The Perfectly Imperfect Woman by Milly Johnson (32)

Chapter 32

Marnie hadn’t been able to sleep properly and eventually gave up the ghost and rose extra early to make the cheesecakes but her head was far from the task in hand. The contents of the letter she’d found in the box had been swirling around in her head, throwing it into turmoil. She wanted to dig up her mother and ask her why she hadn’t told her about what Laura Hogg had gone through. She wondered if Laura Hogg’s mother had called her a tart and slapped her face in anger and humiliation and walked around the house like a player in a Greek tragedy, back of her hand pressed against her forehead as she proclaimed, ‘oh the shame’.

As Marnie waited for the van to arrive to pick up the cheesecakes, she took out a pad and a pen and began to write a letter to Laura Hogg but she didn’t know how to start it.

A picture landed large and vivid in her head. A stiff-faced nurse, bringing her a warm cloth to ease the pressure in her breasts.

‘It’ll dry up eventually,’ she said, her voice kippered and unsympathetic. She’d been right, of course. The milk had cried out of her breasts in the beginning, and unneeded had pined away in the end.

Marnie forced her focus onto the blank sheet of paper in front of her.

No, she couldn’t say that. She screwed it up into a ball and started again.

But what if Miss Hogg was now married with children and had put this episode behind her? To get a letter might stir everything up again, as it had done for her. Maybe she should leave well alone. What was it that Herv had said once: Sometimes it is best to let the past settle.

She looked up the address on the internet and found that the Hoggs had lived there until 2005, but there was no trace of them after that. She felt bitter that Judith had robbed her of the opportunity to respond. As if she hadn’t taken enough from her.

She started to write the letter she would have sent anyway. It didn’t matter now that it had crossings out all over it.

I’m so sorry to hear what you went through . . . I so appreciate you taking the time . . . I wish I could have read this years ago . . . I don’t know why it was never given to me . . . I don’t know if it was misplaced kindness . . . But it wasn’t, she knew, because her mother kept bringing it up, and always with loathing prevalent in her voice, long after the date of the letter, long after she must have known about Laura Hogg and what had happened to her.

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she finished it, wished Laura well. And her baby. The baby she’d been allowed to keep. Then she sealed it in an envelope. Then she went over to the sink, lit the corner of it with her chef’s torch and held it until the flames kissed her fingers. She’d always sent her letters to Santa that way because someone had told her that the smoke carried the words straight to his heart. She sluiced the ashes down the drain and as the last of them disappeared, so did the portal to those years. She had to close it up, nail it shut, cement over it again or she would disappear down it and drown in bitterness and anger.

She looked up at the clock to find it was nearly nine. The van had never been that late before. She pulled up Mrs Abercrombie’s direct number on her phone and rang it.

‘Fiona Abercrombie,’ it was answered immediately, in her usual clipped, business-like tone.

‘Hi, Mrs Abercrombie, it’s Marnie Salt here. Your van driver hasn’t turned up.’

‘No, and he won’t be doing so either,’ said Mrs Abercrombie.

‘Pardon?’

‘I told you that if anyone got wind that we were being supplied by an outside caterer, the deal would be off immediately, with no come-backs.’ She sounded furious.

‘No one could possibly have known,’ replied Marnie.

‘Then you should have been in here yesterday when two women were shouting their mouths off very publicly and very loudly about the cheesecakes not being made on the premises but in a very scruffy little kitchen and they were going to tip off the trades descriptions office, environmental health and anyone else who’d listen.’

Then Marnie knew. It had to be Kay Sweetman. She was the only possible person who could have seen the boxes when she had stomped through Little Raspberries on Saturday.

‘Did one happen to be very fat with short dark hair and the other a tall blonde?’

‘Oh, know them do you? I rest my case. I shan’t be ordering from you any more, Miss Salt, and I have to say I am very disappointed in you.’

‘Mrs Abercrombie . . .’

‘What?’

‘Go to hell,’ said Marnie and ended the call.

Five minutes later, Marnie was at the vicarage.

Lionel opened the door to find her holding a box. ‘Good morning, Marnie, how are—’

‘Lionel, would you like an apple crumble cheesecake?’ said Marnie, interrupting him.

‘I would absolutely love one,’ he said, both surprised and delighted.

