Page 25 of Secrets of Starshine
Connie’s kids, Dan and Sophie, were heading for a night out at a place called Weymouth, and Sam was tagging along – having been assured that there might actually be some fleshpots to explore. Discovering this, Connie immediately insisted that I join them for a meal she was cooking for the family.
In all honesty I’d probably have been fine having a quiet night in on my own, especially when I discovered that George is still the proud owner of a VHS machine – but the girls seemed excited for me to come and see where they lived. Meg had even promised to show me her dinosaur collection, and who am I to argue with such generosity?
I put on the best frock I’ve brought with me, a black wrap-dress that I tell myself is more flattering to a curvaceous figure, and add a touch of make-up, including my favourite YSL red lipstick that I got for Christmas the year before. I blow-dry my hair, and give it a quick backcomb for volume, and as I look at myself in the mirror immediately start to fear that I might be over-dressed. What counts as “casual night out” in Liverpool probably doesn’t look the same in Dorset.
Still, it’s nice to be asked out, and nice to be able to pamper myself a bit. I still haven’t heard from my mum, despite calling and messaging, and am veering between worried and annoyed. The story of my life when it comes to her, sadly. Sam says she sent him a photo of her playing golf – golf! – on a windswept links course, so I know she is still alive at least.
It was all I could do to persuade her to come out for a walk, and Kenneth already has her out in the wilds. It is a good thing, I tell myself – even if she doesn’t seem to want to share it with me for some reason.
I close down that train of thought, because it’s heading nowhere fun, and spritz myself with some perfume before I head out. George has already left, along with Lottie, and Sam is in his room getting ready. I shout a goodbye to him before I leave, and get a distracted grunt in return – I suspect he is taking a lot more time planning his outfit than I did.
I follow the directions I’ve been given, walking around the edge of the green, the snowmen and women in all their finery glinting in the moonlight. I hope they don’t end up as sad puddles, like in the animated film that always makes me cry.
I find Archie’s home tucked away a few rows back, part of a small terrace of houses that look like workers’ cottages from the nineteenth century. His is easy to spot, coming as it does with a front garden that is doubling up as a pixie hide-out. The little figures he makes are all over it, peeking out of plant pots, perched on the window ledges, dangling from the branches of the snow-clad apple tree. There’s also a little mobile of miniature dinosaurs, hanging from a hook next to the front door where I suspect hanging baskets will go in spring. Tiny pterodactyls are twisting around each other in the breeze.
I am smiling by the time I knock at the door, and even more so when the knock provokes some happy screams and a woof from Lottie. I know that these people have undergone unimaginable trauma – and yet something about their way of life is still so sweet, so simple. So rich in the things that matter.
George answers the door, looks me up and down, and says: “I’m sorry. We didn’t order any supermodels tonight.”
“Ha! You old charmer!” I say, as he winks and gestures me inside. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He hangs up my coat on a series of hooks that are all scattered at different heights – I’m guessing the lowest one is for Meg, the middle one for Lilly, and the one much higher for Archie. It is very cute, but I find myself wondering if they will have to keep moving them as the girls grow. I smile at the sight of the tiny raincoats and wellies and abandoned backpacks, at an umbrella decorated with ladybirds.
I walk into a large room that was once probably two, but has been knocked through. The front half is the living area, with a traditional coal fire crackling away behind the guard, and comfy-looking sofas that are covered in patchwork throws. There is a Christmas tree that is approximately a third of the size of the abandoned one back home, and it is in a big terracotta pot instead of chopped. Maybe it lives there all year around, and just gets dressed up for the holidays.
The back half of the room is a dining area, complete with a large table that is already set for dinner. All of the walls are painted a gorgeous shade of deep green, offset by shelves full of vivid red poinsettias in pots and vases full of cut flowers that I can’t identify but look beautiful. Archie did mention a greenhouse, so I presume these are his handiwork. I walk closer, see white flowers, pale green stems, and fragrant sprigs of what seems to be rosemary.
Connie emerges from the kitchen with a bowl of bread rolls, pauses, and gives me a wolf whistle as she inspects me. She is wearing a pair of dungarees over a bright pink T-shirt, and her feet are bare. I am definitely over-dressed.
Archie follows her into the room carrying a bottle of wine, and stops for a moment and stares at me. I feel his eyes drinking me in, and I feel suddenly self-conscious. I cover it up by announcing: “Well, what can I say? You can take the girl out of Liverpool, but…”
He lets out one of his big, booming laughs, and replies: “Yeah. I do remember that about Liverpool. Never seen so many glamorous women in one place. You’re definitely representing well tonight, Cally.”
Our eyes meet, and I smile in thanks. It’s suddenly very hot in here.
Connie takes the wine from him and uncorks it so fast it is clearly something she has done many times. She pours me a hefty glass, and passes it over.
“Here,” she says, “drink this. I know you like red. And you look gorgeous, by the way. Your hair is amazing…what I’d give to have your skills!”
I don’t, in fact, like red all that much, but it seems rude to say so. Instead, I do as I am told, and take a sip.
“I’m pretty sure you have some skills of your own,” I say, sniffing, “whatever you’re cooking smells fantastic. I like cooking, but I never seem to have the time to do anything from scratch – I don’t know where I’d be without the patron saints of Dolmio and Oxo.”
“Nothing wrong with a good stock cube,” she answers. “And I don’t always cook like this – in fact my kids’ favourite meal is beans on toast. This is just a lasagne, nothing fancy.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Where are the girls?” I ask, looking around in case they’re about to jump out and scare me. “I was sure I heard them earlier…”
Archie rolls his eyes, and says: “They’re upstairs waiting for you. They want to show you their rooms. I can only apologise.”
“For what?”
“For the fact that it’ll probably take so long we’ll eat all the lasagne without you.”
“Don’t you dare!” I reply, heading towards the stairs in the hallway, taking my glass with me. I make my way up, and find myself on a landing, the walls painted the same shade of deep green as the living room. I pause and look at the framed pictures that adorn the walls – so many, and in such a variety of styles and sizes, that it looks like an art gallery.
There is, in fact, art – scrawled drawings obviously produced by the girls, and framed for posterity. An embroidery of a fairy garden. A beautiful illustration that looks like it’s from an old version ofThumbelina. An oval-shaped mirror framed in gilt, placed at just the right level for a child to use, with the word “masterpiece” stencilled on it.
It’s the photos, though, that really catch my attention – shots of the girls at various ages, as tiny babies and toddlers and, in Lilly’s case, what seems to be her first day in school uniform. Candids of them playing, and on the beach, and one with Lottie where she looks so much younger. I recognise junior versions of Connie’s children in the mix, Connie herself, George, and, eventually, the one that breaks my heart just a little bit.
