Page 7 of The Missing Ingredient

Tucked away in the entrance doorway, away from the sound of traffic and other distractions, Marcus pulled out his mobile phone. After all this time, he still had all their telephone numbers. He found the one he wanted and dialed.

“Hello. Is that Moira Bradford?”

“Speaking.” The voice sounded polite but strained, as though she expected the caller to launch into a sales spiel.

“This is Marcus. Marcus Vine.”

“Oh. Marcus. Hello. Nice to hear from you. I—what can I help you with?”

“It’s more the other way around, actually. I bumped into Tom and the girls in Toasties on the high street. Having breakfast.”

Marcus paused to let the words sink in.

“Oh” came the monosyllabic reply, all Moira could apparently muster.

“Moira, is everything okay? Only Tom looked—” said Marcus, faltering because he didn’t know how to diplomatically voice what he needed to say. Eventually he breathed a deep sigh and said what he thought. “He looked pretty bloody dreadful, to be brutally honest.”

“Oh heavens, Marcus” came the defeated voice down the phone, so unlike the strong and opinionated character who Marcus had come to know and, more often than not, dislike. “I’m doing everything I can, honestly I am. But between John and Tom, there aren’t enough hours in the day to—but Tom’s just about managing to hold everything together.”

“Moira, do you think it would be okay if I pop round and see him tonight? I want to offer my help in whatever way I can.”

Marcus wasn’t exactly sure of the barely audible sound that came down the phone. It sounded like a relieved sob.

“I think that would be a lovely gesture. I know things were said at the funeral. Tom doesn’t handle stress well. And I know that doesn’t excuse him. But since then I’m convinced he regrets what he asked for, even if he’s too proud to admit it. And even more than that, he hates himself for losing your friendship.”

“It’s okay, Moira. I think I understand. And I’m as much to blame. I should have been more thick-skinned, should have got back in touch. As godfather to the girls, I have a duty to them. And so far I’ve been missing in their lives. If anyone’s been reprehensible, it’s me.”

“Do you want me to take the girls tonight? So that the two of you can speak privately?”

“No,” said Marcus. “I’m going to be in Birmingham today. By the time I get to the house, I’m sure the girls will be getting ready for bed. And I want them to see me too, to understand that their Uncle Marc hasn’t deserted them. But I’ll call you when I’m there so that we tally schedules, if that’s okay?”

“Of course. You’ve no idea how relieved that makes me feel. More than anything, my son needs a friend right now, Marcus.”

Chapter Three

THATevening, Marcus managed to mask his dismay when the door opened to the Bradford family’s modest two-bedroom terraced house. Engaged on his mobile phone, Tom was wearing the same jeans and rumpled rugby shirt, and had probably neither been to the office nor showered. And once again, his face had that exhausted expression, a general tired confusion, so out of character for this usually in-control man. On the bright side, Moira must have called him, because he appeared really pleased, if a little distracted, to see Marcus standing on the doorstep.

“I come bearing gifts,” said Marcus, holding up a shopping bag.

On arriving back from an extremely frustrating and fruitless meeting, he had purchased fresh pasta and other natural ingredients from the organic supermarket next to the station before picking his car up and driving straight to Tom’s. If he could do nothing else for his inherited family, he could at least cook them a decent, healthy meal.

Tom mumbled something inaudible to the caller before opening the door wide. Marcus had never really warmed to their modern new-build house, but Tom had bought the place with cash when they first married, fully intending to upscale to one more substantial as soon as children came along. Then economic times plummeted and Tom’s construction business suffered along with the rest of those in the country, making competition tough and profit margins thin. Despite mild protests from Raine, offers of handouts from his parents had been humored but emphatically rejected. Tom Bradford made his own way in this world, thank you very much. Although he had continued to squirrel money away for the future, they’d never quite had enough or found the time to upgrade.

Marcus stepped across the threshold and tripped over a plastic toy pony discarded on the hallway carpet. When the door closed behind him, odors of sugary cereals and stale food instantly assaulted Marcus’s sense of smell. By the front door, Katie’s Disney backpack sat discarded on the floor next to an untidy pile of school coats, which had once hung in their regular place on the coatrack. Toys strewn along the floor of the hallway and living room looked as though they had been there for days, maybe weeks. Raine had always been house-proud, even with two hyperactive kids to clear up after.

Marcus lowered his shopping bag onto the countertop of the open kitchen. Signs of the girls’ tea—an empty can of spaghetti hoops and a half loaf of sliced bread—sat next to the toaster. Unwashed dishes and pans overflowed from the sink onto the work surface. Even the kitchen floor was mottled with crumbs and splashes of food. Marcus had to stop his natural, professional inclination to roll up his sleeves and tackle the mess. Instead he moved to the middle of the living area and waited for Tom to speak.

“Sorry,” said Tom, a pained expression squeezing his features as he followed Marcus’s gaze. “I’ll get around to that later. The girls were exhausted. They’ve been at home all day running amok. I’ve already put them to bed.”

“You have?” said Marcus, unable to mask his disappointment. He could always converse better with Tom when either Raine or the girls were around. But tonight was important, and he needed to get his act together, to keep his focus. “No problem. Better probably. Means we can chat without being disturbed.”

“Come sit down,” said Tom, moving quickly to the main couch and tossing several toys onto the floor to make space for Marcus. “Can I get you something?”

“Not yet. Let’s have a chat first.”

Tom nodded and seated himself across from Marcus. Rather than covering pleasantries again, Marcus dived into the conversation.

“How are you balancing work with caring for the girls?”

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