‘Oh my God,’ I mutter under my breath, wishing the ground would swallow me up. Will Brimble is the last person I want to run into, especially now, as I’m standing here clutching my baby while covered in sick.
Will sings another lyric and my mum closes her eyes. ‘I forgot how much I like that song,’ she says, swaying a little to Will’s singing, as though she’s at Woodstock festival. Will smiles smugly before continuing his rendition.
‘Can you stop singing, please?’ I snap.
‘So you’re not a Led Zeppelin fan then?’ Will asks wryly. He’s clearly just as much of a smug know-it-all now as he was at school.
My mum smirks.
‘I am a Led Zeppelin fan!’ I huff. ‘How long have you been eavesdropping, Will?’
‘Not long. I just parked my car and then saw you two having some kind of commotion,’ he says, glancing over at a white Audi TT, perfectly parked four or five spaces away, before turning to my mum.
‘How are you doing, Pam?’ he asks.
My mum bats her lashes as she and Will chat away. She’s always thought a lot of Will. Everyone has. He was the kind of boy who was both popular with his peers, and parents and teachers too, because despite his love of skateboarding and partying, he was also really smart and did well at school. He’d have a joke with teachers, but he knew when to knuckle down. He even encouraged his friends to get their heads down ahead of exams – a form of peer pressure teachers and parents were incredibly grateful for. But aside from liking him for just generally being an all-rounder, my mum has a soft spot for Will because she was really fond of his dad, Gary – a retired police officer who was also extremely popular in the village. He bought a black cab and set up a taxi service to keep himself busy; he was known in Chiddingfold as the man to call if you needed to get somewhere. He was always reliable and friendly, a trustworthy bloke you felt comfortable around. But sadly, he died of a stroke around seven or eight years ago. Everyone was distraught. Our hearts went out to Will and his mum, Sharon. I even sent Will a card and emailed him at the time, offering my condolences, but he never got back to me. I guess he was just too overwhelmed. Will loved his dad.
While Will and my mum chat away, I look towards his car. It’s pretty impressive and it looks a little out of place among the old Nissans and Fords of the villagers, but I wouldn’t expect any less from Will. Despite the upset of losing his dad, he’s done alright for himself. He’s a bit of a celebrity on the media scene. He took his gift of the gab, smarts and ability to get on with anyone, and decided to pursue a career in journalism after school. He studied at City University and managed to get a reporter role at a paper in north London when he graduated. Then he moved to another reporter job at a national, which led to a promotion to assistant news editor, another promotion to news editor and then, basically after a few years, he’d achieved the staggering feat of becoming Group Editor for a national newspaper group with three papers by the tender age of 28. I know this because it’s been impossible to escape Will’s meteoric rise to the top. His promotions were always covered in the media news websites I subscribe to for work and Will never turns down the opportunity to commentate on TV if there’s a chance. He’s regularly appeared on Sky and the BBC. He’s remained just as much of a show-off in adulthood as he was at school. But although his rise to the top of the journalistic career ladder has been very impressive, Will’s success story has suffered a bit of a blow lately. The company he was working for had been losing money for years and despite their efforts to boost their revenue, nothing’s worked. They tried staff lay-offs and restructures, they even added pleas to readers at the bottom of each article on their website with details of how to donate. But after years of trying, they realised the business just couldn’t survive and sold their titles to a rival media group. The takeover meant that Will and all of the staff were out of a job. It was a huge story. I read about it at the time and wondered how Will had coped, but I didn’t realise he’d ended up back in Chiddingfold.
Our eyes meet for a moment. His are just as striking as I remember them – a jade-green shade flecked through with amber. Exotic eyes that mesmerised my infatuated teenage self. Eyes that inspired forlorn poetry and horrendously self-indulgent angsty diary entries. Suddenly, Will’s gaze drifts down and I’m worried he’s going to notice a splodge of sick I’ve only jut spotted on the sleeve of my jumpsuit but instead, his eyes land on Hera.
‘And who’s this?’ he asks.
‘Oh, this is my daughter, Hera,’ I explain, turning a little so Will can get a better view of Hera’s gorgeous face.
‘Aww, what a pretty girl!’ Will says. I smile and thank him, but I just know the next question he’s going to ask is going to be something to do with Hera’s father and standing here, covered in sick, the last thing I need is to answer questions about Leroy, who hasn’t once tried to get in touch since I had Hera and, as far as I know, is still living in his studio flat painting bookcases and having wild sex with Lydia.
I give Hera to my mum to hold and take the cat jumper, leaving her to show off Hera to Will and deflect the ‘where’s the daddy’ style questions. I pull the jumper over my head. It smells musty and stale, from having been in the charity shop, but also from having been stuffed in the boot of my mum’s car for God knows how long. Combined with the smell of sick, I’m really not my best self tonight. I just hope I don’t run into anyone else from school.
I sweep my hair out from under my collar and take in my bizarre reflection in the car window, before turning to Will and my mum. They’ve moved on from cooing over Hera to talking about my mum’s dress. Will is telling her how ‘sensational’ she looks and she’s lapping it up.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she says, batting her eyelashes like a flirtatious schoolgirl.
‘Oh yes, it’s very flattering. A great cut, very figure-hugging,’ Will remarks. My mum smiles delightedly.
A great cut?! Figure-hugging?
‘Do you mind?’ I sneer, wondering if there’s any low to which Will won’t stoop. Clearly even 60-year-old women aren’t off his radar. He hasn’t changed a bit since school, and don’t even get me started on the nitty gritty of what he was like back then.
‘What? I was just saying how fabulous your mother looks,’ Will comments defensively, before taking in my jumper, his eyes widening in alarm. ‘Hmmm … interesting choice. I heard that you work in fashion. Is that top some kind of ironic statement?’
‘What do you mean, ironic?’
‘Well, surely you don’t mean to look like a crazy cat lady?’ Will remarks.
My mum giggles.
‘Piss off Will,’ I snap. ‘And mum, this is your jumper. So why are you laughing!?’
I turn my back on both of them. I put Hera in her carrier and give her a dummy, which she sucks on contentedly.
‘I need a glass of punch!’ I declare, before picking up Hera’s carrier and marching towards the village hall.
Martha, a friend of my mum’s, is manning the drinks table. Unlike Will, she has the good manners not to comment on my attire. Okay, so maybe her eyes linger for a beat on the huge tabby cat and the Cat Cuddles logo but she doesn’t feel the need to say anything. She quickly diverts her gaze back to the bowl of ruby red punch. With painstaking care, she dips a ladle into the bowl and decants the liquid into a plastic cup, before adding two ice cubes, half a strawberry and a slice of lime, and finally handing it to me. I take it from her, thanking her gratefully, before plucking the cherry out of the way and necking it. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, before handing her back the empty cup.
‘Can I have seconds? Thanks Martha.’
Martha