Amy spent her next weekend determinedly carving another three pumpkins. Late on Sunday afternoon, when she was in the middle of scooping out the flesh of the biggest one, Katrina called round. Amy let her mother in, conscious that the flat was dusty and the bed unmade. Glancing in at the bedroom before elbowing the door shut, Amy wished it had been a passionate man who had tousled the sheets. The truth was far more prosaic; she always had a book that captured her and took precedence over housework.
Katrina, predictably, wrinkled her nose in distaste. Eyeing her daughter from socked toes to scruffily tied back hair, she said, ‘It really wouldn’t hurt to run a duster over the place, Amy, and put a comb through your hair.’
‘It’s Sunday, Mum. I don’t tend to go out and no one calls round. Usually.’ Amy flicked off the worst of the orange gore into the sink and ran her hands under the tap. Drying them, she turned to face her mother who was eyeing the tower of unread books next to the sofa. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee? I’ve got one of Millie’s Victoria sponges too.’
‘Is it ground coffee?’ Katrina asked, without taking her eyes off the books.
‘Instant.’
‘Ugh. In that case, I’ll take tea.’
By the time it was made, Katrina had perched on the edge of the sofa and was looking through the book which had teetered on the top of the pile. It was the latest top-selling thriller and a particularly nasty tale about a serial murderer. Dressed up in high literary language, it didn’t disguise the fact it was all about women being killed in horrible ways. Amy didn’t think it was her mother’s thing. She proved herself right when Katrina placed the book back into its position with a barely disguised grimace.
‘How can you bring yourself to read such things, Amy?’ she said, taking her mug of tea. ‘And haven’t you any proper china teacups? Really, how can you live this way? And so unnecessarily too. You could come home and enjoy a much better standard of living.’
‘It’s for work, Mum and let’s not rehash the old argument about me coming home again.’ Amy offered her a slice of cake which she refused so Amy ate it instead. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure anyway?’ she asked, as she mopped up the cream and crumbs with a finger.
Katrina raised her brows. ‘Goodness, Amy, you won’t get a man if you continue eating in that manner. What size are you now?’
Amy put the plate down hurriedly. ‘I don’t know,’ she fudged.
‘You must be an eighteen at least.’
‘Sixteen.’ It wasn’t a complete lie, she could still get into her size sixteen jeans if she enlarged the waist band with a safety pin and elastic band.
‘Oh Lordy,’ Katrina cried, clapping her petite hands to her face. ‘It’s worse than I thought! I’ll drop some diet sheets round at the shop tomorrow. Steak and grapefruit. Not exactly cutting edge but does the trick.’ In one swift movement, she rose. She strode the short distance to the kitchenette, found the remaining cake and shoved it in the bin. ‘There,’ she declared. ‘No more temptation!’
‘Mum, that was—’ Amy was about to say it was her supper but stopped herself in time. If her mother cottoned on that she regularly ate most of a Victoria sponge as a meal, she’d never hear the last of it.
‘Well, if it’s in the bin, you can’t eat it, can you?’ Katrina sat down, with the sense of a mission accomplished. ‘And,’ she added, spitefully, ‘you haven’t a hope of getting a man as delicious as that Patrick Carroll looking like you do. Darling, he’s way out of your league. I mean, if the likes of Lee Styles stood you up at the altar, what hope is there of attracting a bestselling writer?’
Amy was tired. She’d spent all weekend carving the pumpkins, reading a deeply unpleasant book she hated but which she needed to review for the shop, and researching ideas for Hallowe’en decorations. She’d been looking forward to a long bath, the book of her choice and then bed with the latest episode of Poldark. She knew, for whatever reason, her mother was spoiling for a fight and Amy refused to give her the pleasure. Looking down, she saw to her horror, that she’d splattered jam from the cake on the front of her grey sweatshirt. Reaching up to tuck a lock of hair back behind her ear, she realized she hadn’t washed it for four days. No wonder Lee hadn’t wanted to marry her. His rejection, even after eighteen months, still stung. He’d been her only boyfriend. She’d known he wasn’t her dream man but she believed he’d loved her. Not as much as the navy, it appeared. The text, ending their relationship, had only been discovered when she’d retrieved her phone from Katrina’s handbag. By that point they’d arrived at the church to be met by Lee’s stricken cousin who was best man. It seemed Lee couldn’t go through with it and had disappeared into the Royal Navy. Amy had always suspected that Katrina, in some obscure way, had blamed her. She’d certainly never forgiven her, and the mess of arrangements that had to be cancelled had been an expensive nightmare. Amy’s confidence, never great, had withered and hadn’t recovered.
