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In the bathroom, he found his wife, Bea, kneeling at the roll-top bath, propping up their nine-month-old daughter, Maddy, whose chubby form was surrounded by sweet-smelling bubbles.
‘Doesn’t she look adorable?’ sighed Bea, without so much as glancing at Stan. ‘She’s been brilliant today. I’m sure she even tried to say “mumma”. Some babies do talk as early as nine months, you know. I’ve been reading about it.’
‘Wow. That’s great,’ said Stan, sinking down onto the closed loo seat. And it was great. Every tiny thing their firstborn achieved was wonderful and Bea had every right to make a fuss about it. ‘So you’ve had a good day then?’
‘Amazing. We had a lovely time at playgroup. We sang Santa songs and made some Christmas cards with glitter. I took loads of pictures. Maddy looked so cute in her new Rudolph tights, didn’t you, munchkin.’ She swiped a bubble onto the child’s tiny nose. Maddy giggled, causing Stan to almost smile, before a yawn cut in first.
‘They’re all on Facebook.’
‘What are?’ Stan rubbed a hand over his face.
Bea turned to look at him and tutted. ‘The photos of Maddy in her new tights.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Aren’t you going to say hello to her?’
Stan stifled another yawn. ‘Of course. But I’ve only been in the house thirty seconds.’
Another disparaging glare followed. ‘You can take over here while I sort out her supper. One of the girls from playgroup recommended Popeye Pasta with Savoy Spinach.’
Stan opened his mouth to enquire if Savoy Spinach was a class above Travelodge Spinach. But just as quickly he closed it again. Bea had that air of briskness about her that told him she wouldn’t find his quip the least bit amusing. At the mention of food, though, his stomach emitted a loud groan. He was starving. He’d driven all the way to Sheffield for a stupid twenty-minute meeting, then been stuck in traffic on the M1 for two hours on his way back to Leeds. His subsequent late arrival back at the office hadn’t gone down well with his boss, who’d been chomping at the bit to offload yet another heap of mind-numbingly dull spreadsheet requirements onto him.
Not that anyone appeared remotely interested in his day.
‘Here.’
He started as Bea tossed a towel in his direction. It had a penguin’s head attached to it.
‘She can have another five minutes in the water. She likes you to bob her pirate ship up and down. Oh. And make sure you dry her properly before you put her pyjamas on.’
Stan said nothing as he slipped off his watch, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and crouched down at the side of the bath to take over the propping up of his daughter.
‘Look now, darling, Daddy’s going to play pirates with you. Isn’t that lovely,’ cooed Bea, before whisking out of the room.
Maddy evidently thought otherwise. Her huge blue eyes grew wide. Her bottom lip quivered. And before Stan could utter any reassuring platitudes, she let out a blood-curdling scream.
As if by magic, Bea reappeared. ‘What have you done to her?’
Stan gawped. ‘Nothing. I just … Well, nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘You must’ve done something. She doesn’t bawl like that for no reason.’
‘I didn’t. She just – Well, I don’t know. I don’t think she likes me very much.’
Bea tutted – which, Stan had noticed, had become an increasingly frequent occurrence these days. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she chided, plucking the baby out of the water and swathing her in the towel, the penguin head perfectly perched atop Maddy’s damp blonde curls. ‘Of course she likes you. You’re her father, for heaven’s sake. The problem is that you don’t spend nearly enough time with her.’
Stan’s patience, already stretched to the limit by his crap day, began to twang dangerously. ‘And just when am I supposed to do that?’ he demanded, raising his voice above the wails of the baby. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m at work all bloody day.’
Bea narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare swear in front of Maddy. And don’t raise your voice. You’ll upset her.’
The way the child was hollering, Stan couldn’t imagine her being more upset if Thomas the Tank Engine had run over Iggle Piggle. Not that he deemed it helpful to point that out.
‘I’ll have to settle her down,’ Bea huffed, strutting out of the room, baby and all. ‘It’s probably best if you stay out of the way.’
