Pieces of You.

I held Luke’s hand against my stomach. A baby of our own – part me, part him. After eight years of trying and after eight, sad little boxes in a cupboard, a baby of our own. At last.

CHAPTER THREE

Patricia

Sitting alone in the florists, Patricia found herself staring down at her notepad. She should be making a funeral wreath for tomorrow morning, but she had been putting it off. It was getting dark outside and Gino, busy putting the chairs inside Café Amore for the night, noticed her from across the street and waved.

Patricia slowly held a hand up in response. She felt weary. And desperately alone. True, she was on her own – in the physical sense – having sent Lucy home hours ago to plan an elaborate anniversary dinner (although with Lucy’s track record, Patricia privately felt more than one evening’s practise might be in order), but still. She felt alone in all senses of the word. Isolated, forlorn, solitary. It was unnerving after all this time to be knocked sideways by this familiar, suffocating feeling, Patricia thought. She steadied her hands on her notepad.

She had felt so disconnected since Bernard’s death. Even after all this time. It was as if she felt set apart from other people much of the time, unable to fully get involved in her surroundings … or involved in life, in fact.

It was Luke and Lucy’s fifth wedding anniversary on Sunday. Their fifth. Five years without a … Patricia forced the thought away and focused on Lucy. She loved Lucy. Not in a ‘you’re-the-daughter-I-never-had’ way, of course, because she had Nell, but there was a genuine closeness between them. Wasn’t there? Sometimes Patricia wondered if she had prevented a real connection from growing. She didn’t mean to be aloof, but she found it hard to be openly affectionate. Patricia wasn’t really sure why. Was that because she had lost Bernard? Had the lack of physical contact made her cold towards others? It was possible, she supposed.

Working together helped; she and Lucy had forged a good relationship over flower arrangements and awkward customers. Lucy had only started working at the florist’s after meeting Luke as Patricia had needed an extra pair of hands and because Lucy was at a crossroads, career-wise. But she had stayed and she seemed to love it.

And now Lucy was properly involved in the business. It irked her that Lucy moaned about the lack of a credit card machine, as did Lucy’s desire for order and symmetry with everything. ‘Getting with the programme,’ Luke jokingly called it and although he took a gentler, more persuasive line, he obviously agreed with Lucy.

The truth was, Patricia didn’t trust modern technology. You always knew where you were with cash and cheques; that was what Bernard used to say and he was spot on. But she was doing her best to embrace new ideas – like those flannel flower baskets Lucy had shown her some months back. It had taken her a little time to see them as a viable prospect, but she was in her fifties; she liked to mull an idea over before she could get her head around it.

If only Bernard were still here; he’d know what to do about all these … Patricia faltered. If only Bernard was still here. Not just to listen to her reservations about the state-of-the-art business ideas she was struggling to understand, but to stop this awful loneliness.

Patricia rubbed a hand over her eyes. She felt faintly foolish. Funeral flowers always did this to her. Despite the length of time Bernard had been gone, she missed him. Every single day. She would wake up each morning and, as she’d read in some of those women’s magazines where they always went on about deceased partners, there would be seconds of blissful, sleepy forgetfulness. Then the haze would clear and she would remember. He was gone. And the anguish would consume her. And she would miss the smell of him, the sound of his laughter and, most of all, the easy history they shared.

They had been a cliché of sorts: childhood sweethearts, married young, devoted to one another. Their lives had lacked notable drama or incident and that was just the way they had liked it. Bernard had worked as a GP in their local surgery, with just the right blend of kindly firmness. He had been well-liked in the community and she had been happy to bring up their three children and be a traditional housewife. When the children were older, Bernard had inherited a sum of money after the death of his parents and, knowing how much she loved flowers, he had bought an empty shop space for her. Patricia had taken a floristry course, even though taking such a step had filled her with anxiety, and Hartes & Flowers had been born. It had been the single most romantic thing Bernard had ever done for her. She thought of him each time she opened and closed the shop. Each time she trailed her fingers along the cream, distressed-effect counter he had chosen.

What made it so difficult was that Bernard had dropped dead one day. Just like that. No warning, no prior symptoms, no goodbye. Just … dead. In a flash, in a heartbeat. Or not, as the case may be. The doctors said Bernard had had an undiagnosed heart condition, that his condition had made him the equivalent of a ticking time bomb. Patricia detested this expression; it made Bernard sound like some sort of sinister terrorist threat. Apparently, it was quite common for people in the medical profession to miss their own health problems – they couldn’t see what was under their own noses.

