The Pollyanna Plan (9 page)

‘Er, would you like to come over sometime this week for
dinner
? Maybe tonight when you’re off work, or tomorrow?’ Emma forced out the words quickly, as if they were a painful plaster to be ripped off. Bracing herself for another rejection, she glanced up at Will’s face. To her surprise, he looked like he was contemplating it.

‘That would be great,’ Will said finally. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. What about Wednesday? I’m working the evening shift tonight and tomorrow.’

Home-cooked meal?
Emma had been thinking more along the lines of an upscale takeaway. Her cooking skills extended to toast, and even that she burned. ‘Sure, Wednesday’s fine,’ she croaked out over the panic clutching her throat. ‘Around seven?’

Will nodded. ‘Sounds good. Come on, let’s get you through the checkout, and then I’ll help you pack up the car.’

What would Pollyanna say about this one?
Emma wondered as they walked towards the tills. Ah well, at least she had until
Wednesday
to come up with something. How hard could it be?

Will cursed as he watched Emma pull away from the car park and merge neatly with traffic on the busy high street. What
was
it about this woman that made him forget his resolve not to get involved with anyone? He’d figured his cool behaviour yesterday would put her off, but she hadn’t seemed bothered by it when they’d met today. If she’d been Cherie, she’d have engaged in a full-blown pout, lasting days until he bought her something to say sorry.

But Emma wasn’t Cherie—far from. She was so easy to spend time with, and her enthusiasm for design was catching. One glimpse at the wonderful living space she’d created, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from jumping in to help. That colour he’d mixed deserved something spectacular like her design, and he couldn’t wait to see what it all looked like put together.

That was why he’d said yes, Will told himself. Artistic interest only—nothing to do with the chemistry or connection between them, despite knowing little about each other. Anyway, it was just one dinner. He was capable of controlling himself for a couple o
f ho
urs.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘H
elp!’ Emma shrieked to Alice over the phone the next day. It was just after ten, and Emma had spent most of last night and a few hours this morning sorting out her purchases and frantically scouring the Internet for a recipe that looked halfway doable. Trouble was, nothing seemed within her grasp—a shame positive thinking couldn’t conjure meals from thin air. Visiting her mum would fill the rest of the day, and tomorrow Emma needed to start decorating before Will arrived. Not to mention she still hadn’t revisited the job hunt!

‘What’s up?’ Alice yawned. ‘God, late night. Didn’t get home until three—Chaz invited me out to dinner, then we headed back to his. Anyway, what’s the big emergency?’

Emma took a deep breath. ‘Well, I went to the DIY centre
yesterday
and ran into Will.’

‘Oh, good. You followed my advice. And?’

‘And I asked him out. For dinner!’

‘So he said yes? Told you.’ Alice sounded smug. ‘Where’s the emergency in that?’

‘Al, he thinks I’m going to serve a home-cooked meal.’ Emma felt her blood pressure rising just thinking about it.

Alice snorted. ‘Cook? You? I remember when you tried to make instant noodles in university, and they overflowed and burnt on the—’

‘Okay, okay, no need to bring up that story again.’ Emma cringed, recalling how the charred noodles had set off the fire alarm, evacuating the whole student hall into the cold January night. Everyone called her Noodle for the rest of that year, and she’d only shaken the name by moving to rented accommodation.

‘There has to be something relatively easy, something even you can’t muck up. Hmm
…
’ The phone went silent for a minute, and Emma imagined Alice’s brain flipping through a catalogue of recipes. When they’d lived together after moving out of the student halls, Alice had done all their cooking. It was so good Emma had gained almost a stone.

‘Right,’ Alice said finally. ‘Red Thai chicken curry. It’s not possible to mess up. Just chop and then stir-fry the ingredients, pour in some coconut milk and let it simmer. Cook rice on the side, and you’re done. Not the most original meal ever, but it’s tasty and quick to prepare.’

‘And you’re sure this is something I can make?’ The dish
sounded
simple, but then again, so had the noodles.

‘I’m sure,’ Alice responded confidently. ‘I’ll email you the
recipe
. But forget food—what are you going to wear?’

‘Er
…
’ What
was
she going to wear? With George, wardrobe never warranted a second thought—the two of them had lived in business suits. Actually, the only time she’d seen George
not
in a suit had been the twice-a-week lovemaking sessions they’d scheduled in, although looking back, ‘lovemaking’ might be stretching it a bit. More like ‘in and out’. In fact—Emma winced at the memory—she remembered watching the clock above George’s desk and wondering how much longer this would take. Sex with him always felt awkward and stiff, and all too often George would end up head-butting Emma, or she’d put a knee in his groin. Not exactly the stuff of romance novels.

