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PROLOGUE (#uadb0e922-819d-5b20-bc69-e6dd112edf7a)
Pearl (#uadb0e922-819d-5b20-bc69-e6dd112edf7a)
Poor Alf.
The song was a bad choice for a first dance, but he wasn’t to know. Why should he? There was no reason for my new husband to be aware of the feelings this song was stirring inside me. He hadn’t been there two years previously, when I’d first slow-danced to this song with another man.
But I’m aware.
Aware of the nausea; the bilious liquid rising in my throat until I fear for the future of the off-white satin court shoes that are pinching my toes.
Aware of the solid knot in the pit of my stomach.
Aware of the pain in my heart on what should be the happiest day of my life.
The joy of the day has been washed over – no, flooded out – by the actions of my past, as though everything that’s gone before is weighing me down and now I’m sinking, sinking, sinking.
I paint on a smile and force myself to sway along to the music. A ripple of applause fills the room as Alf and I move, and the flashing of a hundred cameras keen to capture our first dance pierces through the darkness of the church hall.
Relief rushes through me as the song comes to an end, replaced by an upbeat disco tune that gets even my sister Vivienne on to the dance floor, toddler balanced on her hip as she spins. The baby responds by releasing a full-on belly laugh of undeniable happiness, and I pull my husband just a fraction closer.
“Mmm, that’s nice.” Alf smiles, squeezing me back tightly. He follows my gaze, to where I’m still watching my elder sister, now twisting and twirling like a ballerina on a music box as the little one clings on to her hand for dear life. “What’re you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
I can’t tell him the truth. Not now, not ever.
“It looks like fun, doesn’t it? Having a little one.” The unsteady toddler excitedly claps along as my brother-in-law Glenn struts his stuff as though he’s cock of the town. “Maybe we should start thinking about having one of our own…we are married now, after all.”
I blink. “A baby?”
“No, a giraffe,” he teases. “Yes, a baby! That’s not such a crazy idea, is it? You’d make a wonderful mother.” He beams, and I know he’s imagining me with a sleeping child cradled in my arms, a perfect Madonna and child scenario. “We could be a proper little family. Just think, if we hit the jackpot right away we could be parents by summertime!”
My knees quiver beneath the lacy layers of my dress, and I tighten my grip on my husband’s arm.
“It might not happen right away.” My voice wavers. “Some couples try for years before getting caught.”
“It won’t take us years,” Alf says, his voice brimming with macho confidence. “I’d put money on it happening fast.”
It had happened fast last time. Too fast.
“Don’t get your hopes up, that’s all. We’ve got plenty of time, we’re only twenty-one!” I strain to keep my voice jovial and light, but Alf’s face looks pained. I feel awful for raining on his parade, especially when none of my reluctance to rush into starting a family is his fault.
“You do want children though, don’t you? I know we’ve not spoken about it much, but that’s what most women want…a husband, a baby or two…”
“I do, I really do. In the future I want us to have a family of our own, and maybe a puppy too. I just think I’d like to enjoy being married for a while first though.” Alf’s face falls, so I hastily add, “But we can always get some baby-making practice in?”
That obviously raises his spirits as he visibly brightens.
“Promises, promises,” he replies with a cheeky wink. “If you want to wait a few months, that’s fine by me. Whatever my beautiful bride wants.” He leans in, placing the softest of kisses on the tip of my nose, and I’m reminded of what a sweet, lovely man he is. “You’ll be a wonderful mother, one of these days,” he repeats.
“Thank you,” I whisper, burying my head into his chest. His heartbeat reverberates against my cheek. “And you’ll be a brilliant father.”
“I’ll do my best, for them and for you. I promise you, Pearl, I’ll never let you down.”
The words are so beautiful that I want to make the same promise back, but I can’t bring myself to speak. I’m not the person Alf thinks I am. By keeping the secrets of two summers ago from him I’ve already let him down.
But I did it to protect him, because it would break his heart if he knew. That’s why he must never find out. He must never know that I am already a mother.
