As Luck Would Have It

Chapter 2

By the time we get to the village hall, my mum and I have already fallen out over whether the washing up has been done and whose turn it was to do it. The car has stalled three times and Hera has woken up. My mum parks wonkily in a space outside the village hall and as soon as the car comes to a stop, I jump out and open the back door to check Hera.

She reaches for me from her baby seat, wailing loudly.

‘Baby! It’s okay sweetheart,’ I coo, attempting to calm her, while rocking her gently on my shoulder. My mum turns the engine off and gets out of the car.

Hera lets out a few more loud cries.

‘Sweetie, it’s okay, it’s okay!’ I rub and pat her back as I pace back and forth by the side of the car. My mum looks on with concern.

‘Shall I just go home? Maybe this is too much for her?’ I suggest.

‘Give her a minute …’ I can tell my mum’s really desperate to have a night out at the village hall, so I keep patting Hera and making soft cooing noises in her ear.

She lets out a few more loud cries and then, strangely, she quietens down.

‘Oh, thank God for that!’ I breathe a sigh of relief when suddenly, Hera’s body swells and an eruption of green-tinged vomit spurts out of her mouth.

‘Eww!’ I yelp as the vomit lands on my jumpsuit and drips from my shoulder down over my right breast.

‘Oh no!’ My mum opens the car door and reaches into the glove compartment for a pack of baby wipes while I rub Hera’s back, comforting her, while trying not to breathe in the pungent smell of fresh sick.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I coo as my mum dabs at Hera’s face, wiping the sick away. She chucks the vomit-soaked wipe into a nearby bin and then gets a fresh one and tries to mop up the warm sick that’s dribbling down my jumpsuit.

‘What do you think is wrong with her, Mum? Do you think she’s okay?’ I ask, fretting. My mum may wind me up a bit sometimes, but it’s been a godsend having someone nearby who’s been there and done that when it comes to motherhood.

‘Yeah, she’s fine. She probably just ate too much at lunch. I thought she was gulping down that apple crumble dessert a bit fast,’ my mum comments.

‘What? You gave her apple?’ I gawp.

‘Yes,’ my mum answers hesitantly. ‘Was I … not meant to?’

‘It doesn’t agree with her, Mum, that’s why she’s vomiting,’ I grumble. ‘Poor Hera-pops …’ I rub her back some more.

‘Oh dear, let me have her.’ My mum reaches for Hera.

I hand her over and take a wet wipe. My mum comforts Hera, while I dab at the sick on my boob. I love my baby, but she’s managed to produce the most disgusting slime-like vomit. The more I dab at it, the more it seems to be getting everywhere and before I know it, my entire left boob is soaked and gunky.

‘Oh God,’ I groan.

My mum looks up from Hera and eyes my jumpsuit in shock.

‘It’s everywhere,’ she comments.

‘Pam!’ my mum’s friend, Sandy, calls out, waving over her shoulder as she heads into the hall.

‘Hi Sandy!’ my mum calls back in a strained voice. ‘Oh no, they’re going to get all the raffle tickets, we need to go in,’ she adds under her breath.

‘But Mum, look at me!’

My mum plasters a smile onto her face as she takes in my frazzled, vomit-spattered appearance. ‘You don’t look that bad,’ she insists.

‘You just said it was everywhere. I look awful,’ I sigh.

It’s true, I do. I go over to the car window and take in my reflection. I’m a complete mess. My nice jumpsuit is covered in gunk and my whole boob area is dark and splodgy from all the dabbing I’ve been doing with the baby wipes. All the stress has made my hair go even frizzier than it was before and the BB cream that I’d convinced myself gave me a subtle glow when I applied it at home isn’t even remotely covering the pale washed-out look of my face. I’m a far cry from the single glamourous girl-boss I used to be, and I don’t exactly look like Mum of the Year either. I should just head home already. This is what happens when you tell yourself real life is better than Netflix.

‘Oh! I have an idea!’ my mum pipes up, interrupting my self-pitying thoughts. Hera has calmed down a bit now and is resting her head against my mum’s shoulder.

‘What?’ I turn to look at her, questioningly.

