And that, by some miracle, was all she had to say on the matter of my own doubly broken heart.
Half an hour later, Sofia swung by. ‘I heard historical family recipes were being handed down.’
An hour later, Annie and Orla joined us. ‘Budge up, then. You’re not the only one in need of disaster-rectifying recipes.’
Perhaps inevitably, as we prepared to roll out the second batch, the empty space at the worktop was filled when my youngest sister tentatively pushed open the kitchen door. ‘Room for one more?’
My mamma and sisters didn’t even break their stride, seamlessly adjusting their positions to allow Bridget to squeeze in next to Annie. No one even looked at me, let alone gave me the chance to say, ‘No! There actually isn’t any room in my kitchen for traitorous sisters, who stabbed me so hard in the back the blade sank all the way into my heart.’
Our family was founded on love and forgiveness, and, while I couldn’t bring myself to speak to or even glance at her, I did pass her a pastry brush, so I suppose that was a start.
We baked four batches of sfogliatelle riccia, layers of pastry stuffed with custardy, cinnamony deliciousness, until Mamma decreed we’d got it right. Divvying the leftovers between the families, and lonely singletons, three of my sisters hugged me, blotting our tears on their aprons, and headed home. The fourth sister lingered in the shop until everyone else had left.
‘I got a new job.’
I managed a brief nod of acknowledgement.
‘It’s with Professor Ernestine Lavinski. Prof Love. In Bristol.’
‘Do you want my congratulations?’ I sighed, exhausted more than angry at this point.
‘No! I only wanted to tell you I’m moving out next Saturday. So you can move back in. I mean, unless you want me to go earlier. In which case I’ll stay at the farmhouse or something, that’s not a problem. Not that it matters if itisa problem, given that this is all my fault, and it’s your home and you should move in whenever you want, just say the word and I’ll make myself scarce. It’s all yours. I just wanted to let you know.’ Her voice, finally, collapsed into a squeaky sob. ‘Right. Bye, then.’ She took a shuddering breath, plastered a weak and watery smile over her tears and turned to go.
‘You can tell the letting agent we’re handing in our notice.’
‘What?’
I shrugged. ‘Probably time we both had a change. You know I’ve always dreamed of buying a cottage somewhere. It seems ridiculous now that I thought I needed to get married first.’ I did my best to offer something akin to a smile in return. I was still very, very hurt and upset. But after days under Nita’s goosedown duvet, thinking, I wasn’t sure that one terrible mistake, one that had resulted in everyone suffering, came anywhere close to erasing the lifetime of love and joy leading up to it.
* * *
I skipped Sunday lunch – without a word of complaint from my mother – but Orla called to say that a friend of hers had a cottage on the edge of Hatherstone whose long-term tenants had suddenly left. If I liked it, she might even consider an offer to buy. I had packed, driven over and unpacked by Monday lunchtime. It was too far to run to work any more, but running through the woods where I’d roamed as a child, first thing in the morning or with the summer sunset lighting my path, soothed my soul in a way that pounding the streets of Nottingham never did.
My second week off, I spent some evenings with Sofia, talking a lot and crying not quite so much. A couple of afternoons I walked into the village to pick up Harry, Lottie and Oscar from school and take them to the park for an ice cream. Annie brought over Indian takeaway and her scissors, cutting my hair and painting my nails while we watched old episodes ofThe Great British Bake Off. I sat in the farmhouse garden with my father nearly every day, drinking tea and watching the bees humming in the flower beds while Mamma gardened. Sometimes she’d hand me a trowel or some pruning shears and I’d join her until the ache in my bones drew me back to the wicker sofa.
I didn’t see or speak to Bridget. The SisterApp was silent. I concluded we were communicating independently these days.
The weekend before I was due back at work – the weekend of Bridget’s not-wedding – the family gathered for Bridget’s farewell barbeque at the farmhouse. We also combined it with saying goodbye to Greg and Annie, who were heading back to New York, for now at least.
I managed a couple of hours, most of which I spent playing with my niece and nephews or hiding in the kitchen. I’d acquired this magical power to thicken the atmosphere in any room as soon as I entered. And if Bridget was there, the power magnified exponentially.
No one mentioned the fact that I hadn’t made a cake.
We did have trays and trays of sfogliatelle.
I held my tears back until Nita drove me home. I never would have imagined that I’d fail to cry at Bridget’s leaving party, but any tears shed would have been about far more than her move. Anyway, in all the ways that mattered I’d lost my sister two weeks earlier, when she smiled at my fake-husband in a way I never could have.
‘Stop!’ Nita nearly swerved into the hedgerow when I yelled.
‘Calm down, I’m already on it.’ Without waiting for me to explain, she whipped her BMW around in a three-point turn and screeched back the way we’d come. I leapt out of the car before she’d had a chance to put the handbrake on, crashing through the front door, my mother and sisters appearing at the kitchen door to see what was going on.
Saying nothing, shaking my head for reasons I was in no state to figure out, I clattered down the corridor.
Bridget met me halfway, her chin pressing into my bare shoulder as her arms held on tight, our tears blending together where her cheek pressed against mine.
‘I love you so much. How the hell am I supposed to manage without you?’
‘Your genius brain will work it out.’