May 2017 (#uadb0e922-819d-5b20-bc69-e6dd112edf7a)
Maggie (#ulink_76391860-f568-5c98-9dd6-e301bb71f8a1)
Fir Tree Park’s one of those delightful places that exudes beauty whatever the season, and I know how lucky I am to work here. I’m blessed with the opportunity to appreciate its magnificence all year round; when the muted blanket of fallen leaves coats the weaving paths and walkways in autumn (well worthy of the admiration they get from welly-wearing dog walkers and exuberant toddlers alike) and when the icy layer atop the lake sparkles with winter wonder, pretty enough to adorn any Christmas card. And spring’s pale pink buds of cherry blossom are a welcome vision, cheery and uplifting in the extreme.
But during the summer months there’s something extra special about the park. It’s abuzz with life, more so than at any other point in the year. Once the days become longer crowds come out of hibernation, everyone keen to capitalize on the extra hours of sunlight. The armies of new mums pushing the latest must-have buggies walk with increased purpose and drive, office workers bring their sandwiches and cans of Coke on to the flat plain of grass in front of the café at lunchtime instead of wolfing their food down at their desks, and the fair-weather joggers whose trainers haven’t seen any action since the clocks went back – they all return to the park as the weather brightens up.
As the owner of The Lake House Café, a popular meeting point in Fir Tree Park, I’m delighted to see the park at its busiest. Busy means business and that can only be a good thing. But there’s more to it than that. It gives me a warm glow to see the masses celebrating the great outdoors; the children splashing in the waterpark, the keen-to-please parents puffing away as they exhaust themselves on the pedalos and rickety rowing boats, the dogs chasing their tails on the large, lush lawn. These people are my people. There’s an affinity between us. Knowing the café is at the heart of both the park and the community makes me so proud I could burst.
Every day starts the same way, with me rustling up cakes in the small yet pristine kitchen at the back of the café.
“Looks like it’ll be another busy one,” I call out to my eighteen-year-old daughter, Kelly. She’s up bright and early especially to help me set up for the day ahead. “I might have to conjure up another lemon drizzle cake.”
Even the thought of running out of cakes brings me out in a cold sweat. Heaven forbid it actually happens: there’d be nothing worse than demand outstripping supply. When I opened the café my mission was for every customer to leave happy, satisfied and itching to return. It’s still my aim now, nine years on.
Kelly’s laugh rings out as she continues to wipe the red and white polka dot oilcloths that cover the tables. I can see her smirking through the serving hatch. “There’s no chance you’ll sell out of cake. You’re a baking machine!”
Deep down I know she’s right – once I get started I can’t stop myself – but there’s a loyal band of customers who come to the café year-round in order to satisfy their sweet tooth. It’s all about giving them a varied choice, ensuring people can have the old favourites if they so choose with a few more experimental options thrown in for the more adventurous clientele.
That’s why from the moment I arrive at the café each morning and pull my cream chef’s apron over my head I’m in the kitchen mixing up batters and doughs like a whirling dervish. By the time the doors open at 8.30am a deliciously sweet smell permeates the air – people say that’s what makes it nigh on impossible to resist my wares. The baking continues on and off all day, even if the café’s already well-stocked with an array of yummy cakes and biscuits. The waft of sugar lingers so you can taste it with each breath, tempting customers to buy a slice of sponge for the road as well as one to go with their drink-in cappuccino. It’s a happy, homely scent. The kind those reed diffusers try (and fail) to mimic.
My over-baking is a source of great amusement to everyone. Staff often end up taking brown paper bags stuffed full of the leftover goodies home with them at the end of the day – chocolate chip cookies that don’t snap until they’re almost bent double; rich chocolate cupcakes with lavish buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles; and of course, generous wedges of my signature lemon drizzle cake. They say it’s a perk of the job, taking the unsold goods home. I say it gives me a chance to do more baking the next day, so it’s win-win.
“The day we run out of cake is the day hell freezes over,” Kelly calls out. She’s facing the other way, yet I can almost hear the sarcastic eyeroll that no doubt accompanies her words. “It’ll never happen.”
“I hope you’re right,” I answer cheerily, “but I might do something quick, just to be on the safe side. Another Malteser fridge cake, maybe?”