No change there then, Stan almost added. Since Maddy’s birth, he’d spent a great deal of time “out of the way”. He’d been relegated to the sidelines. Shown the red card. Sent off. His newly assigned role in the house, apart from the obvious one of provider, seemed purely to annoy the female contingent.
As the door to Maddy’s bedroom slammed shut, he sank down onto the bathroom floor, raked his hands through his thinning hair, and wondered how it had all gone so horribly wrong.
*
Goodness, mused Amelia, driving along Buttersley’s main street lined with quaint, tastefully adorned little shops, and trees twinkling with fairy lights in the dusky afternoon. She certainly hadn’t been expecting anything this pretty. Not that she’d been expecting anything really. Until the last few days, she’d never given a moment’s consideration to where her sister lived. She and Annie had never been close. With their parents emigrating to Goa the year Amelia started Cambridge, family get-togethers hadn’t featured much in their lives.
Then, of course, there was the age difference. Barrelling into the world almost a decade after her sister, Amelia always suspected she’d been a mistake rather than the “lovely surprise” her mother insisted. Nevertheless, the gap had resulted in the girls’ lives rarely colliding. Even in times of crisis – like when Annie had her first child and was subsequently dumped by her partner – Amelia played no part in the ensuing drama, far too focused on her university studies to permit any outside interference. It had been Annie’s best friend, Portia Pinkington-Smythe, who’d rescued her from that drama, offering Annie the job of caretaker at Buttersley Manor – her ancestral family pile. It was there Annie had met and subsequently married the celebrated author, Jake O’Donnell, and given birth to her second child two years ago. Amelia hadn’t made the wedding. She’d been on secondment in Providential’s Hong Kong office.
Indeed, the only time Amelia had made any date with Annie and her little family was when they trooped down to London, when Jake had an appointment with his agent, or a book launch. Amelia would meet them for lunch, although admittedly her mind was generally more on her pending afternoon schedule than forging familial bonds.
To be honest, she had no idea why she’d experienced the need to call Annie with the redundancy news. She certainly wasn’t in the habit of exchanging confidences with her sister. Or with anyone, for that matter. Over the years, she’d mastered the art of becoming emotionally self-sufficient – out of necessity, she acknowledged, rather than choice. But who was to blame for that? Nobody but herself, that was who.
Thankfully, before she could become even more maudlin, she spotted a sign pinned to the side of a huge oak tree, proudly bearing the name of The Cedars. Without further deliberation, she swung her Mercedes Coupe off the main road and up the narrow drive towards the house. And what a house, she concluded a minute later as she parked on the semi-circular sweep of gravel in front of the white two-storey Georgian villa. It looked utterly adorable; like it hadn’t changed at all in two hundred years; like Ms Austen herself could swan around the corner at any moment. But it wasn’t Ms Austen who sailed out of the bottle-green front door with an enormous holly wreath pinned to it. It was Amelia’s sister, Annie, looking effortlessly pretty in faded jeans, a white Arran jumper, and beige Ugg boots.
Amelia, in a grey tailored trouser suit and high heels, immediately wished she’d worn something more casual. But that thought was swiftly nudged aside by the warm, welcoming smile on her sister’s face. Such a warm, welcoming smile that a rush of unaccustomed affection surged through Amelia. Desperate to cling on to what was left of her equilibrium, she sucked in a deep breath, tucked the sides of her honey-blonde bob behind her ears, forced the corners of her lips upwards, and prepared to greet her sibling.
‘Hi,’ Annie gushed, as Amelia scrambled out of the car. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve arrived safely. And before it’s too dark. How was the drive?’
Before Amelia could reply, Annie enveloped her in an embrace. Amelia didn’t normally engage in shows of physical affection. She found it easier to keep people at arm’s length – to maintain a respectable distance between herself and her fellow man. But, with her sister’s arms around her, breathing in her subtle scent of roses and fresh bread, something tugged at her heart, bringing tears to her eyes.
Thankfully Annie didn’t seem to notice as, all at once, she released her hold and bent down to the car.
‘Get out of there now, Pip!’
