Фиона Гибсон – The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step! (страница 13)

Morgan’s wish list is still lying on the kitchen table. The damn cheek of it, and on my birthday as well. On its blank side I write:

Chapter Eight

Motorway Muffins

I should feel euphoric as I drive south. After all, I deserve this. I should be zipping along, music blaring and a huge smile on my face, like a woman in a movie about to embark on a life-changing adventure. The fact that I’m not is due to one horrible dark thought, currently flooding my senses: I didn’t leave defrosting/reheating instructions. Yes, I’m still angry – but more at myself now for being unable to switch off my maternal concern. Surely Morgan is savvy enough to cope with a Tupperware carton of frozen bolognaise? He’s a bright boy, when he chooses to engage his brain. He’s hardly going to hack away at it with an ice pick. Even so, I keep picturing his crestfallen face as he reads my note, and another alarming thought engulfs me: what the hell am I playing at?

I pull off at a service station – one we haven’t stayed at, I must alert Stevie to this – and buy an Americano and three muffins, one for now and two for later, in case the hotel restaurant’s portions really are as tiddly as they looked on the website. From a small, greasy table by the window I fish out my phone and try Morgan’s mobile. It’s only 9 a.m., of course he’ll still be asleep, I remind myself as it goes to voicemail. ‘Could you call me?’ I say, aware that there’s little chance of him even playing the message. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I add before ringing off.

Next I try Stevie, who doesn’t answer either. ‘It’s me, love,’ I inform his voicemail. ‘Look, er, I’m …’ I tail off. It’s not the kind of thing I want to explain via a message, especially with my voice sounding terribly loud in the almost deserted café. ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ I explain quickly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when we speak.’

Feeling marginally better, I pick at one of the muffins and call Kim. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this!’ she exclaims.

‘I know, I really should have told him last night …’

‘No, not that part.’ She chuckles. ‘I mean being spontaneous like this. It’s so unlike you!’

‘Thanks,’ I say with a dry laugh, although she’s right.

‘Well, good for you, Aud. It sounds amazing. It’ll be good for Morgan too, force him to stand on his own two feet …’

I bite my lip. ‘Um … if you’re passing the house, would you mind popping in to check he’s okay?’

Small pause. ‘What on earth for?’

‘Oh, you know, just to make sure everything’s all right. I mean, it’s your place, I don’t want it burnt to the ground …’ I am only half-joking.

She laughs loudly. ‘Aud, he’s not a baby. Just go away and enjoy yourself, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I say, dabbing at the muffin crumbs on the plate with a wet finger. ‘I will, promise.’

‘Good. So repeat after me: “Nothing’s going to happen. Everything is going to be fine.”’

She’s right: my boy is old enough to get married, to fight for his country or be sent to a proper adult jail. ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ I repeat, crossing my fingers firmly under the table, ‘and everything is going to be fine.’

*

It’s terribly picturesque, this part of the world. I see no litter or graffiti as I pass through pretty villages, the kind that still have a proper village store, with a tray of penny sweets, I’d imagine, and a kindly lady serving behind the counter. Then the villages fall behind and it’s just winding country lanes for miles until, finally, I round a bend and spot the elegant sign on a high, moss-covered wall:

Wilton Grange Hotel

Luxury accommodation * Michelin-starred restaurant * World-renowned cookery school

My heartbeat quickens as I turn in through the gate. The gravelled drive curves between gnarled ancient trees, and a few moments later the hotel comes into view. Peaceful is the word that springs to mind. Sunlight quivers on the lake. The hotel is swathed in some kind of dense, climbing shrub and the undulating grounds are dotted with summerhouses and those dinky little shelter things, where a refined lady might enjoy some shade while sipping her gin.

I pull up in the car park, nosing my way in between a Bentley and a Merc. A terribly chic woman in a grey trouser suit gives my car a surprised look before climbing into the Merc and driving away. I wipe my sweaty hands on the front of my crumpled dress. Another car arrives to take the Merc’s place: a Saab I think, possibly vintage, although its cream paintwork is so gleamingly perfect it could have purred out of the factory just moments ago. I slide my gaze towards the driver. He is flicking through some papers, making no move to get out.

