What he was saying made perfect, logical sense, and if I took a couple of deep breaths, I could be equally understanding and logical but something else bothered me. A niggling thorn that dug its way in.
This is the beginning of the end.
Coffee Girl and Ashwin Laghari might have sparkled and flown high in a relationship that would have glittered with explosive chemistry like fireworks in a November sky, but it would never have lasted. Our careers would always have come first.
Claire and Ash… well, it had been good while it lasted but we were headed in different directions now. Our blossoming relationship was about to hit its autumn before the petals had properly unfurled. I doubted they would get the chance now; I couldn’t see it surviving much longer. Maybe, to use a pertinent pun, I should nip things in the bud now, but a lump in my throat stopped me saying anything.
‘Claire?’
‘Mmm, you’re right.’ I forced the words out. The parkrun was more than one run and no matter what, I was proud of what we’d achieved to get there.
‘I’ll make it up to you. Maybe dinner one day next week.’
Yes, but what about making it up to the girls? He still hadn’t realised that he was letting them down as well.
‘This week is already… well, it’s just unravelling fast. God, I’d forgotten what it’s like. And it’s even worse starting a new job. So much to do just to get up to speed. But it’s great to be working again. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed it. The routine. Being valued. Having stuff to do.’
Ashwin Laghari was back and I couldn’t begrudge him feeling good about himself and his new sense of purpose. I thought of the sad figure he’d cut before I’d realised he’d been made redundant, before Hilda had taken him in hand. Ash needed work; it defined him.
‘You sound happy,’ I said, genuinely pleased for him. ‘And I know the feeling. I’ve got a ton of work stuff to do tonight. Good luck at the conference. I hope it all goes well and you blow their socks off.’
‘Thanks and… I’m really sorry about Saturday. I’m going to miss you.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ But I didn’t think that would last very long. ‘Welcome back to real life.’
He laughed, and I was grateful that I was able to sound like Coffee Girl, the sort of woman who would accept that careers came first because inside I didn’t feel like that anymore.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘Morning,’ Sascha appeared carrying two big thermos flasks and a basket over the crook of one arm which was full of plastic cups, a plastic bottle of milk, and some wooden stirrers. ‘Thought I’d help you kick off the event.’
‘That’s brilliant.’ I almost snatched the coffee from her hands. It was ten past eight on a gloriously sunny Saturday morning – the Saturday morning – and the butterflies in my stomach were preparing for mass migration. Coffee was exactly what I needed.
Last night I hadn’t got much sleep and I was quite grateful for the trip to the Regal, which I ended up doing in Ash’s absence. I lied to Poppy and Ava, telling them he’d paid for the tickets as a treat because he couldn’t make it.
‘I was too nervous to have one at home earlier. Thank you.’
‘Nervous, what on earth for?’ She spoke with the blithe confidence of someone who didn’t do nerves. ‘Shall I set up here?’ With a tilt of her head, she indicated the trestle table near the finishing funnel. ‘I’d say you’ve got it all sorted.’
‘We’re getting there,’ I said. She put down the flasks and, efficient as ever, poured two cups of coffee. ‘Wouldn’t catch me up at this time running around a park. Can’t see the appeal but to each his own. Hope it goes well.’ She lifted her cup in a quick salute.
‘Thanks. Nothing I can do now. Just pray people turn up.’
She shrugged. ‘There’s always next week. Rome wasn’t built in a day.’
‘That’s what I’ve been telling myself the whole way through this.’
‘You’ve done a good thing. Good for the community. Most of those volunteers that turned up… I’d never seen them before and I’ve lived in Churchstone nearly all my life. This park should be used more and before you say it, not just because I’m going to benefit from the custom. I know people think that I’m a bit of ballbreaker and I’m only interested in my profits, but this park is special.’ She stared off into the distance and then her mouth softened. ‘When I was seven my gran used to bring me here every Saturday morning, rain or shine. When it rained she bought a picnic rug and we sheltered in the bandstand and ate banana sandwiches out of tin foil and drank black tea from a thermos flask. You know the old-style ones with the tartan pattern on the outside? Bless her. She was a lifesaver. My parents were going through a shitty divorce and I was caught smack bang in the middle. Those Saturday mornings were a reprieve. The only time in the week when I didn’t have to feel guilty for being with one instead of the other. My gran loved this park. I miss her. She died last year.’
‘I’m sorry. She sounds like she loved you.’
‘Oh God, yeah.’ Sascha rubbed at the chrome valve of one of the big thermos flasks and I suspected she was avoiding catching my eye. ‘She wasn’t the sort that spoiled you, wasn’t backwards about clipping you round the ear if she thought you deserved it either, but I always knew she was in my corner. Hilda reminds me a bit of her. Kind but firm, and speaks her mind.’
‘Talk of the devil,’ I said, spotting Hilda in another new tracksuit. I blinked. She’d outdone herself today. She marched across the park resplendent in a shiny fuchsia-pink shell suit that rustled along with her self-important steps.
‘Freakin’ hell! Where did she get that little number?’ Sascha put her hand over her mouth, hiding the snigger I could hear. ‘Is it vintage?’
‘I think she gets them online,’ I murmured.
‘And that’s why some people should not be allowed an internet connection,’ muttered Sascha.
Following in Hilda’s wake was a man with a large camera around his neck, who was obviously Adam, the photographer from the local paper, and a second older man tagging along behind him.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ murmured Sascha, sidling away.
‘Morning Claire, this is Mr Benton and his father Mr Benton, senior. Ooh is that coffee?’
‘Do call me Harold,’ said the older man, who swept off his panama hat and nodded to me with old-school courtesy. ‘I’m not here in a professional capacity. I’m just being nosy.’ Hilda was already helping herself to coffee and offering him one.
‘And I’m the son of the nosy one, here in a very professional capacity. Adam Benton, photographer with the Churchstone Advertiser.’ He held out a hand.
‘Hi, nice to meet you and thanks so much for coming.’
He gave me an amused smile and glanced back at his father, who was chatting to Hilda over their steaming drinks. ‘I’m not sure I had an awful lot of choice. My dad met Hilda in the library this week. She’s… very persistent.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ I looked over his shoulder. ‘Although, to be fair, this was her idea so she deserves most of the credit, and,’ I laughed, ‘if it’s any consolation, I’m a victim of that persistence too… but look where it got us.’ I waved my hand around the park and the busy team of volunteers who were setting up.