‘I have a top in the back. You can put it on over your jumpsuit. The sick will dry in no time and you’ll look right as rain,’ she says, heading over to the car boot. She hands Hera to me.

‘Really?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Yeah, really. You might not smell right as rain, but you’ll look it!’ She gives Hera to me and then reaches into her handbag for the car keys and opens the boot.

‘Let me just find it.’ She leans forward and rummages in the assortment of random stuff she keeps there. I peer over her shoulder, taking in the empty, deflated-looking duffel bag, a long-forgotten crusty towel from a swimming trip and a Jilly Cooper novel.

‘Oh, here it is!’ my mum says suddenly, pulling a sweatshirt out of a plastic charity shop carrier bag buried behind a plant pot with a Homebase sticker on it that she appears to have forgotten to unload. She holds up the jumper, shaking it out of its crumpled state.

‘What is that?’ I gawp, taking in the monstrosity she’s holding. It’s a gigantic grey sweatshirt with a massive print of a tabby cat across the front and the words: ‘Cat Cuddles Sanctuary’.

‘Mum! Why did you buy that?! You don’t even own a cat?!’ I balk.

‘I know.’ My mum shrugs. ‘So?’

‘Then why do you have a Cat Cuddles Sanctuary jumper?!’ I ask through gritted teeth.

‘I bought it from Oxfam to wear for gardening. Anyway, you’ve never listened to Led Zeppelin and if I recall correctly, you own a Led Zeppelin T-shirt,’ my mum points out, still holding up the monstrous jumper for all the world to see.

‘What?! I do listen to Led Zeppelin!’ I huff.

‘Name a Led Zeppelin song,’ my mum fires back, still holding up the jumper. The beady eyes of the tabby cat are strangely distracting, and my mind has gone completely blank.

‘Erm, “Purple Rain”?’ I say eventually.

‘That’s by Prince, darling.’

‘How about “Stairway to Heaven”? Or “Whole Lotta Love”?’ a man’s voice says. He starts singing “Stairway to Heaven” in a low lilting tone.

I turn around to look to see none other than Will Brimble. Will. Brimble. The most popular guy from my old school who I haven’t seen since I left to go to London for sixth-form. Will was part of the reason I left my old school. I applied for an arts scholarship at a boarding school in London for sixth form. I didn’t expect to get in, but when they offered me a place, I decided to see it as a fresh start after experiencing heart break for the first time. Will was my first love and I used to absolutely adore him, but he was also the first guy to teach me what complete and utter morons men can be.

‘Oh my God,’ I mutter under my breath, wishing the ground would swallow me up. Will Brimble is the last person I want to run into, especially now, as I’m standing here clutching my baby while covered in sick.

Will sings another lyric and my mum closes her eyes. ‘I forgot how much I like that song,’ she says, swaying a little to Will’s singing, as though she’s at Woodstock festival. Will smiles smugly before continuing his rendition.

‘Can you stop singing, please?’ I snap.

‘So you’re not a Led Zeppelin fan then?’ Will asks wryly. He’s clearly just as much of a smug know-it-all now as he was at school.

My mum smirks.

‘I am a Led Zeppelin fan!’ I huff. ‘How long have you been eavesdropping, Will?’

‘Not long. I just parked my car and then saw you two having some kind of commotion,’ he says, glancing over at a white Audi TT, perfectly parked four or five spaces away, before turning to my mum.

‘How are you doing, Pam?’ he asks.

My mum bats her lashes as she and Will chat away. She’s always thought a lot of Will. Everyone has. He was the kind of boy who was both popular with his peers, and parents and teachers too, because despite his love of skateboarding and partying, he was also really smart and did well at school. He’d have a joke with teachers, but he knew when to knuckle down. He even encouraged his friends to get their heads down ahead of exams – a form of peer pressure teachers and parents were incredibly grateful for. But aside from liking him for just generally being an all-rounder, my mum has a soft spot for Will because she was really fond of his dad, Gary – a retired police officer who was also extremely popular in the village. He bought a black cab and set up a taxi service to keep himself busy; he was known in Chiddingfold as the man to call if you needed to get somewhere. He was always reliable and friendly, a trustworthy bloke you felt comfortable around. But sadly, he died of a stroke around seven or eight years ago. Everyone was distraught. Our hearts went out to Will and his mum, Sharon. I even sent Will a card and emailed him at the time, offering my condolences, but he never got back to me. I guess he was just too overwhelmed. Will loved his dad.

