‘Oh, Bridget.’ Was there anyone on this earth as sweet as my baby sister? I kissed the top of her head. ‘It’s not a race. I might never get married, and I’m fine with that. You’d better enjoy every second of this engagement, because I’ll be there doing all the planning and the organising and the ticking-off-checklist parts that you hate. And who knows? I might have a gorgeous man to bring to your wedding as my plus-one. Or maybe I’ll have fun flirting with the groomsmen.’
‘You never know, you could end up married before me! We’ve still got to save a deposit for somewhere to live, let alone a wedding.’
I pulled away to look at her, smoothing back the stray lock of hair that always fell over her face, as I’d done a million times before. ‘Maybe I will.’
That sister of mine always was the clever one.
2
‘Where’s Bridget?’ Mum’s Italian accent boomed at me from the end of one row of plastic chairs filling the community centre where the New Life Church, Nottingham met every Sunday morning and Tuesday night. ‘She isn’t going to miss lunch?’
Orla jerked her head round so fast her honey-blonde ponytail caught her husband, Sam, in the eye. Her raised eyebrows framed a curious smirk. Donovan Sunday lunches were mandatory, only to be missed on pain of death. Literally – when Orla was in hospitalin labourwith her first baby, Harry, who was now eleven, Mum took a gigantic spinach lasagne to the hospital waiting room in a cool-box, dragging us all along with her. She snuck loaded plates for Orla and Sam into the labour room, which Sam later reassured us he and the midwife very much enjoyed, Orla opting for gas and air instead.
Even Paolo had to leave an assistant in charge of Donovan’s DIY, despite it being the busiest day of the week. And living in New York wasn’t a good enough excuse, either. Annie video-called every Sunday, so Mum could show her that she’d made her favourite cannoli, as if this might prove so irresistible that Annie would hop on the next plane over. We’d given up trying to tell Mum that Annie didn’t even like cannoli that much, it was her twin, Bridget’s, favourite. Or would have been, had she not been served it every Sunday for fourteen years.
‘No, Mamma,’ I whispered back. ‘She’s busy this morning, but will be there for lunch.’
‘Busy doing what?’ Mum leant forwards, her gold and black striped ‘church blouse’ gaping to reveal far too much solid chest. ‘She better not be doing more work for that snotty boss of hers. I’ll be taking a visit to that university scientist department and reminding Mr Fancy Degree PhD Professor that there are laws about working on a Sunday.’
‘Sofia’s working today,’ Orla pointed out. ‘Those laws got overturned decades ago.’
‘Sofia never misses her family lunch!’ Mum’s eyes suddenly creased in sympathy. ‘Oh, is it her diarrhoea again? I’ve told her that vegan diet is not natural. And she can still come for dinner, we’ve got two bathrooms.’
I didn’t bother correcting her on any of those fronts, including that I was the vegan, not my sister.
‘I said she’ll be there. Shh, now! Sofia’s trying to get started.’
Mum dutifully turned to smile at Sofia, who was standing on the small stage holding a microphone. Dressed in denim dungarees, her long chestnut hair tied in a messy bun held back with a red bandana, she smiled patiently as she waited to welcome the sixty or so people filling the hall.
‘That’s my daughter,’ Mum whispered at full volume to the nearest rows, as if they didn’t know already thanks to Mum making the same announcement every week. ‘Always had the heart of an angel, right from a little girl. Working so hard to care for all the people in this church, she is married seven years and still not stopped to have her own family.’
‘Mamma,shut up,’Orla hissed, to our mother’s consternation. ‘You’re distracting everyone.’
We all stood as Moses began to lead the congregation in the first song.
Orla was the only one of us who would dare to speak to Mum like that, and only then because what she knew, and Mum didn’t, and hopefully would never have to, was that Sofia and Moses had been trying to get pregnant for the past four years. The one round of IVF offered by the NHS had failed. Living on a pastor’s wage, supplemented by Moses’ occasional gigs as a wedding singer, going private was out of the question. Those of us who knew what they were struggling through could see the strain and the sorrow taking its toll on our beautiful sister and her husband. There had been many a SisterApp thread discussing the possibility of Moses going back to teaching music, Sofia finding something that paid enough to allow them to gradually save up. Any job that didn’t end up with them feeding, clothing and in a thousand other ways taking care of half the people in their neighbourhood would help.
But it was their life, and, even if they could afford it, the IVF had been brutal. It was hard keeping a secret like this from our mother, but her idea of a secret didn’t quite match most people’s definition, so for the sake of Sofia’s privacy we contained our mother as best we could.
* * *
Once the songs were finished and Sofia had given a talk, after Orla’s three children had come racing out of their kids’ group and I’d drunk a mug of tea while chatting with someone who kept calling me Brian while asking how my fish were getting on, we set off in the usual convoy out to Hatherstone, the village where we Donovan sisters had grown up. Riding in the back of Moses and Sofia’s ancient Ford Escort, as the houses faded into the fields and forest of my childhood, I felt the pressures of grown-up city life fall away.
‘I have another customer for you,’ Moses said, turning off the main road onto the lane that led towards Hatherstone. Moses originally came from Jamaica, although he had numerous aunts, uncles and cousins living in the East Midlands, some of whom were actually related to him. Moses was the kind of man who created family wherever he went, and he also believed in supporting each other whenever the opportunity arose. A considerable chunk of my cake business had been built on Moses’ family’s celebrations, for which I thanked him with a triple-layer fudge gateau every birthday.
‘Henry and Ruby have their diamond wedding anniversary coming up. Their great-granddaughter is going to call you.’
‘Diamond?’ Sofia whistled. ‘What, that’s like sixty years? I was impressed when we hit six.’
‘Thanks, Moses,’ I replied as we pulled up at my parents’ rambling farmhouse. ‘Tell her not to leave it too late. I’ve got a few weddings booked for March, and their ideas are ambitious to say the least. Nita’s going to be in her element.’
Nita was my business partner at Emma’s Cakery. I was the scientist, creating cake recipes that specialised in meeting various dietary requirements while also managing to bear the weight of Nita’s handiwork – she was the artist, who transformed the tasty into visual triumphs.
‘I thought you might bring a cake today,’ Sofia said as we made our way across the broad gravel driveway to the wooden porch.
‘Now, what possible reason would I have for bringing a cake?’ I asked, eyes wide with innocence. Mum would never let me bring dessert, even though that meant I could make something vegan, so could actually enjoy eating it for once. She did, however, in the interests of supporting a family business, allow me to bring a cake on special occasions.
‘I don’t know, Emma, why don’t we ask the lovebirds?’ She grinned, waving at Bridget and Paolo, who had just pulled up in his van.
