The Spark

Chapter Four

‘Is that another new top you’re wearing?’ asked my mother as she returned to the lounge carrying the large tea-tray. I stood up to offer to take it, even though I knew she’d decline. Just like she declined every Sunday and I kept offering. It was one of the mother-daughter dance-steps it seemed we had to go through each weekend. Don’t get me wrong, I do love my mum, but she’s what’s known as ‘a difficult woman’.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do you like it?’ I spread my arms out to show off the sleeves with their cute cut-outs over the shoulder and upper arm which exposed a glimpse of tanned skin, which I was mightily proud of. ‘I got it in H&M, in the sale.’

‘And it’ll probably last five minutes. I wouldn’t stand too near a gas fire; you’ll probably go up in flames in that cheap material.’

She smoothed down her beige wool skirt to make the point. It was a pencil skirt that she’d had so long, it was about to come back into fashion.

‘I know, but it was so pretty I couldn’t resist,’ I said with a smile at her. She still managed to look elegant in whatever she wore, in a straight-laced, buttoned-up sort of way.

‘Well, as long as you’ve not spent your whole pay packet. Mortgage payments come first. Although they’d be a lot smaller if you’d been sensible and bought here instead of that place.’

‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’m—’

‘I’m not worried,’ she snapped, quick to deny any sort of emotional involvement in my life. ‘But don’t expect me to bail you out if you run into difficulty. I don’t know why you had to live over there.’

She did know, and I refused to feel guilty about living within walking distance of my aunt, uncle and cousin instead of her.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ I reassured her with a smile. ‘I’m careful with money. You taught me well.’ The latter was said with calm, resigned equanimity. Debt was Satan’s temptation and spending money was evil – I’d received that message with bells on it.

‘Hmph. How’s your cousin?’ My mum’s question was asked with an added sniff. ‘More tea?’

She didn’t really approve of Shelley but we’d clearly run out of conversation, so this was her fall-back option. Jeepers, I’d been there less than half an hour.

‘She’s good,’ I said, lifting my teacup and saucer towards the outstretched teapot, giving the clock behind my mother’s head a quick glance. I swear, time in her house is different to anywhere else in the universe. A bit like dog years but in reverse. Somehow, here, it felt as if there were one hundred and twenty minutes in an hour instead of only sixty.

‘Is she still working at the beauty place?’ The lines around her mouth tightened as she pushed the milk jug towards me.

‘Mum, it’s Champneys, and yes, she’s still working there.’ I poured a tiny amount of milk into the watery Lapsang Souchong that she insisted on serving. It was like piss and not my cup of tea at all, but I’d never say anything, nor would I tell her that I would rather have a huge mug of builders’ tea, the type that fuelled Holly and me at work.

‘I suppose when you don’t have much in the way of qualifications, it’s as good as anything. Not much point in getting a degree if you’re not going to use it.’ I ignored the pointed comment. ‘Mind you, she’s so spoiled, I should be impressed that she even works. Lynn and Richard have been far too…’ It was tempting to tune out because I’d heard it all before.

‘Jessica!’ Oh, darn it! I had tuned out and now Mum was looking at me with her bulldog’s-chewed-a-wasps’-nest face, her chin sinking into her skinny, elongated neck, surrounded by a ruff of well-tanned contours. ‘At least pay attention when I’m talking to you.’

‘Sorry, Mum. I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.’

She raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘I asked if you had any more thoughts about going to your great aunt’s wedding. We’re going to have to go.’ Her mouth pursed with walnut wrinkles.

I shut my eyes for a second. I really didn’t want to go there.

‘I still need to find out if I’ll be on call that weekend. Holly hasn’t booked her holidays yet.’

‘Well, I don’t see why you have to wait on her. I thought you were the manager.’ My mother’s voice was shrill.

Technically I was, but it wasn’t the sort of place you pulled rank, or even thought about it. I might have the paper qualifications and the shiny degree to which my mother had made scathing reference, but Holly’s ten years of experience made her a million times more savvy and street smart than me. We made a good team; I never thought of myself as her boss.

