Appleby Farm (47 page)

He winked and was gone.

Happy chuffin’ Valentine’s Day.

‘Zombie-like’ was the best way to describe my mood at work over the following ten hours. At my desk in the advertising department for
The Herald
, Nottingham’s daily newspaper, I barely registered the banter of my colleagues or my overflowing in-tray. My hands simulated typing on my keyboard, but in reality I was simply going through the motions and I avoided the phone all day.

The bus ride home, normally quite an ordeal, was comparatively therapeutic. At least I didn’t have to talk to anyone.

It was shaping up to be the worst Valentine’s Day of my entire life. What was I saying – ‘shaping up’? How could it possibly get any worse? By the time my flatmates had rallied round me this morning, Jess making soothing noises and placing a mug of sweet tea in front of me and Emma threatening to cut off Marc’s balls and feed them to the squirrels, I had already pronounced the day an unprecedented disaster.

I was determined not to cry again. And that was no mean feat seeing as the evening commuter bus I was on appeared to be packed almost entirely with smooching couples and women with huge bouquets of flowers, cruelly serving to ram home my new single status.

Facebook! I was going to have to update my relationship status to ‘single’. But not today; I couldn’t face the humiliation of declaring myself single on the international day of love.

I shook my head, still struggling to comprehend what had happened this morning. I’d been convinced that today was the day that Marc would reveal his true feelings for me. Well he’d certainly done that. Be careful what you wish for, as the saying goes.

All my Valentine’s Day dreams were in tatters. I thought of the little nest egg that I’d been building up for years, waiting for the right time, the right person to settle down with. I’d begun to think that Marc could be that person. Not that we’d ever discussed a joint future, although he did once ask to dip into my savings to get a new business off the ground and we were both in our early thirties, I’d assumed it would just happen one day; it was only a matter of time.

With a sigh, I shifted the dream of having my own home to the back burner, along with my other abandoned dreams; the property market was no place for single, first-time buyers at the moment – far too risky!

At my bus stop, a group of people – in twos, obviously – jostled against me as I tried to disembark. I was barely clear of the last step when the bus trundled off through a puddle, sending a spray of black slush up the back of my tights.

Marvellous.

How could snow – so white, so pure, so beautiful – turn so vile in only a few hours? It was clearly a metaphor for a love gone sour. I huffed up the steps towards home, feeling forlorn and uncomfortably wet.

The Victorian house we lived in had long ago been split into flats. I let myself in and flicked through the mail on the communal post shelf. No scented envelopes, huge bouquets of flowers or small square boxes with ‘To Sophie Stone – love of my life’ on them, then? No? Thought as much.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I brushed them away. Actually, why shouldn’t I have a good cry? I was sad, might be properly sad for weeks, come to think of it. I loved Marc, he was so big and strong and unpredictable. Emma would say that this was a reason
not
to love him but he was exciting and I was going to miss having that excitement in my life.

For a moment, I considered sliding down the wall to the floor and succumbing to my sorrow. But it looked draughty and very public, far better to get home and let my lovely flatmates cheer me up.

I began the ascent to flat four, sniffing the air hopefully on the off-chance of catching any tantalizing aromas even though it was my turn to cook. Nothing. I waggled the key in the lock and pushed my way into the tiny hall.

‘Oh, babes, are you OK? I’ve been worried about you all day.’ Jess threw her arms round me, crushing me to her bosom.

‘I’m fine.’ I swallowed hard, lying through my teeth, and pulled back to examine my plumptious flatmate.

Jess narrowed her eyes. ‘Sure?’

I nodded. ‘Why are you wearing a toga?’

‘It’s not a toga, it’s a chiton,’ she replied, releasing me to perform a twirl in front of the hall mirror. ‘I’m doing Ancient Greeks with Year Five.’

Despite my crushing melancholy, I managed a smile. Jess was a born teacher and always threw herself wholeheartedly into every topic. And even in an old sheet she looked fabulous.

‘Ah, of course it is, I can tell now.’ I grinned. ‘You look great, Jess.’

‘Thanks, babes!’

Right, food. I left her measuring the circumference of her head with a piece of string and made my way into our uninspiring kitchen.

The fridge revealed nothing much except a pack of Marc’s chicken breasts. I always liked to keep high-protein food in for him in case he popped in for a snack after the gym. They were slightly grey and slimy and was I imagining it, or did they have a stain of abandonment about them? I sighed loudly and dropped them in the bin.

There was nothing else for it; it would have to be ‘three-tin surprise’. Not my favourite; in fact, no one was fond of it. I had gleaned all my culinary talents from my mother; it hadn’t taken long. She was to cooking what Heston Blumenthal was to hairstyling: a total stranger. This particular concoction was like playing Russian roulette with your taste buds and suited my mood perfectly.

‘Come to Auntie Em!’

