Page 10 of Not in a Million Years

I groped for my phone on the bedside table and found Andy’s number, right near the top of my recent calls log, tapped it and listened yet again to the message telling me I couldn’t leave a message of my own.

‘Shit.’ I turned over, pulling the duvet more tightly around myself against the cooling breeze coming through the open window.

I forced myself to think of Claude, his smiling, handsome face, his strong hands, the concern he’d shown me. I tried to conjure up an image of our next date – cocktails in a glamorous bar or perhaps even dinner. Me in my new Sandro dress. Claude putting his hands on my shoulders and leaning towards me for a kiss.

But my mental picture of his features refused to come into focus. Instead, I saw Daniel’s face, the last time we’d seen each other alone, nearly seven years before. And that image was clear – his grey eyes almost silver-bright with anger, his hand impatiently pushing his too-long, dark blonde hair off his forehead as he told me a bunch of stuff I categorically hadn’t wanted to hear at the time and certainly didn’t want to remember now.

But his voice was as vivid in my mind as if he was standing next to me in my bedroom, his words as clear as if I’d recorded them.

It was no good. This was going to be another one of those nights.

Reluctantly, I got out of bed and pulled on tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt.

Rule one of sleep hygiene: keep your bedroom cool. Rule something – I couldn’t remember which; there were so many of them and I followed them all to the letter – your bed is for sleeping. If you can’t sleep, get up.

I walked through to the living area and switched on the lights. My kitchen wasn’t large – just a run of units along one wall and a small island – but it did the job. I pulled a cookbook from the shelf and flicked through the pages: cherry and almond loaf cake, lemon drizzle cake, fudge brownies. All of them were good friends that had seen me through more than their share of sleepless nights.

But I knew the recipes too well – if my mind was to be distracted from the unwelcome thoughts and memories, I needed a challenge.

Rainbow layer cake – that would do. Lots of weighing and dividing of batter, lots of careful adding of food colouring to frosting, multiple tins to be lined with baking parchment.

By four a.m., it was done. A magnificent – if I say so myself – structure eight inches tall, smoothly frosted in white buttercream, rainbow sprinkles scattered evenly over its top. And I was done too – my eyes were scratchy with fatigue, my feet aching from standing on the tiled floor, my mind finally empty. I left the cake on its stand and went to bed, calculating that I’d be able to get a tolerable four hours of sleep before getting ready to meet Daniel at ten thirty.

But I found myself setting my alarm for half past seven, because it felt important to wash my hair and put on make-up before heading out. Why I cared whether Daniel saw me looking like a raddled hag or a well-rested goddess, my sleep-deprived brain couldn’t quite articulate.

The next morning, I took the cake with me when I left the flat, balancing it carefully on one hand as I pressed the button to summon the lift with the other. By the time I arrived at St Mungo’s, just ten minutes’ walk but also a world away, my arms were trembling with the effort of holding it upright. Next time, I promised myself, as I had all too often before, I’d make biscuits – light, portable and relatively robust.

As usual, Mona was in the church hall, bustling about laying cups and saucers, napkins and teaspoons out on a long trestle table, the stainless-steel urn steaming gently behind her. When she saw me, she beamed a welcome but at the same time tutted disapprovingly.

‘Oh, Kate.’ She set down the stack of paper napkins she was holding and folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘The insomnia playing up again? You know how much our guests welcome your offerings, but I do sometimes think we’d all rather you got a good night’s rest.’

‘I think so too, believe me.’ I set the cake stand down on the table and stretched my weary biceps. ‘But you know what? Discovering that this group existed has been a bloody godsend. Where would I be without you? Ruining my professional credibility by taking cake to work once a week or not being able to get into my clothes because I’ve scoffed the lot myself, that’s where.’

Mona laughed. ‘I always tell our guests, come for the social interaction and chat with others who are feeling a spot isolated, stay for the quality baked goods. I’ll just give you back your tin from last time. Those salted caramel blondie things went down a treat. But something must be troubling you, if you’ve been up all night. Fancy a sit-down and a cuppa?’

‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking I’d far rather be having a chinwag with Mona about her grandson’s violin lessons and her spaniel’s mysterious diarrhoea than seeing Daniel, ‘but I’m on my way to meet someone for coffee. I’ll pick the tin up next time I come, if that’s okay?’

‘Another of your dates?’

‘Sadly not. This is someone I’ve known for years, and we don’t really get on.’

She eyed me shrewdly, taking in my blow-dried hair, no-make-up-make-up, wide-legged linen culottes and cropped cream blouse. ‘You’ve put some effort in, just the same.’

I sighed. ‘You know me, Mona. Putting effort in is what I do.’

She shook her head. ‘Putting effort in for someone you don’t even like seems like a mug’s game to me. Although I can’t say I’m not grateful for the effort you put in baking for a load of lonely old people you’ve never even met.’

‘It’s no effort at all. It’s literally a sanity saver. But I must dash, or I’ll be late.’

She pulled me into a brief hug, and I breathed in the smell of her almond hair oil and the fragrance of stewing tea, enjoying the comfort of her strong arms, imagining some of that strength passing from her to me.

Then I said goodbye, waving away her thanks, and headed off to meet Daniel.

Five

It was my own fault, I realised, sweating on a bus inching its way across South London next to a woman who apparently wanted the entire top deck to hear, see and smell her chomping her way through a bargain box of chicken wings. I’d asked Daniel to suggest a place to meet, and he had. I could hardly blame him for opting for somewhere near his own home – and half an hour’s journey from mine.

But I blamed him anyway.

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