Thank goodness for Luke, Patricia reflected. Quite simply, he had been the lynchpin of the family since Bernard had died. He shouldn’t have been, but he had stepped up admirably when Ade couldn’t. Just for a nanosecond, Patricia’s heart ached at the thought of her eldest son. But she steeled herself and put that feeling right back in the box it belonged in. Ade was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

But Luke. Luke had gritted his teeth and got on with it. Barely twenty-one and probably ill-prepared for the responsibility of supporting his mother and younger sister through their grief, Luke had knuckled down and coped. It had been Luke’s idea to send Nell to a therapist when all of her problems had started, and thank God they had. Thank God.

Patricia placed the wreath carefully in the fridge in the back office and paused, her hand on the cool, metal door. Her life seemed to be on hold at the moment, had been for some time, in fact. She always seemed to be waiting.

As Patricia drifted back into the shop to tidy up, she noticed a harassed-looking woman wielding a futuristic-looking pushchair with a baby in it. A stroppy toddler tugged at her hand, whining loudly, neither of them noticing when he dropped his cuddly Buzz Lightyear toy.

Patricia dashed outside and picked it up. ‘You dropped this, sweetie.’

The boy took it sulkily, saying nothing as his sticky fingers closed around the green and white figure. The mother turned, frowning. ‘Say thank you,’ she reminded her son, tiredly.

‘Thank you,’ the boy mumbled.

Patricia smiled. ‘You’re welcome. Lovely evening, isn’t it?’

The mother half-smiled. ‘Will be when these two are down for their sleep,’ she replied. ‘Come on, Josh. Let’s go. Say bye to the nice lady …’

Patricia leant against the doorframe and watched them. After Bernard had died, she had hoped and prayed for a distraction. A baby-shaped one, not a new man in her life. A baby she could smother with all the pent-up love she could feel swirling inside, the love that had nowhere else to go. But it hadn’t happened. She had tried to find out what was going on, of course; Luke was her son but he had seemed reluctant to elaborate. Patricia felt helpless. Of course, it hurt a little that Luke didn’t seem to want to confide in her. Thinking about it, that had pretty much stopped when Bernard had died. Patricia guessed they had all been affected in different ways by his absence, but it was a shame, because Luke had always been so open.

Patricia gathered up her bag and locked the shop door. The fact of the matter was, she had this prickle of resentment she didn’t know what to do with, and laying it at her daughter-in-law’s door for not giving her a grandchild gave the feeling a more comfortable home. It was unfair, of course it was. And it might not be accurate. But with Nell in her early twenties and far too focused on her fashion degree to think about kids, Luke and Lucy were Patricia’s best bet.

Patricia pushed all thoughts of a baby to one side. She was being selfish and that wasn’t fair. She needed to keep busy – she needed a few projects of her own to focus on. Patricia glanced back at the shop window. The pots really were beautiful. Perhaps she could do a course, making pots and dishes and things she could use when she baked. Yes, a course of some kind. That would keep her busy.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lucy

‘It’s ridiculously hot,’ Dee said, fanning her pink face with Dan’s worn straw hat. ‘It’s September; it shouldn’t be this hot. I was hoping for sunny with a light breeze. God, this is what the bloody menopause is going to be like, isn’t it? Mood swings, hot flushes and vaginal dryness. Bloody hell.’

I glanced at her in amusement. We hadn’t even hit our forties yet. Besides, Dee had a cheek moaning about the heat. I was absolutely roasting in a loose-fitting purple maxi dress with one of those elongated cardigans over the top. Paranoia about someone spotting my tiny bump was to blame for my sweaty hairline, but honestly, I was about to melt.

Hearing my mobile beeping, I groped in my handbag.

‘Who’s that?’ Dee jammed Dan’s hat on her head, squashing what I knew to be an expensive blow dry. She looked ravishing in it, as she did in everything she wore. ‘Not Luke cancelling, I hope. Frankie’s got her heart set on playing swingball with him all afternoon.’

‘He wouldn’t miss it for the world. No, he’s just going to be a bit late.’ I took out my sunglasses. Perhaps I could slip off my cardigan when everyone had downed a few of Dan’s pungent sangrias.