‘I’ll ask her this week,’ I said with a sinking heart. Third time around, Great Aunt Gladys’s wedding was going to be fun with a capital F; going along with my mother would be miserable with a capital M. At sixty-nine, Gladys had bagged herself an extremely wealthy toy boy, Alastair, and they were getting married in style, the details of which had yet to be revealed but the save-the-date card featured Gladys in a jumpsuit and goggles, just about to launch herself out of a plane, with her fiancé grinning behind her and miming pushing her, which gives you a clue as to the type of couple they are. If Gladys has spent her three score and nearly ten years cramming as much joy and happiness into her life as she can, my mother has spent almost the commensurate amount sucking the joy out of her own and those of the people around her.

I know, I know, this is my mother we’re talking about and I should be a lot more charitable, more of a loving daughter. I am being a complete bitch and I shouldn’t. She’s not really that bad and she’s had it tough. Really tough. And I should have a lot more sympathy. My dad walked out without any warning when I was eight. Apparently he met the love of his life and couldn’t live without her. Giving up his well-paid job in London, he moved to Cornwall and never paid a penny of child maintenance. To give her her due, despite our desperate finances, Mum never borrowed a penny. Aside from one brief period when my childhood turned into a nightmare, I was always clothed, fed and taken on holiday every year. Although the delights of Filey do wear off after the fifth, sixth and seventh visit. When I was sixteen, I signed up to go to Christian Camp with the local Sunday school just to escape the week’s enforced shivering on a Yorkshire beach and the utter tedium of sharing a B&B room with my mother and her best friend, Dawn. If that sounds ungrateful, then I’m afraid I am. As I said, no one does stored-up bitterness quite as well as Mum, even though she now owns her own house and is practice manager at a very large GP surgery in Aylesbury and could actually start enjoying herself. She refuses to even talk about my dad and I’ve given up trying now.

‘Of course, I might have a plus one by then,’ I said, unable to resist being a little bit mischievous. ‘Or you might.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Jessica.’

‘You could always take Dawn. I’m sure Gladys wouldn’t mind.’

‘And can you imagine what she’d say if I did?’ My mother’s lips quivered with indignation. ‘She’d make some ridiculous insinuation that we were special friends or something.’

‘I’m sure she wouldn’t. She knows you and Dawn are good friends.’ I lied; it was exactly the sort of thing that Gladys would assume, thinking that she was being terribly liberal. Before Mum knew it, Gladys would be trumpeting about her niece, ‘you know, the lesbian one’.

‘So who’s the young man you’re thinking of taking? You haven’t mentioned anyone before. It is such a shame; you are a pretty girl.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ I laughed at her cautious compliment.

‘You’re very pretty. Is that better? I just don’t want you to get big-headed. It’s not just about looks. I can tell you that. You favour your father. And look what happened to him.’ Bitter lines fanned out around her eyes. Part of me was tempted to go for broke and say, ‘What did happen to him? After he left, why didn’t we see him again? Why did he abandon us?’

‘No, Mum, I look like you,’ I said firmly, smiling at her. ‘And you look great. And if I’ve still got a figure like yours at your age, I’ll be well chuffed. You know you’re a very attractive woman,’ I said rolling my r’s in an appalling Scottish accent, mimicking Duncan, her next-door neighbour.

Mum let out a you’re-being-ridiculous huff but at the same time she allowed herself a tiny smile and patted her hair. ‘The man is deluded but a gentleman all the same. I still don’t have to dye it. Poor Dawn is always at the Nice and Easy.’

She picked up her tea and took a thoughtful sip. ‘Well, if you do find yourself a plus one, you might not want to take him. If he meets Gladys he might run a mile. You don’t want him thinking insanity runs in the family.’

‘Gladys is deliciously bonkers, Mum. She’s not going to frighten anyone off, and it’s highly unlikely I’ll have a plus one. It was just supposition.’

‘Supposition. That’s a good word.’ Mum nodded approvingly, as if to say, See, that English degree wasn’t wasted after all. ‘So there’s no one on the horizon then?’

For someone who’d been so royally shafted by a man and whose life had been utterly shattered by the experience, there was a terrible irony in Mum’s continued desire for happy-ever-after for me. When Dad left she crumbled and things had got messy quickly.

‘No,’ I said with a shrug, wishing just this once that there could be.