Kelly pops her head into the kitchen and lets out a long, purposeful sigh. Even when frustrated and flustered she looks beautiful – blonde, lean and glowing. Youth wrapped up in a neat daughter-sized package. “I know you’ll not listen to a word I say, but there’s plenty, and you’ve got a fridge full of millionaire’s shortbread too, remember? You’re making work for yourself again, Mum.”
“It keeps me busy. Stops me having time to worry about you.”
It’s a tongue-in-cheek remark, but the truth nonetheless. Being a parent is terrifying at the best of times, and when exams are looming and you can do nothing to help but provide them with tea and cake, parenting is ramped up to a whole new level. If I’d known how much brain-space kids take up, I’d have thought longer and harder before having them. Not that I regret Josh and Kelly, not for a minute, but I had them young – too young probably – and now I’m a forty-year-old single parent on the verge of an empty nest.
I’ve done my best for the pair of them, but there have been many, many times I’ve fallen short. The days they had to wear their grubby school sweaters for a third time because I’d not had chance to put a wash on, or when I was forced to serve beans on toast for tea four nights in a row because I couldn’t afford anything more substantial. Things have been tight over the years, in terms of both time and money, and I never understood it before, but I realise now that sometimes you can be doing your best and it’s still not enough.
“When you get home you can knuckle down to that history revision. There’s only three weeks until your exam, remember.” I throw a pointed look in my daughter’s direction, willing her into action.
“I am aware,” Kelly says brusquely, every inch the know-it-all teenager.
It’s a funny age, eighteen. She looks like a young woman but still has the capability to act like a petulant child. Her long blonde hair’s cascading down her back and her hand’s jauntily placed on her hip. Attitude aplenty, although she’s a good girl, mostly.
“It’s me that’s going to be panicking about it, not you,” she fires.
‘Ha, that’s what you think,’ I want to say. It might be Kelly revising long into the night and it might be her again, sat at a small, square desk to frantically scribble down everything she remembers about World War I and the Industrial Revolution on exam day, but I’ll have as many sleepless nights over these A-levels as she will. They’re all-consuming, I remember how it was with Josh.
It had been a different battle three years ago to the one now, but a battle it had been. I’d spent hours reminding him that although he was a natural academic, his aptitude for learning was no excuse for not hitting the books. With Kelly it’s something else entirely. She works hard, colour-coding her notes with fluorescent sticky tabs and a multitude of neon highlighter pens. They’re as bright as the accessory aisle in Miss Selfridge in the ‘80s, but for all her organisation and effort, study doesn’t come easy to her.
I’m a hard worker myself, never satisfied until the glass cabinet that runs the length of the old wooden counter is jam-packed full of sweet offerings. Since the day I bought the café, way back when Kelly was in junior school, it has always been the same. But it’s been a gruelling slog at times, and I hope beyond all hope that my children will have an easier ride than my own.
“What time’s Fern getting in?” Kelly asks, throwing the now-grubby dishcloth she’s been using into the hot soapy water that fills the kitchen sink. “Because I’ve loads of revision planned for today. My head’s a mess trying to remember all those dates and laws. I need to put the hours in if I’m going to get the grades for Birmingham,” she reminds me, as though I’m likely to forget. It’s all she’s spoken about for months.
“She’ll be in at ten, so you can get off after that. Or you can sit at the corner table all day if you prefer? I’ll make sure Fern keeps your cup filled with tea.”
I’m a great believer in the power of tea. A warm hug when the world feels cold, rejuvenating when you feel beaten. I pretty much live off the stuff and have passed my love of it on to both Kelly and Josh, who are equally addicted, although they’re far more liberal with the sugar than I am.
“It’s up to you,” I add. “Wherever you think you’ll concentrate best. My only worry is you’ll go home, turn on your laptop and fall down a YouTube-shaped rabbit hole.”
Kelly’s hooked on the beauty vloggers’ channels, constantly looking for tips on how to perfect her eyeliner flicks and discover which foundation offers best all-day coverage on a shoestring budget. All the important stuff.
Kelly groans. “Mum, really! It’s me you’re talking to. I’ll put in the work, I’m not like Josh.”