I turned to see Emma holding her arms out. With her overalls, stripy T-shirt and long red plaits she looked like an over-sized Pippi Longstocking.

I dived into her arms, buried my face in her neck and felt tears prick at my eyes for the umpteenth time.

‘How are you doing, kiddo?’ she murmured.

‘Oh Emma, I’m just … I can’t … you know.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Emma, soothingly.

I knew her tongue would be bitten to shreds with the effort of not blurting out, ‘I told you so.’

She had never been a huge fan of Marc and I was grateful that she hadn’t started another character assassination tonight; I didn’t have the energy.

Emma had been my best friend since college. She had been doing an art foundation course and I was studying A-levels.

She had been taller, louder and brasher than me at sixteen. I had been hovering timidly on the edge of college life until she plucked me out of the shadows and tucked me under her wing. I had stayed there ever since.

Now she was a self-employed silversmith with a studio in a trendy part of Nottingham. The stuff she designed ranged from contemporary fruit bowls through to intricate one-off pieces of jewellery. Ironically, the only jewellery she wore was a shell she’d found in Cornwall while surfing, threaded onto a piece of leather.

‘I forgot.’ Jess bounded into the room, her auburn bob now adorned with a headdress made from bay leaves stuck to a bra strap. ‘A letter came for you.’ She placed an envelope reverently on the kitchen table. ‘It looks important.’

I abandoned the quest for tins immediately, my heart beating furiously as I grabbed the envelope. Perhaps all was not lost, perhaps …

‘It’s from a firm of solicitors,’ said Emma, reading the franking label over my shoulder.

My heart sank and then immediately leapt up to somewhere just below my throat.

Solicitors?

Why did I automatically feel guilty even though, as far as I could remember, I had done absolutely nothing wrong? It was the same when I passed through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel at the airport; I would blush, let out a high-pitched giggle and start making jokes about the two thousand cigarettes in my bag. I don’t even smoke.

‘Hey! You don’t think Marc has done something dodgy, do you, and implicated you in it?’ said Jess, wide-eyed.

Emma gave her a sharp look. ‘Of course not, it’s probably something nice. Go on, open it!’

‘Yes,’ I said, trying to think positive, ‘it could be um …’

Emma nudged Jess and winked. ‘I know. It’s a restraining order from Gary Barlow’s people!’

Jess giggled and they linked arms, started swaying and launched into the chorus of ‘A Million Love Songs’.

Despite my nerves, I couldn’t help smiling. The two girls were more than flatmates; they were sisters, Jess being the elder by two years. I loved them both dearly and they treated me like a third sister, which in practice meant that they both mothered me and teased me mercilessly.

I prodded Emma in the ribs. ‘Hey, leave me alone. I haven’t written to him for ages.’

We shared a smile and I turned my attention back to the letter in my hands.

‘Oh my Lordy,’ I continued. ‘Listen to this: “Dear Miss Stone, Whelan and Partners have been appointed … blah, blah, blah … writing to inform you that you are a beneficiary in the last will and testament of Mrs Jane Kennedy. Please contact this office at your earliest convenience. Yours, blah, blah, blah …’

I plopped down into a chair, dropping the letter onto the table. The sisters picked it up and looked at it.

‘Bloody hell, Sophie!’

‘A mystery benefactor!’ squealed Jess. ‘How exciting!’

‘Well, whoever she is, I think this calls for wine.’ Emma darted to the fridge and poured three large glasses while I reread the solicitor’s letter.

Jess sat down next to me at the kitchen table and patted my hand. ‘There you go, you see. The day might have started badly, but this letter,’ she tapped it with a sharp pink nail, ‘might be the beginning of a whole new adventure.’

‘Exactly,’ said Emma, holding up her glass. ‘Cheers!’

Just then Jess’s stomach gave an almighty rumble. ‘Ooh, excuse me! Who’s cooking dinner?’

I didn’t reply. I was still staring at that letter.
More to the point
, my brain cried out,
who’s Jane Kennedy?

Enjoy as an ebook now or available in paperback November 2015!

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• Victoria Sponge
  
• Scrumptious Scones
  
• Banana and Chocolate Chip Loaf
  
• Chocolate Brownies
  
• Lemon Drizzle Cake
  
• Agent Fergie’s Stem Ginger Cookies
  
• Chocolate Roulade with Fresh Cream
  
• Courgette and Lime Cake
  
• Florentines
  
• Helen Redfern’s Pistachio Meringues
  
• Bookcamp Biscuit Cake
  
• Harriet Bourton’s Mini Victoria Sponges
  

For me, a slice of light and fluffy Victoria Sponge, filled with strawberry jam (preferably homemade) and dusted with crunchy caster sugar, simply cannot be beaten. The best one I have ever tasted was made by my daughter, Phoebe, who overheard my Auntie Kath talking about her fail-safe method and then came home and baked the most perfect cake ever. The secret lies in the weight of the eggs . . .