and a couple of the neighbours had stopped by to congratulate Mollie on her TV debut. It had been non-stop – exciting, but exhausting. Add on the fact that the studio had an event that evening and Evie had been standing on a ladder, fiddling with a lightbulb for twenty minutes, and Mollie was not in the mood for things to start going wrong.
‘Couldn’t you just call Ty?’ Mollie sighed. Chelsea’s brother had discovered a talent for lighting, and had created a beautiful lighting set for their latest series, a collection of photographs from the Camden History Society, opening with a play that evening. Called ‘Our Town’, it was something that the local community were invested in – they were finally on their side, no longer questioning Ruby Tuesday’s rock’n’ roll influence, or dwelling on the drama of the opening. The Ruby Rooms was Camden, and everyone wanted to see what they were going to do next. Which was actually more terrifying than defending every move they made.
‘Ty doesn’t live in London, smarty pants. And I’m not calling him to change an effing light bulb. Electrician course, remember?’ Evie groaned, reaching up on her tiptoes, ‘I can do it.’
‘Did Esme seem okay this morning? We had words last night,’ Mollie leaned on the doorframe of the kitchen, watching her friend’s dark curls shake as she wobbled on the ladder.
‘She wants you to date her friend’s dad.’
‘She said the other kids are being mean because she doesn’t have a dad, do you think I need to report it to the school or something?’
Evie twitched her lips, ‘Um... not really qualified to give an opinion here, babe. I mean, in Badgeley maybe ten kids in the year had their dads on the scene. You’d be more likely to be bullied for having one.’
‘So, I should let my kid be bullied because I wasn’t quick enough to go out and get her a stepdad?’ Mollie winced, shaking her head.
‘Oh leave off, you are joking? You have raised that kid in spite of Linda, in spite of your age, your situation and being alone. You have done an amazing job. Esme is stronger than any of that bullshit. I think maybe she just wants to make sure you’re happy. She wants you to have your happy ending, it’s simple as that.’
‘Yeah,’ Mollie shrugged, ‘maybe.’
‘Definitely.’
Mollie took a deep breath, tightened her ponytail and clapped her hands, ‘So, today, what’s the timescale?’
‘You’re in the kitchen, being awesome. By the way, I made sure your flyers for the Mollie Makes... workshop were sped up, they’ll be here this afternoon, so you can put them out on the sides. Hopefully we’ll get some interest from your TV performance this morning. The photographer from the Journal will be here about five, then the drama group. Kick off around seven.’
‘I love that you’re more organised than you look.’
‘Heart surgery looks like murder halfway through. Plus, the timeline is on the whiteboard in the conservatory. Just remember to take the delivery for the flyers, they never seem to find the entrance, no matter how much I explain the massive red door.’
‘I’ll leave it open, probably better whilst I’m making hundreds of canapes anyway,’ Mollie nodded.
‘And Killian’s going to pick up Esme in the van today, then drop her off before heading off to deliver his day bed.’
Mollie nodded, suddenly so grateful for all these people and how they had become involved in her and her daughter’s life. She hadn’t done this alone at all. She had more support than a nuclear family. She couldn’t be bitter. She could just be pissed off at those dickhead eleven-year-olds.
And maybe have a glass of wine with Max. Obnoxious, older, but slightly alluring Max. But all of that could wait until the pastry cases were fully cooked.
Mollie had her cooking habits, her creative habits, the same as the others. Some weeks Chelsea didn’t say anything, she just turned up at the studio, walked into the conservatory and put on some jazzy hip hop. Mollie would sometimes watch her dance from the kitchen, how her friend seemed to suddenly take up so much more space, she stretched and breathed life back into herself. Evie blared eighties rock from the back room before launching herself at a canvas like it was a lifeline, moving desperately and angrily until she let out whatever was inside. And Mollie was different again. She went into a zen state, smooth and simple with the Beatles playing on the speaker system, a little dance as she moved from the trays in the kitchen, back to the oven.
Time passed in a way it didn’t with anything else, when Mollie was cooking. She felt like everything else stopped and all that mattered were shapes, temperatures, smells, textures... things that could be seen and felt and tasted. Things that were obvious. The Beatles sang ‘Here comes the sun’ and she heard herself singing along, believing them as they said, ‘It’s all right...’
‘Hello?’
A voice echoed from the studio front door, and Mollie yelped, turning down the music. The poster delivery guy.
‘In here, door’s open!’
She wiped off her hands, but the buzzer started going for the mini quiches, so she grabbed her polka dot oven mitts and grabbed the tray, poking her head around the door to catch the delivery guy.
It was at that moment, wearing her Wonder Woman apron, with flour smeared on her cheeks, that Mollie dropped a tray of mini quiches, and realised she was staring at Jamie MacAllister.
***
‘Look, nothing has to change for you,’ Mollie said resolutely, hand on Jamie’s arm. His face was pale and he seemed to look past her, his eyes glassy and vacant. She scanned his features for anger, sadness, indifference. He was blank, but for the shock. Perhaps just the littlest bit of wonder creeping in around the edges. But maybe she was just being hopeful.
‘What?’
‘Your life can go on. I won’t resent you. It’s my choice. Go to uni, come back at weekends... if you want to, I mean... I’m just saying, this doesn’t have to be your problem. This can be my problem.’
His eyes widened and he saw her fully then. She recognised that emotion, definitely. Anger.
‘Molls, how long have we known each other?’
‘Since Year Four when you poured that PVA glue over my head and the teacher had to cut some of my hair off.’ She blinked, ‘So?’
‘You’ve known me longer than most people and you still had me down as the drop-out deadbeat dad? The weekender? Come on babe, that hurts. Thought you were better than that.’
‘You shouldn’t have to–’
‘Be responsible for you? For us? For what we’ve done and what we do?’ Jamie tugged at his hair desperately, shaking his head, ‘Why do you have to be responsible? Why don’t you get the choice?’
His jaw was clenched and she watched as he physically stilled himself to hear her answer. Mollie looked down at the rickety park bench that had been there forever, the middle slat missing, and the clear etchings of ‘J Luvs M’ on the back, top left, just part of the scenery.
‘I do get the choice,’ Mollie said simply, ‘that’s the point. I choose
