She thought about her mother. She had tried to say she was sorry at the end, but did she hear? It was too late then. She was unconscious on morphine. She should have said it earlier when they first left him, when they ran away into the night.
She should say sorry to her friends who she’d never called back or contacted after she and Piles had split. She should have said sorry to her co-workers instead of not coming back without a word. It wasn’t that she thought people didn’t deserve to hear her apologies. It was that Clara didn’t know how to say them. Ever since her father, she couldn’t apologise to anyone and she knew it was time she learned or her mother’s prophecy was right – she would spend her life trying to say sorry to people.
Clara picked up her phone and texted.
I am sorry I was rude. I overreacted. I’m sorry I ruined the dinner. Also, thank you for putting my bed together, and for the roses and the table and really, thank you for everything. You’re so lovely and I was so rude.
She pressed send and lay on the bed. It felt entirely different now she was off the floor, and the task of fixing up the cottage didn’t seem so immense after all.
Her phone chimed with a return text and she picked it up and read it.
Check by the front door.
Clara nearly ran downstairs, wondering if Henry would be there but when she opened it there was darkness – until she looked down and saw a plate of stew with a candle next to it, some cutlery wrapped in a napkin, and a glass of wine.
Picking up the items, she carefully balanced them and carried them into the cottage and put them on the kitchen table.
It was the most caring thing anyone had done for her since before her mum became ill.
Giles had never cooked for her, claiming he was all thumbs in the kitchen. In fact, he didn’t really do anything in the home. She had done the washing and the cleaning, because in the end it was easier than arguing and she had decided that arguing over whose turn it was to iron was not the hill she wished to die on.
Clara sipped the wine and sat at the table, the candle flickering in the darkness. The stew was simply delicious and the wine a lovely pairing, with a hunk of crusty bread to soak up the rosemary-laced gravy from the stew.
As Clara ate, she felt a warmth inside that she hadn’t felt since before her mum died. Her eyes stung as she walked upstairs with the rest of the wine and the candle and climbed into bed in her clothes.
She missed her mum more than she could explain and Henry made her feel cared for, as though someone loved her for the first time in a long time. Someone looked out for her and had her back.
Clara finished the glass of wine and then sent a text.
That was so perfect and undeserved. You are a truly lovely person. Thank you.
A text came back.
You are too hard on yourself. You’ve had very little sleep, have helped a relative stranger and been dealing with a child who might be a future world dictator. It was my pleasure to feed you. Goodnight, Clara.
Clara felt her body respond to him using her name when he wrote goodnight.
She imagined him lying next to her saying that very phrase.
‘Goodnight, Clara.’
‘Goodnight, Henry,’ she would say.
And they would sleep with their feet touching and in the morning they would lie tangled together, his finger tracing patterns on her skin until they kissed and…
The phone chimed again.
I need to talk to you.
She looked at it with hope for a moment and then saw it was from Piles.
He wanted to talk to her? Her fantasy of Henry had been broken by this absolute traitor of a man to tell her she should speak to him, as though that should mean something.
In fury she typed back.
Never text me again. Go and be with my ex-best-friend. I hate you. I’m now blocking you.
And she did block him because Piles and Judas could go to hell. She lay in the dark trying to summon the vision of Henry next to her until she fell asleep just as their feet were touching.
17
Rachel was up earlier than usual. She had slept deeply and dreamed of cakes and a wedding and Clara and Pansy. It was nice to have someone else to dream and think about as she slept and worked. She used to dream about her mother a lot and they were anxiety-filled with a recurring one with Mother chasing her through a forest.
Last night Mother wasn’t in her dream at all and she woke up humming a tune that Clara had played on the radio. She showered and dressed, then put on a pair of sneakers that she had bought in Chippenham with Clara. They were so soft and felt spongy when she walked, as though she was walking on actual sponge cakes.
The sun was slowly waking up still, when a knock at the back door of the bakery interrupted Rachel. She was kneading the pastry for the rhubarb and strawberry tarts she was planning on making for the day.
The mini carrot cakes with little iced carrots on top were ready and there were butterhorn rolls to go with the lovely pea and ham soup or minestrone she had for lunch.
After wiping her hands on her apron, she opened the door, to see Joe the butcher standing in the dusk, the champagne light wrapping around him as though he was wearing it as a cloak.
‘Morning, Miss Brown,’ he said, not looking her in the eye. Joe was a shy redheaded man who was a few years ahead of Rachel at school. She doubted he remembered her but she remembered him because he had been kind