“I know you’ll put the effort in. I do,” I answer, ensuring my voice stays soft and reassuring. I don’t want to risk it veering off towards fussy fuddy-duddy mode, because Kelly doesn’t respond well to being told what to do. Never has, even as a tot. She’d been one of those puce-faced children who kicked and screamed at the supermarket checkout when she wasn’t allowed a packet of chocolate buttons, always knowing what she wanted and doing her level best to get it by fair means or foul. Both my children had been like that, and I don’t want to dwell on what that says about me. A psychoanalyst would have a field day, I’m sure.
I choose my words carefully, talking slowly. “But I can’t help but wonder if you only want to go to university because you think it’s expected of you, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
I catch Kelly’s gaze. Her turquoise eyes flash, but not with anger, and a tangible rush of love flows between us. For a second I wish I could turn back time. Things were bloody tough when the kids were little, but at least then I’d felt I was making a difference. Back then I’d had some level of control over her life and how she experienced the world. These days I have to trust the mistakes she’ll inevitably make will be minor rather than major. Kelly’s very much her own person, a glorious muddle of juxtapositions – stubborn and flighty, beautiful and petulant, angry and delicate – but beneath the lipstick and mascara she’s still my baby. She always will be.
“You don’t have to take the same path as your friends, you know,” I continue. “There’s more to life than university, other options you could explore. I was already pregnant with Josh when I was your age…”
“Are you saying I should get pregnant?” Kelly jokes. Quick-witted as ever, especially when a conversation takes a serious turn. Just like her dad. He never wanted to talk about anything heavy either. I bat away thoughts of Clint because there’s no point ruining a perfectly lovely morning. “I didn’t think you’d be up for being a grandma just yet.”
“Absolutely not!” I exclaim, flustered. I can feel my cheeks burning up; they’ve probably already turned an attractive shade of beetroot.
“All I’m trying to say is that what’s right for one person isn’t always right for another. I was married with a baby on the way when I was eighteen, whereas at the same age Josh got accepted on to his physics degree. Your dad…” I pause, consciously trying to keep the distaste from displaying on my face. I never purposefully badmouth Clint to the kids, as much as I’ve wanted to at times. It’s not their fault that their dad’s a waste of space. “…well, he was already in with the wrong crowd by then. But you, my gorgeous baby girl? The world’s your oyster! You can do anything you put your mind to. And you don’t need a piece of paper from a stuffy university to do most of it, and you definitely don’t need the debt that goes hand in hand with it. I wouldn’t be saying this if I thought history was your passion. But I don’t think it really is, sweetheart, do you?”
I wait for an answer, but nothing’s forthcoming. Kelly’s nibbling on the skin of her thumb, a bad habit she’s had since she was small, and I resist the urge to tap her hand away from her mouth.
I smile gently, hoping it can reassure her. “All I’m saying is three years is a long time to be miserable.”
Kelly smiles back awkwardly, more grimace than grin. “I don’t know, Mum. Everyone’ll be going away in September – Tash, Meg, Luke … I don’t want to be the only person stuck here when they’re all having fun at freshers’ nights and drinking bright blue cocktails from plastic fishbowls.”
There’s a tinge of fear in her voice, which I expect is linked to the thoughts of missing out on the rite of passage that is going to university. The youngsters today all seem to go, leaving in their droves every autumn. Surely they can’t all be brainboxes?
Even in my day things were different, and it’s not like I’m from the dark ages. Half my classmates went straight into work from school – poorly paid jobs as receptionists, barmaids, checkout girls – ordinary jobs for the ordinary people we were. There was no shame in that back then, it was the norm. How can the world have changed so much in such a short time?
I’d worked as a waitress before having Josh, serving stone-baked pizzas and rich cannellonis in a little Italian restaurant on the high street, a family-run eatery. Every available surface had been bedecked in the traditional national colours of red, white and green. It hadn’t paid that well but had provided a bit of pocket money, enough to get by. Even now I’m hardly Deborah Meaden; I just got lucky, buying the café for a song and slowly but surely building up the business. The Lake House Café’s doing well at the moment, with café culture on the rise.