‘I suppose, now that Luke’s a senior paramedic, he can’t always just dash out of the door, even for Frankie,’ Dee drawled. ‘Why can’t I have a hero for a husband instead of a gallery owner? It doesn’t sound half as sexy. Art … saving lives. There’s no comparison.’

‘Being a paramedic isn’t sexy. Luke comes home covered in blood most nights.’

‘Don’t spoil it. But seriously. You two are such a couple of romantics.’ Dee sounded wistful.

I glanced at her. ‘You and Dan have a brilliant time together.’

‘Oh yes, we have fun,’ Dee replied vaguely. ‘But still …’ She turned her attention to Dan, who was holding court on the patio wearing torn Bermuda shorts and a navy T-shirt. ‘Look at him. He’s a bloody caveman.’

I studied Dan. He was wielding a beer and a ridiculously large pair of tongs as he told a joke to a group of men in matching short and T-shirt combos.

I smiled. ‘He’s definitely “Man in Charge of Fire.”’

‘Ug, ug. When Luke gets here, there’ll be lots of references to “man tools.”’

‘And about his gigantic barbecue being compensation for a tiny nob.’

Dee’s mouth twitched. ‘Men,’ she said indulgently.

‘Men,’ I agreed. We laughed.

Luke and Dan were proper mates. Although their friendship had been brought about by the closeness of their wives, it was a union in its own right nonetheless; games of pool, putting the world to rights over beers, jokey texts at all hours that caused them to snigger like schoolboys. Standard stuff, but there was genuine respect and affection there too … Maybe even a teeny bit of ‘hetero man love,’ as Dee called it.

Dee flapped her face once more. ‘Right. More people. I need to air kiss and host. I might even proper kiss a few of them, if they’re dishy.’

I watched her as she set off down the lawn, her hot-pink prom dress flouncing around her knees. I sighed a breath of relief; Dan’s sangria was legendary – laced heavily with booze, vodka-spiked fruit bobbing in it – and I couldn’t possibly drink it. Dee was practically a member of the booze police and I knew she would be the most challenging person to keep my pregnancy-dictated avoidance of alcohol from, because drinking was a thing we did together, but, luckily, she was too busy circulating and introducing people as though they were on speed dates to notice.

My friendship with Dee – or Delilah, as she was known back then – began eight years ago, the summer I’d begun working at a book shop. We met in the deli next door, bonding over deliciously pungent houmous, and we cemented our friendship on a night out, working our way through the cocktail menu in a local bar. This, I learnt, was a normal night out for Dee, but it wasn’t for me. I rarely drank in those days, nor was I much of a girl’s girl. I wanted to be, but I struggled, and Dee was the extrovert required to bring me out of my shell. She introduced me to grown-up drinking: Porn Star Martinis (‘because they come with a champagne chaser – it’s the future, darling’) and Salt ‘n’ Peppa Vodkas (neat vodka, with three olives providing the salt element, and a sprinkle of black pepper). Better still, she introduced me to her gaggle of loud friends and, after a few months spent in their company, I found I had gained confidence, although I’d never be Dee.

I glanced around Dee’s sprawling garden. It was reasonably well looked after and, like their house, it was very much a family space. Dominated by climbing frames, swings and, the pièce de résistance, a vast treehouse, erected with much ugging and hammering by Dan in another macho moment.

I waved at Patricia and Nell as they strolled into the garden, glad to see people I recognised. Dee charmed men and women effortlessly and, being the total opposite myself, I envied Dee her enigmatic allure.

I was one of life’s ‘growers,’ a person others tended to need to get to know, rather than instantly warmed to. Dee had a number of opinionated theories about why this was the case, most of them blaming my ‘kooky’ parents and lack of siblings. She probably made a good point, but, whatever the reason, I was still really shy, despite the boost knowing Dee had given me. This, I’m told, translates to ‘stand-offish’ on initial contact. This fact distresses me – it’s not the way I want to be seen – and I have tried to work on it, but it feels forced. And I admit: it’s sometimes easy to forget to make the effort when Luke has enough charisma for the both of us.

Dee joined me again, raising an eyebrow at my still-full glass. Damn. I should have tossed it in the bushes.

‘Drink up, Luce. You’re lagging behind.’

‘Sorry.’ I made to sip it, close to blurting out my baby news. But we had agreed not to talk about the baby until the twenty-week scan this time. Our secret weighed heavily on my shoulders; Dee was my best friend and it didn’t feel natural to keep this from her.

