As Roxanne strolled back to Della’s down Rosemary Lane, she became aware that something else didn’t feel right. The whole Sean thing, that’s what it was; the Jessica-pooing debacle. She wouldn’t call him back, though. She would leave it for now. All Roxanne really wanted, as she let herself into Della’s flat, was to curl up in that pristine guest bed.
Instead, she tried to settle down to watch TV with Della, Frank and Eddie. Keen to get to know Eddie a little, she gently quizzed him about what he liked doing – playing football, or computer games? – all the while conscious of behaving like the slightly awkward child-free visitor.
‘Eddie, Roxanne asked you a question,’ Frank prompted him, arm slung around Della, who was snuggled close to him on the sofa.
‘Oh, er …’ He reddened.
‘I’m sorry. I’m acting like I’m interviewing you,’ Roxanne said quickly, mustering a wide smile. Eddie smiled too, and seemed to relax a little. But really, you could tell he just wanted to watch TV in peace – it was some comedy box set which was clearly a favourite among the three of them. And so, Roxanne made her excuses and retired to bed, at 9 p.m. – in other words, earlier than the nine-year-old in the house.
She undressed quickly and climbed under the sheets, but she couldn’t relax. She couldn’t stop thinking that the distance really wasn’t doing her and Sean any good – but then, if they couldn’t survive her spending a little time with her sister, then what hope was there, really?
She reached for her phone, dithering over whether to call back, to apologise for … what exactly? Giving Tommy his number? She had already said sorry for that. For laughing, then, like any normal human being? Irritated now, she placed her phone on the bedside table. She got up to fetch her laptop, and started to write a blog post about Elsa’s doggie treats, but that didn’t flow easily either. Instead, she emailed Amanda, detailing all that had happened since she arrived here – the dog walk soaking, the foldable rain hat, the unsettling incident of Della trying to set her up with the village baker, and the enjoyable walks they’d had together since. Roxanne didn’t mention that moment with the rainbow. She had yet to try to make any kind of sense of it herself.
It felt good, though, to get most of it down – almost like talking. Roxanne signed off her email to Amanda with a flurry of kisses and turned off her light. Soon the TV was turned off, and Eddie’s chatter subsided. The velvety silence – the kind you only ever noticed in the country – seemed to settle over her, bringing sleep.
A little way down Rosemary Lane, Michael was sitting at the small, wobbly desk in the corner of his bedroom, trying to write a short, succinct note. He was aware that it might seem odd, and wasn’t sure this was the right way to go about things. However it was better, he felt, to put his feelings down this way, as he wasn’t brilliant at explaining things face to face either.
Dear Roxanne, he wrote on the blue lined notepad. I think I owe you an apology for tonight.
He stopped, unsure as to how to proceed. His confidence had taken quite a bashing after Suzy had left him for that cocky little shit, Rory King – or ‘His Royal Asshole’, as he thought of him privately. Six foot four, gym-honed, with an infuriating swagger and a lazy cockney accent that Michael suspected was fake, or at least exaggerated for effect. Are you happy with the tiling, mate? Pretty neat, innit, mate? It was all mate-this, mate-that. Some people, they get in a tiler ’cause they think it’s fiddly and boring but not me, mate. I find it therapeutic. It transpired that tiling wasn’t the only activity he found therapeutic – not that Rory had been entirely to blame, of course. Suzy had been a more than willing participant. In fact, she had broken it to Michael that the stud kitchen fitter was ‘the love of her life’.
She and Michael had just ‘run out of steam’, she’d told him, and hadn’t he noticed? Well, yes, he had – sort of. However, he’d assumed they’d been chugging along fine, and if things weren’t as thrilling and sparkly as they had been at the start – well, perhaps that was something to do with the fact that twenty-four years had passed, during which they had raised two teenagers and sunk all their money into a little hardware shop which, Suzy kept insisting, ‘will make such a darling little bakery’. Michael had supported her idea; encouraged her, even: Christ, when you had tried to teach first-year science for the twenty-sixth year, and someone found it hilarious to direct the bunsen burner at someone’s bum … well, he’d conceded that perhaps he and Suzy were ready to start a new life. Then she had hotfooted it before the bakery had even opened.