But Will
…
Emma’s heart lurched as an image of the two of them in bed filtered into her mind. She could imagine his hands sliding down her skin as she pulled herself up against his bare chest—

‘Right, that settles it,’ Alice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I obviously can’t leave you to your own devices. This is your first real date after rodent George, and you need to get back on board with a bang.’ She sniggered. ‘Well, if you’re lucky, that is. I’m not working until tomorrow night, so we’ll hit the shops in the afternoon.’

‘No way.’ Emma shuddered. She hated shopping at the best of times, and going with bossy Alice—who’d no doubt try to shoehorn her into something two sizes too small—would be torturous. ‘I have loads of things to do here before Will comes over.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Emma. He’s not interested in your bloody flat. He’s interested in you. Meet me at one tomorrow at Bond Street Tube.’ And with that, her friend hung up.

Shaking her head, Emma put down the phone. Maybe Alice was right. She could do with some new comfy clothes, something besides suits and skirts. And maybe a nice top to impress Will, too. Glancing at her watch, Emma was stunned to see it was almost ten thirty. She had to move fast if she wanted to be on time for lunch with her mum.

A few hours later, the train pulled into Virginia Water. Emma walked from the station to where she’d grown up, her eyes taking in the large house with a neatly tended garden that hadn’t changed a bit on the outside since her dad died. Inside, though, everything was different: new husband, new daughter
…
new life without her father. It was part of the reason Emma limited her visits. She couldn’t bear to see how her father had disappeared.

She pressed the doorbell, listening to the click of her mother’s heels on the marble inside.

‘Emma!’ Her mum’s face creased with pleasure as the door swung open. She folded Emma in her arms, and for a second Emma let herself relax into the embrace.

‘It’s so good to see you.’ Her mother ushered Emma down the corridor and into a modern kitchen, completely redone with top-of-the-line units and flooring. The sharp contrast with the former seventies-style space always made Emma blink.

‘How are you, love? You seem well.’ Her mum scanned her face as they settled into chairs at the table.

Emma shot her mother a sceptical look. This was a change; the usual comment was how pale and tired she appeared! But Emma had to admit, when she’d glanced in the mirror while tying up her hair this morning, she
had
looked more alive. Her face had lost the strained expression she’d never even realised it had, until now.

‘And what brings you here on a weekday? Not that I’m complaining,’ her mother added hastily.

Emma met her mother’s concerned eyes, wondering if she should say the real reason she was suddenly free on weekdays: that she’d been let go. In the past, she’d have kept that information firmly locked up within her protective barrier, thinking her mum wasn’t interested, anyway. But now, in the silence of the big kitchen, Emma felt the urge to share what was really happening in her life.

‘Actually, I’m not with Gladstone. I’m looking for a new job. And George and I aren’t together any longer, either,’ she blurted, thinking she’d get it all out there in one go.

A flash of surprise mixed with hurt crossed her mother’s face. ‘Oh, Emma. When did this happen?’

‘Last week.’ Emma ran her fingers over the smooth tabletop, thinking maybe she
should
have told her mother sooner, or at least when they’d spoken yesterday. She’d just assumed
…

‘Are you all right for money? Andrew and I can always help out if need be.’ Her mum placed a mug of Earl Grey with a splash of milk and a hint of sugar—just the way Emma liked it—in front of her. ‘And as for George, well
…
I’m sorry.’ Her voice was measured, but Emma sensed she didn’t mean it. She’d never said anything, but Emma knew her mother hadn’t warmed to George despite his charm offensive.

‘Well.’ Her mum cleared her throat, as if she was afraid to ask Emma more questions in case Emma clammed up. ‘Meg and I had a great time going through old photo albums yesterday. She wanted to see some pictures of you at her age. There are some wonderful ones of your father
…
’ A smile tugged the edge of her rose-col
oured lips.

Emma tried hard to keep her mouth from dropping open as the worlds she’d thought her mother had desperately tried to separate came crashing together.
Mum had showed Meg photos of her and Dad?

‘I didn’t think those albums were still in the house,’ Emma said finally, her voice hoarse. ‘I thought you’d put them all in storage.’

‘Of course they’re still here.’ Her mother paused. ‘You know, I struggled with the right way to deal with everything after your father’s death. The whole house was full of mementos that reminded me of him at every turn. I couldn’t bear to be faced with the fact that he only existed in memories now, so I thought it best to do a clean sweep. I tried to explain it to you, but
…
’ She sighed heavily. ‘Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do.’

Emma stared, her mind turning over. She remembered the day she’d got up, still burdened with grief at losing her dad. As she’d trailed down the stairs to the kitchen, panic had lodged in her throat when she noticed all the photos were missing. It wasn’t just the staircase: in the lounge, too, bare nails protruded from the wall. And in the kitchen, her dad’s favourite apron had vanished from the hook on the door. Her mum had turned from the stove as she’d screamed, questioning where her father’s things had gone, and then she’d rushed up the steps
.…
That had been the start of shutting her mother out and delving into a world of her own.

