I could remember the day we’d bought that tree. Woody had been three years old and Dan had decided that supermarket fruit and veg were poisoning his son. One Saturday morning, he had suggested a trip to the garden centre so that we could start to plant our own. It had been a beautiful spring day and I could remember Woody toddling happily between the rows of plants, pausing to point or shout, ‘Dat!’ at anything that interested him. It was one of those rare family outings where everything had gone to plan. Woody had napped in the car so that he was smiling and laughing throughout the visit, we had enjoyed carrot cake and coffee in the café (always a necessary pit stop for me) and Dan had been excited about the possibility of becoming the next Monty Don. He had filled our trolley with all manner of plants – courgettes, peas, sweetcorn, peppers, tomatoes and aubergines – before heaving three large bags of compost onto the space underneath. He had put his arm around me and kissed me and I remember feeling the sun on my face, hearing the gentle hiss of a sprinkler and the sound of Woody giggling with delight at a porcelain garden frog. It was a tiny moment and then Dan had disappeared with a wink.
‘Just got to get one more thing.’ He returned five minutes later, grinning and struggling with the tree in his arms. ‘I’ve always wanted an apple tree,’ he explained.
‘How are we going to fit it in the car?’ I laughed.
We drove home, singing along to ‘I Gotta Feeling’ on the radio, with our new tree poking out of the boot of our tiny VW Polo. I felt my heart sink at the memory as I gazed out at the tree, now festooned in cloud-like blossom.
‘You’re not moping are you?’ called Ed from the dining room. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’
Damn him and his insightful perception. I had known Ed for over ten years and he knew me almost as well as Dan did. My publisher had paired us as a writer-andillustrator team for the very first Ned Bobbin book and we had worked together ever since. He was a bit like a favourite brother, collaborator and best friend all rolled into one. He was the first person I’d called after Dan left too. Admittedly, I didn’t call him until the next morning. I hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone before that. The ‘almost getting myself killed’ aspect to that morning had made me realise that I needed someone to talk to and, as was often the case when life got tricky or sad, it was Ed that I called.
‘I’m not moping. I was waiting for the kettle to boil.’
‘Very well,’ answered Ed. ‘Anyway, come and look at Ned in his super-hero outfit. I think he looks rather dashing.’
‘On my way,’ I replied, pouring boiling water into my mug. There was a knock at the door. I could tell almost immediately that the person on the other side was impatient. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they knock at a door. We have one of those very loud metal door-knockers that always makes me jump. I would have liked a doorbell really but we’d never got round to installing one and at least the knocker got my attention. Whoever it was tapped it loudly and rapidly so that I slopped my tea at the sound.
‘Damn, blast and bollocks!’ I cried.
‘Shall I get it?’ offered Ed.
‘Would you mind? Thanks.’ I reached for a cloth. I heard Ed talking to someone whose voice I didn’t recognise. They were speaking very loudly as people often do when they meet for the first time and are trying to size each other up. I heard Ed say:
‘She’s just in the kitchen, come through.’ I hastily wiped the tea splodges from my top before turning to be confronted with Tilly’s mum, Caroline, holding out a bunch of scarlet peonies.
‘Oh, hi, Caroline,’ I said. I was surprised to see her. We hadn’t spoken since the incident with the car, even though I’d seen her in the playground. Woody and Tilly were in the same class and I’d heard him mention her from time to time but I don’t think Caroline realised this. I got the feeling that I wasn’t her sort of person. She had been the Chair of the PTA for years and to be honest, women like that terrify me.
I had baked some cakes for a sale once and something had gone wrong with the buttercream icing so that they sort of slumped overnight. Added to this, I had topped each bun with a Malteser. My friend Mel had sidled over and snorted with amusement, ‘They look like boobs, Nat!’ just at the moment I was handing them over to Caroline. She had stared at the nipular cakes and then back at me before accepting the Tupperware box with obvious disdain and muttering, ‘Thank you but please make sure you bake something more appropriate next time.’ Obviously there hadn’t been a next time.
She was beaming at me now as if we were old friends. ‘Hi, Natalie. These are for you,’ she said, handing over the flowers.
‘Thank you. They’re lovely.’
‘My pleasure. I just wanted to check that you were okay after our little bump the other day?’
She said it like it was a fun thing – a mutually shared treat. ‘I’m fine, thanks, and you didn’t need to buy me flowers.’
‘Well, I was in Waitrose and I saw them so I thought I would, plus Matilda told me that your son is in her class and that you write the Ned Bobbin books. I had no idea, so I thought I would pop in on my way home, say, “Hi,” and just check that you’re all right. You seemed very upset the other day.’ She creased her face into a grimace of sympathy.
I realised then that she had only called in because of who I was. I get this from time to time. People are often very interested when they find out you’re a writer.
‘Wow! That must be fascinating!’ they say. It isn’t really. It’s a job like any other and it involves staring at a blank piece of paper, desperately trying to think of some words, so it can be quite stressful too.
Or they’ll smile at me with obvious envy. ‘You’re so lucky. That’s my dream job.’ Really? Because my dream job is to be Mary Berry’s official cake taster. You should aim higher, my friend.
‘You must earn millions,’ is another one I hear occasionally. Hmmm, not especially. Although I am waiting for the Hollywood version of Ned’s life to propel me towards retirement. It’s turning out to be quite a long wait.
I did love my job but it was as frustrating as any other and often quite lonely. Dear old Ned had become quite popular amongst pre-schoolers and contributed towards the mortgage but man, he could be demanding.
So it was clear that Caroline had just discovered a new fact and decided that she wanted a writer as a friend. Still, there are worse crimes and I am pretty fantastic, despite now being a single mother with a worrying brownie addiction. ‘It’s very kind of you to pop by,’ I said.
She smiled and nodded at me, glancing over at Ed and then back to me, waiting for an introduction. ‘Sorry.’ I said. ‘This is Ed Jarvis.’
‘Oh, my God! You’re the Ed Jarvis. You illustrate the Ned Bobbin books. We love those books. They were basically the only thing that would get Matilda to sleep,’ chimed Caroline. She shook hands with Ed. He gave her his best modest but charming smile. Caroline looked from Ed to me and back to Ed. ‘This is so exciting! I can’t believe I’m standing here with Natalie Garfield and Ed Jarvis – it’s amazing!’
Ed and I exchanged glances. ‘It is overwhelming,’ he joked. ‘To be honest, Nat and I rarely get any work done due to the overpowering nature of our awesomeness.’
I rolled my eyes whilst Caroline snorted with delight as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. ‘Soo, are you working on something at the moment?’ she asked, eyes fixed firmly on Ed.
I shot him a look, which I hoped would say, ‘No.’
‘Actually, I was about to show Nat my roughs for the new Ned book. Would you like to see?’
‘Oh, my God, I would love that!’ gushed Caroline, pressing her hands to her heart as if he’d just offered her a date with Ryan Gosling.
I shook my head in disbelief. The problem with Ed was his ego.