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4

Jacob

Jacob stood inside the building’s lobby, looking at the letterboxes attached to the wall. Nine of them, each for a different flat in the retirement complex. Three were single men; two others were couples, which left four women. One, Gloria Embeck, had a specially designed hand-drawn label, all perfect swirls and with little roses drawn and inked. Two others were typed, little pieces of card slipped neatly into the name slot.

The last was scrawled in black marker, barely legible. At some point it had got wet, the ink running, the corners turned up and squeezed back into the slot, from where they now tried to break free.

Nora Shapton.

At least that’s what Jacob guessed it said. Peering into the slot, he saw a jumble of uncollected junk mail squeezed in at the bottom, a couple of letters with handwritten addresses, one that looked like a Christmas card.

Certain he had got the right place, he took the little packet of biscuits out of his bag. Three homemade shortcake slices from Aunt Marjorie’s Tea Room, individually wrapped, and inside a little gift bag together with a business card. Jacob had added a personal note to the back: I hope Roy has got over his cold. Stop by any time.

He paused for a moment, then dropped the bag into the letterbox. Aware he was most likely being filmed on a hidden security camera, he made a show of adjusting the bag, trying to turn the Christmas card over to see if there was a sender’s address. He only managed to bury it deeper, however, so gave up, pulling his hand free and letting the bag drop down.

Retreating, he headed back to the tea room. Halfway there, he paused at the sight of one of James’s posters up in the window of a local charity shop.

It was just a piece of paper, but there was something in James’s eyes that made him shiver, like it was another of his stepbrother’s illusions, making the poster seem real.

Three shows at Brentwell Public Theatre, on the edge of Sycamore Park, for the second week of December. Other shows in Exeter, Plymouth, and a couple of winter festival appearances over the holiday period, including an outdoor show on Christmas Eve in the park itself.

All of which meant James would most likely be using Brentwell for his base for the next month or so.

That they would bump into each other at some point … was inevitable.

His mother hadn’t heard anything. James was successful enough that he didn’t need to move back home. Sold-out tours across Europe and America, a residency in Las Vegas—albeit in a two-thousand-capacity venue a long way from the main strip—even a television special, James was far too big for Brentwell now and had no reason to come back. That he would be around for the best part of a month—and at Christmas, no less—could mean only one thing.

A storm was coming. A storm called Steamblack which would never be done wreaking havoc on the family that had tried to make it welcome.

Jacob couldn’t wait. It would be a long month.

‘Dear, are you sure you put in a full scoop?’ Barbara Bakersfield called, tapping the side of the cup with a long, crimson fingernail. ‘I hate to sound ungrateful dear, but I’m just not getting the full aroma. A month ago I’d have blamed it on the sinuses, but this is a particularly clear time of the year….’

Glancing up at Jacob, who stood nearby, calmly chopping radishes into slices, Marjorie narrowed her eyes. ‘Could you please attend to her? I’m too old for prison.’

Jacob grinned. ‘I’ll just leave this here,’ he said, putting down the knife. He rinsed his hands, then headed out to the counter. He picked up some condiments, arranged them on a tray with a floral doily, then headed for the table where Barbara sat with her equally snooty friend.

‘My apologies,’ he said, smiling as he set down a little dish containing cinnamon sugar. ‘It’s natural, unlike that stuff you get in the supermarket, which is more chemical than spice. Therefore, some batches are a little less pungent than others. Add a little more until it’s to your taste.’

‘Oh, thank you dear,’ Barbara said. ‘What a love you are. Sophie here would like an extra demerara cube. These ones in the pot here are losing their shape a little. Perhaps you could replace the table trays from time to time?’

They were replaced and checked daily, but Jacob just smiled while Aunt Marjorie was probably fuming in the kitchen, hacking Barbara’s throat with each slice of lettuce.

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Thank you for pointing that out. Is there anything else I can get you?’ Before either woman could answer, he leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘We just made a new batch of apple and blueberry Danishes. We’ve not put them on sale yet because we were waiting for the right group to test them. On the house, of course. Would you ladies be interested?’

He looked from Barbara to Sophie. The two old ladies looked at each other. Not far past retirement age but appearing museum-worthy, their faces weathered not by the actual weather but by decades of sustained sunbed use topped up by copious amounts of make-up, Jacob found himself thinking of Roald Dahl’s The Witches. Sophie sighed and creased into a half smile. Barbara shrugged and shook her head as though the demands of the world were just so heavy sometimes.

‘Dear … if it will help you out, we’ll try. Just don’t mention it to our doctor. Just the thought of the cholesterol alone, and don’t get me started on the sugar.’

‘You’d be doing us a great favour,’ Jacob said.

Barbara reached out and patted the hand he had left resting on the table. Her fingers felt like leather over bones, and he forced himself not to flinch.

‘For you, dear. To help you out.’

‘And the teahouse,’ Sophie added.

‘I really appreciate it,’ Jacob said. ‘I’ll be right back.’