I didn’t tell her as I backed out of her drive, my window wound down to wave at her as I left, that my next stop was dinner with my cousin and my aunt and uncle. With a touch of guilt, I watched her become smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror, a neat little figure in her cream blouse and smart skirt.

Touch of guilt? What sort of bullshit was that? I had so much guilt where my mum was concerned. Even eighteen years on, she didn’t know how to be happy, or seem to want to be. It made her hard to be around and for that my guilt exceeded Catholic proportions. I didn’t mention going to my aunt’s because I didn’t want her to feel left out, although she probably knew. My aunt regularly reminded her that she was always welcome, that there was an open invitation. In fact, the invitation was open to every waif and stray in Tring. My aunt had a big heart and couldn’t bear the thought of anyone being lonely. Despite Aunt Lynn’s weekly phone call and invite, Mum declined ten times out of eleven, preferring to stay home and get organised for work the next day. We all still treated Mum with kid gloves, even though she was so much stronger these days – not that she seemed to appreciate it.

There was no way I was declining the invitation. Roast chicken was roast chicken. And roast chicken easily trumped washing and ironing, even when I’d been out clubbing on a Friday night. Staying over at Bel’s sister’s in London meant that I’d only managed to do one load of washing. Tomorrow morning, Monday, I’d be the one wrestling with the ironing board and rushing around grabbing clean knickers from the drying rack tucked behind the sofa in my bijou lounge.

When I pulled up onto the spare space at no. 11 Pettyfeather Lane, behind Shelley’s car, I was pleased to see that there were no other cars. Just the family today, which I was relieved about, given my unwashed hair scooped up in a scraggy bun and the bags under my eyes as a result of too much girl talk on Friday after clubbing.

I let myself in, calling, ‘Hello, honey, I’m home,’ as I walked into the kitchen.

‘Hey, lovely,’ said Aunty Lynn wiping her hands on her pinny. ‘Oh, my darling, you’ve got some excess luggage going on there. Was it a good night on Friday?’

‘Yes.’ I laughed and wiped at my eyes. ‘It was a late one, not helped by Bel and the girls yakking until the wee small hours.’

Someone grabbed me around the waist, enveloping me in CK One. ‘You’re a fine one to talk, Jess. God, woman, why don’t you ever put on any weight? I hate you! Why couldn’t I have got Mum’s side of the family’s genes instead of Dad’s sausage fingers and stocky man-thighs?’

I turned to return Shelley’s hug before stepping back and nodding at her cleavage, tastefully displayed in a very pretty floral dress. Next to me she looked all shiny and polished. ‘Don’t complain. You got boobage. I’m still buying teen bras in M&S.’

There was an awkward silence and from the shocked amusement on both Shelley and Aunty Lynn’s faces, I knew before I turned around that I’d made this announcement to some complete stranger.

If only. Broadcasting my bra size to just about anyone else would have been preferable.

When I turned around, I met Sam’s laughing blue eyes, which to give him credit did not duck below my neckline but held my gaze.

‘Hi, Sam,’ I said, an octave higher than my usual register.

‘Hey, Jess, how’re you doing? I haven’t seen you at the parkrun for a couple of weeks.’

‘Oh, I’ve been busy,’ I lied. Busy avoiding you. My Instagram habit had got a bit too much and I’d decided I needed to go cold turkey. So much for that strategy. All the attraction I felt for him roared back into life with rocket-propelled jets.

‘Sam, would you like a beer? He’s just been helping Richard move a couple of paving slabs in the garden. He’s housesitting for his parents again.’ Aunty Lynn’s jaunty tone wasn’t fooling anyone. ‘Jess, would you get one for him from the outside fridge and help yourself to a drink?’

Sam’s eyes danced as I stomped to the fridge, which was actually inside the pantry but for some historic reason was always referred to as the outside fridge to differentiate it from the fridge in the kitchen. I snatched up a beer and grabbed the Prosecco bottle, realising my hands were shaking. Must be the adrenaline rush, I told myself. Lynn was directing Shelley, who was helping make gravy, even though it was still nearly thirty degrees outside. We were experiencing a week of record-breaking temperatures, even though it was late May, but still the Hilton family had to have their Sunday roast. Food was food. I wasn’t complaining, although I did feel a little Shanghaied by Sam’s presence. And also cross that no one had warned me and given me a chance to prepare.