‘There you go.’ Marnie shoved the box in his hand, turned and walked back to the car where other boxes of cheesecakes were awaiting delivery. By the time Lionel had shouted a rather confused thank you, Marnie had her foot on the accelerator. She drove to the pub and gave David and his wife a cheesecake in the same manner, thrusting it hard into their hands. Then she went over to Dr Court’s house and gave them one, then to Derek in the gravedigger’s house, then to the Rootwoods. Then to the shop. Roger was behind the post office counter, Kay Sweetman was circulating stock.

‘Hi, Roger,’ said Marnie. ‘I’ve made some cheesecakes. I thought you might like one.’

‘Oh, I never say no to a piece of cheesecake,’ said Roger, rubbing his hands together. ‘Thanks very much.’

‘I’ll pop it here for you,’ said Marnie, before marching back to the car for another. One that was covered in a gooey, sticky fruit sauce.

‘I’ve got one for you as well, Kay,’ said Marnie, fixed grin like a ventriloquist’s dummy in place. ‘It’s a cherry one, look.’ She approached Kay, opened the box, grabbed the back of Kay’s head and pushed her face down into the dark red topping.

‘If you want to fight with your gloves off, love, then I’m more than ready for you.’

It took Kay’s brain seconds to register what had just happened and by the time she screamed, Marnie was already on her way to Una Price’s house.

Herv was pointing the gable end of The Bilberries when Marnie strode up his lane carrying a box, wearing cheesecake blobs and runny dark cherry topping all over her white shirt.

‘Hi, Herv, would you like a free cheesecake,’ she said like a robot giving out special offers.

‘Of course,’ said Herv.

‘Good, enjoy. With my compliments.’ She held out the box out towards him, same deranged grin fixed on her mouth with superglue, but her eyes told a very different story. They were glassy with hurt and anger.

Herv took the box with one hand and caught hold of her arm with the other.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

‘Nothing,’ snapped Marnie. ‘Herv, let me go. I’ve got things to do.’

But he didn’t let go, he did the opposite and tightened his grip, pulling her over his threshold.

‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘I’ll get you a towel.’

‘If I stop moving I’ll go mad,’ she said, resisting him.

‘You will stop moving and you will sit and you will go mad if you have to,’ he said, with calm authority.

Marnie sat on the edge of his sofa. It suited the cottage but not him as it was very flowery and feminine. But it was soft and squashy and she could imagine that after a hard day’s work, it would welcome Herv’s big tired body like a hug.

He emerged from his kitchen and handed her a blue towel and she burst into tears and then buried her head in the towel, ashamed that she was making a fool of herself in front of him.

‘I’ll make you a coffee and then you can tell me what is wrong,’ he said. ‘Don’t move from there.’

Marnie heard the kettle begin to boil and cupboards opening in his kitchen. The tinkle of a spoon. She wiped her face and dragged her finger underneath her eyes to remove any tear-melted mascara. There was lots of it, indicating she probably had panda-eyes, not that she cared. Herv returned with two mugs, handing one to her, before taking a seat in the armchair.

‘Okay, let’s start at the beginning,’ he said. ‘Why are you in this state and covered in cheesecake?’

‘Because I’ve just shoved Kay Sweetman’s head in one.’

‘I see,’ said Herv.

‘And Una Price’s. In a different one. Not the same one, in case you were wondering.’

‘O-kay.’ He paused for a moment, waiting for elaboration and when none was forthcoming he spoke again. ‘Are you going to tell me why or do I have to guess?’

‘I’ve been making cheesecakes for a firm that didn’t want anyone to know that they weren’t made in-house by them. Kay found out and blabbed. I was warned that if that happened, my contract would be made null and void immediately.’

‘Ah, the mystery black vans,’ said Herv, now enlightened. ‘They were picking up secret cheesecake orders.’

‘I now have no job,’ said Marnie and another tear slid down her cheek and she swatted it away, annoyed that it made her look weak and vulnerable. ‘She didn’t have to do that. She only did it because . . .’ She stopped. Because she thinks I’m after you sounded like the stuff of playgrounds.

He pressed, ‘Because?’

‘Because she’s a cow,’ said Marnie. ‘And Una Price. And we all know why she joined in.’

Herv chuckled. ‘Drink your coffee,’ he ordered.

She sipped at it and tried to think back to the last time a man had made her a cuppa. She couldn’t remember. She wasn’t sure if one ever had. She’d never been with anyone who woke her up with tea in the morning or whipped up a hot chocolate before bed. It was little considerations like those she yearned for the most. She bet Herv Gunnarsen was the sort of person who would make them. He took a drink from his own mug and grimaced.

‘I forgot the sugar.’