Amelia whipped round to find a scruffy white Jack Russell with a pair of plastic reindeer antlers on its head sitting smugly on the cream leather driver’s seat.
‘I’m so sorry,’ apologised Annie, swiping up the dog and slamming shut the car door. ‘This is Pip. He doesn’t like to miss anything. Anyway, come on in and have something to eat. We’ll bring your stuff in later.’
Amelia gave a weak smile of consent, not daring to speak in case it brought forth the threatening tears. Instead, she followed her sister into the house and found herself in a huge, perfectly square entrance hall, dominated by an enormous Christmas tree dripping with all manner of decorations. Original green patterned tiles covered the floor, while the dazzling white walls were dotted with black-and-white family photographs.
‘Everyone’s in the kitchen,’ said Annie, marching off down a corridor leading off from the hall. ‘The children can’t wait to see you.’
Observing the children’s smiling faces in the pictures, Amelia doubted that very much. She never knew what to do or say around children. Their unpredictability set her on edge.
‘Look who’s here,’ Annie announced, when they eventually reached the vast kitchen. An obvious recent addition to the house, its back wall consisted entirely of folding doors leading onto the garden. Opposite, against the natural stone of the wall, rested a collection of sleek aubergine units, bookshelves, a refrigerated wine rack, and, bang in the centre, a fuchsia-pink Aga. The place was modern, stylish and homely and smelled exactly like Annie: of bread and roses, with the addition of spicy parsnip soup.
Running down the centre of the room was a long plank table littered with crayons, paints, paper, glitter and jigsaw pieces. At one end sat Jake, Annie’s husband, with his laptop. He jumped to his feet and strode over to Amelia the moment she entered.
‘Hi,’ he gushed, enveloping her in another hug. ‘How are you? So sorry to hear about the job. It must’ve been a huge shock.’
‘You could say that,’ mumbled Amelia, the urge to howl increasing by the second.
‘Still, on the plus side, it gives you a chance to spend some time with us,’ he continued. ‘The kids have been dying to see you. Are you going to say hello to Aunty Amelia, guys?’
Kneeling on the bench at the table, seven-year-old Sophie, the double of her mother, her mass of golden hair squashed into two fat pigtails and a Rapunzel-like hat on her head, gazed at Amelia with huge green eyes.
‘Hello,’ she said.
Amelia managed a watery smile back.
‘And what about you, Thomas,’ chivvied Jake. ‘You remember Aunty Amelia, don’t you?’
Kneeling alongside his sister, two-year-old Thomas, in a Spiderman outfit topped off with a policeman’s helmet, ran an appraising gaze over his aunt. ‘No,’ he replied flatly.
Jake snorted with laughter. ‘Sorry, Amelia. You’ve caught him on a bad day. We ran out of yogurt popsicles earlier which, I’m sure you can appreciate, is almost a national disaster.’
Despite having no idea what a yogurt popsicle was, and being devoid of the energy to ask, Amelia opted for another weak smile.
‘Anyway, never mind our wayward offspring,’ cut in Annie, setting the antler-bearing dog down on the floor, and marching over to a pan on the Aga. ‘You must be starving. Parsnip soup okay for you?’
‘Accompanied by my homemade bread,’ chipped in Jake. ‘Thomas and I made it especially for Aunty Amelia, didn’t we, mate?’
Without bothering to raise his head from his elf jigsaw, Thomas nodded gravely.
‘I sometimes help mummy make cakes,’ announced Sophie, without looking up from her colouring-in book.
Amelia gulped. What should she say to that? She’d never made a cake in her life. ‘Well, that’s, um, nice,’ she heard herself murmuring, as she slipped onto the bench opposite her niece.
Sophie cast her an unimpressed glance, before returning to her colouring book.
Thankfully, the moment was broken by Annie.
‘I thought you’d just want to chill this afternoon,’ she said, pushing a spoon and a bowl of steaming-hot soup in front of Amelia. ‘You must be exhausted after the drive. But I’ve arranged a babysitter for tonight. I thought us three grown-ups could go to the pub for a meal. If that’s okay with you.’
