Page 3 of The Plan
I’m going home.
I’m going back to Ireland.
I was twelve when Mum moved us after falling in love with Michael. I didn’t appreciate how much I loved Ireland until I was dropped in the middle of the crazy city that was London. Michael had everything Mum was looking for: money and the promise of a good life. I’ve no idea who my dad is. Mum got pregnant after a night out and nine months later, there I was. I never went without as a kid, but things weren’t easy and Mum was always on the lookout for a shortcut. She decided at some point the best way out was to find a man—a man who had a good job and a load of money. I’ve no idea where she met Michael; we’ve never had the kind of relationship where we talk about that kind of stuff. We get on fine but we’re very different. She always wants more, no matter how good her life is, whereas I don’t crave all the drama and fuss she does. Although I haven’t had it for a long time, I think a simple life is exactly what I need.
I want to spend time in a place I can call home. I want to read a book, watch a film, have an afternoon nap just because I can. I want to walk on the beach in the rain and sit in a cafe and enjoy a coffee with a pastry without feeling guilty about my carb intake. Mostly though, I want to have time to bake. I want to make cakes, biscuits, quiches, anything…and I want to have people eat them and enjoy them.
I get settled on to the plane and pull out the new diary I bought in the airport. I destroyed the last one in the wood burner that was in the flat. In the five years we’d lived there, we’d never once started a fire. It was one of the things I felt I should at least do once before leaving, so I used my diary full of my work notes to start it. It was a freeing feeling, sitting there watching my old life go up in flames.
I’d done as I said when I left work that day. I never returned. I emailed in my notice the second I got home, followed by another to get the divorce in motion.
I open the diary and flick through the pages until I find the end of February. Pulling the pen from the elastic on the side, I pop the top and get ready to write.
The Plan…
1. Find somewhere to live
2. Look for business opportunities
3. Focus on me
It’s the 29thFebruary. The perfect day to find myself a little bit of Irish luck.
* * *
I press the doorbell down and look around the familiar street. Aunt Addy lives in what I remember as her parents’ house. They both died last year and she decided to move into their small two bed bungalow, which was just a few streets down from where I’d grown up.
From the moment I landed, I felt like I was home. Then, the second I got a whiff of Irish air, I knew I’d made the right decision coming here. Gone was the grimy London smell, and in its place was a freshness I can’t even begin to describe. To me it’s the smell of the future; the smell of endless possibilities and a new life.
“Addison!” Aunt Addy squeals when she opens the door. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I wanted it to be surprise,” I say as I look at her. Yes, she’s a little older than when I last saw her, but other than that, she looks exactly as I remember. Her ash blonde hair is straight and to her shoulders with a cute little fringe. She’s wearing the same jeans and shirt combo that I’m sure are the only items of clothing she owns, and as always, she has a couple of strands of thread hanging from her hair, some fabric thrown over her shoulder, and a row of pins across the front of her shirt.
“Well, I’m surprised,” she says with a joyful laugh. “Come here.” Aunt Addy opens her arms wide and pulls me to her. She holds me for the longest time and I’m more than happy to be in her welcoming arms.
“Come in, come in. I’ve not long boiled the kettle.”
I drop my bags in her small hallway before following her down to the kitchen. She deposits the fabric over the back of one of the dining room chairs before walking over to the kettle.
“Tea?”
“Yes please. White, one sugar,” I say, just in case she needs reminding. It’s been years since we’ve spent any actual time together.
“Exactly the same as your mum; I remember, sweetheart.”
I sit and watch as she makes the tea and arranges some biscuits on a plate. Aunt Addy’s my godmother. Her and Mum grew up together and were inseparable throughout their childhood and early adult years—until Mum left, really. When Mum found out she was having a daughter, she said she didn’t even consider a different name for me. I’ve always loved spending time with her. Unlike my mum, who’s a little highly strung, Aunt Addy’s very down to earth. Nothing’s ever too big a problem or too much effort. She takes everything at the right pace and I’m pretty sure she’s never made a rash decision in her entire life.
While my mum dropped out of college to have me, Aunt Addy trained as a seamstress. She’s made all sorts of incredible outfits over the years. When I married Edward, I told him that she was going to make my dress. When Aunt Addy’s daughter Kayleigh and I were little, she used to allow us to play with her fabric and we’d dress ourselves up as brides. I remember her telling us that when the day came, she’d be honoured to make our gowns. I think I was nine and Kayleigh seven at the time. Edward didn’t have much of an opinion about anything to do with our wedding, and even less when it came to my dress; I think he just shrugged at me and continued with whatever he was doing.
I didn’t think anything of it until I got a phone call from his mother a few weeks later telling me how I couldn’t possibly not wear a designer gown. I argued the best I could but I wasn’t stupid enough to really believe I had any sort of voice when it actually came to my own wedding plans. They were funding the event so they got the final say.
After all, the main point of the wedding seemed to be showing off just how much money they had. There didn’t seem to be a lot of focus on the fact that Edward and I were vowing to be together for better or for worse. I laugh to myself as I think about the worst, and the image of him and Jennifer together pops into my head again.
“Are you okay?” Aunt Addy asks when she turns around to see the smile on my face.
“Yes, I’m good. Glad to be here,” I add, because now I’m here with her and in her house, there isn’t anywhere else in the world I’d rather be.
“Let’s sit somewhere more comfortable,” she says, picking up the tray and walking into her living room. She has one small sofa and a chair all facing the French doors that look out over her small yet perfect garden. She places the tray on the coffee table and moves toward the chair, so I take the sofa.