I glanced around for a suitable conversation point to distract Dee. I spotted a woman in a low-cut dress that showed off a plethora of daring tattoos and knew I was safe for the moment.

‘Who’s that? I haven’t seen her at one of your shindigs before.’

Dee obliged with a peppy observation. ‘That is the wife of one of the artists at Dan’s gallery. She’s about to feature in her husband’s explicit nude collection, would you believe?’ Dee flipped her sunglasses down on to her nose. ‘I must’ve been drinking champagne at one of Dan’s events because I don’t even remember inviting her … don’t say it, Luce; I know I can’t handle the bubbles. But honestly. We can see her bum cleavage from here, so I’m not sure the nude paintings will show us anything new. Apart from her fairy parts, perhaps – do you think she has those tattooed as well?’

I snorted. Fairy parts? For such an extrovert, Dee could be surprisingly prudish when it came to sex talk. I felt a sticky hand on my arm.

‘What’s bum cleavage?’ Frankie’s brow wrinkled. She wore a tiara at a rakish angle, giving her the air of an off-duty princess. ‘And fairy parts?’

Dee looked vexed. ‘Franks, you do have the most incredible timing. Can’t you ever appear when I’m talking about school schedules?’

‘You don’t talk about school sched … whatever you said,’ Frankie responded with the brutal honesty of a three-year-old.

‘Are you wearing sun cream?’ Dee fretted, expertly checking Frankie’s shoulders for redness. ‘And where’s your hat?’

‘It’s gone.’ Frankie’s expression darkened. ‘Not talking about it.’ Ignoring her mother’s look of agitation, she turned to me. ‘Where’s Uncle Luke?’

Where indeed? I checked my watch. ‘He’s working, sweetheart, but he promised me he’d be here for your Swingball championship.’

Frankie looked unimpressed. ‘When I grow up, I’m not going to work at all. I’m going to be just like mummy.’

‘Charming.’ Dee took a long, exasperated sip of sangria.

I hid a smile. ‘Mummy does work, Franks. She works hard bringing up the three of you.’

I frowned. What was that? I had felt an odd sensation in my stomach. This pregnancy was scaring the hell out of me. I’d had a few strange twinges in my groin over the past few days, and was concentrating hard on not worrying about them.

‘We’re not work, Auntie Lucy.’ Frankie shot her mother a withering look. ‘We’re just children.’ Catching sight of her brother and sister terrorising a neighbour’s child, she tore after them.

‘Just children,’ Dee echoed faintly. ‘If only. I’d be amused if I thought she was joking.’

I watched Dee’s three children charging down the garden, bellowing and galloping like wild animals. Somehow, Dee and Dan had managed to divide their gene pool equally, giving Jack, their only son, Dee’s height, blonde curls and clear blue eyes. Tilly, their second child, had Dan’s expressive features, his unruly dark hair and the heavy-set jaw more suited to a man than a young girl. And Frankie, the child they hadn’t planned, had inherited a rather exotic blend of them both, giving her dirty-blonde curls and heavy brows that Dee was already itching to wax.

Was our baby a boy? Would he be like Jack, boisterously confident, destroying everything in his path? Or perhaps a girl like Tilly – thoughtful and creative, but still prone to bouts of excitable shrieking and yodelling? Maybe we’d have one of those 4D scans everyone seemed to be having these days, the ones Dee said made babies looked like freaky little aliens with webbed fingers.

‘They’re so very loud,’ Dee continued, clutching her hair. ‘They actually make my brain rattle sometimes.’

I felt something familiar struggling to break free and I squashed it down, hard. It wasn’t just Dee’s languid charm I envied. Her life seemed so perfect, so complete. The house, the garden, the fact that she and Dan were entirely suited – no, that wasn’t it, because so were Luke and I. But the children. I closed my eyes briefly. If only I could be blessed with half … a third, of Dee’s luck. Easy conceptions, smooth pregnancies, no major heartaches along the way.

I need to be clear about this: I loathed myself for the acrid ripples of jealousy that often poleaxed me without warning. Dee was my best friend and she had been supportive, sympathetic and downright heroic during the endless miscarriages and the ensuing heartache.