Although, if I’d known he was coming, would I have been able to help myself? And did he think that I knew he was coming?

Flipping the cap off the bottle with the opener attached to the door frame, I handed Sam his beer and turned my back on him as I poured myself a small glass of Prosecco before topping up Shelley and Lynn’s glasses.

‘Why don’t you two go out in the garden?’

‘Don’t you need any help?’ I asked, desperately semaphoring a message to her with my eyes.

‘No, darling. I’ve got everything under control. Shelley, don’t let the gravy burn.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ said Lynn, bustling away with a steamer full of uncooked broccoli. ‘We’ll be eating in about ten minutes, when Richard gets out of the shower. That all right with you?’

Faced with no other option, I grumpily followed Sam outside to sit at the table on the patio under a big cream umbrella. Despite the parched brown grass, the rest of the garden was a riot of colour, with pots of flowers lining the edges of the curved patio steps. I studied the blousy petunias spilling over the sides of the glossy blue planters.

‘I’m sorry, Jess,’ said Sam, his blue eyes sorrowful. ‘I can see you’re mad at me but I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong. Would you like me to go?’

I swallowed. ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here. I thought you might think…’ My words trailed away. If I said any more, I’d say too much.

‘I had no idea you’d be here, honestly. Richard popped around fifteen minutes ago asking if I’d help with the paving slabs and then Lynn invited me to stay for dinner.’ His mouth drooped, his eyes hooded. ‘Roast chicken was a lot more appealing than last night’s Domino’s.’

‘Don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes, Sam Weaverham!’

‘Too much?’ Laughter lit his blue eyes.

‘Far too much. I bet your mum stocked the fridge to the gunnels for you while she’s away.’

His cheeks dimpled with a naughty smile. ‘You know her.’

‘No, but you give off those spoiled-rotten vibes,’ I said, trying to be snotty and failing miserably, as my face creased into a smile. ‘How long are you housesitting for?’

‘Just the weekend. They’ve gone to some fancy wedding down on the Isle of Wight, so decided to stay a day either side. They’re back tomorrow.’

‘I’ve never been to the Isle of Wight. My school always went in Year 6, but the day before we were due to go, my appendix burst.’

‘Ouch. I’ve never been either, if it’s any consolation.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘I’ll show you my scar if you show me yours.’

‘You’ve had your appendix out?’

‘Yup, two years ago, the scar’s almost invisible now.’ With that he whipped up his T-shirt and showed me his very tanned stomach, with dark-blond hair disappearing below his shorts. Jeez Louise, was the man trying to kill me?

I had an instant hot flush, and my pulse went into overdrive as he traced the tiny silvery scar with his index finger.

‘They glued it together,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing. In the olden days we’d probably have died.’

‘That’s a cheery thought,’ I said, taking a cooling swig of Prosecco and holding the glass to my cheek. There was no way I was showing off my equally neat scar, although a little bit of me had fallen even more for his total lack of self-consciousness.

And we were off, the conversation running free as we discussed childhood ailments and competed for the most broken bones. He won; he’d broken three ribs in one go during an unfortunate incident with a cricket bat.

‘So, are you enjoying this weather?’ asked Sam after a comfortable lull in the conversation. He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease, his tanned limbs sprawling comfortably as the sunlight danced over the reddish blonde hairs dusting his arms and legs. He looked like a sun god. ‘Or are you getting fed up with it?’

‘I love it. I just wish I had a garden to enjoy it. I’m lucky I do have a teeny tiny balcony that I can sit on, but it gets the sun in the morning rather than the evening.’

‘Nice for breakfast,’ he said with a nod.

I sniggered. ‘In my head, when I first bought the place, I planned to sit there eating healthy yoghurt, sprinkled with fresh strawberries and nuts.’

‘And?’ Sam’s eyebrows lifted in amused anticipation.

‘I’m usually rushing around with a bowl of Weetabix, trying to find my car keys and pull on my only pair of hole-free tights, which I had to wash the night before and which have been drying on the boiler all night … and that’s way too much information, but you get the picture.’

‘Sounds like real life to me. I’m a toast-in-the-car man, with my coffee in the cup holder and more toast when I get to work. And then toast at breaktime with the kids.’