Now, Emma realised her mum had found it just as hard to cope without her dad. Removing her father’s things wasn’t a callous move, as her teenaged self had hastily interpreted—it was because her mother cared too deeply. And contrary to what Emma had held true for all these years, her mother
had
tried to talk to Emma. Emma had been the one to turn away.

Why had she clung to the wrong belief for so long? Emma shook her head as the reason flooded in: it had been easier to shut down after her father’s death than to deal with his loss. Being angry with her mum took less effort than learning to open up and l
ive ag
ain.

‘I just thought you wanted to forget Dad.’ The words burst from Emma as she gazed into her mother’s calm grey eyes.

‘How could I ever do that?’ Her mother smiled sadly. ‘He was such a big part of my life. Even if I
had
known I was going to lose him so soon, I wouldn’t have traded our time together for the world. And he gave me you.’ She reached out and grasped Emma’s hand, and for the first time in ages, Emma didn’t pull away. ‘I do miss him, you know. Don’t get me wrong; I love Andrew. Sometimes, though, I can’t help thinking what my life—what
you
—would have been like if he were still here. His death had a huge impact on you, and I felt powerless to do anything.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I couldn’t get through to you. And maybe
…
maybe at some stage, once I had Andrew and Meg, I stopped trying as hard as I should have.’ Her voice lowered to a whisper, and Emma’s heart squeezed with guilt.

‘It wasn’t you, Mum,’ she said, clutching her mother’s hand. ‘I just
…
I just wasn’t ready to talk about it, I guess.’

‘I’d love it if we could start again. Start being a family—a proper family. Without you, there was always something missing.’ Her mum’s eyes shone with tears and Emma nodded, a thread of happiness wending through her at the thought of spending more time together. Birthdays
…
holidays
…
and maybe this year, she’d actually have a cosy family Christmas? She hadn’t experienced that since her father died. Despite George and Alice in her life,
Christmastime
had always felt empty, and Emma had crammed the space with work.

Her mum wiped her eyes. ‘Look at the pair of us, like something off a soap opera! Your father would be saying we’re soppy
Sallies
and making us laugh right now.’

Emma grinned, remembering how her dad was notorious for causing hilarity at inappropriate times. On one of the few occasions they’d gone to church, he’d made her mother snort when he’d drawn a caricature of the reverend as a walrus. God, it was good to finally talk about her father; to unlock all the memories stored inside.

‘Oh, dear.’ Her mum glanced at her watch. ‘We’d better get going if we don’t want to be late for Meg.’

Emma pushed back the immediate thought that Meg would be upset she hadn’t brought a toy, and nodded. She’d been wrong about her mother for all these years. Maybe she should give Meg a chance, too. Emma couldn’t expect a child to fall all over her if they’d hardly exchanged two words, could she?

‘Come on.’ Her mother cleared away the mugs and settled a cashmere coat around her shoulders. Outside, the November sky was a deep blue, with airplane tracks criss-crossing the cerulean
canvas
. Emma breathed in, feeling as if a large weight had been lifted from her. Her mum hadn’t forgotten about her dad, after all. The jagged pieces of the past had shifted into place, forming a smooth picture.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the tree-lined drive of Meg’s posh private school. An imposing, red-bricked building loomed over them.

‘Wow.’ Emma raised an eyebrow. If she were seven again, she’d have been terrified at getting lost in there. Fleetingly, she thought of the small school she’d attended on the village green, with the pub on one side and the church on the other. What a contrast with th
is pl
ace.

‘I know. Impressive, isn’t it? Andrew wanted Meg to get a solid grounding, and this was the best school.’ Her mother eased into a parking space and turned off the engine. ‘We need to go around the back. They should be coming out soon.’

Emma followed her mum through a gate to the rear of the school, every bit as imposing as the front. A sharp bell rang, and a few minutes later, a stream of children came racing out.
God, they’re cute,
Emma thought, eyeing the girls’ straw boaters, maroon blazers and checked skirts. Which one was Meg? She squinted, trying to make out her sister’s dark blonde hair and freckled cheeks. In those hats, they all looked the same.

‘Here she is!’ Emma spun around to see Meg clutching her mother’s arm. ‘Meg, say hi to Emma.’

Meg gazed down at the ground, half-hiding behind her mum. ‘Hi, Emma,’ she mumbled.

Emma’s heart panged. Was Meg that shy around her? Not surprising, given she hadn’t done much to encourage a relationship. Smiling, she bent down to Meg’s eye level.

‘Hey, Meg. It’s my first time here. Do you think you could show me around?’ Beside her, her mum nodded encouragingly.