“Who said anything about being stuck here? If you work over the summer, you’ll earn a bit of pocket money and maybe have enough to travel. You’ve said you wanted to see the world. Why not do it now while you have the chance? I always fancied getting one of those train tickets that lets you go all over Europe, packing a backpack and seeing where I ended up. Imagine what an experience that’d be! You could go to Rome…” I say dreamily. In my mind I’m drifting off on a sleeper train heading towards the Eternal City, rather than wondering if I’ve got enough plain flour in the cupboard to last the rest of the week. As much as I love my job, Rome sounds infinitely more appealing.
Kelly, however, looks doubtful. “I don’t know. I’d have to come back sooner or later, and without a degree I’d struggle to get a job.”
“For as long as I own this café, there’ll be a job here for you. I know it’s not much, but it’s something.” I cup my daughter’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “Just have a think about things, that’s all I’m asking. Why don’t you head off home? Fern will be here shortly, and I can manage till then.” I nod towards the café door and the sprawling green park beyond. “Go and hit those books.”
Kelly reaches for her black leather satchel and slings it across her body. “Thanks, Mum. And I’ll think about it, the travelling.”
I’m sure she’s only saying it to placate me, but I humour her back, leaning down and kissing the baby-soft skin of her cheek. They’re growing up fast, her and Josh. If only I could slow it down a touch before they’re gone for good, lost to significant others and the daily grind.
“Do. There’s more to life than exams. I may not have got here by the most direct route, but I’m happier now than I’ve ever been before.” I can’t help but smile with a quiet satisfaction. “It took me the best part of forty years to achieve what I wanted, so don’t you go beating yourself up for not having your life mapped out at your age. You’ll get there soon enough. I’ve got everything I want now. It just took a bit longer than I thought it would, that’s all.”
Kelly makes for the door. “Everything you want except a man,” she says cheekily, quickly closing the panelled door behind her whilst I stand agog, wishing I was a bit sharper.
She’s right though. It’s the sad truth that I do wish I had a bit of male company once in a while. I don’t need a man in my life, but it’d be nice to have someone special to share the highs and lows with. There’s been no one serious since Clint, nothing more than a few paltry dates that didn’t lead to anything fulfilling. I’m only forty: surely I’ve not used up my share of romance already?
I sink into one of the wooden chairs, the plump gingham cushion softening my landing, as I reminisce.
Clint Thornhill had been my childhood sweetheart, a wild bad boy with convincing patter. As a teen, I hadn’t noticed his (many) obvious flaws, instead blindly worshipping the ground his bovver boots walked on. I’d fallen hard and deep, smitten by his white-blonde hair and strong features. He’d reminded me of my first major celebrity crush, Matt Goss from Bros. The similarity had set my heart aflutter.
I’d had to pinch myself to believe Clint would be interested in me, but for some reason he’d kept hanging around, turning up at places he knew I’d be. When he finally asked me to the pictures I’d accepted in a flash. We shouldn’t have wasted our money because we hadn’t watched the film: instead we’d snogged for two hours solid in the back row of the local fleapit. My lips had felt like they were burning, a blissful pain searing through my fifteen-year-old self that was full of both danger and excitement.
Two and a half years later we were married, a small register office do on my eighteenth birthday. Seven months after that came the two blue lines on the white plastic stick that had revealed I was expecting Josh, and I’d been so, so happy. Other people my age seemed so unsure, but I’d got it all – a husband, a council flat, a baby on the way. I’d foolishly thought I’d got it sussed.
But it hadn’t taken long for me to realise my mistake in marrying too young, and although I’d never regret Josh and Kelly, I do regret Clint. Mostly I regret the shame he brought on my family, the absolute heartbreak both his mum and mine had suffered when he’d been sent to prison ten years ago. Armed robbery, like one of those bank hold-ups in a cartoon. He’d even been wearing a black balaclava in an attempt to hide his face, just to live up to the stereotype. It was almost laughable. All he needed was a swag bag and a black-and-white-striped jumper to complete the Burglar Bill look.
The balaclava hadn’t worked, anyway. The bank teller he’d threatened had recognised him despite his disguise. In court she’d said that she knew it was Clint who’d pointed that gun at her because she’d recognise his eyes anywhere. Funny how the piercing blue eyes I’d lost myself in so many times were the very thing that eventually tore us apart.