Amelia’s already low spirits took a further dip southwards. The last thing she needed was to sit in a noisy pub, surrounded by people, making polite conversation. But to say so would be rude and unsociable. And she didn’t know her sister well enough to be either of those.
‘Lovely,’ she consequently uttered. She hoped the addition of, ‘But I don’t want to be any trouble,’ might permit her a reprieve.
It didn’t.
‘Oh, believe me,’ chuckled Jake, resuming his seat at the table, ‘we don’t find it any trouble going to the pub. Annie practically lives there.’
Annie placed her hands on her slender hips. ‘Er, excuse me, Mr O’Donnell. I’ve been all of half a dozen times this year. Although, now that we have our super-reliable, gorgeous babysitter, I might well increase my visits.’
‘Our babysitter is called Ella and she lets me stay up until nine o’clock, but I’m not allowed to tell anyone,’ Sophie piped up, gazing solemnly at Amelia.
‘Not a soul? Ever?’ pressed Jake.
Sophie shook her head, causing her pigtails to swing from side to side. ‘Nobody. Ever.’
Chapter Two (#ulink_2511e30f-fc6e-50cf-bfef-917796e8d311)
‘You look nice, dear.’
Ella Hargreaves bit back a satisfied smile as she wandered into the kitchen of Stanway House, where her mum sat at the table with a mug of tea and a copy of the local newspaper. ‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘But it’s only an old pair of jeans and a tatty T-shirt.’
From behind her reading glasses, Mona Hargreaves arched a dubious brow. ‘There’s nothing old or tatty from where I’m sitting. And I hope you’re putting a cardigan on. You’ll catch your death in that top.’
Ella gave a dismissive toss of her long chestnut locks. ‘I’m babysitting, Mum. Which means I’ll be indoors all evening.’
Mona narrowed her eyes. ‘Just watch what you’re doing, that’s all.’
Ella planted a kiss on the older woman’s plump cheek. ‘You worry too much,’ she said, before uttering something about being back about eleven, and making a hasty retreat. Honestly, as much as she loved her mum, it did unsettle her sometimes just how perspicacious the woman could be: like she had x-ray vision that drilled right through to Ella’s mind. Because, as glib as Ella’s reply had been to the “looking nice” comment, she’d actually invested a great deal of effort preparing for this evening.
In addition to the hour banishing every one of her natural, much-hated curls with straighteners, she’d spent an age applying her make-up, including the new glittery green eyeliner and peachy lip gloss she’d bought earlier in the week. By far her most successful purchase during her shopping trip to Harrogate, though, had been the pink push-up bra, which gave her cleavage a boost she previously would only have thought possible with a surgeon’s knife and some silicone implants. Showcasing her newly boosted assets in a low-cut lilac T-shirt, and her long slender legs in faded jeans with the requisite rip at the knee, Ella looped a woollen scarf around her neck and tugged on her khaki parka in the hall, before making her way to The Cedars, excitement swirling about her stomach.
Having left school after her A-levels in the summer, Ella had decided to “take a year out”.
‘Only a year, mind,’ her mum insisted. ‘If you haven’t sorted yourself out by next August, you can enrol in a business studies course. There are always lots of jobs in offices.’
Plenty of jobs in offices there might be, but Ella didn’t want any of them. The thought of pushing bits of paper around for the rest of her life made her nauseous. But she honestly had no idea what she wanted to do. Unlike her siblings. Harry was out in Papua New harr doing something with anteaters for his PhD; Honor and Mark were both studying medicine; Robert was ploughing his way through to becoming a barrister; and Olly had just started his architect’s course. Add to this the fact that her father was a physics professor at Leeds University and her mother a biomedical scientist, and Ella could not have felt like a bigger underachiever if she’d had the words tattooed in neon across her forehead.
While her siblings sailed through life attracting top grades with a magnetic-like force, thriving on the pressure of tests and exams, Ella had been a jittering bag of nerves at every one of her A-level sittings, scraping a measly B and two C’s – embarrassingly not enough for her to be offered a place on the journalism course she’d been considering. The look of disappointment on her parents’ faces when she’d informed them of said results would stay with her for a very long time.
