‘You!’ Roxie waved a wooden spoon at her. ‘You’re like Miss Havisham in that bloody wedding dress. All you need is the wedding cake and some cobwebs and you’d be all set to star in a Charles Dickens’ novel.’
Lila looked from Roxie to Joanne then down at her ivory satin dress, noticing for the first time the red stains down the pearl-studded bodice and the grey hue of the hem that touched the floor. She hadn’t meant to try it on again, but when she’d gone into the boxroom – where she kept the ironing board and basket, and a fair amount of junk – to put some clothes in the ironing basket, the dress was hanging there in its cover, the box with the beautiful ivory satin heels on the floor beneath it, and she’d been unable to resist. Problem was, once she’d managed to do up the tiny buttons on the back, almost dislocating her shoulder in the process, then added the veil to her lank blonde hair and stuffed her feet in their red socks into the shoes, she couldn’t be bothered to take them all off again. Or was it more that she didn’t want to take them off? She hadn’t had her chance to wear the dress, shoes or accessories to her own wedding, so surely it was okay to try them on now and then?
‘Lila?’ Joanne had taken the chair to her left and Roxie took the one to her right. The chair opposite remained empty. Four chairs. It was meant to be the perfect family table, just as the cottage on Sunflower Street that she and Ben had purchased five years ago was meant to be the perfect family home. Lila had insisted on putting down a large deposit, using the majority of the inheritance her paternal grandmother had left her, which meant that their monthly mortgage payments had been very reasonable for such a lovely, character property. Lila had been naively smug back then, convinced that she was going to have the perfect wedding to the perfect man followed by the perfect honeymoon and the perfect life. Only it hadn’t worked out that way because her perfect fiancé had run off with their perfect accountant on the morning of their perfect wedding. ‘Oh honey… poor lovely Lila.’ Joanne patted Lila’s hand.
Roxie handed Lila a tissue. ‘Let it all out, Lila, because it has to go somewhere.’
Lila nodded and surrendered to the pain, her tears dripping into her bowl of soup as her friends held her hands.
Lila might not have her own family, she might no longer have the love of the man she’d once thought of as her soulmate, but even through her pain, she knew that she had the very best of friends in these two women.
‘That was delicious, Ethan, thank you.’
Freda smiled across the small square table at Ethan and he smiled back.
‘It was nothing, Mum, just pasta bake.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s lovely having my dinner cooked for me. It doesn’t happen often.’ She met his eyes. ‘Sorry, love, that wasn’t a dig.’
‘I know that, Mum, don’t worry. However, now that I’m home I’ll be doing a lot more to help out around the house.’
Freda reached across the table and took his hand. ‘You’re a good son. I was happy to see you head off into the world to live the life you wanted but I have to admit that I’m quite glad you’re back for a bit. I’ve missed you.’
Ethan nodded. ‘I’ve missed you too.’
Emotion rose in his throat, so he stood and picked up their plates then carried them to the sink. It wouldn’t do to let his mum see him getting upset. What she needed right now was for him to be strong and take care of her. Freda was a good mum, had never put pressure on him for anything and when he was a child she had made him her priority, as if she was trying to show him how much she loved him in order to make up for his absent father. Ethan’s father had left when he was a toddler. As a teenager with questions to ask, Ethan had tracked his father down, but the man he’d found and communicated with briefly via email had not been someone he wanted a relationship with, and it had seemed that his father felt the same. Living in Canada with a whole new family, his father did not want any links to his past. His emails were blunt and cold and although it had hurt Ethan initially, he had grown to believe that he was better off without his father in his life. However, Freda had done a damned good job without a partner around, and now Ethan wanted to repay her for all that she’d done by being there for her.
‘I’ll do those, Ethan.’
His mum touched his shoulder gently. He hadn’t even heard her get up from the table.
‘No you won’t.’ He shook his head. ‘You go and sit in front of the TV and I’ll bring you a cup of tea when I’m done here.’
‘Ethan … there’s no need to treat me like I’m on my last legs, you know.’
He turned and gazed into her warm brown eyes, so much like the ones he saw every day in the mirror, and smiled.
‘I know that, Mum, and I know you’re going to get better. I would like to spoil you a bit though, because I love you, and that’s what people do for the ones they love.’
She paused for a moment then nodded. ‘All right then, when you put it like that. I’ll go and check what’s on TV this evening, shall I?’
‘Good plan.’
Ethan turned the tap on then filled the washing-up bowl. As he plunged his hands into the soapy water, he looked at his reflection in the kitchen window. It was dusk outside and bright in the kitchen, so he could see himself but still see the garden. It gave him an ethereal appearance, as if he were a ghost standing just outside the window, half there, half on another plane. And that was how he’d been feeling since he lost Tilly, as if he were half present, half absent.
Surely things had to get easier sometime soon? Or was he destined to exist in this limbo, never really feeling happy again? Never finding the old enjoyment in life that he’d once felt. Some days, he felt hope that he was healing and moving on, but others he could barely breathe with the pain and shock of it all.
He lowered his eyes to the bowl and started to wash up. One day at a time, the grief counsellor had told him. He was to be kind to himself, to feel his feelings and to observe them as they arose, to accept that he would hurt and he would miss Tilly and that it was perfectly natural. One day, the counsellor had promised him, his grief would ease and he would wake up without hurting.
One day…
2
The sound of birdsong filled the bedroom and Lila stirred, pulling the duvet up around her shoulders and snuggling back into the warmth. She had slept quite well last night and was pleasantly surprised because her nights were usually punctuated by toilet visits, tours of the cottage to check she’d locked all the doors and the occasional sobbing fit that made her nose stuffy and her eyes swollen, neither of which helped her to sleep well.
She gazed up at the white ceiling with its thick old wooden beams. It was exactly the kind of ceiling she’d imagined her dream home having and it added to the cottage’s charm. Then her eyes moved across and landed on the large yellow-brown stain. High winds back in October had knocked a tile off the roof then heavy rain had leaked through. Lila had been forced to keep a bucket on the bed for two weeks until a local roofer had been able to replace the tile. The ceiling had since dried out but it needed painting. Lila hadn’t been able to summon the energy to care. But now, in the morning light, it looked really bad.