After that things changed. Every time I walked into a shop people would stare, gossiping behind their hands about what an idiot I must be to have ended up saddled with two kids and a criminal for a husband; and his poor mum, you’d think she’d given birth to the devil himself from the way people spoke to her. People judge you on how your kids turn out, and Vivienne’s parenting skills were well and truly under scrutiny after Clint’s escapades. There’s no hiding in a small town like this.
Soon after Clint was locked up, I filed for divorce. Unreasonable behaviour, although I could have easily named adultery as the reason for the breakdown of our marriage. Clint might have made me feel like one in a million at the beginning, but a string of affairs throughout our married life left me with zero confidence. He came back grovelling time and time again, plying me with platitudes about how it was me he loved and how he only ever strayed when drunk, but I’d become a laughing stock, one of ‘those women’. His prison sentence was a chance for me to break free and reclaim my fragile heart, although I’m still recovering from the damage our toxic relationship caused.
If I’m being completely honest, that’s why I threw myself into The Lake House Café with every ounce of my heart and soul. The café had been a welcome distraction from the romance that was sadly missing in my life. It gave me a purpose, along with a ready-made excuse for turning down the occasional offers of dates I did get – always claiming to be too busy for love when really I hadn’t found anyone I was willing to take a chance on. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say.
But today’s a Saturday, and Saturdays mean one thing – football coaching in the park. And football coaching means the handsome Italian with the floppy jet-black hair; tall, lean and athletic with rich olive skin and strong, taut thighs. Yes, Saturdays are especially pleasurable. He’s exceptionally easy on the eye.
It hardly matters that I’ve barely said a word to him in all the months he’s been running the kiddies’ football course. I’ve seen him, and that’s enough. My heart flutters more than I care to admit at the thought that he might pop into the café for an Americano and a slice of gingerbread at the end of the session. He doesn’t call in every Saturday, but when he does it brings a spring to my step and a smile to my face. Sadly, it’s the highlight of my week, so I hope today will be one of the days he rewards his hard work with some home baking. Please, please, please…
Pushing back the chair, I catch my reflection in the window. I plump up my dark brown curls to give them more volume and smack my lips forcefully together in the hope it’ll enhance their colour. Ensuring I look my best, just in case.
The jangle of the bells over the door catches my attention and my heart pounds for all the wrong reasons as I see my assistant Fern. Her face is blotchy, her eyes narrow and red. She sobs loudly and I dash towards her, placing my arm around her shoulder.
“Fern! Whatever’s the matter, sweetheart?”
The young woman pulls away, dragging the backs of her index fingers underneath her eyes in a bid to wipe away the tears. It works, but she smears her mascara in the process, leaving prominent dark streaks stretching to the edges of her face. She looks like a bedraggled version of Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.
“Oh, Maggie, it’s Luke,” Fern says, referring to her younger brother. He’s a friendly, handsome boy; energetic and confident, the polar opposite of super-shy Fern. He’s been in the same class as Kelly since infant school. They dated briefly, and I’d been surprised and quietly disappointed when they’d called time on their relationship. He’d been good for her: far better than Mischa, the moody goth girl she’d dated last year. Mischa had a notebook full of depressing song lyrics from bands like Depeche Mode and The Cure, and the amount of kohl she used on her eyelids would have given Robert Smith a run for his money. It made her look like a raccoon. I’d never understood why Kelly was with her. They had nothing in common. Not once did Mischa’s purple-coated lips crack a smile, whereas I can’t help but smile at the thought of Luke, all youthful effervescence and enthusiasm. He’s a cheerful boy, uplifting and full of zest. “Last night he was screaming in pain and saying he couldn’t see. He’s been complaining of migraines for weeks, but this was the worst yet. Dad rushed him straight to the hospital and they ran all these tests, dozens of them.”
Fern whimpers, helpless, then swallows. When she finally speaks her words hit me like a sledgehammer.
“They found out what it is that’s making him feel so awful. It’s not a migraine, Maggie. It’s a brain tumour.”
