisis – or anything vaguely resembling one – everyone soon pulls together, in whatever way they can. I know Laura’s been over at Sam and Becca’s, checking on them and Little Edie, but has still somehow made time to do all of this as well.
I give Laura a hug, overwhelmed by gratitude. For her kindness. Her friendship. And mainly, for the lasagne. I catch a glimpse of us both in the mirror in the hallway, and marvel at the sheer size of our hair. If we combined it and straightened it all out, it would probably reach the moon.
Matt emerges from the kitchen, and casts a glance around the cottage.
“This place looks nice,” he says, after a quick visual inspection. “Like a real home, not a holiday let. I like the shell collection.”
For Matt, that’s quite a speech, and I reach out to pat his arm in thanks. He half-smiles, seemingly embarrassed at his own enthusiasm, and gestures to the door, raising his eyebrows at Laura. She nods, and gives me another quick hug.
“Good luck,” she says, as Matt retrieves Midgebo from the kitchen, where he is attempting to stand on his back legs and sniff the food. “It’ll all be fine. You know where we are if you need us.”
“I do,” I reply, gratefully. “And thank you, so much. At the very least you’ve just rescued Cal from a night of burned cheese on toast and stale chocolate Hob Nobs.”
After they leave, I mooch my way up the stairs, and knock on Martha’s door.
“Enter!” she shouts, in a mock-imperious tone, as though she’s Darth Vader inviting a minion in to get his throat choked.
I push open the door, and see that she is sitting in front of her dressing table mirror, applying make-up. She’s wearing a red tartan mini-skirt over black leggings, her Doc Marten boots laced up with red ribbon, and her hair is long and dark over the shoulders of her Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. She’s carefully painting on winged eyeliner, and has all of her various piercings in. She looks beautiful, in a scary goth chick way.
“You all right?” I ask, hovering in the doorway, arms folded in front of me to protect my vital organs from stray throwing knives. “Not nervous?”
“Yep, I’m nervous. I’m meeting my dad for the first time, and I’m screwing up my eye liner, and I’m wishing my mum was here. You?”
She lays down the eyeliner and turns to stare at me. I’m struck dumb by the fact that she’s being so unguarded and honest, and find my eyes filling with sudden stinging tears. I screw them away, and let out a sigh.
“Yeah. I wish she was as well. Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. And your eye liner looks great …”
Martha lets out a ‘hmph’ noise and turns back to the mirror. She makes little shoo-ing gestures with her fingers, and I assume that I have been dismissed. Business as usual. I smile, and turn to leave.
“You might want to think about brushing your hair, or changing your top!” she yells at me as I enter my own room.
I bite down a sweary retort, and look in the mirror. Yeah. She’s probably right.
By the time Cal turns up, bearing wine and flowers and gifts, I feel oddly calm. Maybe I’ve finally mastered my emotions, turned a corner into zen alley. Or maybe it’s because I accidentally downed one of the Scrumpy Joe specials ten minutes earlier.
Cal and Martha stare at each other for a while, and I stand awkwardly to one side, not at all sure of my role in this and ultimately deciding that I don’t have one – other than picking up the Martha-shaped pieces if it all goes horribly wrong.
He’s dressed in jeans and a pale blue shirt, which sets off his bronzed skin and contrasts with his deep brown eyes. Brown and blonde – an unusual combination, and one that Martha would also have, if she didn’t dye her hair. She has fair, pale skin, though, like her mum, whereas Cal looks like a burst of sunshine on legs. Long legs – so long that he’s cautiously dipping his head to avoid the beams.
After a few moments of silence, while they size each other up, he breaks the tension by pulling a teddy bear out of his bag. It’s fluffy and looks vaguely like a koala and is wearing a tiny red T-shirt that says ‘I Heart Sydney’. He waves it in front of Martha’s face with a flourish, and makes her laugh. I’ve not heard Martha’s laughter for a while, and it’s a wondrous thing, making her seem younger and simpler and … well, happier. Laughter will do that for a girl.
“You do know I’m not 10, don’t you?” she asks, taking the bear from his hands and squeezing it.
“No,” he replies, handing me the flowers. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be 10. And I have no idea what 16 year old women like to get as gifts, so I was stuffed. Kinda like that bear.”
“Cash is always good,” she answers cheekily, her head angled on one side. “It’s just so … personal.”
We all laugh, again. Mine may or may not sound slightly hysterical.
Cal sniffs the air appreciatively. “Wow. Something smells good. You must be a dab hand in the kitchen, Zoe.”
Martha snorts and guffaws and generally makes it known to Cal and the wider Dorset community that I am, in fact, far from being a dab hand in the kitchen. I slap her legs with the tea towel I had hanging over my shoulder, and leave them to it. I am at the very least a dab hand at getting ready-made food out of the oven, and taking the tops off cider bottles.