‘Do you think he’s a bit … odd?’ Julia says, her eyes narrowing.
‘Not really. He’s quiet, doesn’t seem particularly confident around other people, but he comes across as pretty normal to me.’
‘Hmm. Probably just me, then. He doesn’t seem to have any male friends that I’ve noticed. Strikes me as a loner, aside from the fact he’s seeing Lucy, that is.’
‘Maybe he isn’t keen on fair-weather friends either?’ I raise my eyebrows.
‘Touché,’ she says.
‘Tom’s taken his car to his garage a few times to get a service. And he’s fitted new tyres and fixed an issue with the battery apparently. He’s never vocalised any concerns about him to me. I think it’s just that he keeps himself to himself outside of his work, that’s all. Lucy seems happy enough with him.’
‘I’m projecting again, aren’t I? Assuming anyone whose life looks perfect on the outside must have problems they’re not sharing. I’ve become quite the cynic!’ Julia walks back into the lounge and pours wine into both our glasses before I can stop her. I’ll take mine slowly. She plonks herself on the two-seater sofa and puts her feet up.
‘Cheers,’ she says. ‘Here’s to living with secrets.’
I half-heartedly raise my glass, but I don’t repeat her toast.
Chapter 40
BETH
Now
It’s my first hangover for quite some time and I’m not relishing having to face the day with this lurching stomach and muzzy head. And a three-year-old. Poppy has already jumped up and down on my bed to wake me; for a horrible moment I thought I was on a ship, rolling on the waves. I’m never drinking on a weekday again. I wonder how Julia is faring this morning – I guess I’ll see soon enough. Will she act weirdly with me given how much she disclosed to me last night? Will she even remember what she said? I’ll have to play it by ear – see how she responds to me first and take the lead from her. The last thing I want is for her to feel awkward because she spilled her guts and now regrets it.
I’ve another missed call from Maxwell – I put my phone on silent last night. I’ve not been able to face a conversation with him. I know I can’t put it off forever, but for now I would like to avoid it; deny the situation. If I refuse to talk about it, it’s not happening. Such a juvenile reaction, I’m actually ashamed.
And what about Tom? He must be beside himself. Am I expected to go and see him? I wouldn’t have thought that was possible given the circumstances. I imagine we can speak on the phone though. No doubt these are all things Maxwell is waiting to inform me of. If I were to pick up his calls, I’d know the answers.
As we’re up super early, and I don’t have to make breakfast for Tom, I think I’ll cook up a batch of cookies. It’ll take my mind off this hangover, and a spoonful of the batter will give my sugar levels a boost. Sugar always used to help my hangovers. That and a can of Coke, which, thankfully, I have in the fridge. It’s one of the few things I learnt from my mother.
Poppy stands on a chair beside me as I spread the ingredients out on the worktop, and she helps by lining them up in the order I need them in. I sing along to Michael Bublé as I measure, and Poppy hums out of tune, smiling as she scoops some extra ingredients that I’ve given her in her own special bowl. The smells associated with baking always take me back to when I lived with my nanna. It was her who taught me the basics of cooking and baking, not my mother, who had no desire to do either. She mainly only had time for drinking, vomiting, and sleeping.
We’re making my speciality – butterscotch oatmeal cookies. Poppy loves butterscotch and it’s my go-to feelgood recipe for when I’m anxious or worried. As I blend the ingredients together in my Cath Kidston mixing bowl, I recall how Julia spoke about Camilla last night. I had no idea how she really felt – she certainly masks her emotions well on a day-to-day basis. I can’t believe I missed that they were best friends; I’d only seen them hanging around in larger groups, never just the two of them. Poor woman. I’d been a little surprised to hear about how Camilla had been so kind. If I’m honest, I’d struggled to get to know her initially – she’d seemed somewhat aloof. I was always trying to slip into her and her group’s conversations, but I never really connected with her. In the end, it was over recipes that we finally bonded – if you can call it bonding. Camilla was quite an experienced baker herself and had some great ideas. In the weeks before she died, we’d started to discuss new flavour combinations and swap recipes. I remember that she even made some suggestions to help me perfect these butterscotch ones.
Of course, our friendship had never progressed much beyond that, as she died not long afterwards. Such a shame. Typically, she had been one of the only new women I talked to that Tom found bearable. He has little time for the others; he says they’re shallow and false. I’ve tried to tell him if he gives people a chance he’d be surprised.
I was due to invite a small group of people around for a meal before all this kicked off. That won’t be happening now, I realise with a sinking feeling. Will my life be anything like normal from here on in?
‘Can I lick the spoon please?’ Poppy says, grabbing the bowl after I dollop the mixture in even splodges on the baking tray. I know she shouldn’t, not with the possibility of salmonella from
