Instead she was a slave to the bakery, told to leave school by her mother because she wasn’t smart enough, even though Rachel’s home economics teacher said she was creative and could make anything in the kitchen and with the sewing machine.
Mother told her that home economics was a useless skill but that was all she did in the bakery. Measuring, budgeting, planning, mending the curtains on the windows because Mother wouldn’t pay for new ones.
But Rachel’s inner life was rich and filled with imaginary friends, dancing and perfumed nights with handsome men who vied for her kisses and more.
When her face stung from a slap or her upper arm ached from the bruising, she would lie in her bed and dream up intricately detailed scenarios where she would find herself being wooed and loved beyond anything she had ever imagined. In her imagination was a wardrobe of delicate and beautiful dresses, sexy outfits, demure outfits, and a perfect figure. She would turn heads when she walked into a room, and would charm women and men with her kindness and warm wit.
In her dreams, she was exactly what Clara was in real life.
Rachel opened the back door of the bakery, to take the rubbish out as Joe the butcher’s van pulled up.
‘Hello,’ he said, jumping down and rushing to her, taking the rubbish bag from her hands and easily throwing it into the bin.
‘Hi,’ said Rachel, wondering why he was there. Had she ordered something and he’d forgotten to deliver it earlier?
‘Good day?’ he asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket. She was used to seeing him in his striped butcher apron, which he always wore when delivering the meat. He looked less… She tried to think of the right word. Less butcherish, she decided, and much more handsome.
Joe was nice-looking, in his own way. Copper hair with bright blue eyes, and while he wasn’t tall he was strong-looking; he had a strong back and arms and thick thighs and neck.
Rachel tried to think of something to say when Joe spoke first.
‘Alice said she likes working in the shop.’
‘She’s great with the customers,’ Rachel said, meaning it. Alice was smiling and happy and exactly the sort of friend Rachel wished she’d had when she was at school.
Joe shuffled his feet.
‘Do you want to go out sometime?’ he asked.
‘With Alice?’ Rachel was confused.
Joe’s face turned red. ‘No, I mean me but if you want go out with Alice, I can ask her.’
Rachel took a moment to take in his words. ‘Me?’
‘Yes,’ said Joe.
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Why do you want to go out with me?’
Rachel wasn’t testing him, she was genuinely curious. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, or witty, or even interesting, so she wondered what he saw in her.
‘Because I think we should be friends,’ he said. ‘There’s not a lot of people around here our age – we should stick together.’
‘Okay.’
At least he was honest and didn’t pretend there was anything about her that was compelling.
‘And because I like you. I don’t know you very well but that’s not because I didn’t want to – your mum made it sort of hard to chat, you know?’
Oh, how she knew, but instead she just nodded. How much had her mother taken from her for all these past years?
‘That would be nice – to go out,’ she said.
‘We can have an early pint and roast at the pub if you want?’
She thought for a moment. She was hungry and she hadn’t eaten much today and someone else cooking sounded like a dream.
‘I would like that very much,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’
She glanced down at her work clothes. ‘I can’t wear this to the pub.’
‘Why? You look fine,’ he said. ‘But if you want to get changed, then I’ll wait.’
Rachel thought about her idea of what she should wear in her imaginary wardrobe. A dove-grey chiffon cocktail dress with satin shoes like she had seen an actress wear in an old movie once. It was so elegant and perfect. She didn’t think she would be wearing some old pants and a flowered print shirt, and sneakers. But then, hunger and curiosity took over.
‘Let me grab my keys,’ she said. She ran inside, ignoring the ringing phone, and slammed the door behind her.
25
When Clara returned from Rachel’s, Henry was talking to an older man outside the cottage. Clara dragged her washed and dried clothes in the large box from the back of the car and left them on the ground, as Henry came to her side.
‘Let me get that,’ he said as he touched her shoulder for just a second longer than what would be an accident.
His touch ran through her body and landed in her stomach again and then further down.
This was ridiculous, she thought. As she was about to speak he gestured to the older man.
‘Michael, this is Clara Maxwell, the owner of the cottage.’
The man nodded. ‘I put your taps in.’
‘Sorry?’ She looked at Henry for translation.
‘The taps for the machine. He put them in the kitchen, so there is room for a machine.’
‘Oh wonderful, thank you!’ said Clara, meaning it. The idea of trekking into Rachel’s to wash her clothes wasn’t something she could foresee doing weekly.
The man turned, grunted and handed Clara a piece of paper, which she looked down and saw was a handwritten bill for his time and materials. He then walked to a truck that had The Friendly Plumber stencilled on the side.
‘That’s false advertising – he’s about a friendly as Eeyore,’ said Clara, pointing at the words as he drove past them.
Henry laughed. ‘He warms up eventually.’
They walked into the cottage together.
‘Do you want this in your room?’ he asked, looking at the washing.
‘Um, yes but I can take it.’
‘No, it’s too heavy, let me.’
Clara ran up the stairs ahead of him, trying to remember if she