He went to get some. He looked too big for the tiny kitchen. As if he were Alice in Wonderland who had just taken a potion. His head was only inches from the ceiling, and she’d noticed that he’d had to duck down through the front door too. Kindness emanated from him in waves and she knew why Ruby was mad for him because he was the perfect package: handsome, good company, considerate, hard-working with big strong arms that would close around you to give comfort. Bet he’s fantastic in bed, said that annoying voice inside her, which she sent back to the corner post haste. Even though she had to agree.

‘That’s better,’ he said, sitting back down. ‘It’s only half a teaspoon. I’m trying to cut it out completely but I have too much of a sweet tooth.’ He opened his mouth and pointed to a canine. ‘It’s this one,’ and he smiled and Marnie did too because it was hard not to catch one of Herv’s smiles.

‘I can guess why Kay did it,’ he said.

‘Can you?’

‘She thinks I like you,’ said Herv.

Marnie gave a little shrug. ‘I don’t know about that.’

‘She’s right, of course, I do,’ he said.

‘How can you not?’ joked Marnie.

‘You’re a crazy mixed-up chick, but I like that too.’

She lifted her head and found his impossibly blue eyes and felt the crack of thin ice underneath her. She knew, if she let herself, she would fall very hard and very fast for this kind Norwegian man whom Lilian adored. That would mean a lot of pain when it all went tits-up. As it would, because it always did.

‘Well you shouldn’t like me,’ said Marnie quickly, turning her attention back to the mug. ‘I’m bad news. I should live on an island really because I have the extraordinary gift of getting on people’s noses.’

‘Up,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘You get up someone’s nose. You get on their nerves. Or you get their goat. I think you should come to me once a week for English lessons.’

He was grinning, she could feel it, even though she was looking down at her coffee, because his grin warmed the room like a central heating radiator on full blast. He lifted the mug from her by the rim and put it down on the table and she felt the air between them shimmer like a heat haze.

‘I do like you, Marnie. I can’t help it.’

His hand came out to cradle her cheek, his fingers tender and warm on her skin.

‘Don’t, Herv,’ she said, but she didn’t move away, instead she closed her eyes and savoured his touch. Both of his hands were holding her face now, lightly as if she were one of Lilian’s precious ceramics and when his lips gently grazed hers she felt a combustible mix of sunshine and hope and panic rush through her and it was all too familiar and a portent of disaster.

She pulled away.

‘I’m sorry, Herv, I shouldn’t have done that. I can’t . . .’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for being so lovely, but I—’ oh what could she say to explain why she shouldn’t be here and why he should stop fancying her immediately and save them both the future heartache. She shagged a married man, that would do it. After what his wife had done to him, that would be as precise a hit as the knee had been in her uncle’s crown jewels. But she didn’t want him to despise her, as he surely would then – only to keep his distance, and to stay behind the platonic fence. Her heart would lap up this good guy like a starving cat would attack a bowl of cream if she let it. Herv Gunnarsen could make her the most vulnerable she’d ever been; then all sorts of things would come out of the woodwork and he’d hate her for what she was, what she’d done. ‘. . . I don’t think about you in that way. I’ve had a shit couple of days and I shouldn’t have given you the wrong signals, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Herv. ‘I understand. Forget it and drink your coffee.’

‘No, I should go,’ she said. ‘Thank you, but I should go.’

And she bolted out of his cottage hearing her body, soul and all her internal organs wildly protest. She was stupid, an idiot, a total fuck-up.

When she got back to Little Raspberries, she shut the door behind her and locked it. There was an incinerator in the garden and she filled it with the remaining boxes of cheesecake. There were houses she hadn’t called at: Emelie and the Oldroyds, to name two, but she couldn’t face them. She set fire to Mrs Abercrombie’s last order and stood staring into the flames, hypnotised for a while, thinking about Herv Gunnarsen’s lips on hers and how he was probably the sort of bloke who would have kissed her for hours without it having to lead to more.

As the fire died to smoke, her phone tinkled the arrival of a text message.

As if she hadn’t had enough today. She might have ignored him again if the morning hadn’t gone in the way it had, but she found herself stabbing in a reply with a very angry finger.

The answer came back immediately.

That voice in her head screamed at her, What do you mean, ‘when’? Don’t you dare.

He didn’t know she’d moved. She enlightened him.

She didn’t find him worthy of punctuation.

The Blue Boy, the last ‘date’ they’d had. When she’d done everything she could on the back seat to make him change his mind about spending her birthday with her. And failed.

Thank you x said the text. She didn’t reply to that.