‘A lot of toast,’ I observed, swatting at a wasp that was getting a bit too close to my wine glass. The pesky thing – the first of the season – was sluggish and stupid and was now dancing around the rim of the glass. I stood up to bat it away again and managed to knock over Sam’s beer. As we both lunged for it, I somehow managed to trip over his feet and … there he was, both hands on my upper arms, holding me up. Classic romantic-comedy territory … except it didn’t feel funny; it felt bloody terrifying. My stomach had gone into freefall and I couldn’t look anywhere but into his too-blue, too-perceptive, too-knowing eyes.

I was so conscious of his fingers touching my bare skin through the stupid gaps in my top (so that’s what they were for!) and of his lips just inches from mine. Oh yeah, every cliché in the book and it was horrible. Horrible. Horrible. Because I so wanted to kiss him and I knew, without being anything but honest, that he wanted to kiss me.

And we couldn’t. The knowledge pumped a great big fist right into my stomach.

I’m not sure who reared back first; it might have been simultaneous. I do know I felt sick. Properly I-might-throw-up-any-second sick. Which was a rather bizarre reaction. Was it shame? Regret? Disappointment?

Sam rubbed his hand over his forehead looking horrified and took another step back.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ called Lynn, appearing at the door.

‘Blimey, are you ill, Jess?’ said Richard after I refused a second helping of roast potatoes. I was still pushing the first lot around my plate.

‘No.’ I summoned up a smile I was far from feeling. ‘I think it must be the heat. I’m not that hungry.’

‘I’ll have yours,’ said Shelley as she leaned over and stabbed one with her fork. ‘Sod the man-thighs. At least they’re all bought and paid for.’

Everyone laughed and I sneaked a quick glance at Sam, unable to stop myself. He looked serious and had been carrying on a conversation with Aunty Lynn about his parents’ dog. She’d been talking about getting a dog forever – Uncle Richard called it Project Puppy – but never having owned one before, she entertained a certain amount of trepidation about the prospect. He hadn’t looked at me once since we’d come in from the garden.

‘Talking of which,’ he said, putting down his napkin with a show of great regret, ‘I ought to go and check on Tiggy. Make sure she’s got enough water. With all that fur, this heat is not good for her.’

‘Oh, you should have brought her,’ said Shelley. ‘Then Mum could have got her dog fix.’

‘You should get a dog, Lynn,’ said Sam rising to his feet. ‘I’m sure Mum would help you out with any questions. Thanks for dinner, and I’m sorry to cut and run. It was really nice of you to invite me.’ He looked around the table. ‘Nice to see you… Shelley. Jess.’ He gave a nod towards both of us, not making eye contact, and followed Lynn, who insisted on escorting him to the front door, still peppering him with questions about Tiggy’s daily routine.

‘Well,’ drawled Shelley. ‘He is seriously hot.’

Richard covered his ears. ‘I don’t think this is an in-front-of-Dad conversation, is it?’

Shelley grinned at him.

I huffed out a sigh. ‘And it’s not a conversation I want to have.’ I turned to her. ‘Please leave it.’

Her eyes widened for a second and then awareness kicked in and her face softened. ‘Sorry, babe.’ She patted my arm.

‘Dad, have another Yorkshire pud. You know you want to. Now that Wonder Boy’s gone you can stop holding in your paunch.’

Richard laughed and helped himself to not one but two big fat Yorkshire puddings. ‘Your mum loves me just the way I am.’ He waved one of the Yorkshires on his fork at her.

‘What’s that?’ asked Lynn as she slid back into her seat. ‘He’s such a lovely boy. Richard! Two! You said you were worried your trousers were getting a bit tight. That’s not going to help.’

‘Really, Dad!’ said Shelley with a wicked grin.

I let the family banter wash over me and luckily none of them noticed how quiet I was, or if they did, they thankfully didn’t mention it.

Chapter Five

I hit the ground running on Monday morning. Holly was already there when I arrived.

‘Two new arrivals this weekend. They’re still sleeping. Came in late last night,’ she said, handing over a mug of tea. ‘Little boy, he’s ten. Mum is twenty-eight. They’re not in great shape. I’ve got a meeting with the housing department about the Slater family.’