My phone bleeps in my bag, and I snatch it from the passenger seat. A text from Morgan: when u back?? I glance at the man again and he smiles briefly. He has a kind face, I decide. He’s not looking at me as if thinking, What’s she doing here? Maybe he thinks I’m staff. I smile back, hoping to convey the message that, despite the state of my vehicle, I actually come to places like this all the time. I belong here, I hope my smile says, just like you do. Message transmitted, I reply to Morgan’s text: Saturday.

His reply pings back instantly: WHAT?? Oh, so he misses me after all. In fact, this is the longest period we’ll have ever spent apart. While Morgan’s had numerous long weekends with his dad, in recent times the livestock aspect of Vince’s smallholding has put him off (‘There’s so much crap everywhere, Mum! It bloody stinks!’) and he always seems pretty relieved to come home. I’ve never managed to fund school trips to France or Austria, and his main summer holidays were usually camping trips to Cornwall with me, then with a friend and me, because the idea of being trapped alone in a tent with his mother was clearly appalling.

Another text: Need grey T shirt washing wanna wear tonight!!

Ahh … right. So it’s the interruption in laundry services he’s concerned about. No, ‘Where are you, Mum? Is everything okay?’ I mean, if I were him – and I frequently do try to see things from his point of view – I’d be thinking, ‘It’s not like her to just bugger off. Maybe I should be concerned about her mental health?’ But then, Morgan isn’t the type to worry about anything. I could be lying dead on the kitchen floor and he’d step over my corpse to fetch a can of Coke from the fridge.

I stab out my reply – use washing machine – and climb out of my car, trying to quell the anxiety that’s rising inside me. The man from the Saab gets out too. He is tall, well-groomed and handsome; dapper, you’d call him, with his neatly clipped short dark hair and a light tan. His navy blue linen jacket and casual dark grey trousers look expensive. ‘Hi,’ he says with a smile.

‘Hi,’ I reply.

‘Lovely day.’

‘Yes, it is …’

He stands for a moment, taking in the surroundings: the sweeping lawns, the well-tended borders filled with pale pink roses, the beautiful building itself. Then he checks his watch and, with a breezy confidence that suggests he is unintimidated by poshness – because to people like him this place isn’t posh, it’s just normal – he opens the boot of his car and lifts out a brown leather bag.

I start making my way towards the hotel, dragging my wheeled case along the gravel and trying not to churn it up too much. When I glance back, the man is strolling a few metres behind. He flashes another broad smile. I smile back, briefly, and snatch my phone from my shoulder bag as it rings. ‘Hi, Morgan,’ I say distractedly.

‘What d’you mean, you’re back next Saturday? What’re you doing?’

I clear my throat, aware of the crunch of the man’s footsteps behind me. ‘I explained in my note, I’ve gone away for a bit.’

‘A bit? That’s not a bit. It’s a week! For fuck’s sake, Mum!’

‘Don’t swear at me, Morgan.’

‘All right, sorry, it’s just … I thought you’d just gone to the Spar or something …’

‘I go there,’ I correct him. ‘I don’t go away there, Morgan. It’s not a holiday destination …’

‘You’ve gone on holiday without telling me?’ he gasps. ‘Like, where?’

‘Well, it’s a sort of holiday. I’m in Buckinghamshire …’ A peacock struts haughtily across the path, its breast shimmering sapphire blue in the sunshine.

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s in the south of England.’

‘I mean, what’s there? Why’re you there?’

‘I’m doing the cookery course,’ I explain, keeping my voice low.

Morgan makes a choking noise. ‘You mean that dinner lady thing?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘But I thought you were taking the money! The cash prize. That’s what you said …’

‘Well, I changed my mind.’ I’ve slowed my pace in the hope that the man will understand that I want him to march ahead so I can conduct this conversation in private.

‘You chose a baking course,’ Morgan laments, ‘over five thousand quid? What use is that gonna be?’

‘Probably none,’ I reply tersely, ‘and it’s not a baking course. It’s classic French cookery—’

‘You’ve gone mad,’ he mutters.

‘Yes, I probably have.’

He pauses. ‘So anyway, what about my T-shirt?’

‘Sorry, but I can’t operate the washing machine from here. It’s not remote controlled. Much as I’d love to keep on top of all our domestic concerns from 200 miles away, it’s not actually possible to …’ I break off as the man catches up with me and we fall into step.