After the One by Cass Lester (novels for students .txt) 📗

bad days were becoming increasingly frequent, although she didn’t want to admit that.

Baz, on the other hand, was not as easily dismissed.

‘Tara, just leave,’ he’d said when he’d got home from work and heard Tara’s Rant of the Day.

‘I’m not quitting! He’s the one with the problem, not me. And anyhow, I like earning my own money, then I can spend it how I want.’

Baz took a moment before he spoke. ‘I know you want to buy things for Monnie, the things you never had…’

Tara interrupted him. ‘That wasn’t Mum’s fault. She did her best.’

‘I know,’ said Baz steadily. ‘And I’m not criticising Kim.’

‘Well it sodding well sounds like it.’

Baz took a slow breath in and then let it out again. ‘Kim did an amazing job, but you had a tough childhood, Tara. You went without a lot, and now you’re…’ he paused.

‘Spoiling Monnie,’ chanted Tara angrily. Off he goes, she thought, same old argument, same old loop.

‘No. You’re overcompensating,’ he said.

The break from the usual script, his usual mantra, got Tara’s attention.

‘And since Kim died it’s got worse,’ he went on carefully. ‘It’s like you’re trying to fill an empty space.’

Suddenly Tara’s eyes prickled and her throat tightened. She swallowed hard. Of course she was trying to fill a bloody empty space. There was a gaping hole in her life where her mum had been.

‘You can’t replace someone with things, Tara,’ her husband said gently.

‘You can’t replace them at all,’ she said angrily, hot tears burning her eyes.

‘I know,’ said Baz, going over to her and pulling her towards him. She didn’t resist, so he held her for a while, and then he said softly, ‘Would you have loved your mum any more if she’d given you more things?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then will Monnie love you less if you give her less? You’re what matters to Monnie, and what matters to me. They don’t bloody deserve you at that hotel, Tara, and you don’t deserve to be this unhappy.’

Earlier in the afternoon, when she’d got back from delivering the gift bags, Charley had called Angie.

‘It’s a “No” from the Avalon,’ Charley told her and, crossing her fingers, asked, ‘What did Will say?’

There was an audible sigh at the end of the phone before Angie replied. ‘He said I’d have to ask the self-important, patronising harridan who chairs the PTA. So, I nabbed her at the school gates, and tried to give her the gist of what we wanted, but she’s insisting on having a written plan, detailing exactly what we want to do: how many people, what we’re trying to raise money for etc., etc. And then she wants a meeting! She’s calling it a “pitch” meeting, for goodness’ sake! Honestly, you’d think she owns the school! Anyhow, she can meet us on Friday at nine forty-five.’

‘Us?’ queried Charley.

‘Yes. Sorry. I know you’re busy, but you have to come with me, otherwise I’m going to batter her to death with Beth’s recorder.’

‘Fine!’ laughed Charley.

‘Do want to come round here and do the plan together?’

‘No. It’s okay. I’ve got this!’ said Charley, wondering if Angie was actually barking mad thinking they could pull anything together with Finn and Eliot within a three-mile radius.

If the PTA wanted a detailed written request then they could damn well have one, thought Charley, opening her laptop. She hadn’t spent seven years drawing up lavish letting brochures without knowing how to churn out a knock-your-socks-off presentation. She happily engrossed herself in creating a comprehensive, five-page document outlining their fundraising target, the success of the previous Prosecco Nights (with full figures), the projected numbers of attendees, a complete process flow schedule and a list of everyone’s contacts, together with their potential requirements on the night, both technical and otherwise.

Chapter Thirty-one

‘Do Not Be Late!’ Angie had begged Charley. ‘Felicity Whatshername takes no prisoners.’

So, a good five minutes early for their appointment on the Friday, Charley met up with Angie outside the school, with Finn in his buggy. Felicity Whatshername was already in the hall waiting for them. Immaculately turned out in a tailored grey dress, with perfect make-up and not a hair out of place, she looked pointedly at the clock as they walked in, a gesture which peeved Charley since they weren’t even late. Angie hung back, ostensibly because she had to wrangle Finn’s buggy up the steps into the hall, but in reality in order to let Charley take the lead.

Thanks, Ange, thought Charley, wondering exactly what it was about these flawlessly presented, yummy-mummy, professional women that was so intimidating. She told herself to calm down. You’ve got this. You have a plan. You have a presentation. And you have paperwork – pages of it. She took a deep breath, flashed Felicity Whatsername a bright smile and introduced herself. And then, with all the confidence she could muster, launched into her pitch.

‘We run an annual fundraiser for the Patience House Hospice which provides end of life care for…’

‘I know what it does,’ cut in Felicity Whatshername brusquely.

‘Oh.’ Charley shot a look at Angie, who raised her eyebrows at the woman’s rudeness.

Until Felicity Whatshername carried on, ‘My brother died there. Last year.’ Then she abruptly turned away, clearly struggling to stop her face collapsing with grief.

Angie just stood there, clearly at a loss as to what to say or do.

‘Why is she crying?’ asked Finn loudly, with embarrassing innocence. Angie crouched next to him to subtly hush the toddler up, but Charley had already moved closer to Felicity and put her hand on her shoulder.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry… so sorry,’ she said quietly. She waited, still with her hand lightly resting on Felicity’s shoulder, respecting her moment of grief and giving her time to recover her composure, before she went on gently, ‘He must have been very young to die.’

Felicity busied herself with digging a tissue out of her handbag. Then she sniffed hard and took a moment to breath out through her mouth to steady herself, before she spoke. ‘Yes. He had cancer. He was