The One We Fell in Love With (17 page)

I take her through the bakery to the back door and we step outside.

‘Okay.’ Mum nods, surveying the scene as I surreptitiously kick Toby’s cigarette butts around the corner of the planter box. ‘It depends how easy you want this to
be.’

‘Very easy,’ I say. ‘I’ll probably be doing most of it after hours.’

‘I hope they’re paying you,’ she says indignantly.

‘Highly unlikely,’ I reply, adding, ‘I want to do it, Mum.’

‘Oh, Rose,’ she says with frustration. ‘I do wish—’

The sigh I let out is very loud and very dramatic. It does a good job of cutting her sentence short.

She takes the hint and cuts to the chase about what I could do to tidy the place up.

I look up Toby’s address after I’ve dropped Mum off. It’s not in a very nice part of Sale, but considering how lovely
Jennifer’s
is, I’m
expecting great things. Ten minutes later, I’m disappointed.

The front garden is overrun with brambles and the house beyond it is in a state of disrepair with white paint flaking off the red brickwork and the wooden windowsills rotting away.

Of course, they only moved here recently so maybe they got the house for a steal and plan to do it up. Yes, that must be it.

I unclick my seatbelt and get out of the car. Almost instantly I hear a man shouting, and I freeze when I realise that the sound is coming from inside Toby’s house.

Suddenly the door flies open and Toby storms out, skateboard in hand.

‘You get back here, right now!’ Gavin shouts after him.

‘Toby!’ I hear a woman cry.

‘Piss off!’ Toby shouts back, kicking the door shut with a loud bang.

I watch with alarm as this scene unfolds and then a thought slams into me:
is Gavin responsible for the bruise on Toby’s face?

Toby spies me on the pavement and stops in his tracks. The rage on his face makes me want to return to my car and drive away at great speed.

‘Give me the keys,’ he snaps, striding purposefully towards me. Fumbling, I get his set out of my bag and offer them up. He swipes them from my extended fingers and shoves them into
his pocket, glaring at me. Then he drops his board to the ground and skates off.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I run after him.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks over his shoulder. I sense that some of his anger has already dissipated.

‘Checking you’re alright,’ I say, struggling to catch up.

He skids to a stop around the corner from his house and digs into his pocket for his fags.

‘I’m fine. You can go home now.’ He nods back in the direction we came.

I shake my head and he sighs. He’s completely unruffled as he stares down at me.

‘You don’t have anything to worry about,’ he says calmly. ‘He loses his temper sometimes, but he always keeps his cool at work.’

‘I’m not worried about him hurting
me
,’ I say with incredulity. ‘I’m worried about him hurting
you
!’ I reach up to touch the bruise on his
face, but he catches my hand and laughs with disbelief.

‘You think Dad did this?’

‘Didn’t he?’ I ask with a meaningful look as he lets go of my hand.

He shakes his head as he’s lighting his cigarette. ‘Unbelievable.’

I stare at him with confusion.

‘Haven’t you ever shoved the door open a little too hard when you come out of the bakery?’ he asks, continuing before I can pause to think. ‘Well, that’s what I
did, and then I remembered I hadn’t brought the rolls out so I turned around and smacked straight into it as it started to close. My dad may be a bit of an arsehole sometimes, but he’s
not violent.’

I realise he’s telling the truth.

You’re hilarious,’ he adds.

‘I’m glad I entertain you.’

‘Hey,’ he calls, as I start to walk off. ‘Sorry.’ He sounds contrite. ‘I know you mean well.’

You make me sound like an interfering busybody,’ I mutter with annoyance, coming to a standstill. ‘And it’s barms, not rolls. That’s what we call them here in
Manchester.’

He purses his lips and I can tell he’s trying to keep a straight face.

‘So what were you arguing about, then?’ I dare to ask.

He sighs, wearily. ‘He wanted to go to the pub, I wanted to go out. I’m his slave all day long so I’m buggered if I’m going to sit at home every night, too.’

‘Why can’t you both go out?’ I ask.

‘Mum wanted one of us at home.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’ I ask gently, imploring him to open up to me.

His eyes dart down to meet mine and after a long moment, he says: ‘She won’t leave the fucking house.’

It turns out that his mother has anxiety issues which keep her housebound and, more often than not, bedridden. As a result, she’s very overweight. Toby and Gavin are her
sole carers.