But somehow, Dee’s ripe fertility left the stench of failure all over me. Two major events had rocked our friendship. The first had been the time Dee had admitted that she and Dan were pregnant again, by accident. Frankie’s unexpected arrival had caused a new kind of grief. The choking kind that left a ball of spiky thistle in the back of my throat. An accidental baby? One that hadn’t required temperature-taking, vitamins, injections or side effects? Dee’s apologetic hug when she’d told me had almost tipped me over the edge and we had clung to one another wordlessly. What was there to say?

The second event had been more recent, the time Dee had cautiously suggested that I consider ‘letting go’ of my baby dreams. My fingers involuntarily curled around my glass of sangria at the memory, those feelings clawing at me again. Ferocious rage, screaming frustration and an urge to strike Dee had been so violently strong that I had been forced to stalk away at high speed. We hadn’t spoken for a month and I had grieved for our friendship, certain we would never speak again. Dee had left countless pleading messages on my mobile, followed by some drunken ones accompanied by tuneless singing to the soundtrack of that old TV show The Golden Girls – we used to watch it constantly after nights out back in the day – and after the fifteenth rendition of ‘Thank you for being a frrriiieeend,’ I had finally relented. I knew deep down that Dee had suggested giving up on our baby dreams because she cared. To underline the hideousness of the whole sorry episode, we had lost our second IVF baby shortly afterwards, and Dee had been almost as devastated as we had been.

Dee interrupted my reverie. ‘Let’s go and join Dan at the barbecue; he’s looking forlorn.’ We strolled towards the patio together.

‘Good lord, who’s that?’ Dee said, waving to someone.

‘Haven’t a clue. Did Dan invite him? Nell looks gorgeous, doesn’t she?’

She did. Luke’s sister was naturally stylish with bobbed hair, the same chestnut-brown shade as Luke’s. She was wearing what looked like one of her own creations, a stylish tea dress with an unusual hemline. The print was bold, but it suited her.

‘That’s Nell’s friend Lisa,’ I informed Dee, ‘from school, I think. She owns about five clothes shops already. She’s the archetypal business woman.’

‘Wow. Five shops. That’s so cool.’

Dee always admired other women who ran businesses. I had a suspicion she might harbour secret dreams of becoming the next female Richard Branson, if only she could find a slot in her children’s busy social schedules.

‘That guy she’s being chatted up by is cute,’ Dee said. ‘Her type? … Oh, no, maybe not.’

Watching Nell politely brush the guy off, we waited for her to join us. ‘Hey,’ Nell said warmly. ‘What a perfect day for a barbecue.’

‘It’s too bloody hot,’ Dee grumbled, wiping her brow. ‘This is what the menopause will be—’

‘Ignore her; she gets crabby in the heat.’ I turned to Nell. We really needed to get our friendship back on track – somehow we’d drifted lately. ‘Listen, do you fancy coming over for coffee tomorrow morning?’ I intended to hide behind the kitchen counter and distract Nell with some bad cooking. Sweltering in the heat, I pulled my cardigan round my tummy to disguise the swell.

Nell seemed pleased. ‘That sounds great. Oh dear, look at mum. She’s being chatted up by a man with a beard. She has a thing about beards. And not in a good way.’

‘Who does?’ Dee shuddered and waved Nell away. ‘Go, rescue her.’

I put a hand on my stomach. There it was again. A tiny flutter inside. Like butterfly wings beating. It was the baby, it was moving. It was too early, surely? I gasped, turning away from Dee. The baby was stretching its limbs, wriggling, kicking. Relief coursed through me. There was nothing wrong. Everything was fine. My baby was growing and moving and it felt magical.

‘Are you all right, Dan?’ Dee frowned as Dan started frantically poking the sausages. They looked cremated.

He groaned. ‘It’s all gone a bit …’

‘Pete Tong?’ Luke appeared, putting his hands on Dan’s shoulders. Wearing navy shorts and a crumpled white shirt, he looked as though he’d recently stepped out of the shower. ‘Desperado, you are truly awful at cooking. Do you need some help, sweetie?’

‘Finally, the cavalry arrives!’ Dan clapped his hand on Luke’s back in a display of manly camaraderie.

Luke noisily kissed Dan’s cheek then did the same to Dee. ‘Look at the size of that barbecue.’ He turned back to Dan and rubbed his chin gravely. ‘You know what they say about men and their barbecues don’t you, Dee?’

Dee giggled as Dan handed Luke a beer.