for my next job, thinking about what’s in the fridge for dinner, wondering what time Len will be back from work. But when I sat at the kitchen table fixing that part I was completely into what I was doing. And that felt … peaceful. When I finished I felt this warmth, right here.’ She placed the palm of her hand against her breastbone and left it there for a few seconds. Then she picked up her mug of tea and rested it on the exact same spot. We both fell silent. My red plasticine heart was still in pieces on the imaginary floor in my mind’s eye.
‘Mary, do you think you might be interested in doing some kind of mechanics course with me? I could organise it all through work. And what goal do you think we should aim for? Would your dream be realised the first time someone pays you to fix a car or—?’
‘Well, I never!’ Mary flushed bright red. ‘Someone paying me to fix an engine!’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not possible, Little Kate. It’s a silly idea.’
‘Mary, if you find it hard to imagine yourself as a mechanic, why don’t you try visualising a version of yourself in a parallel universe, a Power Mary, who isn’t worried about what Len might think, or the kids, who only has herself to please? What would that Mary be doing with her days? I bet she’d work on cars! Try it,’ I urged. ‘Close your eyes and imagine a Power Mary in an alternate universe.’ Mary looked at me suspiciously before good-naturedly closing her eyes. ‘What would Power Mary’s perfect car-related day be? How would it start?’
‘Well, I can’t do a thing before I have a cuppa so Power Mary would need to start her day the same way. Do they have tea in this universe?’
‘I think so.’
‘And she’d need her own toolbox, which would be nice, and somewhere to work.’
‘Where would that be?’
Mary kept her eyes closed, frowning with concentration.
‘Well, there are the arches down near Tessa’s gym. Power Mary could have an arch down there.’
‘And is Power Mary by herself or are there other people with her?’
‘Well, it would be nice to work with other people, wouldn’t it—maybe some other ladies? And Power Mary would need to stop for lunch because Len and I do like to eat together. But in the afternoon she could carry on, as long as she finished by four because I like to have dinner ready for when Len gets in. So Power Mary could go home, have a quick shower, put her overalls in the wash then make Len a nice stew, although if this is an alternate universe it would be lovely if Len could work a washing machine.’
‘Mary, that sounds so achievable.’
Mary opened her eyes.
‘Me working in a garage!’ she scoffed before gathering up the mugs and hurrying into the kitchen. ‘Why on earth would I learn to do this at my age?’ she said over the sound of frenzied washing up. ‘I am who I am, Kate. I have what I have and I am happy. What would poor Len think if I suddenly decided to copy his hobby after all these years? I’d feel like I was taking something from him.’ She came back into the lounge with two fresh cups of tea. ‘And what if I was better than him, Kate, which, I am not going to lie to you, would probably happen. Lord knows how any of our cars have kept working over the years. No, we are fine as we are. I was brought up to be grateful for what I have and what I have is this.’
‘Mary, have you even spoken to Len about this, or asked him if he would mind?’
‘Oh no dear. No, not at all.’ She opened the box of Quality Street. I found yet another Strawberry Cream in my mouth. It’s physically impossible to have too many strawberry Quality Streets. They don’t take up any space in your stomach, like popcorn and cheese and most kinds of chocolate. ‘No, I would never talk to my Len about this. Well, it really is lovely to see you again, Little Kate. Such a treat. And young Peter is back too. You are all back home again.’
‘Have you seen him?’ I asked, as casually as a World War II interrogation expert.
‘Oh, yes, he came straight round to see us when he got back. Such a lovely boy. He’s got a PhD from America—did you know that?’
‘No, I haven’t seen actual proof. So did he say how he was, what he’s been doing, why he got married, why he got divorced, why he came back?’ Cool as a cucumber.
‘Well, he told me about an art exhibition he’d been to recently. Oh, and he told me about his running shoes—did you know they’re made from recycled bottles? Such a clever boy,’ she mused, chewing on a toffee. ‘I remember the tears after he left for Switzerland.’ Mine not hers. ‘It was worse than when your pet cat Rupert died.’
‘Peter’s hardly like Rupert the cat, Mary. Rupert was loyal and communicative and didn’t leave without writing a note.’
Rupert can’t actually write. I was making a point.
‘Well, I always liked that Peter Parker. Truth be told, I would have loved it if he’d fallen for one of my girls. Such a lovely young man,’ she cooed, placing her mug against her breastbone.
The thought of Peter Parker falling for either Laura or Yvette made my own breastbone warm, but in more of an acidic lung-crushing way than a soul-completing spiritual way, so I sipped on my hot tea to distract myself, but it was slightly too hot so I burnt my own tongue, which had the intended effect.
quest | mary to train as a mechanic
when a rain cloud meets a rainbow
Sport in London is not something I know a great deal about. My normal form of exercise over the last few years has been snowboarding at high speed down a mountain behind Gabriel while he yelled, ‘I am in love with Kate. I love Kate!’ to whomever he passed before we’d disappear off piste, through a forest, down a secret snow path to a secluded chalet where we’d make love by an open fire before naming all the children we wanted to have while I crossed my fingers, and sometimes my toes, and hoped I’d just been impregnated by my future husband … or something like that.
So ‘conventional’ sports, involving gyms, training sessions, boot camps and clothes, were as unfamiliar to me as German men; in that they were both a bit foreign and both seemed unnecessarily formal. Someone who did know an awful lot about gyms, training sessions and being painfully over-formal was Peter smile-free Parker, the boy who never dialled. Grandma had called to inform me that Peter was an expert on everything to do with fitness; was a triathlete; an occasional marathon runner and, rather bizarrely, a dab hand on a trampoline. Grandma knew I needed help formulating fitness plans for True Love’s proposed Fat Camp and said Peter Parker was the only man who’d know how. With less than a week before Fat Camp was due to start and with no budget to hire a professional adviser, I had reluctantly called Peter Parker, at Grandma’s request, to ask for his sport-related assistance.
I had tried not to bother myself with thoughts about Peter after bumping into him that day at Pepperpots. Actually, we hadn’t so much bumped into each other as I had bumped into a chair, tripping backwards at the sound of his voice, landing on my arse and righting myself by completing a slow and wobbly backwards roll. It was an odd and impromptu display of adult amateur gymnastics, finished up with some stuttering nonsense that my mouth wanted to contribute. Something along the lines of,
‘Hi, Peter, it’s been a long … you just