‘Dad inherited that shithole we live in from my great-aunt.’ He shakes his head. ‘That sounded really ungrateful, sorry, Aunt Bessie.’ He glances up at the sky, but I
don’t know if he’s being ironic. We’re sitting on a bench in the park. ‘Dad was her only living relative. Anyway, we sold our house in London and poured all of our money
into buying the bakery. Dad thought it would be good to have a fresh start, but she’s no better here than she was there.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘And I’m also sorry for sticking my nose in. I bet that’s the last thing you wanted.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s okay, Rose. You’re alright, you know.’

I’m glad to hear he thinks so.

Angus is watching telly when I get home, a beer in one hand and a handful of crisps in the other.

‘There you are!’ he exclaims. ‘Where have you been?’

‘At the bakery with Mum and then I got caught talking to Toby.’

‘I thought you must’ve gone out,’ he says.

‘Nope. I told you I didn’t have any plans.’

‘Yeah, Friday night.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘What are we like?’ he says good-naturedly. He’s been in remarkably good spirits all week.

I swear I heard him coming home in the middle of the night on Monday. I thought at the time it was an odd night to go boozing, but he didn’t smell of alcohol the next morning. I hope he
hasn’t started seeing someone. I know he’ll move on eventually, but I won’t be very good at coping with it when he does.

‘Do you want a beer?’ he asks me, getting up from the sofa. ‘Or a glass of wine?’

‘Wine would be lovely, thanks.’ I follow him into the kitchen where he retrieves a bottle from the fridge. His dinner plates are where he left them on the countertop.

‘Have you eaten?’ he asks.

‘Nope, but I’m not that hungry. I might make a cheese toastie with this bread from
Jennifer’s
.’ I brought a ciabatta home with me.

His eyes light up. ‘Would you do one for me, too?’

‘Greedy sod,’ I say with a grin, getting out the cheese and butter. ‘Of course I can.’

He hasn’t eaten well over the last year, judging by the weight he’s lost, but he seems to have got his appetite back.

‘Thanks, Rosie,’ he says warmly, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and planting a kiss on my temple. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

My insides fill with warmth. ‘I’m glad I’m here, too,’ I reply sincerely.

He smiles at me, his eyes twinkling. ‘You don’t miss your mum?’

‘I still see her,’ I reply a touch defensively. ‘But it’s nice to have the company of someone my own age again.’

I haven’t exactly built up a social life since I returned to Manchester in October, nine months ago. My closest school friends moved away when I did, mostly settling in their university
cities of choice. I have a couple of friends in Portsmouth where I studied and a few friends in London where I worked – some have visited over the last year, but I haven’t much felt
like going out.

‘How’s this week been at the bakery?’

‘Good. I like the hustle and bustle of it. Being with Mum all day and night could be a bit depressing, if I’m honest.’

He nods, the light diminishing slightly from his eyes.

‘But I’m not exactly going to meet Mr Handsome there and strike up a flirty conversation over a loaf of bread,’ I add merrily.

‘Well, you’re not going to meet him here, either,’ Angus points out, his jovial mood reinstalled.

I sigh. ‘Yeah, I don’t know what I’m going to do about that. You can’t set me up with anyone from work, can you?’

‘Christ no, none of them are good enough for you.’

‘Are any of them attractive, though?’ I ask playfully. ‘To be honest, Gus, I could really just do with a shag.’

He gives me a look of horror. ‘Too much information!’ he cries.

I chuckle and carry on preparing the toasties.

The next day is Saturday, and to my surprise, Angus is up and out of the house before I even wake up. He leaves a note for me saying he’s out for the day, which is
particularly cryptic.

I wonder again if he is seeing someone and my chest tightens unpleasantly.

Last night was fun. Too much fun, in fact. I have quite a headache when I wake up at ten a.m. I take a couple of paracetamol and make myself a coffee, and then go and sit on the sofa.

If Angus brought another woman home, I can categorically say that I wouldn’t like it. No, that’s an understatement. I’d hate it. I like that we have this place to ourselves.
And I kind of like having him to myself, too.

As soon as I think that thought, I’m filled with horror. I stand up and pace the room, flapping my hand in front of my face.

I’d better get out of here.

