‘Get him?’
She flapped her hand at me. ‘You know what I mean. Figure out what you want most. If it’s worth it, you’ll find a way to make it work.’
‘I’m really not sure I will.’
‘Pah. Have you forgotten the challenges Team Sherwood Street Food can overcome if we put our minds to it?’ We’d reached the stile leading to a clearing in the forest with a café where we always stopped for coffee and a cake. ‘Think about it, and let me know which option you choose.’
After that conversation, it was hard to think about anything else. I’d dismissed any possibility of a life including Pip after the horrendous end to my stay on the island. I still had the letters painfully demonstrating how love was not always enough. I wouldn’t contemplate starting anything that would result in Pip eventually having to leave the farm.
I wouldn’t settle for a long-term relationship conducted from separate landmasses. Again, I had the evidence for how incompatible that was with farm life.
So, while the thought of option one felt like ripping through my guts with a potato peeler, option two required uprooting this fledgling shoot of a fabulous life to a place where I’d be judged and unfairly labelled.
Around and around I went as I rubbed flour and fat between my fingertips, sizzled different meats in our giant skillets and ploughed through a dozen other tasks as we prepped for the bonfire events. It didn’t feel cowardly to shy away from reinserting myself into the fallout from a family’s festering wounds. It felt wise, and healthy and like the best kind of advice Mum would have offered.
I loved Pip. But there were plenty of other good, kind, fascinating people out there.
I messaged Blessing one morning while standing in the queue at the wholesalers.
I’m going with option one
Send help as necessary
She replied, a few seconds later.
Beagle Boy?
37
I blocked every site I could think of relating to the Isle of Siskin, and buried myself even deeper in work, what had become weekly lunches with my cousin Layla, plus some or all of her three kids, and even joined a local conservation group (I was the youngest member by at least two decades, to Blessing’s disappointment, but they were all welcoming and I loved spending my day off scooping gubbins out of ditches or counting crayfish).
Blessing sprang a short break in Rome on me, as it was ‘the least islandish place we could fly to for under a hundred quid’. We spent two full days exploring the standard tourist sights, researching ideas for new recipes and mastering the art of afternoon siestas. I even accepted a chaste kiss from one of the many men who flirted with us at the hotel bar, and flew home feeling as contented and positive as I’d been since my first holiday.
Heading to catch the flight out, we’d been held up by a traffic accident so had sped through the airport with no more than a gleeful wave at the familiar faces. We could only ogle the new juice and pretzel bar from a distance as we scrambled to reach Gate One before it closed.
However, on our return journey, it would have been rude not to say hello to some of the colleagues we’d spent years working with. Giddy with holiday vibes, we bought a smoothie each, one cheese and one chocolate pretzel, and headed over to see who was hanging around at the food court.
Barb soon appeared, briskly informing Blessing that her hair clearly didn’t suit the Rome climate, before launching into a lengthy rant about the third assistant manager since Blessing. She was flabbergasted at the previous two’s ingratitude in resigning after only a few days, spurning the decent salary, flexible shifts and Barb’s expert input.
‘Can you imagine?’ she asked, at least three times, until Blessing snapped and told her that, having stuck it out for thirteen years, she didn’t have to imagine why someone wouldn’t want to be criticised, controlled and complained at all day.
After making a hasty exit from the food court, we bumped into Gregory.
‘Ah, Emmie. Very good. You got my message, then?’ He shook his head. ‘If you want to follow me, they should be in one of the filing cabinets.’
‘Um, what should?’ I asked as we hurried after him.
‘The mail. I would have forwarded it on, but, well, I didn’t get around to it.’
After opening and closing a few drawers, he handed me a pile of envelopes held together by an elastic band. A quick flick through revealed most of them to be business junk mail, so I could understand why Gregory hadn’t prioritised posting them on. There was a letter with my insurance company’s logo on it, but they’d also emailed so I hadn’t missed anything important.
And then, tucked inside a catering catalogue, was a handwritten letter, addressed to the more informal Emmie Brown.
‘I’ll read it in the car,’ I said, seeing Blessing’s eyes go round.
‘Let’s go.’
As soon as Blessing had pulled out of the airport and hit the main road, I opened the envelope with trembling hands. I knew all too well that a letter could change everything.