While Will and my mum chat away, I look towards his car. It’s pretty impressive and it looks a little out of place among the old Nissans and Fords of the villagers, but I wouldn’t expect any less from Will. Despite the upset of losing his dad, he’s done alright for himself. He’s a bit of a celebrity on the media scene. He took his gift of the gab, smarts and ability to get on with anyone, and decided to pursue a career in journalism after school. He studied at City University and managed to get a reporter role at a paper in north London when he graduated. Then he moved to another reporter job at a national, which led to a promotion to assistant news editor, another promotion to news editor and then, basically after a few years, he’d achieved the staggering feat of becoming Group Editor for a national newspaper group with three papers by the tender age of 28. I know this because it’s been impossible to escape Will’s meteoric rise to the top. His promotions were always covered in the media news websites I subscribe to for work and Will never turns down the opportunity to commentate on TV if there’s a chance. He’s regularly appeared on Sky and the BBC. He’s remained just as much of a show-off in adulthood as he was at school. But although his rise to the top of the journalistic career ladder has been very impressive, Will’s success story has suffered a bit of a blow lately. The company he was working for had been losing money for years and despite their efforts to boost their revenue, nothing’s worked. They tried staff lay-offs and restructures, they even added pleas to readers at the bottom of each article on their website with details of how to donate. But after years of trying, they realised the business just couldn’t survive and sold their titles to a rival media group. The takeover meant that Will and all of the staff were out of a job. It was a huge story. I read about it at the time and wondered how Will had coped, but I didn’t realise he’d ended up back in Chiddingfold.

Our eyes meet for a moment. His are just as striking as I remember them – a jade-green shade flecked through with amber. Exotic eyes that mesmerised my infatuated teenage self. Eyes that inspired forlorn poetry and horrendously self-indulgent angsty diary entries. Suddenly, Will’s gaze drifts down and I’m worried he’s going to notice a splodge of sick I’ve only jut spotted on the sleeve of my jumpsuit but instead, his eyes land on Hera.

‘And who’s this?’ he asks.

‘Oh, this is my daughter, Hera,’ I explain, turning a little so Will can get a better view of Hera’s gorgeous face.

‘Aww, what a pretty girl!’ Will says. I smile and thank him, but I just know the next question he’s going to ask is going to be something to do with Hera’s father and standing here, covered in sick, the last thing I need is to answer questions about Leroy, who hasn’t once tried to get in touch since I had Hera and, as far as I know, is still living in his studio flat painting bookcases and having wild sex with Lydia.

I give Hera to my mum to hold and take the cat jumper, leaving her to show off Hera to Will and deflect the ‘where’s the daddy’ style questions. I pull the jumper over my head. It smells musty and stale, from having been in the charity shop, but also from having been stuffed in the boot of my mum’s car for God knows how long. Combined with the smell of sick, I’m really not my best self tonight. I just hope I don’t run into anyone else from school.

I sweep my hair out from under my collar and take in my bizarre reflection in the car window, before turning to Will and my mum. They’ve moved on from cooing over Hera to talking about my mum’s dress. Will is telling her how ‘sensational’ she looks and she’s lapping it up.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she says, batting her eyelashes like a flirtatious schoolgirl.

‘Oh yes, it’s very flattering. A great cut, very figure-hugging,’ Will remarks. My mum smiles delightedly.

A great cut?! Figure-hugging?

‘Do you mind?’ I sneer, wondering if there’s any low to which Will won’t stoop. Clearly even 60-year-old women aren’t off his radar. He hasn’t changed a bit since school, and don’t even get me started on the nitty gritty of what he was like back then.

‘What? I was just saying how fabulous your mother looks,’ Will comments defensively, before taking in my jumper, his eyes widening in alarm. ‘Hmmm … interesting choice. I heard that you work in fashion. Is that top some kind of ironic statement?’

