‘Good luck. I hope you find them. And wear your coat,’ he reminded her.
Flora gave a small eye-roll. ‘Daddy, I know where they are. I put them there.’
‘Coat and mittens please,’ he called out to her disappearing figure.
He wished he could explain to Flora that her mother left her because she was lost – lost as the dolls in the woods – and no matter how hard Edward had tried to keep her mother alive in Flora’s mind and heart, and reassured her that Amber would never leave her daughter out in the snow, it didn’t seem to register.
Edward cleaned up the lunch items, knowing Hilditch would reclean everything because that’s who she was and because Edward wasn’t very masterful in the kitchen. The only thing he seemed to be able to master was words, but nothing clear and crisp enough to get through to his daughter.
Amber Priest was never meant to be a mother. She liked children when they were babies and young toddlers but the minute a child decided they weren’t their mother’s accessory and had their own opinions on what they wanted to wear or eat, or who they wanted to be with, then Amber struggled.
The clashes between mother and daughter when Flora began to explore her independence were apocalyptic and it was Edward who would have to explain to Amber that it didn’t matter if Flora wanted to wear the sparkly pinafore with a summer top underneath it and her gumboots. Flora would wear what she wanted. She had her own mind and opinions; shouldn’t she be encouraged to be herself?
But Amber wanted a little doll, a mini me who would allow others to compliment her beauty by praising her daughter.
Poor Amber. He felt sad for her. She was the little girl lost in the snow, except no one ever came to rescue her until she met Edward. That’s why he’d persevered with her for so long. Encouraging her to come back to their home, their lives, the world they had created. Paying for therapy, rehabilitation centres, coping with the affairs and then forgiving her over and over again until a part of him had died from lack of nurture. He used to think that self-help and all that jazz was nonsense until a fellow author and psychotherapist told him that he had given everything to Amber and had nothing left to give himself. It wasn’t even love he felt for his wife now; it was pity. He was simply trying to keep her alive.
And that’s when he told her enough. She had to show she had changed and work for it if she wanted to be back in their lives. He wanted a divorce and he would be seeking full custody.
Amber hadn’t fought him, which was perhaps the saddest part of all. The weekend after he took custody he saw a picture of her dancing at a rooftop bar in Los Angeles, all bangles and a new tattoo on her collarbone of a Celtic knot and a belly button ring.
She was in a manic phase. Meanwhile he was trying to get his daughter to understand that her mother loved her but was trying to find herself, trying to get well. Things he shouldn’t have to explain to a seven-year-old.
A year later and there was nothing from Amber except a request for more spousal support and a postcard from a cat café in Tokyo for Flora, with a drawing of a mother cat and baby cat on the back in Amber’s signature aqua-inked scrawl.
Flora carried it everywhere for months until it had been left in the pocket of a dress and Hilditch had inadvertently washed it, but Edward had never quite believed it was a mistake. Hilditch was meticulous in her housekeeping until that moment.
He heard the sound of the front door opening and Hilditch stepped inside first. He braced himself for the battle-axe who would be Eve Pilkins. He had prepared himself for her to come and be officious and demanding and to smell of mints and with chin hairs, just like his fourth-class schoolteacher who told him he had a vivid imagination and perhaps he should direct his tall tales into writing stories instead of terrifying his classmates with the tale that his father was an international detective who specialised in serial killers masquerading as schoolteachers.
But this wasn’t the Eve Pilkins he imagined. A small, dark-haired young woman walked inside, her hair in a black bob that framed her heart-shaped face and dark eyes. She was wearing a green coat that suited her better than the model the designer had probably envisaged when they had sketched the idea. She had on sturdy boots and jeans and a large pink suitcase was by her side, sitting at a peculiar angle as it looked like a wheel was missing.
‘Mr Priest, this is Eve Pilkins,’ said Hilditch with a raised eyebrow.
He ignored the eyebrow and looked Eve in the eye, leaning forward to try and understand her. She looked about twenty-five at most, and probably only read poetry and literary fiction. She would be filled with dreams of one day editing a Booker-Prize-winning novel and no doubt she colour-coded her bookshelves.
She smiled at him and he sighed. Another little fan girl who would be less help than useless. He was used to them coming up to him at festivals, hanging around and flicking their hair and asking him where he found his ideas.
‘You better be ready to work,’ he snapped.
He saw her brow furrow and then she stepped forward.
‘Ready when you are, Mr Priest. Let me put my case away and I will be down to edit immediately. I’m looking forward to reading what you have… so far.’
The challenge was there in her tone. The way she stepped forward and the way she paused and then said ‘so far’ was a call to arms.
Perhaps Ms Pilkins was not to be dismissed after all. He couldn’t smell mints nor see any sign of a moustache but he wondered if she was his fourth-class teacher in a much prettier form.
4
Eve’s first impression of Edward Priest was how handsome he was and then he became infinitely less attractive when he tried to intimidate her and sighed at her presence. But after working with Serena, she was used to standing people down and reminding him that she might be five foot two but she was fierce, smart and above all, not to be underestimated.
She had only ever seen him in the dust jacket photos taken when he was twenty-five. Now he was over forty and my God, he was handsome. Tall, well built. His dark hair was receding, but it suited him, messy as though in need of a haircut. He ran his hand through it and scratched the back of his neck.
He wore a grey knitted jumper and jeans and a frown. He had the look of someone who understood how to live well. His clothes suggested quality without having a single label on display. The jumper was cashmere, and good cashmere, she thought. No pilling, no pulls in the thread, beautifully fitted with the sleeves casually pushed up on his forearms.
She tried not to think about his forearms, which were always a weakness for Eve. She had once dated a man a few times who worked a jackhammer for a living and she spent most of the dates looking at his arms like some deranged idiot.
Edward had good forearms – not like he worked a jackhammer day and night but it was clear he did some sort of physical exercise.