So, perhaps her mum had a point? Lee Styles was one thing but Patrick was older, sophisticated, worldly. Why would he regard her in any way other than as his slobby, bookish, dull friend? It was always the same. Her mother always cut her where it hurt the most. Trying not to let Katrina see the sudden tears, she said, abruptly, ‘What are you here for? I thought you’d gone away this weekend.’
‘I did. I had a marvellous time. Oh Scarborough, I love the place! The Yorkshire coast is so bracing at this time of year. The hotel was good, the entertainment last night was just about above average and my room had a sea view.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Amy could tell her mother was bluffing.
Katrina sniffed a little. ‘Oh, baby girl, everyone was in a couple. Heaven knows I hadn’t expected to find the man of my dreams, quite frankly darling, I don’t think he exists, but I’d hoped there might be someone there on their own to chat to. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they were all quite friendly in their way but one feels such a spare wheel being the third at a table for two,’ she added, mournfully.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’d assumed you’d gone with a group of friends.’
‘No, just little old me, all on my own.’
Amy picked up her mug and sipped her tea thoughtfully. Her mother was often on her own. Since returning to Berecombe she hadn’t made any friends; she knew lots of people but none closely. ‘You need to work on your social circle,’ she suggested, feeling a complete fraud, as she never bothered herself.
‘Well, of course, but how? A single man is sought after at any age but a single woman over forty? Invisible and unwanted.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Amy said, thinking it was more likely to be her mother’s abrasive personality that was the problem. ‘There’s the Knit and Natter group, or the WI? Or volunteering?’
Katrina drew herself up, horror emanating in spiky waves. ‘The WI? And, oh Amy really, knitting?’
‘I don’t know what to suggest then,’ Amy said a bit feebly, hoping beyond hope her mother wouldn’t ask to join the book group. ‘University of the Third Age? They do lectures and courses and things.’
Katrina shuddered. She held up a finger. ‘Speak no more! I was done with books the day I left school.’ She flicked a glance at the pile of them next to her.
Amy felt relief flood through her. No danger of her crowding in on the book group then. A vision of Katrina crowing in delight at her daughter’s failure to chair the meetings flashed into her head. ‘I’ll have a think.’
‘Please do try to come up with something more constructive than charity shop volunteering.’ Katrina subsided. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go home now. I’ve rather been putting it off. It’s so lonely.’ She batted her lashes at Amy who didn’t miss the cunning. ‘I’ll be all on my own tonight.’ She sighed. ‘As ever.’
‘Then perhaps you should join the WI, make some friends. Or learn to knit.’
‘Don’t be waspish.’ Katrina gave her a knowing look. ‘That’s what happens if you gorge on sugar. You get far too peevish.’
Amy bit her lip. She wracked her brain. ‘Then, as it’s too late for hosting a foreign exchange student, what about a lodger or running the bungalow as an Airbnb? The spare bedroom has an en suite.’
‘A lodger?’ Katrina pulled a scandalised face. ‘All brown slacks and greasy hair and wet underwear all over the radiators? No thank you.’ She tapped a crimson nail on her teeth. ‘But an Airbnb you say? So much classier than any old bed and breakfast.’ She sat up excitedly. ‘You know, that might work! Inviting folk from all over the globe to one’s home. Oh yes,’ she added, thoughtfully. ‘I like the idea of that. I’d need to refurb though. In fact, I’ll pop off and start looking through my interior design mags now.’
Amy was about to say that wasn’t quite how Airbnbs worked and the bungalow certainly didn’t need redecorating but, instead, slumped back and watched as her mother whirled around the tiny flat collecting her coat and bag and listened, exhausted, as Katrina tripped down the stairs on her kitten heels.
Eventually, she roused herself to get back to pumpkin carving. Tipping the bin lid open, her mouth watered as she spied the discarded sponge. Amy hated wasting food. Little point in beginning the diet tonight, she thought. Peering in, she wondered how much of the cake she could salvage and not be considered very sad indeed.