Even now, six months on, the very thought of the home-wrecking tradesman made Michael’s blood bubble up like his undeniably active sourdough starter. Perhaps his insides were fermenting too, because something pretty awful seemed to be happening to him. The teenage stud – okay, he was twenty-eight, but that was galling enough: he was born in the 80s for crying out loud – had stepped into their lives, recommended by a friend of Suzy’s, and in one fell swoop destroyed his family. Before all of this, Michael had never been a bitter or vengeful man. Now, on a particularly off day, he could quite easily take a hammer to those cripplingly expensive shelves Suzy reckoned they just had to have.
The kids had taken it reasonably well, amazingly – at least, Jude seemed to be no surlier than when Suzy had been here, nagging him to have his hair cut and worrying about his asthma. Recently they had even started to visit their mother from time to time, at the home she had set up with Rory King in Ormskirk in Lancashire; a situation which Michael conceded was probably healthier than wanting to incinerate any photos that featured her. Despite everything, he didn’t want his kids to hate their mum. And Elsa had … well, she had rallied, was the only way he could put it – urging him to give his all to the business, starting with choosing the right paint colours to make the place look fresh and inviting, as opposed to announcing ‘The owner of this bakery is severely depressed!’ to passers-by.
Quite frankly, without Elsa being all-round brilliant (apart from her aversion to housework, but then no one was perfect), he didn’t know how he’d have coped. He padded through to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of wine and sat back down at the desk in his bedroom.
The thing is, he wrote in his neat rather old-fashioned handwriting, I was sort of embarrassed when so few people turned up for the workshop tonight. With you being there and, I don’t know, bringing something new and different to this little village of ours, it seemed important that it went well. I was glad you were there, once I got things started. You were very kind and seemed so engaged and interested. I hope it was genuine, that you did enjoy yourself (I’m sure it’s not your usual sort of evening entertainment!). If you didn’t, then you played the part extremely well.
He stopped and sipped his wine. Was he fawning? Did it sound overly formal? He hoped not. He pictured her lovely face, her light blue eyes and bright, unguarded smile, and remembered the first time Della had mentioned her sister’s imminent arrival in Burley Bridge. ‘Just come and meet her,’ Della had said. ‘As friends, I mean. She’s been having a tough time at work and I know she’d love to meet you.’ As friends, indeed. ‘Well,’ Della had said, laughing, ’why not just be open-minded and have a fun evening, see what happens? What is there to lose?’ Conveniently, she had omitted to mention that Roxanne had a boyfriend back in London – some hotshot photographer by all accounts. So why on earth was he sitting here writing to her now?
But there had been that moment, when they’d been out walking the dogs. The way she’d looked at him, when they’d seen the rainbow – had he imagined it? He’d wanted to kiss her then. How ridiculous, he thought now. A moment of madness; just as well she’d had that phone call from her boyfriend, the one who seemed obsessed about small dogs.
Fortifying himself with more wine, he continued: So, and I hope this isn’t presumptuous of me, I was wondering if you might like to come over for lunch one day, just so I can sort of apologise for being so offish before you left tonight, and to say thank you?
He signed it, added his mobile number, and frowned. To thank her for what? He re-read his words, wondering again if it did sound too gushing, or as if he was asking her on a proper date – which he absolutely was not. This was crazy. It now felt less like a chatty note and more of a terribly stressful homework assignment. Perhaps he was worrying too much over what was really just an invitation to a casual lunch? Yet he so wanted to get it right. He hardly knew her but, for the first time since Suzy had left him for Rory King, something had happened to him. He wanted to get to know Roxanne – how could he not, when she was so lovely and unaffected and had asked him if he named his sourdough starter? Yet his faltering attempt at a friendly note seemed quite ridiculous now. He couldn’t possibly drop it through the bookshop letter box. He’d look like an idiot and it would be so uncomfortable if she replied saying thank you, but no. That was the thing with living in a village like Burley Bridge. The downside of all the beauty and tranquillity was the fact that you ran into everyone pretty much every day; there was literally no escape.
Michael scrunched up the note and pinged it in the general direction of the waste-paper basket. Draining the last of his wine, he bent to pat Bob, who had sidled up beside him, and wondered what on earth he was going to do with the rest of his life.