The completion date for the house sale is set for Monday, but this weekend it still belongs to our family, and I have a plan.

I’ve heard that the new owners intend to dig up part of the garden so they can build a conservatory. I hate the thought of Mum’s cherished plants ending up in a skip, and if they
won’t be missed, why shouldn’t I take some with me? Things are obviously tight for Gavin and his family, so it would save me asking for money for a garden renovation project.

I have to steel myself as I open the door of the house I grew up in. Cool air wafts out and engulfs me with an old familiar smell. A lump springs up in my throat, but I try to focus on the job
at hand, heading straight for the back door and avoiding any glances up the stairs to our old bedrooms.

I walk across the recently cut lawn to the garden shed at the bottom. Earlier I realised with irritation that we forgot to ask the moving men to empty it out, but I’m sure the new owners
will be able to use whatever we’ve left behind, and I can take some of the tools with me today.

I inhale deeply, listening to the sound of bees buzzing amongst the flowers and birds tweeting in the trees as I come to a stop in front of the old apple tree. My climbing rose is flaming
brilliant orange amongst the green apple leaves. I bend forward and sniff at one of the blooms, and then my eyes fill with tears.

Dammit. I don’t want to have any regrets about selling this house. It was the right thing to do, but God, it hurts. I steal a glance up at her bedroom window and swallow the lump in my
throat. And then I get to work.

The garden shed smells musty, of damp, dank earth. I grab a fork, a spade and a stack of empty plastic plant pots. There are some old crates here that I can transport everything in, and
there’s even a big bag of compost that Mum never got round to using. My eye catches sight of the paint cans in the corner and I’m struck with another idea. I wonder if there’s
enough paint left to do the back wall.

A couple of hours later, I’m almost done. My hands are filthy, my dress is streaked with soil and my back is aching, but I feel content. I slump into a chair and put my feet up on the
wrought-iron coffee table – yes, the removal men forgot to take the outdoor furniture, too. It was destined for a charity shop, but I’m thinking we’ll keep it for the bakery.
There are two single chairs, one two-seater bench and a matching coffee table, all painted duck-egg blue.

My eyes are drawn once more to my flaming rose. It’s such a shame. It’s too big and too entangled with the apple tree to even consider digging it up. I can’t take it with
me.

Or can I?

I grab Mum’s old pocketknife from the pile of tools and stalk with purpose to the garden shed. I swear I saw some rooting hormone in here... Yes, there it is. I fill another empty plant
pot with soil and walk back outside to the rose. I’ve seen Mum take cuttings, so I think I know what I’m doing. I cut off a stem at a 45-degree angle, dip the end into the rooting
powder and shake off the excess before sticking it into the container of good soil. And then I repeat the process a couple more times. I’ll take the cuttings back to Angus’s with me and
water them every day and, you never know, maybe one day they’ll grow to be as beautiful as the rose flourishing in front of me now.

I head straight to
Jennifer’s
after leaving home, bringing with me as much as I can fit in my car. I’ll have to make another trip and I’ll need Angus
or Toby’s help in bringing back the furniture, but we have tomorrow to do that.

It’s Saturday today, and I’m not supposed to be at work, but as I don’t have anything better to do, I decide to make a start on the garden.

I walk in to see a gorgeous young woman behind the counter. Who’s she?

‘Can I help you?’ she asks, her eyes hovering on my cheek. I’m going to assume I’m smeared in dirt.

‘Is Toby here?’

She turns to open the door to the bakery while I rub my cheek against my shoulder. ‘Toby? There’s someone here to see you,’ she calls.

Toby appears a moment later. ‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Who’s that?’ I mouth, glancing at the girl.

‘Vanessa,’ he replies, loud enough for her to hear.

‘I’m Rose,’ I tell her with a smile. ‘I work here during the week.’

‘Oh, right.’ She looks away again, uninterested.

‘What’s up?’ Toby asks.

As I fill him in, it occurs to me to wonder what he must think of me. A twenty-eight-year-old would-be-nurse turned shop-worker who has nothing better to do with her Friday nights or Saturday
daytimes than come back to work. I must seem like a right bore.

I
am
a right bore. No wonder nobody wants me.

‘Okay,’ he says with a shrug, clearly not bothered one way or the other what I choose to do with my free time.