know I sound defensive, but my parents have always been more lenient when it comes to my sister, Dina, even though she’s wilder than I am. She was the one that school would be making calls home about because she’d pierced her ears with a needle (and that one time she pierced someone else’s ears with a needle – it looked like someone had committed murder in their dorm, there was that much blood), or dyed her hair turquoise. The boarding school Dad had chosen for us was strict, and the headmistress a stickler for the rules. I lived for the weekends when I could escape the prison-like confines and stay with Uncle Carrick. It’s probably because of those weekends together that we’re so close now.
He’d never had children of his own, which was a shame as he was a natural with kids. He’d listened to me and Dina, valuing our opinions and not just humouring them like Dad did when he made his weekly phone calls from wherever he was stationed at that time. Uncle Carrick had encouraged thought and debate and offered a safe place for us to form our own opinions. Those weekends had been my highlight, when Auntie Marilyn and Uncle Lenny would pop over too with a hearty vegetable pie and we’d stay up late playing board games and laughing at Carry On films, even though I didn’t understand half the bawdy jokes. Those joy-filled Saturdays and Sundays had almost made boarding school worth it, and were far more fun than the holidays where we’d get shipped back ‘home’ to wherever Mum and Dad were at the time.
“Your dad wouldn’t know how to spoil anyone,” Uncle Carrick replies pointedly, pulling out a packet of mints and offering me one, before thinking better of it, taking one for himself then folding the half-empty packet into my hand. “He only ever looks out for number one.”
“And Mum,” I say defensively, although I don’t know why I’m standing up for Dad. “He looks out for her too.”
“He does,” Uncle Carrick concedes with a nod. “I just wish he was able to show you and Dina how much he loves you both. One of these days he’s going to regret missing out on your childhoods.”
“He thought he was doing the right thing, sending us to St. Eugenia’s. It’s an outstanding school.”
Everyone knew of my alma mater. There was a reason it was regarded as one of the top all-girls schools in England. The extortionate fees were offset by the fact they were top of the national results tables that were printed in the broadsheets each summer.
What people didn’t know was how miserable it was for some of the girls there, especially those like me and Dina. Our family weren’t poor by any stretch, but we didn’t have the country mansion and the London flat that the wealthiest girls had, or stables full of ponies, or Daddy picking us up in one of the cars from the collection of vintage autos in the family garage. Fellow pupils had teased us for having Uncle Carrick turn up in his sea-green Ford Fiesta, and when Auntie Marilyn showed up for prize giving wearing a gaudy paisley-print sundress and a wide-brimmed sunhat that she’d bought especially for the occasion, they’d made snide remarks about her bohemian appearance. Their words had hurt at the time, but now I realise I was far richer than those girls would ever be, because whilst they might have possessions, I’d been brought up with love and laughter by my extended family. Love was something some of them obviously lacked, if their ability to show compassion and empathy was anything to go by; not to mention their pompous, judgmental asses.
“At least going there meant I got to spend more time with you,” I grin, peeling a mint out of the silvery wrapper.
“And for that I’ll always be grateful, Lacey-Lou.”
His eyes are misting up, and he examines the roses he’d been pruning particularly carefully.
“I’m going to see Uncle Lenny later, if you want to come?” I offer. “I’d be glad of the company.”
It’s still strange going back to Auntie Marilyn’s house and seeing all her nick-nacks on display when she’s no longer there. She collected all sorts of oddities; paperweights and ornaments and clocks that hadn’t worked in years. Jumble, most people would call it. Or tat. Anything she thought was beautiful would be displayed for all to see, even if it had been unloved by its previous owner. Much like Uncle Lenny actually, who’d been divorced twice by the time Auntie Marilyn took him in.
“I’ve got a bottle of that whisky you like too?” I add, hoping the bribe might swing it.
“Go on then,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “You know the way to win me over.”
“Too right I do.”
I lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek. He brushes it off with the back of his gardening glove, never one for public displays of affection, but he doesn’t need my hugs and kisses to know how much I love and appreciate him. I tell him all the time, even though the bond between us is so strong we don’t need words. Somehow we intuitively ‘get’ each other.
“Meet you there at eight?” I say. “We can watch that quiz show he likes then.”
Uncle Carrick groans. “I can’t bear that programme. The questions are too easy. I think that’s the only reason he likes it, makes him feel clever when he gets the answers right.”
“Think of the whisky!” I shout over my shoulder with a laugh.
“I might need a whole bottle to myself to put up with Lenny!” he calls jovially.
I smile as I head towards home, the thought of a fun evening with two of my favourite people bringing a spring back into my step. It’s almost enough to make me break into a run.
Almost.
“Yes, Jasper, yes! That’s much better!”
The door to the café has been propped open to let in some much-needed air. It gets stifling in here during the peak hours otherwise. That’s why the rich tone of the Italian’s voice is drifting in, clearly audible from across the park as he cheers on his enthusiastic young pupils.
Maggie’s had a dopey grin painted on to her face all morning. It’s obvious she’s got a crush on him. She even left her usual spot in the kitchen earlier to peer out of the main window and watch the youngsters dribbling grubby mini footballs around a line of orange plastic cones. When I innocently asked what was keeping her attention she’d given a noncommittal response about how nice it was to see children enjoying the first truly warm day of the year. I didn’t believe a word of it, of course, but hadn’t questioned Maggie’s reply, instead getting on with taking the plateful of fluffy scrambled eggs on toast over to the young man sat in the window, the sunniest seat in the whole café. He’s waiting on a pot of coffee too, which Maggie’s preparing.
After the eventful night at the hospital I’m glad to be busy. It stops me worrying about Luke and waiting for Kelly to turn up. Nerves are churning in my stomach. I don’t know how I’m going to say what I need to say to her.
The scrambled egg on toast guy must be new to these parts: if I’d seen him before I’d have definitely remembered him. He’s got this sort of edgy look that’s slightly out of place in the park. Most of the people here are decidedly mainstream – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m hardly Lady Gaga myself – but this lad stands out from the crowd. His blonde hair’s a fraction too white to be natural, as though it’s aided by a touch of bleach, and he has a small silver hoop pierced