And so Ella had more or less resigned herself to being a failure. And, by taking a year out, knew she was merely postponing the inevitable. At some point she’d have to bite the bullet and enter the world of proper work – earn enough money to support herself. But doing what? So tired was she of contemplating that question that she’d neatly bundled it up and lodged it in an “only to be visited when absolutely necessary” crevice of her mind. As naff as it sounded, she’d convinced herself that this year was all about “finding herself”. Or, at the very least, stumbling across something she derived a soupçon of satisfaction from.
‘You can’t sit around doing nothing for a year, though,’ her mum proclaimed, the moment Ella’s exams had finished. ‘You’ll have to find a job.’
So she had. She’d headed straight up to Buttersley Manor to enquire about work, and the following day began waitressing in Annie O’Donnell’s tearoom. Ella loved working there. The entire manor house, owned by Annie’s best friend, Portia, had recently been rescued from its dilapidated state, and beautifully refurbished and restored. It now offered a range of immensely popular courses throughout the year, including photography, cookery, dancing, and writing. Those visitors, combined with locals and day-trippers, all swarming to the Stables Tearoom for freshly squeezed orange juice, frothy hot chocolate, and Annie’s mouth-watering cakes, conspired to make the place a hive of activity every day of the week.
Ella enjoyed the buzz, the banter, the generous tips and last, but certainly not least, the fascinating mix of individuals. People came from all over the country to attend the courses – interesting people who seemed to know stuff about everything: politics, books, music. People who’d travelled widely and had fascinating tales to relate.
Not that Ella ever joined in any of these conversations. For one thing, she was never invited to, only mustering snippets as she set down lattes or scones, or cleared a nearby table. But mainly because she couldn’t join in. Her knowledge of politics stretched only as far as the name of the prime minister; the only serious books she’d ever read were those forced on her by her teachers; and she didn’t think any of the manor’s well-heeled visitors would be remotely interested in the latest One Direction album. As for being widely travelled, the furthest she’d ever ventured was to London on a school trip. Yet another disadvantage of coming from a large family, she concluded. With six kids for her parents to lug around, not to mention the expense, holidays to Disneyland or Spain had been experienced vicariously through mates at school.
Nonetheless, Ella enjoyed collecting these oddments of conversation – these insights into other people’s lives. Not, she was aware, that this little sideline would sit well on any proper job application form. But as she didn’t have any proper job application forms to complete at the moment, she wouldn’t waste time worrying about her future tonight. Indeed, she couldn’t have worried about it even if she’d wanted to. Because she was far, far too excited. And even now – five months on – still ever so slightly chuffed with herself for exploiting this opportunity when it first arose …
One day, when she’d been working at the tearoom for a few weeks, Ella had been taking a bag of rubbish to the bins outside when she’d overheard Annie on her mobile.
‘Oh no. What a pain … No. Honestly. It’s fine. Don’t you worry … Let me know when you get back … Okay. Bye.’
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, just as Ella appeared round the corner. ‘Oops. Sorry, Ella. That wasn’t aimed at you. I’ve just had a call from Miranda, my partner in the party-planning side of the business. She’s been to Portugal for the week and was due to fly back this afternoon in time to supervise a big birthday party. But now her flight’s delayed, which means I’ll have to do it. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but Jake’s in Glasgow at a book-signing and I don’t have anybody to look after the kids.’
Ella’s stomach leapt. ‘I can look after them if you like,’ she gushed, hoping she didn’t sound overly keen.
Annie’s emerald-green eyes grew wide. ‘Oh. I didn’t mean … That is, you don’t have to—’
‘It’s no problem. Honestly,’ blustered Ella, battling the urge to jump up and down. ‘I’m not doing anything else tonight and it’ll be fun. Your kids are lovely.’
Annie’s pretty features twisted into a dubious expression. ‘Hmm. Hold on to that thought for as long as it lasts. Are you really sure you don’t mind?’
Mind? Does a pig mind muck? Ella almost replied. ‘Of course not,’ she said instead. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