‘What do you mean, ironic?’

‘Well, surely you don’t mean to look like a crazy cat lady?’ Will remarks.

My mum giggles.

‘Piss off Will,’ I snap. ‘And mum, this is your jumper. So why are you laughing!?’

I turn my back on both of them. I put Hera in her carrier and give her a dummy, which she sucks on contentedly.

‘I need a glass of punch!’ I declare, before picking up Hera’s carrier and marching towards the village hall.

Chapter 3

Martha, a friend of my mum’s, is manning the drinks table. Unlike Will, she has the good manners not to comment on my attire. Okay, so maybe her eyes linger for a beat on the huge tabby cat and the Cat Cuddles logo but she doesn’t feel the need to say anything. She quickly diverts her gaze back to the bowl of ruby red punch. With painstaking care, she dips a ladle into the bowl and decants the liquid into a plastic cup, before adding two ice cubes, half a strawberry and a slice of lime, and finally handing it to me. I take it from her, thanking her gratefully, before plucking the cherry out of the way and necking it. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, before handing her back the empty cup.

‘Can I have seconds? Thanks Martha.’

Martha takes the cup, looking a little taken aback, before dutifully refilling it. A boozy mum in weird cat clothes with a baby sitting in a carrier at her feet probably isn’t the best look, but I’m beyond caring. Martha doesn’t bother with the fruit garnish this time and simply hands me the glass. I thank her and sip hungrily at it, before wandering over to the buffet. The buffet table, with its striped plastic cups and matching paper plates laden with party food is exactly as I remember it from back when the fundraiser first began so many years ago. Even the hall is the same, with the exact same rainbow bunting and streamers.

A few of the older men who I vaguely recognise regard me as I approach. They’re local busybodies that have been active in neighbourhood affairs for years. I think a few of them sit on the board of Chiddingfold Parish Council. They’re always finding something to complain about, from the frequency of the bin collection to the meandering bus routes. One guy, a retired naval officer called Clive who always wears a flat cap even when indoors and has been poking his nose into other people’s business for years, watches me closely as I reach for a bread roll. I pretend to be fascinated by the roll, taking a bite before inspecting the fluffy dough as though it’s the most interesting and engaging thing ever; I really don’t want Clive to speak to me. Once he starts, he doesn’t stop. I last saw him at a Christmas party at the local pub nearly two decades ago and the memory’s still disturbingly fresh. He was wearing the same grey flat cap and bent my 12-year-old ears off about unreasonable parking regulations near my school and blah blah blah. I can feel Clive zoning in on me, so I spear a few olives from a bowl with a toothpick and try to busy myself with the buffet, when I suddenly hear a different male voice over my shoulder.

‘Sorry Natalie, you don’t look like a cat lady,’ Will says, reaching for a cheese and grape stick from a plate on the buffet. He pops the chunks of cheese and grape speared onto the stick into his mouth in one bite.

I ignore him and turn back to the buffet to spear another olive. Will’s hand follows mine to the bowl. His fingers are long and surprisingly well-groomed, his nails and cuticles are incredibly neat and tidy, and his hands look soft and moisturised. Not like the hands of the rough-around-the-edges Will I remember.

‘Okay, maybe you do look a bit like a cat lady, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?’ Will ventures.

‘What?’ I snap, before popping an olive into my mouth and shooting him a look.

‘Well, cat ladies … If you think about it, they’re just animal lovers, aren’t they? And what’s wrong with looking like an animal lover? Cats are lovely animals.’

I turn to look at Will, giving him a deadpan stare as he makes his case for why it’s okay to go around saying how someone you haven’t seen for over a decade looks like a ‘cat lady’. Even though he’s just as annoying as ever, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s still handsome. His young self and his current self are like the difference between a picture with a filter and the original. He’s got a few lines now, his face isn’t quite as smooth and blemish-free as it used to be and his hairline is beginning to recede, but he’s still good-looking. His eyes are as striking as ever and they have a depth to them now that they never had before, even if he’s still chatting total rubbish like he used to back at school. As well as his ability to chat to anyone about anything, he has the same dimples he had all those years ago and the same trademark playful smile.